Mama’s voice filled the room. “Dreaming about things doesn’t change them. Adalee, you can start your design business out of the house. You know that.”
Maisy interrupted. “This is ridiculous. Are y’all going to just let it go?”
“You did.” Mama said the words so sharply that Maisy fell to her chair as though she’d been slapped with an open hand.
“Please stop it,” Riley said. “There is something else we need to discuss.”
When silence fell, Maisy expected Mama to bring up the forbidden topic: cancer. Her insides were cold.
“This morning,” Riley said, “I’m going over to visit Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge.”
Maisy was having trouble following the redirected conversation.
“That is kind of you,” Mama said. “They have suffered a great loss.”
Riley’s clear tones reverberated through the room. “I’m going to tell them that Brayden is their grandson.”
Mama’s shocked inhalation of breath was enough to make Maisy want to rise from her chair and slap her hand over her mama’s mouth. All at once, she knew exactly what to do—she went to her sister and hugged her hard and long. “Oh, Riley, Sheldon was the nicest guy in the world.”
“Yes,” she said, and released her. “That’s why I never told. Or at least that’s why I
thought
I never told. I didn’t want to ruin his life. Now I also know I didn’t want to share Brayden.”
“I didn’t even know you dated him,” Mama said through tight lips.
“I didn’t, Mama. We spent one night together after I got my heart broken and drank too many lemonade surprises at the bonfire. Can you see why I never said anything? But I can’t hide anymore. And it was cruel to keep Brayden from his grandparents. I’m sorry.”>
“For what?” Maisy asked, trying to assimilate that Riley had slept with Sheldon on the same night she broke up her and Mack. “Why are you sorry?”
Riley looked up. “I’m sorry for keeping this knowledge from all of you. I’m sorry I lost the store. I’m sorry . . . I took Mack away from you that night.”
“Stop it,” Maisy said. “We all, every single one of us, have done things we wish we didn’t do. No more regrets.”
“Isn’t Sheldon”—Adalee hesitated before she said—“dead?”
“Adalee,” Maisy said, the word sharp.
Mama spoke in a soft whisper. “Sheldon Rutledge.”
“Yes,” Riley said.
“Could be worse, I guess,” Mama said, and shrugged her shoulders. “Now I need to get some rest.”
The sisters kissed her one after the other and Maisy stared at Riley, envisioning the night of the last bonfire, their father sprinting onto the beach and pulling her and Mack apart, and she saw another deep bond between Riley and herself: Riley had slept with Sheldon for the same reasons she had slept with Tucker—to forget Mack Logan. One night—one sorrow-drenched night—had altered the course of many lives.
TWENTY-EIGHT
RILEY
The cottage the Rutledges had rented for the week had cedar shingles painted white with bright blue shutters, and a tin roof. On a covered front porch the width of the house were a deep swing and three chairs painted in pastel blue, pink and green. A sign next to the front door read
Shore Thing
. Riley remembered a time when her uncle from Charleston had rented this very cottage; she’d fallen asleep on that swing.
During those last moments with Mack, when she’d told him the truth about Brayden’s father, Riley had realized that she must also tell the Rutledges. For years she had convinced herself that she was keeping the identity of Brayden’s father a secret for his sake, and that was partly true, but now she had a clearer understanding. If she told the grandparents, she would now introduce a new family into their lives.
She took a deep breath and walked up onto the porch, knocked on the front door.
A panicked inner voice told her to run.
Don’t let them into your life
. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides; she shook them and held her palms up as if to offer herself the freedom to receive something new.
Mrs. Rutledge answered the door with a dishrag in her hand, a faded blue apron tied around her middle. Her dark brown bob was brushed and hair-sprayed into a perfect Vidal Sassoon look from the nineteen seventies. “Well, hello, Riley. What a wonderful surprise. Come on in, my dear.” She opened the door wide. “I sure do miss those days when all the kids came to our cottage.” She patted Riley’s shoulder, which was higher than her own. “You’ll always be kids to me.”
Riley hesitated, not wanting to enter, but knowing she must. This news wasn’t something one told a woman at her front door with a dishrag in her hand. She followed Mrs. Rutledge through the house, laughed when she passed through the living room. “This cottage is exactly the same as it was years ago when my uncle Sam rented it.”
