The Guest Book (8 page)

He smiled and rocked back on his heels, digging his hands into his pockets. “You act like I’m over the hill.”

Max was nine years older than she was, and she certainly didn’t feel like a spring chicken anymore.

“Does that mean you think about it? Think about settling down? Having kids?”

“Sure, I think about it. Even talked about it a bit with this girl I’ve been seeing. I just know”—he looked away—”there are some changes I’d have to make, and I—” He fixed his gaze on Macy, a helpless, uncertain look on his face Macy didn’t recognize. “I don’t know that I can do that.”

Macy didn’t hesitate giving him the answer she knew they both needed to hear. “Of course you can. You can change your life if you really want to.” She thought of her prayer by the ocean the night before while Max was off wherever it was he’d gone. She almost told him about it, but something kept her from saying more. She looked down at the floor instead, decided her toes needed a new coat of polish.

Their mother cleared her throat in the kitchen. “You’re taking Emma on a bike ride?” she asked, looking at Max with a stern look on her face. “I hope you’re going to be careful.”

Max looked relieved to be interrupted. He lifted Emma off the floor and carried her across the room like a rare jewel on a silk pillow. “I will be extra careful with this precious creature, madam,” he intoned in a fake British accent. “I will protect her with my very life.”

Emma giggled and squirmed away from him. She ran back across the room and plopped down on Macy’s lap, wrapping her arms around Macy’s neck. “Why don’t you come, Mommy?” she asked.

Macy thought back to the exhausting day she’d had playing on the beach with Emma — who never did end up resting. Being both Mom and Dad to a child was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Brenda had only spent an hour on the beach, and — not wanting to be a burden — Macy hadn’t asked her or Max for help. Several times that day she’d thought of giving in to Chase, telling him he could stay nearby. At least that way there’d be someone there to help her, someone who was actually responsible for Emma too. But then she thought about how her mother thought Emma was Chase’s access to Macy and was able to bite back the urge to call him, to not take the easy way out like Avis had warned her about doing.

She looked down at her daughter. “Why don’t you just have some special time with Uncle Max?” She willed Emma to accept her answer without protest and was thankful when she did.

Her mother, a smile on her face, watched Emma and Max tromp out the front door. “That was nice of your brother to take her,” she said.

Macy nodded, her head in her hands. She could feel the effects of the sun and waves on her body. She would most likely fall asleep before Emma did tonight. She closed her eyes, thinking of the novel she’d brought to read and wondering how many sentences she’d get through before she was sleeping with the book in her hand.

Her mother’s voice roused her. “I think I’d like to go to church tomorrow.”

Macy opened her eyes. Her mother was still standing in the kitchen doorway. She raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

They’d always gone to the little Methodist church on Ocean Isle Beach when they were vacationing before, but her mother had stopped going to church after Dad died. None of them really seemed concerned about God anymore. It was like they were all angry at Him for taking the core of their family away, and they’d been giving Him the silent treatment ever since.

Her mother shrugged as if her suggestion were nothing. “I just thought that we should have the full experience,” she said. “Do as many things we used to as possible.”

Macy wanted to ask Brenda,
Why now? Why push to recreate something we’d all let go of a long time ago?
But she was too tired to broach such a serious subject. Instead she made a suggestion.

“Well, if you’re looking to do as many things as we used to do as possible, you should invite Buzz over. Remember Buzz?”
She shot her mom a teasing look. She knew Brenda couldn’t help but remember Buzz. “He still owns the house next door.” She thought of the look on Wyatt’s smug face. “And he’s got a cocky son,” she added.

Her mother ignored her suggestion and turned back to the kitchen, but not before Macy noticed the odd look on her face.

“Yeah, maybe,” Brenda said. “I’m making brownies. Want to help me?”

It didn’t escape Macy’s notice that her mom had changed the subject when Buzz came up, but that was another question Macy didn’t have the energy to address. She pressed her lips together and rose slowly from the table. “Sure,” she answered half-heartedly. “I’d love to help.”

