Page 48 of The Summer House
Callie stepped onto the porch and pushed the screen door open, her juice glass already fogging up in the relentless heat. It was oppressive today, even with the thick cloud cover. She sat down on the edge of the walkway and set her orange juice on one of the boards, the new wood a yellow color. It would take some time to age it but the salt would certainly help things along. The tide pulled and pushed against the shore, the spray exploding angrily with every crash. She looked up at the clouds; thick as they were, they didn’t do much to block the brightness, and she wished she’d grabbed her sunglasses.
Gladys had been right. Out here, she felt more alive, the fresh air bringing light to her thoughts. She’d been jumping to conclusions with the journal. It didn’t make any sense at all, and she had let the late hour and her sleepy mind play tricks on her. She thought about telling Gladys about it, as she had always been the person she’d talked to over the years about things. She and Olivia were the only ones who knew Callie’s real feelings about her mother and their strained relationship after her beloved grandmother had passed.
She could ask Gladys about Frederick… But then again, she was going to see him soon so perhaps she’d have her answers then.
“Phew! The wind is pickin’ up, isn’t it?” Gladys said as she strode down the walk barefoot, holding a plate with the steaming sandwich. She set it down on Callie’s lap as Callie helped her steady it. “Got it?”
Callie nodded.
“You look like you’ve been through the ringer.”
“I think it was just the wine last night,” she said before taking a bite of her sandwich and thanking Gladys with a smile.
Gladys sat down next to her. “Could be the storm coming. The barometric pressure makes you feel different sometimes. I’m always my most creative just before a storm.” She looked out at the ocean. “I think that’s why Olivia’s inside nesting. Something about a summer thunderstorm makes a person feel like hunkering down in a cozy spot. I left her organizing a closet upstairs. She’d already finished all those dishes,” she said with a grin.
Callie smiled.
“Something’s eating at ya,” Gladys said. “What is it?”
Callie looked down at her half-eaten sandwich.
“The truth will set you free,” Gladys said with a knowing smile.
“I was just wondering about Frederick McFarlin. Did you know him very well?”
Gladys shook her head. “He spent a lot of time to himself, and then when we were young—in our early thirties—he just disappeared. I did ask Alice once, and she just said he’d moved. Alice looked so frazzled over it that I just didn’t feel it was my place to ask anything else. She seemed closed off about it.”
They sat quietly for a while, and Callie finished her sandwich.
“How’s your mama?” Gladys said as if she were changing subjects. Callie didn’t want to think about how the question tied to her last comment about being closed off, but she knew it did. Callie didn’t argue or have anything against her mother; they’d just sort of drifted apart. The more time Callie spent with Olivia and her family, the closer she got with them and the less she had to think about her mother’s unwillingness to communicate.
“She’s fine, I guess.”
“You guess?” she asked, her words gentle. “You know, I was thinking that maybe you should invite her to the opening of The Beachcomber. I’ll bet she’d be really proud of you.”
Callie nodded, unable to produce more than that. She’d had the same thought herself. She felt an overwhelming guilt that she couldn’t define. She knew she should be keenly aware of how her own mother was doing and want to invite her to things like that, but what little relationship they’d possessed had just slipped away.
Gladys put her hands on her knees, her fingers spreading over them for balance and pushed herself up. “I should probably head on,” she said. “I’m giving the house a good clean today and then I’m going to my daughter’s house just in case this storm hits worse than expected.” She was good at knowing when to stop the discussion about Callie’s mother, and that was what she was doing now, Callie was nearly sure of it.
Callie followed suit, grabbing her empty orange juice glass in one hand, her plate in the other. “I know. It’s getting late and I’d like to plant the bushes before it rains. I only have until afternoon and then I’m going to take that lockbox back to Frederick.”
Wyatt smiled, pride filling his face as he came outside. Callie had picked up the bushes she’d called in this morning and now, on her knees, wrist deep in soil, she was nearly done. She looked up from her planting. She’d gotten the whole row of bushes done along the new walkway and the sky had been grumbling the last few minutes.
“Guess what I did,” he said. “I got the lock open on the lockbox for you. There’s stuff inside.”
Callie stared at him, her hands still, all her questions from last night slamming back into the front of her mind. She was suddenly unsure of how she wanted to proceed. She wasn’t certain she wanted to pry into Frederick’s life now. She knew why: She was really afraid to find out any more about that baby boy. Callie swallowed her worry, took off her gardening gloves, and slowly stood up.
“Come on!” Wyatt grabbed her by the arm, pulling her up the walk.
When she got inside, Callie protectively looked in on the contents of the box, not wanting to disturb anything. Olivia came over and peered down at it curiously before congratulating Wyatt on getting it open. Carefully, Callie pulled out a small sketchpad, setting it delicately on the table. There was a local high school graduation program… She reached into the box again, taking out a stack of newspaper and magazine clippings, and—she stopped breathing—all of them were about the Sullivan family.
Confusion swam across Olivia’s face. “That’s weird,” she said, but her attention was pulled away when Wyatt asked a question. Callie wasn’t listening. Slowly, her breath shallow, she set them down and retrieved the sketchpad. She swallowed and opened it. Her heart rose into her throat as she saw drawings. One was of a dog on a street. She turned the page: an ocean landscape. They were so good. “He’s an artist,” she whispered to herself, still trying to find her breath.
Wyatt wanted to show Olivia something that he’d made. “I’ll be right back,” she said as he pulled her away.
Callie turned the page and had to hold on to the chair for support. It was a pencil sketch of the wild horses and a woman looking out at the ocean, only her back visible, with a small boy by her side. Callie could still hear Luke’s voice when he’d told her about the beach with the horses:My mom used to bring me here when I was a kid.
She shut the sketchpad, needing a moment to process all this, her skin cold.
She shoved everything back into the lockbox, and shut it, wriggling the latch until it had closed. She inspected it to make sure it didn’t look like anyone had pried into it, and it looked fine. Her heart raced in her chest, her fingertips like ice despite the heat, her mouth dry. She pushed the lockbox back into the pantry and shut the door. Her hands lingered on the knob as if she had to keep the box from escaping. A loud clap of thunder boomed, shaking her to the core.
