Driftwood Summer (7 page)

A broken heart, too much cold beer, ocean waves and a willing man were never a good combination, no matter what the country songs said. Riley walked to the lifeguard stand, touched its base and wondered if in every woman’s life, there was a night she didn’t talk about, a night that had changed everything.

FIVE

MAISY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maisy stared out the window, dropped her forehead onto the double-paned glass, her ears popping from the descent into Savannah. Winding waterways carved the land into marsh-bordered islands. The water reflected the setting sun, throwing the light back in glitter. The beauty here felt bound to her soul. Perhaps she had only fooled herself into believing she had severed the tie. The four-and-a-half-hour flight from Laguna to Atlanta, and then Atlanta to Savannah was more than a passage from coast to coast, more than a three-thousand-mile journey. It was a passage through time back to her childhood, back to when she left twelve years ago.

Even high in the sky, Maisy sensed the pungent air of her hometown, the salt smell of sea and marsh. She closed her eyes and imagined her California comfort points: her apartment decorated just the way she liked it, Peter holding her and telling her he loved her, the beautiful fabric and furniture in the store. She had longed for Peter to come with her on this trip; she’d even been foolish enough to ask. But he didn’t know how to explain to his wife why he would make a trip to Georgia. Yes, his wife. Maybe, just maybe, this week away would make Peter miss Maisy enough to finally leave his wife.

Maisy reminded herself of all the reasons she’d left Palmetto Beach in the first place. Well, not
all
the reasons. First of all, who would want to live in a place that was practically empty three-quarters of the year? Her eyes swept to the east, toward Palmetto Beach, a blur on the horizon, a forty-minute drive from Savannah. Her hometown was meant for visiting. The population more than doubled by Memorial Day. Some of the houses where the townies lived full-time were smaller than those the summer people inhabited for three months.

Escape was all Maisy had wanted, yet she’d also loved the summer people because they made the town come alive. The school year had been a breath-holding wait for summer. Maisy had often wanted to be one of them—coming into town on Memorial Day with a car packed full of bikes, swimsuits, suitcases and beach toys on top of the car. She imagined they lived glittering, fabulous lives in Philadelphia, New York or Indiana in a mansion on a hill or a penthouse in the city.

The summer people came from
someplace else
, but in the end they all dug their toes into the same sand and bought ice-cream cones from the same shack next to the boardwalk. What was fleeting and dreamlike to the guests had once been Maisy’s mainstay. What had been their reprieve had been her permanent dockage. Not anymore.

When the cars would arrive on Memorial Day weekend—station wagons, Mercedes, Volvos, sometimes the dad following in his Porsche—the three sisters would gossip about each family, and joke about the silly names they called their cottages: Shore Thing; Big Chill; Merilee by the Sea; Sandity, etc. . . .

“Ah, the crazy Whitmans are here. I wonder if their aunt will skinny-dip in the country club pool again,” Adalee would say.

“The Murphy brothers came again. . . . I wonder if Danny is here or if he ended up in military school,” Riley would say.

Maisy and her two sisters didn’t need the movies; they had the summer people and their stories, their secrets: which wives cheated on their husbands when the men left for the week to work; whose “perfect” kids bought pot from the local boys; whose mother needed a scotch on the rocks by ten a.m.

To the vacationers, they had always been the Sheffield sisters, one entity. Back then Maisy would have followed Riley anywhere. And she had. . . . While the plane descended, Maisy remembered the night their sister Adalee was born and Maisy had followed Riley into the woods.

Ten and nine years old, Riley and Maisy had watched from the bedroom window as Mama and Daddy drove off to the hospital in the family wood-paneled Ford station wagon.

Maisy whispered to her older sister, who always knew what to do, where to go, who to be, “We’re alone. We’re not supposed to stay in the house alone. Not ever.”

“No.” Riley placed her hands on Maisy’s shoulders. “They wouldn’t leave us alone in the house. They sent for Harriet. I’m sure Harriet is on her way.”

They crouched beneath Riley’s covers and waited as evening turned to deep night and Harriet didn’t show. Maisy finally said the dreaded words: “They forgot about us.”

“No,” Riley said with a certainty that Maisy envied. She never felt certain about anything, always wavering.

Time passed and finally Riley threw off the covers. “Let’s go. We aren’t allowed home without a grown-up. Mama and Daddy said it’s very dangerous.”

“Where will we go?” Maisy fought back the sobs that wanted to rise from her stomach. She was counting on Riley to know the right thing to do.

“Outside. We’ll go outside. We just can’t be in this house alone.”

Maisy had often felt alone in the Sheffield house, even when Daddy and Mama were in the drawing room reading or talking. Mama’s attention went elsewhere after five p.m. when she had her first martini, while she waited for Daddy to come home. Daddy worked at the military base an hour away, and was often gone on trips. His absence was as palpable as his presence.

“We can’t go outside in the middle of the night,” Maisy said in a small voice, panic clamping her throat shut.

“We can’t stay here.” Riley sounded so like their mama that Maisy could only follow.

They took the quilt from Riley’s bed and walked out the back door to the woods behind their house. “Why can’t we go to the beach?” Maisy asked.

“Because we need to stay hidden,” Riley said.

“Yes. Hidden.” Maisy understood.

When the Palmetto Bluff police found them the next morning, curled into each other on a bed of pine straw under a quilt, the entire town had already begun a search. They returned to Daddy, who was standing on the back porch with fatigue and worry etched in deeper places on his face. “You have a new sister,” he said, and walked away, leaving Maisy and Riley with two officers.

The taller man spoke first. “You scared your father to death. What were you thinking?”