S
itting in the pew at the little church on Ocean Isle Beach brought back memories so thick Macy could feel them hanging in the air around her. In her mind’s eye she could see young Max slumped down in the pew, his arms crossed in front of him, his hair still wet from their dad slicking it down. That was the year she’d begged to go to “Big Church” with her family instead of Sunday school with the rest of the kids. She could still see white sandals on her small feet as she kicked them in front of her, making dusty smudges on the gleaming polished wood of the pew in front of them until her mom made her stop. She could see her dad sitting tall and proud, his attention tuned to the minister as though he were divulging the secrets of world peace and not just another sermon in a tiny beachside church. What had he been listening to all
those years ago? Perhaps it was something Macy needed to hear today.

She crossed her arms in front of her and looked at Max on the other side of their mother. He looked about as happy to be there today as he did when he was fifteen. He stuck his tongue out at her, and she giggled just as the choir finished singing, her laughter too loud in the suddenly quiet church. Brenda reached over and laid her hand on Macy’s leg, a signal to behave. Macy knew it well. She put her hand over her mouth and tried to regain her composure even though she was well aware of Max waiting to egg her on. Not much had changed.

She thought about Emma tucked away in Sunday school, eating cookies and making crafts. Emma had held onto Macy’s hand and begged her not to go when she’d been dropped off.

“Please, please, stay with me, Mommy,” she had pleaded, her eyes wide.

Now, as Macy watched the man who’d prayed take his seat and the congregation wait for the pastor to begin his sermon, she wished she could’ve stayed with Emma, eating cookies and doing crafts with her.

Macy half wondered if the church still had the same pastor. She had a clear memory of him droning on and on, time slowing as she sank into the pew. He’d been as old as dirt then. Could he still be preaching? She was relieved to see a much younger man slide into position behind the foreboding pulpit. A much younger and — she was pleased to note — much handsomer man. At least this one would keep her attention, if for the entirely wrong reasons. She decided she could tolerate
sitting through his sermon. As he opened his Bible and began to speak, she noticed she was sitting straighter than before. She snuck a look at the front of the church bulletin out of curiosity, and sure enough, found his name.
Pastor Nate Wagner
was printed on the front of the bulletin under a pen-and-ink drawing of the church.

Hello, Pastor Nate
, Macy thought, and bit back a smile when his eyes fell on her, almost as if he’d read her mind. She felt her cheeks warm as a blush crept across her face.

Resolving to be serious and actually pay attention, Macy focused on Pastor Nate’s message. His sermon was on living with purpose, embracing one’s calling. The pastor talked about the parable of the talents and how one man buried the talents he’d been given while the other two men invested theirs and made more. The man who buried his — while trying to play it safe —was the one who was chastised by his master when he returned. Playing it safe, it turned out, wasn’t the way to go when dealing with the blessings given by God.

Macy thought about her art and how she’d spent too long painting store windows and store signs, too afraid to put herself out there and try anything else. She’d buried her talents, played it safe, too scared to ask for more. She swallowed hard and was so lost in thought that when the sermon ended and the service was over, her mother had to nudge her to stand up and exit the pew.

They filed out the back of the church, which it turned out, included walking past the young pastor. Buzz was there, smiling at him and clapping him on the back. Macy didn’t remember Buzz ever darkening the doorway of a church. If anything,
she recalled heated discussions between her father and Buzz about faith. God was one of the few things her dad and Buzz had not shared an interest in. So what was he doing at church?

She watched as he gripped another parishioner’s hand with his right hand, covering both of their hands with his left. Out of habit, Macy noticed he didn’t wear a wedding ring.

Pastor Nate looked over and caught Macy’s eye for a second time, but she looked away, hiding behind her mother in line as if she were a little girl again, embarrassed to think he knew what she’d been looking for. She watched as he took her mother’s hand, smiling so hard his dimples looked like they might crack. She sighed. Did he have to have dimples? He turned from her mother to her.

“I’m Nate Wagner,” he said. “And you are?”

She extended her hand because her mother was watching. “Macy,” she said.

