Driftwood Summer (30 page)

Understanding flooded Maisy’s heart—he didn’t want her with him. He’d torn his hand from hers as though she’d held on for too long.

Maybe she
had
held on to him and his memory for too long.

She stared at her empty hand, pale in the moonlight. An offshore breeze lifted her hair, isolation and loneliness her companions once more. She’d been the fool again—holding on too hard, showing her heart too soon, needing too much.

She sat down in the wet sand, felt the dampness seep through her thin skirt, her sadness swelling—for Sheppard, who might be seriously ill; for Mack, who was losing his father; for herself for clinging to men who didn’t want her.

Maisy curled over her legs, stared out at the dark waters. The beach grew silent as the last stragglers went home. Porch lights turned off. The moon moved across the sky and she understood: Mack did not and would not fill the place of emptiness inside her; his touch was not what she really wanted. This was not a fairy tale and he was not here to save her. The one person she had thought would finally mend the frazzled edges of her broken heart had left her feeling more alone.

TWENTY-FOUR

RILEY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday morning, Riley woke to find Maisy seated at her kitchen table, a mug of coffee cradled in her palms.

“I have to tell you something,” Maisy said. “Sheppard Logan was admitted to General last night. I don’t know what happened, just that he texted the news to Mack, who took off.” Maisy’s shoulders slumped forward, her gaze on the table.

Riley didn’t hesitate. “Will you keep an eye on Brayden?”

Maisy nodded, and Riley was at Sheppard’s bedside before she gave any thought of calling first. She stared down at father and son: Mack asleep on a chair; Sheppard hooked to an oxygen tube, an IV in his hand.

Mack startled as though Riley had made a noise. His smile was tired and closed-lipped. “Hey,” he whispered.

“Hey, you.” Riley walked to the foot of the bed.

Mack stood and they hugged, held each other for a moment. “How is he?” she asked.

Sheppard made a sound vaguely like a cough. Mack was at his bedside in a half breath.

“Dad?”

Sheppard opened one eye. “Hey, son.” He took a ragged breath. “I’m sorry I messed up your night. One minute I’m playing poker with some old buddies. The next I’m in the ER.”

The door opened and a tall man in a lab coat came to stand next to Mack. His face hung in weary folds, and behind glasses his eyes were faded with fatigue. The doctor held out his hand. “Hello, I’m Dr. Steinman. Are you Mr. Logan’s son?”

Mack shook his hand. “Yes, I’m Mack Logan. What’s going on? I talked to the doctor last night, but I haven’t heard anything since then.”

Riley’s small steps took her, inch by inch, to the back wall, where she tried to be inconspicuous, wanting to give them privacy.

“Well, from the brief history we’ve gathered from your dad and his doctor in Boston, and the lab tests we just got back—he has neutropenia.”

“What’s that?”

“His white blood cell count has dropped.” The doctor walked over, lifted Sheppard’s right hand. “He received a cut a few days ago, and it’s become infected; he has a fever of one hundred and three and the infection is spreading up his arm. He fainted, as I assume you heard. His doctor in Boston did not approve his travel here. In his condition, considering the advanced stage of his cancer—he should be resting at home, and he most certainly should not have let this wound go untreated.”

Mack turned to his dad. “You didn’t tell me you got cut. And did you know you weren’t supposed to travel?”

Sheppard turned away. “I felt great . . . and sometimes the doctor’s advice and my needs don’t match.”

Dr. Steinman sat down on a metal stool. “We’ll need to keep him for at least twenty-four hours to allow the IV antibiotic to bring down the infection. Then we’ll work with his doctor in Boston and arrange to transfer him back to his home hospital.”

“You should have told me you were cut,” Mack said.

“I felt fine. I didn’t even notice the cut was infected.” Sheppard turned away, his eyes moist as he spoke with a slight quaver in his voice. “These have been the best days in years and I almost forgot . . . almost forgot.”

“I know, Dad. Me, too.” Mack patted his father’s back.

