Summer at Hideaway Key Read online

  “I don’t know, really. From the time I was able to hold a crayon I was drawing dresses, and then trying to make them for my dolls. I was a horrible seamstress, and still am, but the designing part came naturally.”

  “So, you could just dream up something while we’re sitting here, just sketch it from an image in your head?”

  “Yeah, I guess I could.”

  Sheila foraged in her purse until she found a pen, then handed Lily a clean napkin. “Go on, design me a dress.”

  Lily took the pen and napkin reluctantly. “Anything in particular?”

  “Nope. Just any old dress.”

  Fifteen minutes later Lily handed back the napkin. Sheila stared at it, openmouthed. “Are you kidding me? You just came up with that this minute, right out of thin air?”

  “It’s just a concept,” Lily said, waving off Sheila’s enthusiasm. It wasn’t much, just a pleated A-line with a nipped waist and keyhole bodice, but she had to admit she’d have worn it herself in a minute. “The detail’s no good, but a napkin isn’t exactly ideal.”

  “I love it. It’s got a great vintage feel.”

  “It’s all those old Vogues of my aunt’s, I think.”

  Sheila sighed as she set aside the napkin and returned to her lunch. “I’m so jealous. I’ve always wanted my own line for the shop, exclusive stuff with my own label. Unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to be. Give me a pattern and a Bernina and I can make magic, but when it comes to creating anything from scratch I’m a total washout.”

  “I have a classmate who started her own label. It took a ton of work, and a fortune to get it off the ground, but the last I heard she was doing well.”

  “Well, that leaves me out. I don’t have a fortune, just a little dress shop that already keeps me busier than I need to be. That reminds me, I need to get back. Let’s grab a Cuban coffee for the road, though. I need all the caffeine I can swallow to keep up with Penny and Jess.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Lily turned her gaze to the sky, eyeing the sullen gray clouds beginning to pile up out over the sea. It would rain soon, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t ready to go back in yet. The entire week had been a blur, unpacking and repacking, sorting and discarding, box after box after box, until she was convinced she’d go mad if she didn’t step away. And she was right. A brisk walk along the shore had been exactly what she needed.

  She was on her way back from the mailbox when she spotted the hot pink sticky note stuck to the front door. Peeling it free, she squinted to decipher the hastily scrawled words. I stopped by with a surprise for you, but you didn’t answer the door. Call me, or come by the shop. Sheila.

  Lily checked her watch: two thirty. They must have missed each other while she was out on the beach. Dragging out the phone book, she found the number for Sassy Rack and dialed. Sheila answered.

  “Hey, it’s Lily. I got your note. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got something for you. Your car was there when I came by, but no one answered, and I didn’t want to just leave it.”

  “I took a break and went for a walk. So what’s this surprise?”

  “I’m not telling you over the phone. Your choice. You can pop over here, or I’ll stop by the cottage after I close up.”

  “Well, now you’ve got me curious. I don’t think I can wait until six. I need to pick up a few things at the market anyway. I’ll come to you.”

  An hour later, she pulled into a parking space down the block from Sheila’s shop. Sheila was waiting with a glint in her eye and a bright pink shopping bag on the counter.

  “So what’s the big mystery?” Lily asked without preamble. “You’ve got me so curious I almost ran a red light getting here.”

  Lily took the bag, dangling now from the tip of Sheila’s index finger. “It isn’t baby clothes, is it—for all the pretty children I’m supposed to be having?”

  Sheila gave her an innocent shrug but refused to say a word.

  Lily removed the carefully wrapped parcel and laid it on the counter, peeling back delicate layers of tissue until a soft puddle of cobalt blue crepe de chine came into view.

  “A dress?” She lifted it up to examine it more closely, then gasped. “Not a dress—the dress. Sheila, how did you do this? It’s only been three days!”

  Sheila was absolutely sparkling. “I told you, I’m a wiz with patterns. I found a couple of patterns that were close and then borrowed. I used the skirt from one, the bodice from another, and pieced it all together. The bodice was tricky. I had to pull it apart twice and start over, but I think it’s pretty close.”

