Free The Guest Book by Marybeth Whalen Page B

as she stared at the picture, was one she’d always believed in. She’d just forgotten in the ensuing years.
    He’d drawn a picture of the two of them sitting on the swing that sat on the back porch of the house. In the picture he had his arm around her, pulling her close as she buried her head in his shoulder, comforting her. From the drawing, it was obvious he cared for her a great deal and she cared for him. Somehow he had managed to communicate their shared history in such a way it jumped off the page at her, the image coming to life. Anyone could see just by looking at the picture that these two people shared something profound. How could Macy have diminished that in her mind? How could she havebelieved herself when she’d told herself that it was nothing—a foolish tradition shared between mere children?
    With the tip of her index finger she traced his profile with her finger. He’d only drawn himself in profile—giving her just a glimpse of who he might be but not enough to know who he was.
    “What is it with you?” she said aloud in the quiet room. “Why would you never tell me who you were? Why was your identity such a secret?”
    She shook her head and closed her eyes, trying to picture what he might look like now, to piece together the great mystery of her life. More than whether she and Chase would ever work things out, more than whether Max would stop drinking, more than whether her mother would really move past her grief, Macy wanted to know who this man was.
    Suddenly, knowing was not just important, it was the reason her life wasn’t together, the meaning she’d been searching for. This boy who’d drawn her pictures somehow held a key to her life’s purpose. She closed the book and laid it beside her on the bed. She had to know.
    She stood up and walked out of the room, pausing at her mother’s doorway.
    “I think I’m going to go for a walk,” she said, leaning against the doorframe as she studied her mom, who was clad in a granny gown, covers pulled to her chin. “Guess you’re going to sleep?”
    Brenda answered, nodding, “I’ll probably only manage to read three pages of this before I fall asleep.” She waved the novel in her hand. “I’m exhausted.”
    “I’m pretty tired too, but I just feel like getting out.” Macy tried to look nonchalant. The last thing she wanted was for Brenda to use her special mother powers to discern what was going on. At some point, she’d remind her about the guest book, confide in her about the last picture he’d left for her. But not yet, not tonight. Tonight she wasn’t ready to share this feeling with anyone. By holding onto it, it felt like hers … hers and his, wherever he was, whoever he was.
    “Think your brother’s going to be careful with the car?” Brenda asked, surprising Macy. At home they never spoke of Max’s escapades. But Macy was starting to figure out that things at Sunset Beach weren’t going to be like things at home. Which was a good thing.
    Macy shook her head with a wry smile. “Probably not.”
    Brenda laid the book down. “I worry about him. That he’s never going to recover from your dad’s death. It seems like he’s carrying some guilt over it —and he keeps punishing himself by doing these self-destructive things. I wish I knew how to help him. Pretending like it’s not happening isn’t working.” Brenda traced her finger along the edge of the sheet.
    Macy thought about her own guilt —the little memories of things she could’ve or should’ve done differently, especially that last summer they were all together in this house when she’d been a selfish, moody teenager intent on giving her parents a hard time, foolish in her belief that having two parents who loved you was a given, a right. She hadn’t thought about Max feeling guilty, hadn’t imagined he was capable of that particular emotion.
    “Maybe being here will help him,” she suggested.
    “That’s what I’m hoping.” Brenda picked up