Summer at Hideaway Key

  Praise for the Novels of Barbara Davis

  Summer at Hideaway Key

  “A seaside cottage with a mysterious past and a woman looking to unearth secrets of her own. . . . Barbara Davis envelopes her readers so thoroughly into life on Florida’s Gulf Coast that you’ll find yourself reaching down to brush sand off your toes and licking margarita salt off your lips.”

  —Erica Marks, author of It Comes in Waves

  “I can’t resist a story with a journal at its heart, and the journal in Summer at Hideaway Key is powerful, emotional, and illuminating.”

  —Diane Chamberlain, USA Today bestselling author of The Silent Sister

  “Artfully weaving past family secrets into a beautifully told story of sibling rivalry, self-sacrifice, and self-discovery, Barbara Davis has created another powerful page-turner.”

  —Barbara Claypole White, award-winning author of The Perfect Son

  The Wishing Tide

  “Everything I love in a novel . . . an old inn and a deeply felt and explored love story with a smart, relatable heroine and a handsome hero with a mysterious past . . . elegant and haunting proof that secrets buried in the heart will always rise to the surface.”

  —Erika Marks

  Written by today’s freshest new talents and selected by New American Library, NAL Accent novels touch on subjects close to a woman’s heart, from friendship to family to finding our place in the world. The Conversation Guides included in each book are intended to enrich the individual reading experience, as well as encourage us to explore these topics together—because books, and life, are meant for sharing.

  Visit us online at penguin.com.

  “With some books, it is difficult to pick just ‘one thing’ to highlight. The Wishing Tide by Barbara Davis is one of those books.”

  —USA Today

  “A captivating read about fighting for the life you want and daring to believe that happily ever after can exist outside of fairy tales . . . this lyrical novel will haunt you from the first page to the last.”

  —Barbara Claypole White

  “Filled with wonderful descriptions of North Carolina’s Outer Banks, The Wishing Tide is a book about love and loss and finding your way forward. I could not read it fast enough!”

  —Anita Hughes, author of Lake Como

  “One of the best stories out there, and Davis is genuinely proving herself to be one of the strongest new voices of epic romance.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4½ stars)

  “Great reading any time of year! Finely crafted, Barbara Davis—oh, and this would also make a phenomenal movie!”

  —Crystal Book Reviews

  The Secrets She Carried

  “Barbara Davis wowed me with her flawless blending of past and present in The Secrets She Carried. Her compassion for her characters made me care and her haunting tale kept the pages flying. A poignant, mysterious, and heartfelt story.”

  —Diane Chamberlain

  “I was swept into Adele’s heartbreaking life and her devotion to those she loved.”

  —Susan Crandall, author of Whistling Past the Graveyard

  “I read Barbara Davis’s debut novel, The Secrets She Carried, deep into the night—one minute rushing to discover how the mysteries resolved, the next slowing. . . . Adele Laveau’s haunting voice and Leslie Nicholl’s journey toward understanding lingered long after I read the final page of this engrossing tale.”

  —Julie Kibler, author of Calling Me Home

  “The Secrets She Carried is a beautifully crafted page-turner with many twists but a simple theme: No matter how far you run, you can’t escape your past. Part contemporary women’s fiction, part historical novel, the plot moves seamlessly back and forth in time to unlock family secrets that bind four generations of women. Add a mysterious death, love that defies the grave, and the legacy of redemption, and this novel has it all.”

  —Barbara Claypole White

  “This beautifully written novel tells a tale of epic romance, one that lasts through the decades and centuries. All centered on a plantation home in small-town North Carolina, love stories unfold as the novel progresses through both past and present, and hidden secrets, once thought long buried, slowly reveal themselves. It’s a beautiful story, and Davis does an amazing job telling it.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Davis’s writing is heartfelt and effective.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Davis has a gift for developing flawed characters and their emotionally wrenching dilemmas. The small-town setting, full of gossip and prejudice in the Depression years, feels realistic . . . a very satisfying tale.”

  —Historical Novel Society

  OTHER BOOKS BY BARBARA DAVIS

  The Secrets She Carried

  The Wishing Tide

  NAL ACCENT

  Published by New American Library,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  This book is an original publication of New American Library.