Riley slipped out of the room. In the hall, she exhaled the breath she’d been holding. Then Mack’s hand was cupping her elbow. “Riley.”

She looked up at him. “I should leave you two alone. . . . I just thought you might . . . I have no idea what I thought.”

“That I might want my best friend from Palmetto Beach to be here?”

“That was a long time ago.” She looked at the shut door to Sheppard’s room. “Go take care of your dad.”

Mack placed his hands on either side of her face, and kissed her forehead. “Thanks, Minnow. I’ll catch up with you later.”

When Riley returned to Mama’s house, she was summoned straight to the drawing room, where Mama rose proudly in front of her new walker. Riley laughed out loud. “Mama, you’re walking. You look great!”

“I look like hell, but give me two hours with my hairdresser, and an hour with the manicurist, an hour with the makeup artist, and I’ll be ready to go.” With that, she collapsed back onto her bed. “I’ll have to stay in my wheelchair for most of the party tomorrow night, but I insist on standing for the announcements and speeches.”

Riley helped her mama situate herself under her favorite linen sheet. “Whether you’re sitting or standing, it’ll just be great to have you there.”

“Let’s go over the list once more, okay?” She scooted up against the headboard, and then yanked a folder off the cluttered bedside table.

Riley was convinced that if she went over the arrangements one more time, her head would spin.
Patience, Riley, patience
. “Okay, Mama. Once more.”

They reviewed the schedule in minute detail until they reached the raffle announcements. Mama pointed to the list of prizes. “Where did all this stuff come from? I never solicited a weekend trip to Charleston or a free makeover. . . .”

“Adalee got all that donated. She went from store to store in town. People have been buying tickets for ten dollars apiece. The store will make money from it.”

“Are you sure we’re not paying for it?”

“I’m very sure.” Riley patted the sheet smooth around her mother’s legs. “Trust me. I know how to run the store. It has been an incredible week. Everything is right on track. Adalee and Maisy have worked so hard. Ethel and Anne must be angels. We just can’t see their wings.”

“I’m quite sure some details have fallen through the cracks. I’m just going to have to learn to let go of things I can’t control. Not everything can get done without me.” Mama fluttered her eyes as if a gnat had stuck to her eyelashes.

Defensiveness rose up like a wave inside Riley. “Mama, nothing fell through the cracks. I promise.”

Mama leaned forward. “What about the singer for later in the night? I never called one.”

“Maisy hired the daughter of one of the Cookbook Club’s members. Country music, I think.”

Kitsy groaned. “Oh, please don’t tell me she hired some twangy redneck girl to sing bad karaoke.”

“Let’s hope not. . . .” Riley stood. “Listen, I know Harriet will get you to the store on time, but call me if you need something.”

“I won’t need anything.”

Riley stood, and then hesitated. “Mama, did you know that Sheldon Rutledge was killed in Iraq?”

“Yes, I’d heard about that at the garden club a few weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Guess I forgot.”

“He was a good friend, Mama. I wish I’d known before. . . .”

“Sorry, dear. Sometimes an old woman forgets things.”

“You don’t forget anything.” Riley leaned over to kiss her mother on the forehead. “I’ll see you later.”

“Darling,” Mama called out as Riley walked out of the room.

Riley looked over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“I like your haircut.”

“I had it cut days ago.”

“I know. I just kept forgetting to say something.”

Riley nodded and closed the door to the drawing room. The weight of responsibility pushed down on her shoulders, making them ache along with the pounding in her head. After tomorrow night it would all be over.

Riley drove back to the cottage, and entered with a breeze that sent sand across the hardwood floors.

Ethel waved a white-gloved hand from the front counter. Maisy stood on a ladder in the Book Club Corner, stringing white lights through the rafters. Riley called out to her, “What are you doing?”

“Lights—you always have to have glittering lights when you give a party.”

Riley stood under the ladder, looked up at her beautiful sister. “Where’s Adalee?”

Maisy pointed to the storage room. “Locked in there.”