She shook his hand, then quickly pulled away. His hands were warm and like a surgeon’s, soft and gentle. Her mind flashed to Buzz’s son, Wyatt, and she imagined what his hands felt like: rough and calloused, but certain. She blinked her eyes—Wyatt’s face disappearing—idly wondering why she’d thought of him. She forced a smile at the pastor and wondered what in the world was wrong with her. She was acting like a boy-crazy middle schooler.

“Nice to meet you, Macy,” he said, giving a little wink so fleeting Macy wondered if she’d imagined it.

“Nice to meet you,” she mumbled, and made a right down the corridor that led to Emma’s class. Her mind was racing as
she tried to figure out why she was suddenly thinking about other men when it was Chase who’d monopolized her thoughts for so long. Was this a sign of strength, of forward progress? Or did just being at the beach fuel these thoughts? Then she had another thought: Maybe her prayer was being answered.

She walked into the classroom to retrieve Emma, grateful for the distraction the little girl brought her. The same little girl who’d pleaded not to be left in the classroom now frowned when she saw Macy.

“I haven’t finished my cookie.” She pouted.

Macy wanted to get out of the church. “We’ll take it with us!” she said brightly as the teacher smiled at them.

Macy wondered if somewhere in this town there was a home filled with Sunday school teachers so sweet and kind they glowed. Hers, as she recalled, had looked much the same. Maybe they were related. Macy took Emma’s hand and tried to lead her out, wrapping the half-eaten cookie in a napkin decorated with pink crosses.

Emma pulled her hand away. “My pot! It’s drying in the next room!” she exclaimed.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Macy grumbled, following Emma as she beelined for the adjoining classroom, where terra-cotta pots bearing the children’s paint jobs were lined up on a counter.

Emma took her sweet time going down the line, inspecting each one. “Not this one,” she mumbled to herself. “Oh, this one’s pretty! See, Mommy?”

Macy nodded absently and made a hurry-up motion, her
hand circling in the air as Emma looked back at the pots, ignoring her.

“She’s got to find the right one,” a voice behind her said.

Macy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She turned to face the handsome pastor, now missing his robe and wearing — surprisingly—jeans and a T-shirt, leaning in the doorway. He smiled.

“It always surprises people what I’m really wearing under that robe.” It seemed he had a knack for reading her thoughts.

He grinned at her as color crept up her cheeks a second time. He’d noticed her surprise, had read her just like he’d read the Bible on the pulpit.

“I guess I was expecting a suit,” she managed.

“Not here in OIB,” he said. “We’re much more relaxed around these parts.” He smiled. “That’s why I like it so much.”

She nodded for lack of a better response. “It’s nice,” she agreed.

He turned to Emma, who’d found her pot at last. It boasted hearts and flowers and rainbows, as Macy expected. She was positive Emma would insist they plant something in it when they got home. But Macy lacked a green thumb, and she was already anticipating the plant dying shortly after its planting. “Did you have a good time today, young lady?” he asked.

Emma rewarded him with a big smile. “Yes,” she said. She held up her pot. “I painted this myself.”

“That’s lovely. You’re quite the artist. Something tells me you get that from your mother.”

Macy was startled. How could he know that? She looked at him and he held his hands up. “Lucky guess.”

She motioned to Emma to follow her toward the doorway, which was currently blocked by the pastor. She wondered where Max and her mother were and why they hadn’t come looking for them. She could use some saving right about now.

“So you like painting?” he asked, not bothering to move out of the doorway. “What else do you like?”

Macy stopped just inches from him, surprised he seemed so comfortable slouching there. She could smell his cologne and thought perhaps he had on Old Spice, just like her dad used to use.

“I like lunch,” Emma said. She rubbed her stomach.

“I’m actually trying to round her up so we can go eat,” Macy said, hoping that would spur him to move of the way.

Max walked up behind the pastor and looked into the room, locking eyes with Macy. “Hey, what’s the holdup?” Max asked.

