Driftwood Summer (8 page)

They walked in silence toward the parking lot, Maisy behind Riley in some ritual of youth: following her big sister. Just landing on the tarmac of south Georgia had set her back twelve years.

She attempted conversation. “How’s Mama?”

“Ornery. They’ve allowed her to come home, but she has a full-time nurse and Harriet.”

“This should be fun.”

“Oh, loads of fun. Thanks for coming. We really need you. You know how much this store means to Mama and how long she’s planned this party.”

“It shouldn’t be my fault that Mama loves the bookstore more than she loves most people.”

“That is ridiculous. Stop it. You’ve broken her heart by not visiting sooner.”

Maisy held up her hand to stop the conversation. “No, Riley. We’re not doing this. I’ll do what I can to help, but I’m not getting dragged into family fights.” Maisy took a breath. “So how is my adorable nephew?”

“He can’t wait to see his aunt Maisy. He thinks you only exist in pictures.”

“Kind of like a movie star, right?”

Riley laughed. “He’s great; he’s the light of my life. It’s weird to think you haven’t seen him since Daddy’s funeral. He was only six years old then.”

“I know.” Maisy kept her words light to hide the emotion caught in her throat.

The car trip chatter was as shallow as the tidal pools on Palmetto Beach. Maisy felt like a stranger, discussing trivia as insignificant as job satisfaction, weather and lack of plane food. When Riley drove past the
Welcome to Palmetto Beach
sign, Maisy sighed out loud.

“Glad to be here?” Riley asked in a soft voice.

“No,” Maisy answered. Damn Mama’s martinis. Damn the family responsibility that had been so etched into her soul that she’d had no choice but to come.

“Well, so glad we’ll have a happy Maisy while you’re here. Can’t you just pretend?”

“No.”

Riley stopped the car at a red light. “Seriously, Maisy. There are worse things in life than coming to your childhood beach town to see your family.”

Maisy rolled down the window. “I know. It just doesn’t feel like it right now. I’m tired. I miss Peter.” She stared through the open window.

The stoplight turned green and Riley drove down Palmetto Street before turning right into the gravel drive of Driftwood Cottage. “I have to grab Brayden before we go to Mama’s. Okay?”

“I’ll stay in the car,” Maisy said.

“Of course you won’t. Come on.”

Anxiety and expectancy combined with Maisy’s fatigue from the sleepless night she’d spent in anticipation of this: walking into the bookstore where townspeople would see her, know her, talk about her. . . .

Maisy looked up at a white banner taped across the front porch.
“WELCOME HOME MAISY”
said the sign, which was decorated along the edges in vivid drawings of starfish, sand dollars and a dolphin.

Maisy pointed to the sign. “Brayden?”

“Of course.”

Maisy stepped out of the car, stretched and felt the stiff-boned ache of having sat in a plane seat for hours. Then the hometown coastal air filled her lungs, her heart; tears threatened. She shifted her gaze to the left and saw it: Driftwood Beach—that slip of sand in front of the cottage. Her life, in part, had been lived on that stretch of gray-white sand. How could she have believed she’d left it for good?

She turned away, climbed the front steps behind Riley and entered Driftwood Cottage.

A commotion at the front of the store grabbed Maisy’s attention. “Time for the Driftwood Book Club,” Riley told her. “This is the club that reads books suggested by the store. They’re reading
Peachtree Road
by Anne Rivers Siddons.” Riley’s exhale made Maisy think of their mama, who could convey a world of emotion with a released breath. “Mrs. Lithgow must be here.”

“What?” Maisy felt the sounds and sights of the cottage coming at her as if through cotton batting, muffled and cushioned: an upset lady; the aroma of coffee; faint music; soft laughter.

“I begged Verandah House to make sure she stayed home on book club day,” Riley said, looking over her shoulder at Maisy. “She is an older woman who thinks she wrote every book I pick for the club. Since Verandah House is a retirement community and not a nursing home, its administrators won’t take responsibility for Mrs. Lithgow walking the two blocks over here.”

Maisy pushed past the other incoming sensations to hear an older, shaky voice. “My intent was to divulge the larger story of redemption, to write the Southern novel of our generation, not have it analyzed by women who have never even been to Atlanta. When I opened the book with ‘The South killed Lucy . . .’ I meant it both literally and metaphorically. It doesn’t have to be either-or, does it?”

