Driftwood Summer (9 page)

“Maisy.” Riley’s voice echoed down the hall.

She stepped from the bedroom as though she’d been caught smoking behind the Beach Club. “Hey, sis.”

“You nosing around my place?” Riley softened her words with a smile.

“I think you have as many books in your room as you do in the bookstore.” Maisy swept her hand across the area. “Have you read
all
of those?”

“Not all. I’m a little behind this month, what with the party and all. But I try. . . .”

“I guess that answers the question of what you do with your free time.” Maisy picked up a hardcover of
The Stand
by Stephen King. “I read this in high school. It was one of those books that made me not want to read another book.”

“Why not?” Riley took the book from Maisy, set it back on top of the pile at the edge of her dresser.

“Because I knew the next book I read wouldn’t be nearly as good and I’d be disappointed. Are you reading it?”

Riley laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever quite heard that rationale for not reading. I have
The Stand
here because it’s signed. . . . I don’t want to lose it. I read it years ago. . . .” She led them into the hall and shut her bedroom door. “Let’s go, okay?”

“You know, I could help you with decorating around here. I really could.”

“I like it just the way it is.” Riley’s voice was tight, the way she spoke when she was insulted or defensive. Years could never erase Maisy’s ability to read the subtle signals of sisterhood.

“You’d like it even better my way,” Maisy said, and then put her hand up to her mouth. “That came out all wrong.”

“Come on, let’s go see Mama. She’s called the store ten times.”

Maisy followed Riley down the hall and back to the kitchen. “You have any medication I can take before we embark on this adventure?”

“What?” Riley spun around to see Maisy’s teasing smile. “Oh . . . sarcasm. Your favorite form of communication.”

“I call it joking. You call it sarcasm. Tomato, tom-ah-to. Whatever,” Maisy said.

“Brayden, let’s go,” Riley called out.

The drive to the Sheffield home took less than five minutes, but Maisy felt that she was holding her breath the entire time. Together Maisy, Riley and Brayden walked into the drawing room, which had been turned into a quasi-hospital room. On a mechanical bed set up in the middle of the room lay Kitsy propped up on pillows. Her bedside tables had been arranged to suggest that she was in her master bedroom. A floral shop seemed to have dropped off an entire van full of arrangements. The curtains had been pulled back from the windows to expose the view of the expansive backyard with its hectic live oaks and lush grass. A tire swing hung from an oak branch. Maisy remembered leaning against that tree, waiting her turn to swing and thinking she was resting against God’s shoulder.

Mama’s eyes were closed, offering Maisy a moment to take in her appearance, to control her own reaction. She felt as if she’d just stepped onto a boat and needed her sea legs. As though Kitsy sensed her daughter in the room, her eyes flew open. “Maisy,” she said with the inflection and endearment only a mother could utter. “My dear Maisy.” Her hand rose to her chapped lips. “Come here and hug your mama.”

“Hello, Mama,” Maisy walked toward her, bent over for the embrace.

“Oh, darling. You look so well. So rested and tan and fit. California must suit you.” Then Mama’s eyes squinted. “I’m so glad you’ll be here for a long time.”

Maisy felt ten years old again; she was being told that she couldn’t go to Lilly’s sleepover because a family birthday took precedence. Family was always the first priority. How could she have forgotten that? Maisy took her mama’s hand. “I’ve come to see you, to make sure you’re okay. But I can’t stay long.” She glanced at Riley, who hung back in the doorway with Brayden.

Kitsy waved her hand through the air as if shooing flies from the back porch, Maisy’s words like a trivial nuisance that could be run off with one swipe. “Of course you’ll stay. Now sit down and we’ll go over our duties.” Kitsy bent from her waist, winced and pulled a bulging notebook from the bedside table. “Riley, dear, will you please go fetch Adalee from upstairs?”

“Adalee’s here?” Maisy asked.

Riley’s voice came muffled from the hallway. “Adalee Louise, get down here, please.”

Pounding footsteps echoed across the upstairs hardwood floors, then down the stairs. Adalee’s lithe figure appeared at the doorway, her mouth in a sullen pout. Her hair was blonder now than in the pictures she’d traded with Maisy via e-mail. She wore torn cutoff jean shorts and a red tank top with AU—for Auburn University—stamped across her tiny chest. Adalee was the youngest, and also the smallest, and always had been. Even her features were miniature.

