Free Driftwood Summer by Patti Callahan Henry Page A

fishing.”
    Maisy nodded at him, yet her thoughts moved elsewhere: she’d been in town for only fifteen minutes and already she’d run into Lucy Morgan. This was not going to work out well at all.
    The old panic overcame her—the reason she’d left this holiday town behind in the first place. Who in the living hell wanted to face their demons every single day?
    “Did you hear what I said?” Brayden’s voice rose.
    “Of course.” Maisy stared at her nephew and wondered for the millionth time what man had contributed to this child’s beauty.
    “Then what did I say?” he asked.
    “That you’d rather be fishing than going to Gamma’s. And guess what. I agree.”
    He laughed, a deeper sound than she would have expected from a child. “Then I guess we’ll be fine—me and you.” He looked past Maisy toward the staircase door. “Where’s Mom?”
    It took a moment or longer before Maisy realized Brayden meant her sister, Riley, not her own mama, Kitsy. “She’s checking on the book clubs or something before we leave.”
    “You have the same mom as my mom.”
    “That’s why I’m your aunt Maisy.” She attempted to laugh and stared down into his gray eyes. She hadn’t been back to visit in six years, and then only for Daddy’s funeral, less than twenty-four hours. To Brayden she was just a name. Sorrow flowed upward from a place of regret.
    He stared at her for long moments and then sharpened his pencil in the sharpener on the table. “Thanks for sending me all those Christmas and birthday presents.”
    “You’re more than welcome. I hope they were things you wanted—I always asked your mom first. And I know she made you write all those thank-you notes, but I love them. I saved them all.”
    Brayden laughed, laid out his papers in neat rows and began to draw again, his fingers nimble, sea creatures taking shape under his hand.
    “Wow, you’re good at this. I used to know a boy who was really good at sketching, just like you. . . .”
    “Who?” Brayden looked up underneath his bangs.
    “His name was Mack . . . Logan.” Maisy tasted his name on her tongue, felt the familiar yearning roll over her. She sighed and stood. “What is taking Riley so long?”
    “She’s been very busy since Gamma fell. You have to be a little bit patient.” Maisy heard the parrot quality to his words, as if they’d been spoken to him only moments ago.
    “I know. I know.” Maisy paced the kitchen, then moved to the back hall to the sound of Brayden’s scraping pencil, the creaks and songs of an old house she’d once known as “Mack’s house.”
    She’d come to the house often in the summers the Logans had owned it, filling it with their own nautical gear and summer furniture. Seashell wallpaper still covered the hallway. Mack’s family had hung it during that summer of her twelfth year. She had stood at the end of the hall, asked if she could help—she was bored and it was pouring rain. Mack and Riley had gone fishing, and hadn’t returned. Those were the years when Mack thought of her as a pest, as Riley’s little sister.
    Now Maisy ran her hand over the sheet of paper Mr. Logan had allowed her to help hang before she got bored and went looking for someone to play Parcheesi with her. She laughed at the memory, and Brayden’s voice came from the kitchen. “What’s so funny?”
    “Nothing,” Maisy called out. She poked her head into Riley’s bedroom, then stepped inside. The four-poster bed from Riley’s childhood was covered in white chenille; a dark wood lamp stood on top of a pink bedside table. Books formed scattered piles throughout the room.
    “Maisy.” Riley’s voice echoed down the hall.
    She stepped from the bedroom as though she’d been caught smoking behind the Beach Club. “Hey, sis.”
    “You nosing around my place?” Riley softened her words with a smile.
    “I think you have as many books in your room as you do in the bookstore.” Maisy swept her hand across the area. “Have you