The Guest Book (21 page)

“I promise I didn’t follow you here. I had to come by as part of my regular Saturday morning rounds.” He reached out to pick up a stray piece of sea oat from the porch railing. He picked the fuzz from the stem. He was wearing the same shirt he’d had on last Saturday morning when he’d stopped by. The name on the shirt said Caldwell Cleaning. She recognized the name of the cleaning company from a magnet on the fridge in the house.

“I am pretty surprised you’re here.”

He held up the now-naked sea oat and blew it from his palm, watching it fly off the porch and land on the ground below. “Not half as surprised as I was to see you.” A hurt look crossed his face. “I thought you were gone. Like before.”

“No. I mean, I was going to run, but then we came back here to … never mind. Too long of a story to explain.”

He studied her face for a few seconds. “Well, however it happened, I’m glad you didn’t leave this time. I want to answer any questions you might have about earlier.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “That’s an understatement. I have nothing but questions!” She was relieved that Rebecca, in all her perkiness, was nowhere to be seen.

He sat down on the porch swing and patted the space next to him.

She wondered if he, too, was thinking of the last picture he’d drawn for her, life imitating art.

“Then have a seat,” he said, “and I will answer them all.”

She sat down beside him and took a deep breath. “So I’ll take a guess.” She pointed at his shirt. “Your family owns a cleaning company, and that’s how you found the guest book.”

He nodded. “My parents own the company. We’ve cleaned this house for years. I always had to go with them when I was growing up. Every Saturday was spent at a series of houses cleaning up after the tourists. I would get bored, get into trouble snooping in the houses. I would always read the entries in the guest books — try to find out who had just stayed in the houses we were cleaning, what they’d loved about their trip. So one day I was looking through the guest book here, and I saw your picture. I loved to draw—art was my favorite subject in school—so I sat down and drew a picture back to you. We had some recently developed pictures in the truck, and I snuck out and got one to leave for you so you’d know what I looked like. And then the next year, there was another picture from you, kind of like a reply. And before I knew it, you and I were corresponding through drawings. We were having this” —he looked over at her for the briefest moment before dropping his eyes to the porch floor — “conversation. That lasted for years.”

They sat in silence as Macy wondered what to say in response. Then Dockery spoke again. “That conversation somehow became the most important one I’d ever had. And I dreamed of having a real conversation with you, in person. So I asked you to meet that last year. But you didn’t show … and
… I thought that was the end.” He looked at her. “I thought I’d lost you. I didn’t know your last name. Didn’t know where you lived. I just had this one moment every year that I knew I could find you. And then it was gone.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me who you were? Leave your name — some clue — something other than that one photo?”

He shook his head. “It’s stupid really. I wasn’t supposed to be touching things in the house. So I would never include my name on the drawings. When I was little, I was afraid of getting caught because I knew if my dad found out what I was doing, he’d make me stop.” He gave a chagrined smile. “I never even thought about him finding my photo that first year, but then you took it with you, so it didn’t matter …” His voice trailed off, and his smile turned sad as he shrugged. “He died a few years ago.” He paused. “Now I help my mom with the business, and I always make sure Time in a Bottle is on my rounds.”

“Does Rebecca know about any of this?”

He nodded. “Let’s just say she does now.”

Macy gasped. “She didn’t?”

He shook his head. “It’s not the kind of thing you go around telling people. I didn’t think you were ever coming back, so why talk about it? Why wait my whole life for you to resurface? I’d moved on, was starting the life I thought I was meant to live.”

“And then I showed up.”

He laughed in spite of himself. “And then you showed up just as I was completing the sculpture. And I couldn’t believe
the timing. But then I could. Because all along, as I was shaping the metal and creating this image of you, I could feel you closer than I’d ever felt you before. I knew you weren’t gone from my life yet and that if I just had faith, you’d come back to me.” He looked away again. “I prayed a lot while I created that sculpture. Prayed for you, wherever you were. Prayed that somehow we’d meet. Prayed that if I ever did come across you again, I’d have the courage to say what I’ve always wanted to say.”

