Driftwood Summer (19 page)

Adalee shook her head. “You and your books.” She opened the passenger-side door, hesitated. “I
am
glad I’m here even when I don’t seem like it.”

Riley smiled at her little sister. “I’m glad you’re here, too.”

Adalee jumped out of the car, hollered over her shoulder, “But I hate these meetings. Hate with a capital H.”

Riley laughed and followed her into their childhood home.

THIRTEEN

MAISY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maisy stood on the screened-in porch and stared out over the backyard. Her sisters were five minutes late, and she listened for the car. She anticipated every word and gesture Riley would make. She wouldn’t mention Maisy’s leaving with Nick Martin, but she would send a clear message of distaste without speaking a word. It hadn’t always been this way—once, Riley had been her best friend. Mama had been the one who conveyed her disapproval with one look, one comment. Maisy had decided long ago that even if Mama could make her feel bad about herself, she couldn’t control her behavior. She had chosen in her early years to
do
whatever she wanted. Mama couldn’t make her stay home at night, or not kiss that boy, or not drink that beer at seventeen.

Only her father had been able to stop her. One word from him and she halted whatever she was doing. She never understood why she needed his love and approval more than she needed her mama’s, but it was true. To lose his admiration would have been worse than being grounded for a thousand weekends. The last time she’d defied him had been the night with Mack at the bonfire.

Mack.

Since the moment she’d seen Mack across the bookstore, her thoughts about Peter had receded like a fever that had run its course. She hadn’t even tried to call him again.

The crunch of gravel against tires drew Maisy out the screen door and onto the lawn. Adalee and Riley climbed out of the car, laughing.

“What’s so damn funny?” Maisy asked.

They both stared at her. Adalee spoke first. “Why are you in a foul mood? You’re the one who had the hookup last night.”

“Now why would you say that, Adalee? That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s enough.” Riley spoke in a soft voice. “Let’s go talk to Mama. We’re seven minutes late.”

Together the three sisters entered the drawing room turned hospital room, where a physical therapist was assisting Kitsy’s morning stretches. Each sister kissed their mama and then sat in what had become their designated chairs. Riley cleared the bedside table, leaned closer to Kitsy. “Did you finish your breakfast?”

“Yes,” Kitsy said. “Stop fussing over me.”

“You need the protein to heal. I’m not fussing.” Riley helped Kitsy scoot up in the bed.

Kitsy settled back on her pillow. “Okay, I want to start by getting something out of the way.”

The sisters looked at one another.

“Adalee Louise Sheffield. I want you to know that you can’t hide anything from me. I have told you this since you were a little girl and I found that broken china cup in your underwear drawer. I know about your DUI. I have arranged for legal counsel. You will pay me back, and we will deal with the other repercussions after the party is over.”

Adalee stared at the floor. “Yes, ma’am. And I’m sorry. It wasn’t . . . I need you to know it was not entirely my fault.”

Mama interrupted. “Don’t even begin to try to excuse your behavior. I absolutely don’t want to hear it. You do not choose to drink and then drive. Do you understand me? And you’re forbidden from going anywhere but the bookstore and the house.”

Adalee looked up, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry, but you have to let me see Chad. I was driving his car. . . . Please, Mama. He only got a job here so he could be with me.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that when you got behind the wheel of the car after drinking.”

“I didn’t think I was . . .” Adalee dropped her head into her hands. “Don’t stop me from seeing Chad.”

“Mama, please don’t be so hard on her,” Maisy said, uncomfortable seeing Adalee take the brunt of her mama’s anger.

“You do not choose to drink and drive without consequences.”

Maisy’s sleepless night made the next words come out. “Yeah, you just choose to drink and try to walk down the staircase.”

Kitsy’s lips drew inward until only a thin, bloodless line was set where her mouth had been. “You may leave now, Maisy. You may go back to California and get on with your life. If that is what you are so angry about, that we took you from your fabulous life, go back to it now.”

Maisy stood. “Great. If I’d known that one sarcastic comment would get me back to California, I would’ve said it a long time ago.”