Pastor Nate shifted to see who was behind him, and Macy took the opportunity to slip by, pulling Emma along as she did, grateful to make her escape. She couldn’t put her finger on the right words to describe how he made her feel —attracted but unsettled; a familiar stranger she should probably steer clear of. Pastors weren’t exactly her “type.” She paused to wave good-bye to him, then followed Max and Emma out the door and to the car. Max was talking a mile a minute about how weird it was to be back in church after all these years and how he needed a drink ASAP.

Macy ignored his ramblings and walked faster to get to their mother, who was standing by the car.

“I just met the nicest woman,” Brenda said as they were getting in the car. “She runs the community center here at Ocean Isle. It just so happens that they have an art camp every weekday morning. I told her that was right up Emma’s alley. She’ll love it!” She looked from Emma to Macy, waiting for their acknowledgment of her brilliance.

Macy merely nodded in agreement as she sank into her place in the backseat. The car was at least one hundred degrees inside. She rested her head on the hot glass window and waited for the air conditioner to bring relief. As they pulled out of the parking lot, she looked at the entrance of the church and saw the pastor watching them go, a funny expression on his face.

With Emma down for a nap and Brenda willing to watch her, Macy decided to go for a ride. She balanced the weight of the ancient bike with one foot and pushed the kickstand up with the other. Then, with a wobbly start, she was off, her feet finding the pedals as she focused on the sidewalk in front of her. Her plan was to do a loop down to the pier and back to the house without falling or running into any pedestrians. The last time she’d been on a bike had been the last time she was at Time in a Bottle, but it only took a few feet before she fell into a rhythm. It was true what they said about riding a bike.

She felt her leg muscles hum to life as she rotated the pedals
and breathed deeply, taking in the briny air as her hair blew back from her face. She eyed the pier up ahead and thought about the nights she used to steal away to the pier as a teen, falling in with the crowd of other teens who congregated there as soon as it got dark. One year, another teen had pulled her under the pier and kissed her. She’d hoped he would reveal himself as the mystery artist, but no such luck. At least he’d been a good kisser. Back then, finding the artist hadn’t felt as urgent. Back then, she’d thought she had all the time in the world to discover him.

But it wasn’t like she hadn’t tried to find him at all. There was the year she was fifteen when she’d hatched a plan to discover who he was, certain it would work. She’d ridden a bike — perhaps this same one; it looked old enough, squeaked loud enough—to the real estate office where they always stopped to pick up their keys for the beach house. As she rode down the street, the memory came back to her.

She’d stepped into the cool air-conditioned office of the real estate company, her eyes adjusting to the darker interior after being outside in the brilliant sun. She gripped the notepad and pencil she’d brought along, hoping the nice lady who greeted her would give her something worth writing down.

“Hi,” she’d said shyly, her voice faltering. “I’m Macy Dillon, and I’m staying at Time in a Bottle.” She’d pointed in the direction of the house, as if the woman might not know where the house was, then dropped her hand, feeling stupid.

The woman nodded. “Is there a problem with the house, dear?” she’d asked.

“Oh no. I just have a question.” She’d paused to look around the tiny office as she phrased and re-phrased her next words in her head.

“Yes, dear?” the woman had asked. The phone rang, but the woman didn’t move to answer it.

“Well, umm, I, umm … had a question.”

“Yes, dear. You mentioned that,” the woman said. The phone rang a second time. This time the woman did answer it, holding up one finger to Macy. Macy practiced her question in her mind while she waited for the woman to answer someone else’s question about linen supplies. When the woman hung up the phone, she looked at Macy again and resumed their conversation. “Now where were we?”

“Well, my family’s been coming to Time in a Bottle for a long time,” Macy began her explanation. “And I’ve been exchanging … correspondence … with someone who’s also been coming to Time in a Bottle for a long time. But I don’t know his name. So I was wondering if you could tell me if you might have a … record … of the families that have stayed at Time in a Bottle in the weeks following this one?” Macy, finished with her question, had smiled.

The woman had frowned in return. “Let me see if I have this correct,” she said. “You want me to go into my records and divulge the names of the families who regularly rent Time in a Bottle so you can find a boy who’s been anonymously writing to you?” A smile crept over the woman’s face. She chuckled. “Well, that’s one I haven’t heard before.”