Was life like this for everyone? Inconsequential events, ordinary moments occurred all day, all year, and then the smallest decision shifted the course of your life?
The fishing pole pulled, and Riley jerked it backward in an instinctive maneuver. She held on with her left hand, turned the reel with her right. Riley felt something lift inside her, as though another part of her that had been hiding below, way below, now came bobbing to the surface even as she dragged her catch onto the pier.
The redfish’s scales shimmered in the sunlight. The man who had given her the bait lifted his baseball cap in a salute. “Musta been the bait,” he said.
“Oh, I think it was my expert fishing,” she said with a smile. Bending over, she yanked the hook out of the fish’s mouth and held it up by the gills. “You want it? I can’t cook it tonight.”
He shook his head. “Me neither. I’m just here for the peace and quiet.”
“Me, too.” She tossed the fish back into the water and watched it dive out of sight. Then she tucked her pole under her arm and thanked the man as she walked to the start of the pier and sat down on an iron bench until the pattern pressed into her thighs. Finally she stood and headed toward the cottage, where an offer to buy it would be waiting on her fax machine.
THIRTY-ONE
RILEY
The real estate attorney needed only two days to get the papers together and now she was due any minute at the bookstore. Riley waited in her office, which was full of boxes, and leafed through the newspaper until she found Lodge’s last article about the bookstore. He summarized the good that had come out of Driftwood Cottage Bookstore, of the connections made and the beginnings fostered: how Mrs. Harper was traveling now; she’d planned a trip to Italy with her best friend. How Brooks had moved to Nashville to actively pursue her music career. How Mrs. Lithgow—in her lucid moments—was working with Adalee on a narrative of life in Palmetto Beach in the nineteen twenties. Lodge even wrote of Mama’s cancer, of her recent trip to Texas with Adalee.
Riley put the newspaper down; she’d save this article for the last page of the Driftwood Cottage scrapbook. Even if the story of the bookstore was over, her own story was not. She reminded herself of this again and again. She would find new ways of living that weren’t dependent on the past. Mama’s tumor had been removed successfully and there was no metastasis. Mama and Adalee would come home in the next week, and therapy, nurses and home care would begin again.
The real estate attorney’s cough made Riley look up from her desk. The woman gazed at Riley through bifocals, her bangs falling forward. “You ready?”
Riley nodded.
“Everything is in order. You have negotiated a wonderful deal here, Ms. Sheffield. You should be able to take this money and open any kind of store in any of the new storefronts downtown, but you do understand it can’t be a bookstore, right?”
“Of course.” Riley exhaled and attempted a smile, not wanting to explain that the money would go to repaying her debts. She took the papers from the lawyer. “I’ll show these to Mama and return them to you in the next day or so.”
“The buyers are anxious to close this deal. They’d like to take over in the next month.”
“I know, I know. But Mama’s name is on the ownership papers, so they’ll have to wait until she can read them.”
“But I thought she was . . . gone—you know, cancer treatment or something.”
“She’s fine now. She can read, for God’s sake.”
The attorney nodded, rose and left before Riley realized she had rudely not thanked her or said goodbye. She sat back on the café chair and folded the papers into a rectangle, shoved them into the manila envelope.
Anne stood behind the café counter wearing a T-shirt with a slogan Riley couldn’t see under the apron. She called out, “Your cell phone has been ringing for a half hour back here. Your sister’s name keeps popping up on the screen. You want to get it?”
Riley stood and tucked the envelope under her arm. She looked at Anne, sorrow grabbing her gut—how she would miss Anne and Ethel. Snatching up her phone, she shoved the papers under the counter and dialed her sister’s number.
When Maisy answered, she was out of breath. “Where have you been?”
“Meeting with the attorney. What’s up?”
“You didn’t sell it, did you?”
“Maisy, we’ve been over this. I have to. Unless you know of buried pirate booty, the situation is what it is.”
“I have booty, Riley.”
“What?”
“It’s not traditional buried treasure, but I think it counts. You listening?”