Riley held up her hand. “Please don’t do this,” she said. “Maisy, sit down. No one is going anywhere. Please stop this fighting. We have so much to get through this week. There is something every single day. Maisy, the book clubs adore you.” Riley stood, walked toward Kitsy’s bedside. “Mama, you should see the history boards Adalee made. The book signing last night may have been our most successful ever, and Maisy and Adalee were a huge part of that. Let’s please pull together this week, enjoy the party and then you can fight all day long. Or leave, or whatever you want.”

Kitsy closed her eyes for a long moment, and when she opened them, she had a smile on her face. “Okay, tell me about these history boards. And then let’s talk about Book Club Celebration tonight.”

“Yes. The speaker, Mrs. Guthridge, is the local librarian. She is going to talk about how book clubs enrich our lives. I’m hoping that members from all twenty book clubs will show up, and then buy their books for the next month. We’ll have a trivia contest and of course wine and cheese.”

When they were finished with business, Adalee went to her Mama’s bedside. Maisy sat in the chair wishing for another afternoon with Mack—escape.

“Mama,” Adalee said, “do you know Mrs. Lithgow?”

“Only from the bookstore. Why?”

“I think she used to live in the cottage.”

“I wouldn’t know; she’s about fifty years older than me.”

Adalee laughed. “She’s a hundred and thirty years old?”

“Funny. Now go about your business. I have a wheelchair to pick out for my birthday party.”

“You’re gonna make it to the party?” Riley looked up from packing papers into her satchel.

“Yep, that is my surprise for this morning. Doc says I can go
if
I do my physical therapy twice a day without complaining.”

“Great. Just great.” Riley kissed her on the cheek. “Listen, I gotta run. I’m checking on Brayden and then getting back to the store. Maisy, I told Ethel you’d be there for the Page Turners Club by ten.”

“Okay,” Maisy said.

“By the way, you have a phone message.” Kitsy pointed at Maisy. “It’s in the kitchen; the housekeeper said she couldn’t find you last night to tell you.” She squinted at her daughter. “Where were you?”

“At the bookstore,” Maisy said.

“No,” Mama said. “This was late—maybe ten.”

“I was entertaining Nick Martin.”

Maisy walked away, allowing her statement to linger in the room. Let them believe what they wanted—maybe they’d imagine a better night than the one she’d had. She’d actually spent most of the evening looking for Mack Logan instead of enjoying Nick’s company.

“Maisy.” Riley’s sharp voice made her turn before she reached the kitchen.

“I am not in the mood for a lecture.” Maisy tossed her words over her shoulder, disdain underlying every syllable.

“I just want to ask you to please be nicer to Mama. You don’t have to make this so hard.”

Maisy stopped in the hallway, turned to face Riley, took two steps toward her. “When did you turn into this perfect little princess trying to make everything right for Mama? This store, this week, this life . . . it’s all about her. All about you.”

“You don’t . . . understand. And you never take the time to try,” Riley whispered, her voice shaking as she turned to walk away and leave Maisy alone in the hallway.

Maisy flinched and walked toward the message in the kitchen: maybe Mack wanted to see her again.

The notepaper lay next to the phone on the far counter. These marble counters had been installed when Maisy was in high school and they still gleamed from Mama’s constant care.
Lucy Morgan called—would like to meet you for coffee at 11 a.m. at the bookstore.

Maisy’s breath caught in the back of her throat. There would be no way to avoid Lucy. Maybe she should have walked out of this house, this town, when she had a chance a few moments ago; she’d be halfway to the airport by now.

Damn.

When she arrived at the cottage in Mama’s pickup truck, she walked straight back to the book club corner where the Page Turners Club was taking their seats. They started the morning by complaining that the coffee was cold, the muffins smaller than usual and the air-conditioning too chilly. Maisy smiled, made new coffee, set out more muffins and walked behind the counter to adjust the thermostat. Ethel smiled at her. “They giving you a hard time?”

Maisy shrugged. “Nothing seems to be right for them this morning.”

“Nothing is ever right for them,” Ethel said. “Don’t be taking it all personal now, okay?”

“Okay. Ethel, how long have you worked here?”