  “It’s amazing, and the color is divine. No wonder you were so secretive.”

  “Try it on.”

  Lily took the dress to the fitting room and slipped into it, still marveling as she checked Sheila’s handiwork in the mirror. The fabric was perfect—the movement, the drape, the work, all superb. There was a collective sigh as she stepped out of the tiny cubicle to face three eager faces.

  “Sheila, I absolutely love it. I still can’t believe you did this.”

  “I went shorter than the sketch to show off your legs. I thought you could wear it on Friday—to the Affair.”

  “Oh no. It’s way too dressy.”

  “Stay right there.” Sheila disappeared briefly, returning moments later, hands full of accessories. “Watch,” she said matter-of-factly. “All we need to do is dress you down a little.”

  Lily had no choice but to submit as Sheila went about the business of dressing her down, working with deft hands and a catlike smile. A handful of minutes later, there was a filmy scarf tied about her waist, a pair of whispery silver earrings dangling from her ears, and beaded sandals on her feet.

  “There now. All you need to do is pull your hair into a perky little ponytail and you’re ready to go. Hot dogs instead of caviar.”

  Like Penny and Jess, Lily stood in awe at the transformation. “It looks like a completely different dress. I could wear it Friday.”

  “You’ll certainly get Dean’s attention. And don’t roll your eyes. You weren’t planning on wearing a gunnysack, were you? Tell the truth.”

  Lily’s cheeks warmed. Actually, she had given more attention to her Friday-night attire than she cared to admit. “No, not exactly.”

  “I didn’t think so. Now get out of it so I can wrap it up again.”

  A few minutes later, Sheila had wrapped up the dress, as well as the scarf, earrings, and sandals, and set the bag on the counter. Lily reached into her purse for her wallet, but Sheila stopped her.

  “Don’t even think about it. It’s a present from me to you.”

  “But the fabric alone—I can’t let you do that.”

  “Oh yes, you can. Besides, you never know when I might ask you a favor.”

  Something about the way she said it caught Lily’s attention, as if she might be getting ready to ask for a kidney. “A favor?”

  Sheila’s eyes slid meaningfully toward her salesgirls. “I was thinking about knocking off early. How about a drink?”

  Lily knew something was up when they arrived at the Sundowner and Sheila sailed past the bar, heading instead for a quiet table along the railing. A waitress stopped by for their order, then disappeared. After several minutes of stilted chatter about the weather, Lily decided it was time to get down to brass tacks.

  “So, what’s the big mystery? You said something about a favor.”

  Sheila clasped her hands together so tightly her knuckles went white. “That’s right, I did. I was going to . . . You know what, never mind. Let’s just enjoy our drinks.”

  “Sheila, you’re starting to freak me out. Just tell me what you need.”

  “Okay.” Sheila took a deep breath, unfolding then refolding her hands. “I need you to tell Izzani to jump in a lake and go into business with me instead.” Once she’d gotten the fir
st part out, she seemed to pick up speed. “I haven’t been able to think about anything else since you drew that sketch at lunch the other day. You designing. Me selling. I know I’m small-time, and this isn’t Milan, but we could have so much fun, Lily. So much fun.”

  Lily didn’t know whether to be relieved or stunned. “Sheila, I’m flattered, really, but I can’t. I’ll be happy to help in any way I can while I’m here, but after that it would have to be long-distance.”

  Sheila’s effervescent smile vanished. “So you’re taking the job?”

  “Probably, yes. But even if I didn’t I wouldn’t be here.”

  “What’s wrong with here?”

  “Nothing. But it isn’t where I belong. There’s nothing here for me. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but whatever it is, I won’t find it as long as I’m hiding out at the beach. The way I see it, Milan’s as good a place to look as any.”

  Sheila sipped her Pink Flip-Flop thoughtfully. Finally, she put her glass down. “Can I ask you something?” she said, licking sugar from her lips. “Why are you so hell-bent on making a life choice in the next ten minutes? I mean, you’re not exactly living from paycheck to paycheck.”