“Hmmm.”
“Here it is,” Maisy said, yet Riley heard another sound on the phone, a laugh.
“Are you on the phone, Adalee?” Riley asked.
“How did you know?”
“What is going on? Aren’t you in Texas with Mama?”
“I am,” Adalee said. “But I didn’t want to miss this phone call. I’ve been working with Maisy and—”
Maisy spoke over Adalee’s words. “Beach Chic wants to open their first East Coast store—a coastal satellite store. They will need a space for display and design work.”
“Oh, that’s great for you, isn’t it?”
“What this means is that I will be opening a Beach Chic store and design center. Adalee will work there while finishing her degree here at the local college.”
“Oh, Adalee, that is amazing. Where?”
“Driftwood Cottage.”
Riley’s breath caught on the possibility. “Does this mean what I think it means?”
“Yes!” Maisy screamed into the phone so loud that Riley pulled it away from her ear. “Beach Chic will pay half the mortgage for a full year as a test. Adalee will run the design section and I’ll be training Lucy to run the retail section. You’ll run a smaller version of the bookstore and still live upstairs. I have been working on this business plan day and night for two weeks. It’s official. Do not sell Driftwood Cottage. We’ll go over all the papers tonight; the Beach Chic lawyer drew up papers and it can work. It really can. Tons of details, but I know how to do this.”
“I haven’t . . . signed yet. I was waiting for Mama to read the offer.”
“Tear it up. Now.”
“Maisy, you can’t leave your life, your job . . . all that. You can’t leave California.”
“Well, I only rented my apartment, so I’ll end my lease and then go back and get my things. I have some logistics to work through, and who knows what the future holds . . . ? I’m just going to take it day by day. First thing is getting this store started and opened.”
“Then,” Riley said, “we did it. We, together. All of us.”
“Meet me at the house in a couple hours, okay? We’ll go over the specifics.”
“I will. I will.” Riley hung up, and then ran to the back of the house and shoved open the door to the shed. Rusted hinges scattered iron dust. She flicked on the overhanging naked bulb and squinted into the dancing dust motes until she found what she needed: the handsaw.
She ran to the front lawn, her bare feet pressing into the dew-soaked earth, and she made one phone call. Then she squatted in front of Mimi’s wooden for-sale sign shoved deep into the ground. She began to saw the middle of the post. Laughter bubbled below the surface of her exertion, yet she would not allow its release until she heard the
thwack
of the sign falling into the grass.
Riley stood over the sign and her laughter rose sweet and soft. A small crowd had gathered without her noticing and she turned to their wide-eyed stares. There she stood with mud and grass on her jeans and tank top, her hair disheveled, her face sweaty.
“It’s not for sale,” she said, as if this explained her lunatic behavior.
Mrs. Lithgow came from behind a tall man. “Well, dear, I should hope not. Seeing as you are trespassing, I must insist that you leave as soon as possible.”
Lodge’s voice came from the back of the crowd. “Riley,” he called, and then he was at her side. “You need some help with that?”
“Nope, I definitely got it.”
Lodge turned to the crowd. “Show over, folks. Feel free to go on about your business.” Then he turned to Riley. “Okay, this is why you called. You have to let me take a picture. I see the makings of a great article. What’s up?”
“Well, Maisy convinced her company from California to open a satellite store here in the cottage. They’ll take the storage room and probably some more space, but we’ll rearrange.”
“So where will you live?”
“Still here . . . for now.”
“That’s all we have, isn’t it?” he asked, looking back at the cottage. “Now.”
She nodded. “Yes, now. And then a little bit more of it each day.”
He looked at her, smiling, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Exactly, my friend.”
EPILOGUE
TWO MONTHS LATER
Humidity had moved into Palmetto Beach with its full August force; a haze settled over the town in somnolent heat. For months now, Riley, Maisy, Adalee and Lucy had been rearranging and redesigning the bookstore and design business in the cottage. Now Riley was taking a break with Brayden; they stood in silence at the end of Pearson’s Pier, their fishing poles held over the water.