Riley stepped toward the officer as if she were older, taller than she was. “It’s quite simple, sir. We are not allowed to be home alone.”

The two men looked at Maisy and she nodded. “We aren’t.”

The officer patted Riley on the back. “You’re a good little girl, then, aren’t you?”

Riley screwed up her face. “Of course I am.”

Together Maisy and Riley walked into the house. Maisy reached for Riley’s hand and Riley squeezed her sister’s fingers. “Another sister. How much fun.”

Maisy never asked her parents why they were left alone that night, and the subject was never brought up again. Adalee came home and life continued. Whenever Mama told the story of the night Adalee was born, she never mentioned the fact that the police were sent to look for her two older daughters; she merely spoke of the quick birth and her bravery in not requesting pain medication.

Those were the good days with her sister, Maisy thought, the days before the betrayal.

Maisy had been gone for many years now. Her excuses for not coming home were usually loud and insistent, but now they began to sound tinny, small, not really excuses at all. California had aided in her quest to stay away from Riley, from Palmetto Beach. The fact remained: Riley had betrayed Maisy and she had vowed never to speak to Riley again beyond what was required by family obligation. The anger she’d nurtured toward Riley now nestled dormant inside a corner of her heart.

The summer before Maisy ran away, right after high school graduation, while Mama and Daddy were preoccupied with buying the Logans’ cottage and adoring baby Brayden, Maisy had wandered the beach and partied with friends, miserable because her first real love, Mack Logan, had not returned for her as he’d promised. The last summer in Palmetto Beach had culminated in a night of losing her virginity with her best friend’s fiancé, Tucker Morgan, in the vacant Driftwood Cottage. Maybe she’d been looking for an excuse to leave Palmetto Beach; if so, she’d sure as hell given herself one. She’d done a terrible thing, and exile, self-imposed, was part penance, part pure running away.

Funny thing, she’d assumed the deed would eventually catch up with her. She didn’t expect she’d be the one returning to the scene of her disgrace.

The plane skidded to a stop on the runway. Maisy was the last to disembark, allowing the other passengers out while she gathered her belongings. She dragged her carry-on down the aisle, then stopped outside the gate to call Peter before she faced her sister downstairs at the luggage carousel. Her cell phone was crammed into the bottom of her purse, and she sat on a chair while she dug it out. She dialed his number and held her breath. This was always the moment when her stomach clenched and her heart raced—would he answer? Would he be with his wife and pretend it was a business call? Would he be alone and able to speak the words of love she needed to hear?

She’d met Peter at a cocktail party for her friend Andy’s thirtieth birthday. Peter had come up behind her, and when she’d turned, she’d walked right into him. She looked up to his face to apologize and found herself speechless, not because he was more beautiful than any man she’d seen but because of the kind way he smiled down at her. They’d talked for hours that night, and then kept in contact by phone before she realized he was married. She found out when she bumped into a girlfriend at the farmers’ market while shopping for fresh fruit. The friend told her that of course Peter was planning on leaving his wife; he’d told everyone. But he hadn’t left . . . yet.

Maisy had tried numerous times over the past six months to break off the relationship, but her heart wouldn’t allow it. Peter was like an undertow that caught her over and over in the tumult of his words and touch. This was the second time she’d found herself caught in a wild ride of emotions with a married man. After the first one, she’d vowed never again—but this time she was in love before she knew about his wife.

Peter’s kind words, his way of touching her, his knowing just what she needed to hear, pulled her back whenever she tried to walk away. The phone rang until his voice mail picked up. She slammed the cell phone shut and pulled the handle out on her rollaway to head down the hallway. She held her breath as she descended the escalator to the baggage-claim area. Maisy saw Riley before Riley saw her, offering Maisy the chance to take in her sister.

Riley stood near a pillar on her tiptoes, scanning the crowd. When had she lost her athletic, boyish look? When had she grown her blond hair halfway down her back? All this time Maisy had pictured the sister she’d left, not this one standing in the middle of the crowded airport.

Riley had always been the rock of the family. Still was. She made even unwed motherhood look responsible. Anger unwittingly rose inside Maisy. Suddenly she was—once again—irresponsible, young, wild.

With a deep breath, Maisy reminded herself of who she was
now
: a fabulous interior designer with a lovely, well-furnished apartment overlooking Laguna Bay. She was a capable woman. She had good friends, a creative job, a man who loved her, a full life.

“Maisy!” Riley’s voice sang across the space.

Maisy raised her hand in a greeting, rolled her suitcase off the escalator, where it bumped the edge of the metal railing and tipped. Riley picked it up with one hand, but seemed awkward in her indecision over whether to offer a hug with her free arm. “I thought for a minute you changed your mind and didn’t come.”

“Almost,” Maisy attempted to joke, returning the half hug.

Riley led them toward the luggage carousel. “You look great. A true California girl now, huh?”

Maisy glanced at her sister, her smile stiff. “You look fantastic, too.” She stopped. “We don’t need to wait for luggage.” She tapped her carry-on. “This is all I brought.”

Riley stopped, turned. Her hair fell across her face. “You only have one bag?”

“I’m not staying long, Riley. I can’t. I just came to check on Mama and help you for a couple days. If I need anything, I’m sure you’ll have something I can borrow.”

“Maisy, I’m twice your size.”

“Not anymore, big sister. Look at you. Is Mama working you to the bone?”

Riley looked down at her feet, as if the answer rested on the tile floor. “That’s not the point. We have all got to help one another get this party off the ground, help Mama. . . .”

Maisy wheeled her luggage toward the electronic doors. “Let’s go. I can’t wait to get some sleep in my old bed. . . .”