“And what was that?” she asked. A knot was forming in her throat, making it hard to swallow. What if they’d been praying to find each other at the exact same moment?

“That I’m in love with you. Always have been.”

She closed her eyes, wondering if it were possible. Could you really love someone you’d never met, someone who only knew you through drawings?

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” she replied, giving voice to the feelings swirling inside her. The words were hard to form around the knot in her throat. “You don’t even know me.”

He reached over and put his hand over hers on the bench of the porch swing. “How can you say that? I may not know what your favorite color is or who your prom date was or what your first job was. But with us, none of that mattered. I know what’s in your heart. I know what moves you. I know what occupies your thoughts. I’ve watched you grow up.” He paused. “And you’ve watched me grow up — as an artist and as a man.”

“So you’re an artist? Not a volunteer or a house cleaner?” She wanted to move the conversation toward safer territory
while she processed what he’d just confessed to her and assessed whether she could say the same to him.

He grinned. “Yes. I volunteer at the community center and help my mom with the cleaning business. But my ‘real job’ is being an artist. I have partial ownership in a studio over in Southport, and I sell pieces to tourists and do commission work. That’s the bread and butter.”

“And you make money doing that?” Macy thought
starving
and
artist
were synonymous.

He shrugged. “I’ve been blessed by commissions for businesses, cities, things like that.” He grinned at her. “It pays more than you might think.”

She looked away. “You really did it.”

“Did what?”

“Became an artist.” A seagull flew over their heads, making its screeching call.

“You don’t become an artist. You are an artist. Look at me.”

She kept her head turned away from him. She didn’t want him to see her tears. She was so far from being what she’d once dreamed of being. He cupped her chin with his hand and turned her head to face his. With his thumb he wiped away her tears, an amused smile on his face. “Why do you think I asked you to help out in class? Because you
are
an artist.”

She looked down. “But I just paint signs in a grocery store. It’s not the same.”

He shook his head and put his hand over his heart. “You and I both know that art is in here.” He patted his chest for
emphasis. “It always has been, since you were a little girl.” He stood up. “Hang on! I’ve got something to show you!” He disappeared into Time in a Bottle and returned moments later, clutching what looked like a note card in his hand. He sat beside her again and held out the paper. As she looked down at it, she realized it wasn’t a note card but a photograph. Of her. The one she’d wondered if he had kept. The edges were worn and the paper was wrinkled, but she could still make out the image of her throwing bread to the birds: his inspiration. “Recognize her?” he asked with a sly grin.

“Barely. She looks familiar. Like someone I once knew.”

“Well, I know her.”

She turned to face him as the sun appeared from behind a cloud. She felt the warmth of its rays and watched as it lit up Dockery’s face. This time she put her hand over his, and her heart clenched as he laced his fingers with hers. This was someone she could trust with her future, just the same as she had trusted him with her past. “Oddly enough, I believe you do,” she said.

He looked into her eyes and smiled. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Dockery Caldwell, and I’m the one who drew you all those pictures.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “It’s nice to meet you, Dockery. I’ve been waiting to all my life.” Next door she could hear Emma shrieking as Max chased her, growling like a monster; Brenda and Buzz laughing; and from an open window, Wyatt’s music all making one oddly concordant symphony. She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of a life she loved
with all the people she loved best surrounding her. It felt like a miracle, a fairy tale. Dockery squeezed her hand and she squeezed back.

And then she imagined the next picture he’d draw for her in the guest book: fingers intertwined on a weathered porch swing, a new beginning in the place where it had first begun.

T
he sculpture that is referred to in this novel is based on a real sculpture — one that inspired me every time we drove past it on our many vacations. When I decided to make it part of this story, I had to first find the person who had created it and ask his permission to take some creative license with the story behind the sculpture. He graciously agreed, and as I heard his story about the sculpture, I asked if he would share it here. He graciously agreed to that as well. Below is the story of “Lillah,” the real sculpture at Ocean Isle Beach, North Carolina, that will greet you just as you cross over the bridge, written by the real person who created it, Thom Seaman:

LILLAH

In 2003, I was approached by a select committee representing the Ocean Isle Property Owners Association about creating a public sculpture to commemorate their twentieth anniversary.

