Read Online Driftwood Summer by Patti Callahan Henry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patti Callahan Henry
Tags: Fiction, Family Life
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“Brayden?”
“Of course.”
Maisy stepped out of the car, stretched and felt the stiff-boned ache of having sat in a plane seat for hours. Then the hometown coastal air filled her lungs, her heart; tears threatened. She shifted her gaze to the left and saw it: Driftwood Beach—that slip of sand in front of the cottage. Her life, in part, had been lived on that stretch of gray-white sand. How could she have believed she’d left it for good?
She turned away, climbed the front steps behind Riley and entered Driftwood Cottage.
A commotion at the front of the store grabbed Maisy’s attention. “Time for the Driftwood Book Club,” Riley told her. “This is the club that reads books suggested by the store. They’re reading Peachtree Road by Anne Rivers Siddons.” Riley’s exhale made Maisy think of their mama, who could convey a world of emotion with a released breath. “Mrs. Lithgow must be here.”
“What?” Maisy felt the sounds and sights of the cottage coming at her as if through cotton batting, muffled and cushioned: an upset lady; the aroma of coffee; faint music; soft laughter.
“I begged Verandah House to make sure she stayed home on book club day,” Riley said, looking over her shoulder at Maisy. “She is an older woman who thinks she wrote every book I pick for the club. Since Verandah House is a retirement community and not a nursing home, its administrators won’t take responsibility for Mrs. Lithgow walking the two blocks over here.”
Maisy pushed past the other incoming sensations to hear an older, shaky voice. “My intent was to divulge the larger story of redemption, to write the Southern novel of our generation, not have it analyzed by women who have never even been to Atlanta. When I opened the book with ‘The South killed Lucy . . .’ I meant it both literally and metaphorically. It doesn’t have to be either-or, does it?”
Riley sidled up behind the older woman, whose flailing arms sent her gold bracelets jangling. She placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Mrs. Lithgow, thank you so much for your input. Why don’t we sit down and listen to what the others have to say on the subject?”
Mrs. Lithgow spun around on her loafers, pushed puffs of hair from her face. Her eyes misted with anger and confusion in a twitching glare at Riley. “Listen, missy. When I write these novels, I have something particular in mind and I don’t like others offering their input like they’re some kind of specialist on my work.”
“Riley Sheffield.” A woman who looked to be the leader of the group, with her leather folder and middle seat, stood when she spoke. “You promised this wouldn’t happen again.”
“I’m sorry. . . .” Riley guided Mrs. Lithgow to a club chair. “I can’t control Verandah House.”
Maisy watched the scene in a detached confusion: this was her sister running the family bookstore, living in Palmetto Beach. She’d understood this life went on without her, but she felt as though she were watching an ancient home movie on jumpy eight-millimeter film.
A sweet, soft voice filled the room then. “Don’t worry, Riley. It’s not that big a deal. Really. Right, ladies?”
The voice settled into the softer place of memory inside Maisy; she turned to see her old friend Lucy Morgan seated in a corner chair, her arm raised as though she’d asked permission to speak. Maisy backed up four steps, slammed into a cedar post and slid behind it. Lucy had not, as yet, looked her way.
The other twelve women nodded with suppressed smiles; a few laughs escaped.
“It is not funny at all.” The angry leader’s words sparked across the room. She slammed her hand on the side of the overstuffed chair she’d just risen from. “I read the book and spent many hours writing the commentary and researching subjects for us to discuss . . . and I don’t need this disruption. We might have to find someplace else to meet if it continues.”
Lucy laughed, a silvery sound.
“Of course.”
Maisy stepped out of the car, stretched and felt the stiff-boned ache of having sat in a plane seat for hours. Then the hometown coastal air filled her lungs, her heart; tears threatened. She shifted her gaze to the left and saw it: Driftwood Beach—that slip of sand in front of the cottage. Her life, in part, had been lived on that stretch of gray-white sand. How could she have believed she’d left it for good?
She turned away, climbed the front steps behind Riley and entered Driftwood Cottage.
A commotion at the front of the store grabbed Maisy’s attention. “Time for the Driftwood Book Club,” Riley told her. “This is the club that reads books suggested by the store. They’re reading Peachtree Road by Anne Rivers Siddons.” Riley’s exhale made Maisy think of their mama, who could convey a world of emotion with a released breath. “Mrs. Lithgow must be here.”
“What?” Maisy felt the sounds and sights of the cottage coming at her as if through cotton batting, muffled and cushioned: an upset lady; the aroma of coffee; faint music; soft laughter.
“I begged Verandah House to make sure she stayed home on book club day,” Riley said, looking over her shoulder at Maisy. “She is an older woman who thinks she wrote every book I pick for the club. Since Verandah House is a retirement community and not a nursing home, its administrators won’t take responsibility for Mrs. Lithgow walking the two blocks over here.”
Maisy pushed past the other incoming sensations to hear an older, shaky voice. “My intent was to divulge the larger story of redemption, to write the Southern novel of our generation, not have it analyzed by women who have never even been to Atlanta. When I opened the book with ‘The South killed Lucy . . .’ I meant it both literally and metaphorically. It doesn’t have to be either-or, does it?”
Riley sidled up behind the older woman, whose flailing arms sent her gold bracelets jangling. She placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Mrs. Lithgow, thank you so much for your input. Why don’t we sit down and listen to what the others have to say on the subject?”
Mrs. Lithgow spun around on her loafers, pushed puffs of hair from her face. Her eyes misted with anger and confusion in a twitching glare at Riley. “Listen, missy. When I write these novels, I have something particular in mind and I don’t like others offering their input like they’re some kind of specialist on my work.”
“Riley Sheffield.” A woman who looked to be the leader of the group, with her leather folder and middle seat, stood when she spoke. “You promised this wouldn’t happen again.”
“I’m sorry. . . .” Riley guided Mrs. Lithgow to a club chair. “I can’t control Verandah House.”
Maisy watched the scene in a detached confusion: this was her sister running the family bookstore, living in Palmetto Beach. She’d understood this life went on without her, but she felt as though she were watching an ancient home movie on jumpy eight-millimeter film.
A sweet, soft voice filled the room then. “Don’t worry, Riley. It’s not that big a deal. Really. Right, ladies?”
The voice settled into the softer place of memory inside Maisy; she turned to see her old friend Lucy Morgan seated in a corner chair, her arm raised as though she’d asked permission to speak. Maisy backed up four steps, slammed into a cedar post and slid behind it. Lucy had not, as yet, looked her way.
The other twelve women nodded with suppressed smiles; a few laughs escaped.
“It is not funny at all.” The angry leader’s words sparked across the room. She slammed her hand on the side of the overstuffed chair she’d just risen from. “I read the book and spent many hours writing the commentary and researching subjects for us to discuss . . . and I don’t need this disruption. We might have to find someplace else to meet if it continues.”
Lucy laughed, a silvery sound.
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