Riley sidled up behind the older woman, whose flailing arms sent her gold bracelets jangling. She placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Mrs. Lithgow, thank you so much for your input. Why don’t we sit down and listen to what the others have to say on the subject?”

Mrs. Lithgow spun around on her loafers, pushed puffs of hair from her face. Her eyes misted with anger and confusion in a twitching glare at Riley. “Listen, missy. When I write these novels, I have something particular in mind and I don’t like others offering their input like they’re some kind of specialist on
my
work.”

“Riley Sheffield.” A woman who looked to be the leader of the group, with her leather folder and middle seat, stood when she spoke. “You promised this wouldn’t happen again.”

“I’m sorry. . . .” Riley guided Mrs. Lithgow to a club chair. “I can’t control Verandah House.”

Maisy watched the scene in a detached confusion: this was her sister running the family bookstore, living in Palmetto Beach. She’d understood this life went on without her, but she felt as though she were watching an ancient home movie on jumpy eight-millimeter film.

A sweet, soft voice filled the room then. “Don’t worry, Riley. It’s not that big a deal. Really. Right, ladies?”

The voice settled into the softer place of memory inside Maisy; she turned to see her old friend Lucy Morgan seated in a corner chair, her arm raised as though she’d asked permission to speak. Maisy backed up four steps, slammed into a cedar post and slid behind it. Lucy had not, as yet, looked her way.

The other twelve women nodded with suppressed smiles; a few laughs escaped.

“It is not funny at all.” The angry leader’s words sparked across the room. She slammed her hand on the side of the overstuffed chair she’d just risen from. “I read the book and spent many hours writing the commentary and researching subjects for us to discuss . . . and I don’t need this disruption. We might have to find someplace else to meet if it continues.”

Lucy laughed, a silvery sound. “Kind of hard to take the Driftwood Book Club to anywhere but Driftwood Cottage.”

“Not really.” The leader picked up her book and held it in front of her body like a shield.

Mrs. Lithgow pulled at Riley’s sleeve. “What is that woman so angry about? Did she not like my book?”

“No,” Lucy said, standing and walking toward Mrs. Lithgow, “she’s just had a bad day.”

“That’s it.” The leader waved her book at the group as though she were a Baptist preacher threatening fire and brimstone upon all those who didn’t believe as she did. “I’m done with this.” She walked off, then turned in a move that made her trip on a nail prodding from the hardwood floor. She grabbed the purse she’d forgotten and glared at the group. “If you can’t take reading seriously, I’ll find a group that can.”

“Have fun,” a redhead called after her. “We’ll miss you.”

Silence fell as the women in the circle of chairs and ottomans, coffee cups and scattered purses looked at one another for some sign of what would come next. Mrs. Lithgow spoke in a loud, firm voice. “Well, I for one am not going to miss her. She is impossibly arrogant, especially considering she is not the author of the book.”

Lucy laughed first, and eleven other women joined her.

Riley stood in the middle of the circle as Maisy watched the scene—part of it, yet separate. Maisy did what she always had in moments of unease: she noticed the details of her surroundings, busying her mind with ways and means to improve the decor. A hand-painted sign hung over the area: Book Club Corner. There were mismatched chairs in many faded colors, plush ottomans in green and pink, tables crafted of driftwood. A delicate chandelier hung over the center of the space. Transparent lampshades made of gauze cast a cozy twilight.

“Sorry about that outburst, ladies,” Riley said. “You just get on with your discussion.”

“Have you read this one?” Lucy asked.

“Years ago,” Riley said. “It’s always held a special place in my book pile, and I thought it was time to share it with the group.”

A clicking noise came from Mrs. Lithgow’s chair as her tongue made sounds of disappointment. “My, my, Ms. Sheffield. You choose the books, you organize the clubs and you invite the author, yet you haven’t read the book in years and years? You really must take better care of your store and its customers.”

“Yes, Mrs. Lithgow. I will work harder to do so.” Riley turned to the group, which was suppressing laughter in various forms of body contortions. “Now, while the club finishes talking, why don’t you come with me and we’ll set up your signing table?”

“That would be wonderful. Although I do not have a very large crowd. You must not have advertised well enough.”