“What’s she doing?”

Maisy shrugged. “She just yells at me to go away.”

Riley rubbed her temples, fought the urge to ask about Maisy’s night with Mack. “It’s time to finish setting up. I’ll need her history boards—so let me grab the key from Ethel. I’m so glad we don’t have an event tonight. I still don’t know how we’re gonna be ready by tomorrow.”

“We’ll be fine, Riley.”

Riley was halfway across the room when she felt Maisy’s stare. She turned. “What?” She held her hands up in question.

Maisy averted her gaze. “Nothing.”

Riley asked Ethel for the key to the storage room, and Anne for a large mug of coffee.

The key to the old library turned in the lock but the door remained bolted from the inside. “Adalee,” Riley called through the crack.

The bolt slid open and Adalee stood before Riley. Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, and dark circles ringed her eyes.

“You okay?” Riley asked, maneuvering around Adalee to enter the room.

“Yes. I know I don’t look like it, but I’m really great.”

Riley squinted at her sister, but didn’t have time to probe into the issue of Chad. “Are the history boards done?”

“Yep, and I even have two surprise ones. So, you can’t see them yet.”

Riley put an arm around her sister. “I’m sorry I hollered. I’m . . . exhausted.”

“I know,” Adalee said. “But it’s almost over.”

Riley nodded. “Almost over.” She left the storage room; the mug of coffee Anne handed her was exactly what she needed. She leaned against the pine wall, cradling her mug.

Maisy walked toward her, whispered, “Tell me what you meant about Mama last night. And tell me now. Please.” Maisy’s pupils were shadowed with a fear Riley hadn’t seen since childhood.

“Let’s go outside. Okay?” Riley set her mug on the café counter before walking out the back door.

Together they stood on the back porch, silent until Maisy said, “Please tell me Mama isn’t really dying.”

“I was angry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Answer the question. What did you mean?”

“I don’t know everything yet.” Riley explained what she’d learned from Mama and Doc Foster about the cancer, ending with, “I promised not to tell anyone, and I’m really sorry I broke that promise.”

“You mean . . . Mama has cancer of some terrible sort and you haven’t said a word about it? What the hell is going on? Have you researched this?”

“A little, yes. Mama and Doc promise to tell us all their plans when the party is over. Mama begged me to not talk about it, to allow her this celebration with her daughters. . . .”

“Dear God, Riley. This explains so much. . . .” Tears broke free from Maisy’s wide eyes. “Damn.” She swiped at them as if she were angry that they’d betrayed her emotions.

“Please, I am begging you: don’t say a word. Just act like . . . you don’t know.”

“How?”

She shrugged. “Like you have been . . .”

“But I would have been . . . different if I’d known.” She turned away from Riley. “Isn’t that terrible? Absolutely horrid. I would have acted differently if I’d known. What kind of a daughter am I?” She dropped into a rocking chair and bent over.

Riley placed her hand on the top of Maisy’s copper-colored head, on top of the hair she’d been so envious of at six years old that she’d used a red Magic Marker to try to draw highlights in her own hair.

“Please, please, go inside, Riley.” Maisy pushed her hand off her head.

Riley backed away from Maisy, who wouldn’t accept her comfort, and entered the cottage, which offered her the only consolation she knew.

TWENTY-FIVE

MAISY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday morning Maisy stood in front of the full-length mirror and stared at herself, a woman in a girl’s bedroom. After Riley had told her about Mama’s illness yesterday, she’d run from the cottage and even from Palmetto Beach, driving Mama’s pickup truck down the coastal roads that wound through the Lowcountry. On a dirt road in nowhere south Georgia, she’d parked the truck and wept for her vanished dreams of Mack, for her betrayal with Tucker, for her lost years with her sisters, for her idiocy with Peter, for the fear of losing Mama. Especially for Mama, whom she’d never imagined as sick, or worse, gone. When darkness was complete, she drove home and crawled into bed, empty of feeling, hollowed of emotion.