“It’s a wonderful little place,” Mrs. Rutledge said over her shoulder. “I loved owning our old place, but there sure is a great freedom in just locking up and leaving, in letting someone else worry about wood rot and painting the front porch.”
They entered the kitchen together and Riley breathed in the distinct and comforting aroma of peach cobbler. “Oh, that smells wonderful. It brings back memories.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Rutledge sat in a ladder-back chair at the table, motioned for Riley to sit. “Everywhere I turn I find a memory. It’s what I wanted from this trip, but I don’t think I can do it again.”
Riley closed her eyes and took a sustaining breath. “How many years has it been since you’ve been here?”
“The last time we came was the year Sheldon entered college. How long is that?” She glanced up at the wide plank-board ceiling as if it held the answer. “Probably thirteen years ago. It seemed like such a wonderful decision for him to enter the Air Force after college. Such a great opportunity. Who knew . . . ?”
Riley reached for Mrs. Rutledge’s hand resting on the table, and squeezed it. “I am so sorry about Sheldon. We all just adored him.”
“I know, and thank you.”
Courage faded into panic, and Riley feared she wouldn’t be able to tell the truth.
“If only . . .” Mrs. Rutledge looked into her eyes. “If only God had granted us more children, maybe this wouldn’t be such a hard burden to bear.” She shrugged, wiped her eyes on the dish towel she still held in her hand. “Or maybe not. We never know about ‘could have beens,’ do we?”
“No, we don’t.”
Mr. Rutledge entered the kitchen with a rolled-up newspaper tucked under his arm. His face broke into a wide grin. “Well, well, look who’s here.” Riley stood up, and he enfolded her in a hug, patted her back with his wide hand. “How are you, Riley?”
“I’m well, thank you.”
“That sure was a fantastic party last night. We had such a wonderful time seeing old friends. That boy of yours is adorable. And funny. I enjoyed talking to him.”
“You talked to Brayden last night?”
“Well, yes. We went out to the tent for a while when the store got too crowded. He told me all about the secret places to fish. I pretended I didn’t know them already.” Mr. Rutledge winked.
“He is absolutely obsessed with fishing,” Riley said, unsure what to do with her hands, with her words, with her fear.
“I remember a young girl who was once obsessed with finding the best fishing hole every year. If she didn’t win the summer’s fishing contest, there was hell to pay.”
Riley laughed.
“You still fish?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No time really, sir.”
“What with running that bookstore and raising a son, I’m sure there’s not. But I’d hate to think Riley Sheffield was not fishing out there on Pearson’s Pier with her baseball hat on crooked and her feet dirty, her face stained red from the shaved ice.”
Riley thought of the odd way in which memories were stored, a scent, a sound, a sight teasing the mind. This was Mr. Rutledge’s memory of her: the girl who wouldn’t let anyone beat her at anything, who could bait a hook faster than any boy she knew. And because he remembered that girl, she came alive in Riley. “I need to tell you something,” she said.
They glanced at each other, and Mr. Rutledge motioned for Riley to sit. “Are you okay?”
“I am here to beg your forgiveness for not telling you sooner. That girl, the one Mr. Rutledge just described, left a long time ago. I don’t know when she moved on, but she left behind a scared woman who was afraid to tell the truth.”
“Forgive me for being a bit confused.” Mrs. Rutledge wiped her dish towel in circles on the pine table.
“I’ll try to explain, but I’m not sure how good a job I’ll do, as I haven’t planned this well. I’ve had my reasons for keeping this secret, but the excuses seem hollow now.”
“What secret, my dear?” Mr. Rutledge continued to stand, as if he knew he’d need to brace himself for what was to come.
Riley took a deep breath. “My son, Brayden, is your grandson. Sheldon’s son.”
The silence that overcame the kitchen ballooned outward into the past, and then into the future, filling in the gaps and spaces of all their lives. Riley waited, as she knew she must, for the verdict of guilt and blame.
“We have a grandson, Mark. A grandson.” Mrs. Rutledge’s awed voice broke as her chair scraped across the hardwood floor.