“Since your mama and sister opened the doors twelve years ago.”

“You love this place, don’t you?”

“I do. I love it more than I like most people.” Ethel let out a long, deep laugh. “And I’m not kidding.”

Maisy laughed, too. “At least more than the Page Turners Club.”

Ethel nodded. “But never more than your mama and Riley. Never. I love them with all my heart.”

“Me, too,” Maisy said, let the truth of the words warm her before she turned back to Ethel. “I’m renaming this book club.”

“Oh?”

“The Complaining Companions. You like that?”

“Perfect.” Ethel waved at a book club member who was motioning for Maisy.

“Wish me luck,” she said as she headed back and asked the women how they felt about the book they were reading—
Gone With the Wind.
They launched into a heated critique of Margaret Mitchell’s writing style. Maisy wanted to tell them to stop wasting their time tearing apart one of the bestselling novels of all times, but she smiled, asked, “Is the room temperature okay now?”

A dark-haired woman glanced up. “Getting there. Have you read this novel?”

Maisy shrugged. “Saw the movie. Does that count?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “No, it does not.”

“So,” Maisy said, needing a quick change of subject. “What are you reading after this?”

“We read classics only.
To Kill a Mockingbird
is next on our list. We compare the writing styles of different time periods and discuss sentence structure and plot development.”

“Okay.” Maisy stifled a laugh. “Sounds like . . . loads of fun.”

The woman stared at Riley for a moment, and made a huffing noise. “We’d like more chocolate-chip muffins, please. None of us likes the blueberry.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Maisy glanced at the antique wall clock, hoping that the club would end before eleven, when Lucy Morgan was due to arrive. Maisy’s gaze wandered to the front door, to the coffee bar and then back to the club. She busied herself fulfilling the Page Turners’ requests until ten fifty-eight a.m., when she excused herself and headed toward the checkout counter, where Adalee stood talking with Ethel about glue and tape for her history boards. Behind the counter, sagging plywood shelves held the current book club choices; handwritten signs were posted in front of each chosen book. A copy of Ethel’s monthly pick,
Where or When
by Anita Shreve, was displayed on a wire stand. Maisy recited the names of the clubs in an attempt to stay the prickle of panic that was forming in her stomach: “Beach Babes Book Club; Blonde Book Club; Classics Only; New Moms; Fabulous and Forty; Out-of-the-House Wives; Kindred Spirits . . .”

Adalee poked at Maisy. “You okay? You’re mumbling.”

“I’m fine.”

“You know, we should really do something about this place.” Adalee swept her arm to encompass the entire cottage.

“What do you mean?” Maisy glanced at the opening front door.

“I mean it’s stuck in, like, nineteen seventy. Really. We could fix it up. It would be . . . fun. If Riley has to ruin our summer, the least we can do is have fun.”

“You and your fun,” Maisy said. A shaft of light fell across the hardwood floors and two women walked in; neither was Lucy. Maisy looked back at her sister. “Riley said we can’t make any changes. No money.”

“We could surprise them. The Antique Mart and Flea Market is in town for two days. Come on, let’s go see what they’ve got, just like old times.”

Maisy’s heart filled with memory: she and Adalee used to go to the flea market, find old furniture, paint it and redecorate their bedrooms at least every six months. It drove their mama out of her mind. All the family antiques and fine furniture, and she and Adalee would come home with “someone else’s trash.” They tried a different theme each time: hippie, punk rock, Laura Ashley . . .

Adalee lifted her palms in the air. “Oh, my gosh, remember when we tried to do a Lilly Pulitzer theme with all red and pink, and it looked like someone had thrown up Pepto-Bismol all over our rooms?”

“It was a good idea, but we should have gone with the blues instead of the pinks. I still think a Lilly-inspired room would be pretty awesome.”

Maisy felt that dangerous feeling—this was where she could be fooled into staying, into remembering the better aspects of life with her sisters. Alliances between the three of them had shifted with the seasons: Riley and Adalee building a fort in the woods, then Maisy and Adalee scanning flea markets, then Maisy and Riley sneaking out for a party at the old lighthouse. She’d almost forgotten.