1
MAGS
MARCH
Sunsets in Sweet Bay have always made me feel a little like a child. I think it’s all that vast, open water. I expect something to come rising out of the deep at the last minute, something huge and unexpected. I’m always waiting, anticipating. But each night is like the one before—a frenzy of color, the disappearance of the sun, the dusk settling in like an old friend getting comfortable.
Earlier this evening, when I left the house to come out here to the garden, Dot was standing by the microwave waiting for her popcorn while Bert washed his cast-iron skillet with just the right amount of gentleness. Business as usual. We’d had a pleasant dinner—good food, lively conversation—but everyone knows after dinner is my time in the garden. They stopped asking me long ago to join them in their nightly routines—a television drama, a jigsaw puzzle, Glory laying out her quilt squares. Late evenings belong to me and my memories.
I sit here on my old bench, made by hands that once held mine. The bench isn’t much, just cedar planks and peeling paint, but it’s been a friend, a companion, for almost as long as I’ve lived in this house. My fingers curl under the edge of the bench, a habit formed over the years. I close my eyes and breathe in deep. So much has happened. Sometimes it hurts to think on it all. Other nights, like this one, the memories are sweet.
Next to me is the latest issue of Southern Living that came in the mail today. Sara and her shop are featured on page 50. I like having her photo close. This way, I can pretend she’s sitting here next to me. Just as I’m about to open the magazine, I get that hitch in my chest again. A tightness, like a little fist squeezing closed, then a fluttering. Then it’s gone.
I reach down and pull off my shoes so I can feel the dirt under my toes. That always makes me feel better. My doctor suggested I wear these ridiculous white orthopedic walkers even though I much prefer my old rubber boots. Good Lord, I loved those things. They were practical, hardworking. Same with the waders and hats. You can’t fix a busted boat motor or change the oil in a truck wearing a fussy dress and teetering heels. My Jenny never seemed to mind my getups—she felt right at home in our unconventional life—but Sara was a different story. I saw how she looked at me, like she wondered how in the world her grandmother, not to mention a house as grand as The Hideaway, could have turned out so strange.
I’ve wondered from time to time whether I should sit Sara down and tell her my story. By the time she moved in with me, she was already at that tender point in every young girl’s life where friends’ opinions mean more than anything else, and I knew my existence in her life didn’t help her climb the ladder of popularity. But I always wished I could find a way to help her see The Hideaway, and me, in a different light.
Truth be told, I think she’s a stronger woman now because of who I turned out to be. If I’d remained under my parents’ thumbs, always worrying about how others perceived me, I would have been a wispy shadow of a real woman. And I have to think that somehow my refusal to bow to the norms helped shape Sara—even if she hasn’t consciously realized it.
Maybe the time is now. She’s no longer a fickle teenager but a grown woman. And a smart one too. She’d do well to know my story, know how it changed me from quiet to bold. Weak to strong. I’ll tell her. I’ll sit her down and tell her everything. One of these days.
2
SARA
APRIL
I love the smell of New Orleans in the morning. Even now. The city’s detractors say it smells like last night’s trash or the murky water dripping into the sewer drains, but I know better. It’s the smell of fish straight from the Gulf—not stinky, but briny and fresh. It’s the aroma of just-baked French bread wafting through the Quarter from Frenchmen Street. It’s the powdered sugar riding the breeze from Café du Monde. Sure, there’s the tang of beer and smoke and all the sin of Bourbon Street, but when you mix it up together, the scent is exhilarating.
I walked out the front door of my loft at nine fifteen and inhaled the crisp air. It was April, which in New Orleans—and anywhere else in the Deep South—could mean anything from eighty degrees to forty, depending on the whims of God and the Gulf jet stream. This day had dawned cool and bright.
Instead of slipping into my Audi, I walked to the corner of Canal and Magazine to catch the bus to my shop. It was more of a walk than I preferred to do in wedge heels, but Allyn was always telling me I needed to break out of my routine and “do something unexpected.” I smiled. He’d be proud of me for ignoring the time—and my feet—and enjoying the morning. After all, no one would mind if we opened up a little later than usual.