  Lily understood the question. It wasn’t the first time she’d been asked; her father used to ask her the same thing. And now she would tell Sheila what she always told him. “Everyone assumes that because I’m Roland St. Claire’s daughter and have all this money, I’m perfectly satisfied to just be that. It never occurs to anyone that I might want to work, need to work. Not for the money, but for me. I’ve spent my whole life trying to live down my last name, and confound people’s assumptions. I want to do something that makes a difference, Sheila, and prove I’m not just a trust fund princess.”

  “Who calls you that?”

  “Dean, for starters.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m sure he was just joking.”

  “Maybe he was, and maybe he wasn’t. I’ve got the best education money can buy, and a résumé longer than my arm. What does it say that I’m almost thirty-six years old and still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up?”

  Sheila pondered the question a moment, as if weighing her answer. Finally, she put down her glass and folded her arms on the edge of the table. “Have you ever thought you might be asking the wrong question? You took this Milan thing because you need to prove something, and not just to other people. You want to do something big, something meaningful, but I wonder if the real reason you keep moving is because you’re afraid that if you hold still you might actually bump into yourself.”

  Lily traced a thoughtful circle around the base of her glass. “I told Dean once that he purposely made himself a moving target.”

  “Maybe you were talking about yourself, too.”

  “Maybe.” Lily looked up, ashamed suddenly. “God, I’m sorry, Sheila. I didn’t mean to turn this into a pity party for me. We were talking about the shop.”

  Sheila perked up. “Does that mean you changed your mind?”

  Lily smiled but shook her head. “I don’t think so, but you’ve made me think about some things. You’re good at that, you know?”

  “I just call ’em like I see ’em, sugar.”

  “I can help you get started,” Lily said, happy to steer the conversation back to business. “I’ve only got about ten days left, but we can collaborate on the kind of line you’re thinking about. I can play with a few sketches, give you some branding tips, help you put together a business plan. Before I go I’ll hook you up with the people you need to make it work. “You can do this on your own, Sheila. You don’t need me. But if you do, I’ll only be a phone call away.”

  “A long-distance call,” Sheila pointed out drily.

  Lily couldn’t help laughing. “So reverse the charges.”

  Sheila laughed, too, as she raised her glass, tears sparkling in her eyes. “Thank you, Lily. You’ve made me think about some things, too.”

  Lily opened her eyes, suddenly and inexplicably awake. Beside the bed, the clock read five thirteen, blue numbers glowing coolly in the dark. She lay there a moment, eyes closed, listening to the muffled rush of the sea beyond the windows, waiting for sleep to retake her. When it didn’t, she padded to the kitchen in the early-morning gloom and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge.

  Resigned to starting the day a full two hours earlier than planned, she brewed a pot of coffee, then filled a mug and carried it onto the deck, folding herself into a chair with her knees tucked up beneath her T-shirt. The sky was beginning to lighten, the stars gradually winking out. There was something almost reverent about the beach in the chilly predawn hours, when the wind was still and the sea smooth, before the sun had shaken the world awake. Except she was awake.

  Or maybe restless was a better word, as if she had forgotten something she was supposed to do, or somewhere she was supposed to be. She racked her brain as she sipped her coffee, but kept coming up empty. And then suddenly she knew. It wasn’t something she was supposed to do. It was something she wasn’t supposed to do.

  Milan.

  Lily set her mug on the railing and did the math on her fingers. Five thirty Eastern Standard Time meant eleven thirty in Milan. If she called now she could catch Dario before lunch, and have it over with. Sheila was right. There was absolutely no reason to take a job she wasn’t over the moon about. She wasn’t going to starve, and it was high time she stopped giving a damn what anyone thought about her last name or her trust fund. Sooner or later her North Star would show up—she hoped. In the meantime she’d enjoy the summer and take her time clearing out the cottage.