While Maisy stared at her grown sister, Adalee met Maisy’s gaze and her sullen expression turned to a wide smile. “Maisy!” She ran to her, and engulfed her in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. You’ll defend me. . . . This is stupid, right? That we have to work all summer when I had other plans. This is ridiculous—tell Mama and Riley we are
not
doing this.”

Maisy laughed, pushed the ragged-cut hair from Adalee’s face. “I tried. Did you have plans?”

“Of course I did. This is my last summer before I have to get a real job. I was gonna hang out at the pool . . . spend time with my adorable boyfriend, Chad. You know, have fun.”

Kitsy made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “So you believe you can fail out of three classes and then come home and celebrate your illustrious semester by partying all summer?”

Adalee’s face contorted as though she were trying to decide whether to cry or vent her rage. “That is so mean, Mama. Maisy and Riley don’t need to know everything. You didn’t have to . . . say that.”

Riley made a motion for Adalee to sit. “Not now, Adalee. Please.” Riley went to Mama’s bedside, fluffing her pillow, straightening her blankets.

“Mama started it.” Adalee slumped into a chair, folded her arms. “And by the way, don’t tell me what to do; you are not my mother.” Adalee’s voice took on the childish tones Maisy remembered as vividly as her sister’s violet eyes.

The last time Maisy had seen Adalee she’d been fourteen years old—at Daddy’s funeral. They’d talked through the years, texted and sent pictures, but the living, moving Adalee was vibrant and full of the nervous energy Maisy herself had. Her small body was kept thin by her manic movements and constant need for excitement—parties, friends and activity.

Maisy sat down on the chair next to Riley’s. She’d do what she’d done as a child—pretend to be part of this family thing and then go do whatever the hell she pleased. “Go ahead, Mama. What do you need from us?” she asked.

“Traitor,” Adalee said.

Kitsy attempted to straighten herself in the bed, applied pink-tinted lip gloss and cleared her throat. “Now, we all must chip in to salvage this party. I have been planning it for two years. We have every town dignitary, every previous owner of the cottage coming. Right now I have two hundred fifty RSVPs for yes—which of course means an outside tent—and that does not include the people who will just drop in. And we have a function or event every day next week leading up to the party: visiting authors, contests, book club giveaways, speakers, food. . . .” Kitsy handed out sheets of paper to her daughters. “Read this. . . . It’s the schedule for the week. I have done all the work, made all the arrangements. You just have to make sure it happens. Follow up on each event. I wish I could do it . . . but . . .”

Adalee spoke, bitterness behind each word. “Yeah, but you fell down the stairs . . . drunk.”

Kitsy glared at her daughter. “I was not drunk. I slipped.” She lifted her chin in disregard. “Now, as for your individual duties . . .” Kitsy pulled more sheets from her leather-bound folder. “I have assigned each one of you a major duty to keep things going. Harriet typed this up for me. I should be out of this nightmare cast in six weeks. . . . Then we can move on with our lives.”

Maisy glanced down at the thick paper in her hand—Mama’s personal engraved stationery. Maisy’s name was typed in bold, capital letters on the top of the page with her duties following:
in charge of all book clubs; follow-up on all RSVPs; work the morning shift at the bookstore
.

She looked up. “I can’t do this. I don’t work mornings. I’m not a party planner, and I have no idea what to do with a book club. I don’t even belong to one. I don’t even know what a book club
does
. . . . No, Mama. Hire someone to do it.”

The glare that emanated from her mother struck silent all further protests. “I can’t hire someone. We don’t have the money.”

Adalee stood. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means what I said. Listen carefully.” Kitsy’s voice rose. “This fall of mine could not have come at a worse time, but I trust you girls. I know what our family can do when we band together. The reality is that if we don’t raise enough money during this anniversary celebration, we will have to sell the store.” Mama glanced at Riley, and Maisy felt as if they were speaking to each other in secret code, unspoken words hidden below the spoken ones. “It is what it is. We must make this work. I promised your precious father that I would never deplete family money to keep the bookstore. Even with him gone, I will keep my promise. That is what we do in our family—keep our promises. Now sit down and tell me you understand your duties.”