  Copyright © Barbara Davis, 2015

  Conversation Guide copyright © Penguin Random House, 2015

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  NAL Accent and the NAL Accent colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information about Penguin Random House, visit penguinrandomhouse.com.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Davis, Barbara, 1961–

  Summer at Hideaway Key / Barbara Davis.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-698-19058-0

  1. Vacation homes—Fiction. 2. Family secrets—Fiction. 3. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

  PS3604.A95554S86 2015

  813’.6—dc23 2015011033

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Praise

  Other Books by Barbara Davis

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

&nb
sp; THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  Recipe for Pink Flip-Flop

  Coversation Guide

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  To the survivors, who believe cancer is a word, not a sentence—and to those who held their hands along the way

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Some books seem to write themselves, while others come into the world kicking and screaming—thrashing, gut-wrenching, bloody. But the one thing I know for sure is that no book makes it onto the shelf without a team of midwives, that dedicated circle of family, friends, lovers, and professionals without whom our work might never come into the world. And so, without further ado . . .

  To my critique partners, Lisa Cameron Rosen, Matt King, Doug Simpson, and Mitch Richmond, who read, suggested, reread, and suggested some more, you have my undying gratitude for your wit, honesty, generosity, keen eyes, and irreplaceable friendship.

  To Tom, the absolute love of my life, and my wonderful mother, Pat, who have acted as my cheerleaders, as well as my personal crisis hotline during the writing of this book. I honestly don’t know how I would have made it though this one without the two of you holding my hand.

  To Nalini Akolekar, of Spencerhill Associates, the smartest, coolest, most supportive literary agent in the world, who has been with me since day one, thank you for believing in me and for always standing in my corner. You were truly the answer to a prayer.

  To Sandra Harding, editor extraordinaire, and the entire team of amazing professionals at Penguin/NAL, thanks for making my job such a pleasure, and for making me look good. True pros all.

  To Lauren Rochelle, mixologist at Disney World’s Narcoossee’s restaurant, for creating the scrumptious recipe for Salty’s infamous Pink Flip-Flops. (Recipe included at the end of the book!)

  And finally, to my readers, so many of whom I have come to think of as friends, you have my eternal thanks for enriching my experience as a writer, for your kind support, for your invaluable feedback, and for your treasured words of encouragement. You are never far from my heart as I write.

  PROLOGUE

  June 21, 1953

  Mims, Tennessee

  Something was wrong. Bad wrong.

  A rooster tail of scorched yellow earth kicked up as the pickup rounded the corner onto Vernon Dairy Road. I cut my eyes sideways at Mama, rigid behind the wheel, but bit my bottom lip to keep silent. I didn’t like the look on her face, like she’d just been told the Rapture was coming and she’d been caught off guard. But mostly, she looked tired. Beneath the streaky traces of last night’s powder, her face was pale and strained, her eyes puffy and red, though whether that was to do with tears or drink, I couldn’t say.

  Both, probably.

  Beside me, Caroline was mute, huddled against the passenger-side armrest, her beloved rag doll, Chessie, clutched to her chest, wide green eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond the cracked windshield. Her hair was snarled from sleep, a coppery halo around her pale young face. We’d barely gotten breakfast down—milk and hunks of leftover corn bread—before Mama shooed us from the table and out of the house.

  I thought of the battered suitcase bumping around in the back of the truck, then tried not to think about it. I didn’t want to remember the way Mama’s eyes slid away from mine when I spotted it, or how the sleeve of my sister’s blue dress had spilled out from one corner. There was something ominous about that sleeve, something ominous, too, in the way Mama had pressed that old hand-me-down doll into Caroline’s hands as she herded us out the door and across the front yard, past the empty plastic swimming pool and the old tire swing Daddy put up the summer he went away for the last time.

  Mama was quiet behind the wheel, her eyes hard on the road as it ground away beneath the tires, as if she’d made up her mind about something and there was no going back. In her rumpled hat and too-tight dress she looked as threadbare as Caroline’s old rag doll, like her stuffing might come loose any minute. Desperation. The word popped into my head without having to reach for it. It was written all over her face, coming off her like last night’s bourbon.

  We’d been driving almost two hours, and I still hadn’t scraped up the nerve to ask where we were going. Maybe because I knew I wouldn’t like the answer. Or maybe because I couldn’t think over the words echoing in my head. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Not the regular kind of wrong, like when Daddy would disappear for weeks at a time, or Mama would lose another job because she didn’t have money to put gas in the truck, but the really bad kind of wrong, like when Sheriff Cady had come to the door to say that Daddy wouldn’t be coming back ever. Today felt like that kind of wrong—the kind that changed things forever.

