The Hideaway(21)

“We’ll start there and see how it goes,” I said carefully.

“And have you thought of your plans for the house aside from the renovation?” Glory asked.

I knew what she was really asking. “I haven’t thought about much, honestly. It’s been a quick couple of hours.”

“Just give us some warning if you decide to pull the rug out from under us,” Major said.

“Mags specifically asked me to do that. Even if she hadn’t, you know I wouldn’t do that to you.”

With dinner mostly over, Bert stood to get the dessert. “Someone dropped off a hummingbird cake this morning. I’ve been holding myself back all day.”

“So many people have been bringing food by,” Glory said. “Such kindness.”

“I didn’t know Mags had so many friends,” I said.

“Most everyone in Sweet Bay has been helped by Mags at one time or another,” Bert said. “Either that, or their parents were. Anyway, this is what Southern people do, whether they know the deceased or not. You know that.” He set the cake down in the center of the table as if he made it himself.

“If it’s okay with you, I’m going to pass on dessert,” I said. “I think I’ll walk around a little before heading upstairs.”

“You sure you don’t want any? You’re not one of those girls who never lets herself eat sweets, are you?” Bert asked. “If nothing else, that’s what grief is for. You can stuff yourself silly and blame it on the person who died.”

“Bert! That’s terrible,” Dot said.

“I’m just kidding and Sara knows it. But we do have a counter full of cakes and pies in the kitchen. Someone will have to eat it all.”

“I’ll have a slice tomorrow,” I said as I stood.

“Let us know if you need anything,” Dot said. “Your room is all ready, but I may have forgotten something. Feel free to look around, go on down to the dock, whatever you want. The place is yours.”

“Sure is,” Major said under his breath. “She’s got the keys to prove it.”



I spent the next hour walking around the house and yard to get a sense of what a renovation would entail. Of course I’d seen the house each time I’d come back for visits, but I hadn’t taken a hard look at it with a critical eye.

Inside, it was hard to get a sense of the space because most of the rooms were overstuffed with furniture, as if each person who’d moved into the house over the years had added a treasured chair or table to the mix. The resulting hodgepodge of furniture matched neither each other nor the style of the house. A few pieces stuck out though, and for good reason—an oak pie safe with hand-punched tin covering the bottom shelves, an armoire with delicate scrollwork carved into the pine at the top and bottom, and a corner hutch covered in peeling white paint and doors with squares of wavy glass. These had been in the house for as long as I could remember, but before, they’d just been part of the overall chaos of the house. Now, I saw they bore the handmade, vintage charm so many of my customers craved.

The main living room had floor-to-ceiling curtains that, when opened, revealed beautiful windows reaching almost to the ceiling. I tied the curtains back on their hooks and peered through the salt-crusted glass. Past the lawn, the bay stretched out flat and calm. As I turned to cross through the room, a blur of blue on the floor caught my eye. I knelt and ran my fingers across the splotch of what appeared to be blue paint just inside the front door. I scratched at the edge with my fingernail, but the paint was so old it had almost blended in with the wood.

Across the hall from the living room, the kitchen had last seen an update in the 1980s. The countertops and backsplash still boasted the cheery yellow Mags had loved so much. Laminate cabinets with faux-wood trim and ancient appliances rounded out the dated look. Baskets hung everywhere, adding a country feel that must have been Bert’s doing.

Despite this veneer of age, the house had great bones. I couldn’t help but feel a ripple of excitement as I walked the wide center hallway from the front door straight through to the porch in the back. Twelve-foot ceilings, tall windows, hardwood floors, curved staircase—these were the things of a designer’s dream.

I moved outside to the yard. The house had been built with boards salvaged from an old barn in Virginia, or so the story went that I’d heard as a kid. Mags used to tell me if I looked hard enough, I could find places in the wood where goats had rubbed their horns or chickens had pecked, leaving small holes and dings. I never did find those places, but I spent whole afternoons looking for them. Mags probably told me that story just to occupy me while she worked in her garden, but now, as I looked at the façade of the house, it wouldn’t have surprised me if it was true. Most of the wood was pockmarked with holes the diameter of a No. 2 pencil, although they were probably due to industrious carpenter bees, not farm animals.