  In the kitchen, she refilled her mug, waiting for the little voice in her head to chime in, to tell her she was out of her mind, that trust fund or no trust fund, this was a bridge she couldn’t afford to burn. But the voice didn’t come. Nothing did, except a startling flood of relief.

  Before she could change her mind, she dug Dario Enzi’s number out of her planner and dialed, rehearsing her lines while she waited for his receptionist to put her through. Her stomach knotted when he finally picked up.

  “Dario, hi. It’s Lily St. Claire.”

  “Buongiorno, Ms. St. Claire. How good to hear from you. We’re all very excited that you’re going to be joining us.”

  Lily bit her lip, took a deep breath, and plunged ahead. “Well, that’s the thing, Dario. I’m afraid something’s come up, and it looks like handling my father’s estate is going to take a little longer than I anticipated. I had hoped to get everything wrapped up by the end of the month, but there have been a few . . . complications. I’m afraid there’s no way I’ll be able to be there by the date we agreed upon. In fact, it looks like I’m going to be stuck here for most of the summer. I’m sorry, really. You’ve been so patient—”

  “Take all the time you need, Ms. St. Claire.”

  Lily went quiet, running his response over in her head in case she’d gotten it wrong. “I’m sorry?”

  “I said to please take all the time you need. I know how it is when a parent dies. My own mother died last year. So much to go through. And who knows what you find.”

  “Oh, Dario, I don’t expect you to hold the position for me. You’ve been so kind already. I totally understand that you’ll need to fill the spot.”

  “Ms. St. Claire, we’ve been chasing you for more than a year. A few more months isn’t going to make much difference. Take the summer, and handle what you need to handle.”

  Beyond a promise to keep Dario updated, Lily barely remembered the rest of the conversation as she hung up the phone. She hadn’t prepared herself for the possibility that they would give her more time. She also hadn’t prepared herself to say no.

  But maybe it was for the best. She had managed to buy herself enough time to finish up the cottage without closing the door on Milan. Now she could take the summer to properly investigate the remaining boxes, an
d perhaps find answers to the questions she’d been asking her whole life.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  March 22, 1956

  New York, New York

  This city scares me to death. It’s so cold, and loud, and dirty. It snowed again yesterday, an icy, wet slush that coated the sidewalks and turned the streets a muddy gray. I don’t think spring will ever come. Not that it matters. They’ve cut down all the trees and paved over all the grass. And I’ve never seen so many cars, always in a snarl, blaring horns and sirens at all hours, so that it’s impossible to find a moment’s peace. But I can’t say I miss home. There was never much to miss, and what little there was is getting harder and harder to remember. I’m happy to let it go.

  Jasper found us a rooming house on West Forty-fourth, a run-down brownstone with warped wood floors and drafty windows. Our landlady is Mrs. Bingham, a square-faced widow who runs the house like a battleship and doesn’t allow men after dark. Except for Jasper. She likes Jasper, because he brings her black cherry ice cream every Saturday night—and because everyone likes Jasper.

  He’s been so good to us, kinder than I can ever repay. He’s found me work, just like he promised. It isn’t much—some shots for a pinup calendar—but it helps stretch the little bit I earn at the lunch counter. They paint up my face and pile up my hair, then dress me up in silly outfits. I shuddered when I saw the pictures. I looked cheap and smutty, like the women back in Mims who used to hang around the Orchid Lounge on Friday nights. I didn’t even recognize myself—and maybe that’s just as well. Jasper says I won’t have to do them for long, that he’s shopping my face around and better jobs will come along soon.

  In the meantime, I’m hoarding my tips, helping Mrs. Bingham with laundry and cooking to get us a cheaper rate, and pinching pennies wherever I can. Zell’s money is beginning to dwindle. It seems there’s always something to buy, clothes and shoes for Caroline, and things for school: milk money, bus money, money for notebooks and pencils. I try not to think about what will happen when it runs out completely. Mrs. Bingham seems fond of me, but not fond enough to let us stay for free.