  A fresh cloud of dust churned up from the road, boiling into the open windows, coating the dashboard with another layer of grit. We were passing an empty field of sun-bleached scrub, an ugly stretch of nothing that made me want to leap from the moving truck and run all the way home. Turn around! I wanted to yell at Mama. Turn around and let’s go home. But I didn’t. There were tears in her eyes now, and I couldn’t bear the sight of Mama’s tears.

  The road narrowed to a single lane as we passed under a peeling wood sign. I had to squint to make out the letters: Mt. Zion Missionary Poor Farm.

  Poor farm?

  I shot Caroline a panicked look, but she just kept on staring straight ahead, her green eyes fixed on the narrow swath of dirt road. Either she hadn’t seen the sign, or she didn’t know what it meant. But I knew.

  I knew money was tight, and had been for a while. We hadn’t had milk in weeks, and more nights than not, dinner was nothing but corn bread and collards. But we’d been through rough patches before and Mama always found a way. Sometimes, when she was between jobs, she would bring a man home from the Orchid Lounge. Sometimes he would even stay a few weeks. But there hadn’t been any men for a while—or any jobs, either.

  Up ahead, a big white farmhouse shimmered into view against the hot blue sky. Beyond the house was a small whitewashed chapel, and beyond that was a scatter of smaller houses and outbuildings, all crisscrossed with a maze of split-rail fences. A handful of men milled about in overalls and dirty boots. A few looked up with dull eyes as the truck rattled up the circular drive and stopped in front of the house.

  I sat stock-still while Mama climbed down out of the truck, then went around to drag the old suitcase out of the back. If I didn’t move, if I didn’t get out of the truck, maybe it would all go away. Or maybe if I said a prayer. But there was no time for prayers. Mama was coming around to the passenger side and opening the door. Caroline tumbled out obediently, Chessie dangling limply from the crook of her arm. I had no choice but to scoot across the sticky seat and follow my sister.

  Mama pointed to the suitcase and then to Caroline, charging me with the care of both while she went inside to see to things. I thought I caught a whiff of bourbon on her breath. Last night’s, I remember hoping, though I didn’t think so. I watched as Mama mounted the porch steps and disappeared through the screen door with a soft slap. I couldn’t say for sure what things she was going to see to, but I had a pretty good idea.

  Poor farms were for people who couldn’t feed themselves or their families, a place where grown-ups and children earned the food in their bellies and the roof over their heads by working in the fields. I had heard of such places, and what folks said about the people who went to them—people willing to take a handout because they were too lazy or too dull-witted to find real work.

  We would be those people now.

&nbs
p; I eyed the old suitcase with a sick feeling, wondering how Mama had managed to pack three people’s clothes into one small case. The thought filled my head with a low, dull buzz, like a swarm of irate bees, though I couldn’t put my finger on why the thought kept nagging at me. It wasn’t until I heard the screen door slap again, and looked up into those guilty green eyes—eyes just like mine—that I realized Mama had left the truck running.

  ONE

  June 5, 1995

  Manhattan

  Lily barely registered the sound of her own name being spoken, jumbled together with a lot of legalese. The lawyer was doing his thing, parceling out her father’s worldly goods like door prizes at an Amway rally—stocks, bonds, corporate holdings. She didn’t care. Not about those things.

  She should have been there when he died. Instead she had lingered in Paris, working out the details of her next strategic career move—a move that would land her at one of the hottest design houses in Milan. It didn’t help that her mother had waited until the last possible moment to inform her that her father was seriously ill. Finalizing the details had taken only a day, but the delay had cost her dearly. She’d been so busy trying to make her father proud that she’d missed the chance to say good-bye.

  And now, twenty-four hours after landing at JFK, she was sitting in Stephen Singer’s Manhattan office, listening to the terms of Roland St. Claire’s last will and testament. Except she wasn’t really listening. Her mother was, though, with her signature blend of disappointment and disapproval stamped all over her perfectly powdered face. When it came to money and getting her due, Caroline St. Claire didn’t miss a trick.

  She had certainly dressed for the occasion, Lily noted frostily—black Norma Kamali with gold buttons and a skirt just short enough to show off surprisingly good legs.

  Widow couture?

  Perhaps there was something to that. Perhaps her mother had inadvertently stumbled onto the signature niche that had been stubbornly eluding Lily all these years, despite fashion degrees from both Parsons and IFA, and nearly ten years at various Paris design houses.