Riley reeled in her line, checking to make sure the bait was still on the hook. She spoke to Brayden over the far-off screech of a seagull. “You don’t mind so much that I’m fishing with you today, do you?”
“Of course not.” He rolled his eyes.
“You liked it better when I didn’t?” she asked, and smiled at him from under her straw hat.
He lifted his baseball cap and rubbed his forehead. “Whatever, Mom.” Then he tilted his head, squinted, yanking his cap back over his head. “Geez, that looks exactly like Mr. Logan over there.”
Riley spun around and watched a man walk down Pearson’s Pier, his stride long, a grin on his face.
Mack.
She smiled at him, feeling as buoyant as if she were floating above the wooden pier even as the voice in her head reminded her—
Only friends
. She’d imagined he’d return to visit someday, but that day always seemed in the future. Now he was here.
He reached her side. “Hey, Minnow.” He turned to Brayden. “Hey, buddy, what’s up?”
“Mr. Mack. How’s it going?” He lifted his hand for a high five.
“Good. I’m glad to be here.” Mack gave Brayden’s hand a slap high in the air before he turned to Riley.
“Welcome back to Palmetto Beach,” she said.
He held his arms wide, then gathered her into an embrace. She allowed her cheek to rest on his chest for a few moments, listening to the soft sound of his breath.
Mack released her, shuffling his feet as if unsure which way he wanted to go. “Hey, Brayden,” he said. “Can I talk to your mom for a minute?”
“When a teacher says that, it means I’m in trouble.”
Mack laughed. “You’re not in trouble. We’ll be right back.”
“No problem.” Brayden turned his attention back to his fishing pole.
Mack made a motion for Riley to follow him and they began walking down the pier.
“What’s going on?” she asked him, her heart high in her throat, beating too fast.
“I came to see my best friend.” He stopped at the end of the pier and turned to face her.
“That’s sweet,” she said. “How’s your dad? And how are you?”
“Dad is stable; but he is at home with hospice care.”
“This must be really hard on your mom.” Riley paused, wanting to reach out, touch him. “I’m sorry your family is going through this.”
“Thanks.” He looked away, over the water, and then back at her. “Thing is, even though I don’t want Dad to be sick, in a way his illness has been a gift to all of us, to our entire family. The trip here with him opened my eyes to parts of my life that were . . . off balance. The time with my family has made me realize that what is important has nothing to do with . . . things. I quit my job.”
“Why?” She reached out to touch his hand, then withdrew it, still not understanding why he was here, what he needed.
“It wasn’t what I really wanted, and well . . . being here reminded me of what I
do
want. And that has nothing to do with high-rises and corporate ladders and big accounts. I want to design and build houses. Always have. I don’t know why I forgot what I already knew. . . .”
“Because life got in the way?”
“Yes.” He paused. “You know, I’ve almost called you a million times, but I haven’t been sure how to say what I need to say.”
“You can say anything to me, right?” Riley said, her stomach rising and falling in a reminder of the time she rode the Tilt-a-Whirl with Brayden at the county fair.
“I know what’s true,” he said.
“And what is that?”
“When I left you on the beach a couple months ago, you said that being best friends was enough for you, but it’s not enough for me anymore.”
Riley stared at him. “It’s not?”
He shook his head. “No. Is it really enough for you?”
“No,” she admitted, hope and relief filling her. “I wanted it to be, but it’s not. Definitely not with you standing here looking at me like that.”
He held out his hand for her to take, smiling in a way that made her heart fill with the bright possibilities and profound joy promised by this new chapter of her life, which now included Mack Logan. The past and the future converged in that moment, and she stepped forward, entwined her fingers through his. Her story, all of their stories, would continue.
BOOKS MENTIONED IN
DRIFTWOOD SUMMER
Howards End
—E. M. Forster
The Screwtape Letters
—C. S. Lewis
Beach Music
—Pat Conroy
Peachtree Road
—Anne Rivers Siddons