It made me think: How do people enjoy the beach? Little children holding buckets or digging in the sand or running in and out of the water would be possibilities. But with a limited budget, casting was out of the question.

I reflected on my times at the beach with my children or grandchildren, and I remembered one afternoon on Sullivan’s Island outside of Charleston. The sun was setting, we had finished eating, and there was some bread left over. My granddaughter, Lillah, age ten at the time, spotted some seagulls and left us to feed them.

The image was compelling. This delightfully happy young girl feeding an overeager flock of gulls, throwing the food high into the air lest they fly too close. The evening light was quickly dissipating. I had to take a photograph to capture the moment.

This was ancient times, pre-digital. I used a 35-millimeter camera. When I took the shot, there was no time delay. I had pre-focused. She was leaving the ground when she let go her prize, her feet completely off the sand. And I got it!! Lillah, suspended in air for that brief second, captured forever.

That photograph became the basis for the sculpture “Lillah.”

To sculpt a profile, each part of the body needs to be distinguishable. When an upswung arm blocks part of the head it is
fine for a photo, but not in a sculpture. So, I arched her back a bit more and had her throw her head back to separate it from the arm and lengthened her hair for effect, transforming the five-inch photo image into a seven-foot brushed aluminum body.

To suspend the gulls in air, my friend, Tim Ehling, and I wrapped an aluminum pipe around his trailer hitch to give it a big curve so the support would stay out of the space occupied by the gulls. We then drilled holes in the portion of the pole going into the concrete and inserted rods extending out to prevent the pole from turning.

Installation was a major event. With the much appreciated assistance from members of the committee and their husbands, we had to dig a sizeable deep hole to set the sculpture in. Bracing both elements, Lillah and the gulls, with a wood frame, we poured the concrete, smoothed the surface, and waited for it to dry.

In November 2003, “Lillah” came to life.

In November 2011, eight years later, “Lillah” is still standing.

Note: Lillah is now married and the proud mother of two beautiful little boys.

Thom Seaman, sculptor

Artshak Studio and Gallery

Southport, North Carolina

3 November 2011

BRENDA’S
CRANBERRY-CHERRY SPRITZER

1 46-ounce can pineapple juice

1 32-ounce bottle cranberry-cherry juice blend

1 12-ounce can frozen lemonade concentrate, thawed

1 2-liter bottle ginger ale, chilled

Combine pineapple juice, cranberry-cherry juice, and lemonade concentrate. Chill until ready to serve. Before serving, slowly add ginger ale and stir gently to combine.

1. At the beginning of the book, Macy is struggling with Chase’s return. Why do you think she is conflicted about letting him into her life again? What would you do if you were in her position?

2. Brenda has perpetuated her own grief by creating some traditions that her children think are rather morbid. What are they? Have you ever known someone who created a similar tradition in response to grief? Did the tradition help them move forward or halt their process?

3. Macy states several times that she knows that God is not a genie in a bottle, not in the business of granting desperate wishes. Can you remember a time you treated Him as though He was? How did that affect your prayers?

4. Macy won “second prize” (the colored pencils) in the shell contest and used those pencils to draw her first picture in the guest book. She says, “Sometimes second prize can change your life.” Is there a time that not coming in first ultimately benefited you far more than winning would have?

5. Max has struggles of his own and looks to Macy to come to his rescue. What are some of the things Macy does differently at Sunset Beach that ultimately create a different outcome for Max?

6. Which man were you rooting for Macy to be with? Do you think she ended up with the right one? Did she really need to end up with one at all?

7. Macy’s search for the artist leads to a dead-end—or so she initially thought. But does it? Instead of finding the artist, she finds The Artist. How can looking at your life as a series of pictures He has drawn for you—a message of His love for you—change the way you see your life?

8. What pictures has The Artist drawn for you today?