Adalee’s eyes filled with tears. “Stop yelling. What is going on here? This is your bookstore, Riley. Not mine. Not Maisy’s.”

Mama tapped the metal bedside rail with her pen. “That is absolutely enough. What affects one affects us all. Family responsibility.” Her voice turned soft, melodic. “That’s what is going on. And you never, ever need to let the customers know we are in financial trouble. That is between us. And only us. They need to see and feel how much we love them, and the store, not the troubles we’re facing. Do you understand?”

Maisy held up her piece of paper. “I don’t see anyone trying to save my job or . . .” Her words were cut short by Mama’s slicing look. She glanced over at Riley’s list.
Run the store as usual; check on sisters; follow through on daily events for the week of the party
. She looked up at Adalee. “What are your jobs?”

Adalee swiped at her eyes, morphed from sadness to anger in that brief moment and waved her paper in the air. “I’m in charge of the history boards and timeline display for the house. Are you kidding?
And
work the afternoon shift at the store.
And
I’m in charge of the newsletter. I can’t even write. . . .”

“I’ll tell you what to put in the newsletter,” Kitsy said. “You just have to design and print it. I’ll do what I can from bed.”

“This is crazy,” Adalee whispered, looked at each sister in turn.

Mama dug through her folder, pulled out a newspaper article with ragged edges. “Riley, this article is great. Lodge Barton did a wonderful job. You must have given him a perfect interview.”

“That’s because Riley is perfect,” Maisy said before she could cut the words short.

The air became full of unspoken retorts, replete with years’ worth of hurt feelings.

Mama exhaled through the same pursed lips Maisy had already seen on Riley that morning. “Riley, will you please call and thank Lodge? And then ask if he’ll do follow-ups all week. If you’re sugar-sweet with the thank-you, he should say yes.”

“Mama, he’d do it anyway.” Riley stood, looked down at Mama. “You get some sleep. We’ve got everything under control.”

Maisy smiled; she was well practiced at pretending to go along with family plans, yet she was surprised by how easily the motions returned to her after so long.
Run
, her mind screamed.
Far. Fast. Run
. “Yes, Mama, you rest. We have it all under control.” Maisy smoothed a hand over the file stuffed with the RSVP list. She opened the manila folder, scanned the guest list without realizing who she was looking for until she found him: Mack Logan.

She smiled inside and looked up at Riley, who kissed Mama on the cheek, then turned to her sisters. “Come on, girls. We’ll go to the back porch and talk. Then I have to get back to the store for the Budding Artists class.” Riley motioned for her sisters to come with her.

“And”—Adalee raised her hand as though she were in a classroom—“I need to meet Chad at the Beach Club.”

While the three sisters headed to the porch, Maisy tucked the knowledge of Mack Logan’s imminent arrival inside her heart like a secret. Maybe, just maybe, this trip wouldn’t be a total waste after all.

SIX

RILEY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Riley’s heart hurt already. She didn’t want to head into a week of nonstop activity with a negative attitude, but her sisters weren’t helping. The three of them walked onto the back porch after the meeting with Mama. Adalee sidled up from behind Riley, plopped onto the wicker divan, kicked off her flip-flops to put her feet on the glass-top coffee table. She pulled a cigarette from her purse and lit it.

“There is no way Mama would ever allow you to smoke in her house.” Riley took the cigarette from Adalee and dropped it into a glass of water on the side table.

“Hey! You can’t do that. . . . I’m not inside the house and you’re not my mother.”

“Yeah, you already told me that,” Riley said. “I also don’t want Brayden to see you smoking.”

The screen door opened and Brayden’s wide smile appeared. “Too late. Already saw Aunt Adalee smoking. You know you’ll get lung cancer, don’t you?”

“Now who is teaching this child to be judgmental at twelve years old?” Adalee crossed one leg over the other.

“Let’s just get through all this.” Riley pointed to the notebook Mama had given Maisy. “There’s everything you need.”

“Thanks.” Maisy smiled at her sister, plotting her next move: a hot bath, a whiskey on the rocks and a solid ten hours’ sleep.