Riley looked up at the older couple holding each other in the middle of the room.
“A grandson. Sheldon’s son.” Mr. Rutledge spoke in a sure and calm voice.
Riley sat as quietly as she could, wanting to leave these two people alone in their intimate moment. She felt like a voyeur, as if she had stumbled onto a scene that should never be shared beyond husband and wife.
She stood to tiptoe to the back door, which she knew led onto a dirt-and-gravel path that cut through shrubbery and scrubby pines, past two more cottages and then to the beach. This was her goal—the beach, silence.
A hand dropped onto her shoulder before she took two steps. Before she could formulate her response, she was enfolded into the arms of Brayden’s grandparents.
“I’m sorry,” Riley whispered.
Mr. Rutledge stepped back. “You have given us a great gift. How, oh, how can you apologize?”
This grace, this overwhelming grace, was more than Riley could take in. Their forgiveness filled her with joy and emptied her of fear. “I should have told you sooner. I should have told Sheldon, but I didn’t want him to feel forced into doing anything except fulfilling his own dreams. I wanted to protect him . . . and you.”
“No more. No more apologies.” Mr. Rutledge spoke in a firm voice. “Gifts should not come with apologies.”
Mrs. Rutledge clasped her hands before her as if in prayer. “Oh, Mark, we have so much to learn about him: his birthday, what he likes, what grade he’s in. Oh, what if he doesn’t like
us
?”
Riley took Mrs. Rutledge’s hand. “He’ll love you.”
“Can we . . . ?” Mr. Rutledge’s helpless gesture toward his wife revealed an uncertainty that Riley had never seen in him before, not even when he’d scattered his son’s ashes.
“Can you what?” she asked.
“See him. Be . . . involved in his life?” His deep voice held a quaver.
“Oh, yes. Yes. I want you to know him—” She glanced between them. “But first I have to tell him.”
Mrs. Rutledge took her husband’s hand. “We’ve arranged to stay here until Saturday.” She looked at Riley. “You know we live in Edisto now. We aren’t that far from here—a few hours.”
“I’m going to give you some privacy now.” Riley placed her hand on the door handle. “Why don’t you plan on coming for dinner tomorrow night? I have a tiny place, but we can eat in the café of the bookstore. . . .”
“Oh, dinner tomorrow would be wonderful.” Mrs. Rutledge smiled, wiping her eyes.
Mr. Rutledge nodded without words, simply hugged Riley once more.
She took the path around the house to her car, and realized that her own smile was real, unfettered by fear. Possibilities seemed to be opening up as she allowed new people into her life, into Brayden’s life.
The next day, Riley stood over her sleeping son and wondered if there was a book or instruction manual to help her tell her son that the dad he never knew was dead. There were probably a million wrong ways to say it, and she didn’t know the single right way.
She sat on the edge of the rumpled bed and ran her forefinger over his cheek; he stirred beneath her. Brayden hadn’t asked about his dad until he was five years old and they had donuts for Dad at school. She had told him then that his father was fighting in a faraway war—and it was the truth. She’d been prepared, over the years, to answer other questions—why she wasn’t with his dad and why he’d never visited—but the only other time Brayden had asked was when he was six years old, after his granddad died. She’d tucked Brayden into bed and he’d whispered, “Is Dad fighting in a war so far away that he doesn’t even know about me?”
“No, Brayden,” she’d said, “he doesn’t know.”
“Do you love him?”
“I love him because he gave me you,” she’d said, and kissed him good night.
Now Brayden opened his eyes, stared at Riley. “I thought I could sleep in,” he said.
“I need to talk to you.”
He sat up, his hair slanted to the left. He rubbed his face. “Is something wrong?”
“Meet me in the kitchen. I’ll make your favorite gourmet breakfast of Pop-Tarts.”
He squinted at her, and mumbled something that resembled an okay.
Riley sat at the scratched kitchen table and took inventory of all the things to which she would soon say goodbye: this kitchen she had always meant to have redone; the slanted, scratched hardwood floors; the familiar creak of the back steps; the sweet sound of the wind coming off the Atlantic. She pressed her fingers into her eyelids to stop the tears. She had to focus on Brayden now. . . .