“My mistake,” Riley said, and held out her hand to help Mrs. Lithgow.

The group began its discussion and Maisy thought she’d been successful at shrinking into the background, unnoticed, until Lucy looked up, settled back in her chair and found Maisy. A smile of recognition lit her face and she jumped up, her book falling to the floor.

Maisy smiled back and waved at Lucy while taking backward steps toward the counter, mouthing,
Later.
Lucy then turned her attention back to the book club.

Maisy sidled to the back of the store, and then climbed the back stairs. She opened the door at the top and saw Brayden sitting at the kitchen table, drawing.

“Hey, nephew,” she said, attempting to ignore the trembling in her voice and body.

Brayden, this boy she hadn’t seen in years, stared at her. “Aunt Maisy?” he asked.

“Yep, it’s me.”

He didn’t stand for her, so she went to him, hugged him in the awkward way of family who are supposed to know one another in an intimate way yet don’t. “What’re you doing?” she asked.

“Drawing,” he said. “Waiting on Mom. She said I had to wait here for y’all before we go to Gamma’s. I’d rather be fishing.”

Maisy nodded at him, yet her thoughts moved elsewhere: she’d been in town for only fifteen minutes and already she’d run into Lucy Morgan. This was not going to work out well at all.

The old panic overcame her—the reason she’d left this holiday town behind in the first place. Who in the living hell wanted to face their demons every single day?

“Did you hear what I said?” Brayden’s voice rose.

“Of course.” Maisy stared at her nephew and wondered for the millionth time what man had contributed to this child’s beauty.

“Then what did I say?” he asked.

“That you’d rather be fishing than going to Gamma’s. And guess what. I agree.”

He laughed, a deeper sound than she would have expected from a child. “Then I guess we’ll be fine—me and you.” He looked past Maisy toward the staircase door. “Where’s Mom?”

It took a moment or longer before Maisy realized Brayden meant her sister, Riley, not her own mama, Kitsy. “She’s checking on the book clubs or something before we leave.”

“You have the same mom as my mom.”

“That’s why I’m your aunt Maisy.” She attempted to laugh and stared down into his gray eyes. She hadn’t been back to visit in six years, and then only for Daddy’s funeral, less than twenty-four hours. To Brayden she was just a name. Sorrow flowed upward from a place of regret.

He stared at her for long moments and then sharpened his pencil in the sharpener on the table. “Thanks for sending me all those Christmas and birthday presents.”

“You’re more than welcome. I hope they were things you wanted—I always asked your mom first. And I know she made you write all those thank-you notes, but I love them. I saved them all.”

Brayden laughed, laid out his papers in neat rows and began to draw again, his fingers nimble, sea creatures taking shape under his hand.

“Wow, you’re good at this. I used to know a boy who was really good at sketching, just like you. . . .”

“Who?” Brayden looked up underneath his bangs.

“His name was Mack . . . Logan.” Maisy tasted his name on her tongue, felt the familiar yearning roll over her. She sighed and stood. “What is taking Riley so long?”

“She’s been very busy since Gamma fell. You have to be a little bit patient.” Maisy heard the parrot quality to his words, as if they’d been spoken to him only moments ago.

“I know. I know.” Maisy paced the kitchen, then moved to the back hall to the sound of Brayden’s scraping pencil, the creaks and songs of an old house she’d once known as “Mack’s house.”

She’d come to the house often in the summers the Logans had owned it, filling it with their own nautical gear and summer furniture. Seashell wallpaper still covered the hallway. Mack’s family had hung it during that summer of her twelfth year. She had stood at the end of the hall, asked if she could help—she was bored and it was pouring rain. Mack and Riley had gone fishing, and hadn’t returned. Those were the years when Mack thought of her as a pest, as Riley’s little sister.

Now Maisy ran her hand over the sheet of paper Mr. Logan had allowed her to help hang before she got bored and went looking for someone to play Parcheesi with her. She laughed at the memory, and Brayden’s voice came from the kitchen. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Maisy called out. She poked her head into Riley’s bedroom, then stepped inside. The four-poster bed from Riley’s childhood was covered in white chenille; a dark wood lamp stood on top of a pink bedside table. Books formed scattered piles throughout the room.