The Guest Book by Marybeth Whalen Read Free Book Online

—thankfully —he’d been one of the few people on the premises who was not involved with illegal drugs (give the man a medal), but he’d still needed a ride back to the drug house to retrieve his car. Then there was the especially scary time one of his girlfriends —stellar human being that she was —had flipped out and pulled a knife on him. That time he’d called Macy from behind a locked door. She could hear the woman screaming outside the door, threatening to kill him. “Why aren’t you calling the police, Max?” she’d asked,wondering what in the world he expected her to do to subdue the woman.
    “Well, I don’t exactly want the police coming here,” he’d replied. Macy hadn’t asked any more questions, just driven as fast as she could to the address he’d spit out. By the time she got there, he’d somehow gotten away from the crazy girlfriend and was sitting on the curb waiting for her like everything was fine. Later, in her kitchen, he’d made coffee for them and laughed as if nothing had happened. He’d told Emma stories about their shared childhood, never once mentioning their dad in any of the stories, as if he’d never existed.
    As she drove to pick up Max, Macy thought about the summer she’d drawn the first picture in the guest book at the beach house, choosing to think about something happy rather than the sad situation her brother was in. Macy’s dad had bought her special pastel pencils — the first of many sets — so she could draw a picture in the guest book of the butterfly shells she’d found. She had been pouting about losing the shell contest to Max, so he’d suggested she draw something in the guest book to cheer her up.
    “A real artist needs real supplies,” he’d told her as they drove to the store.
    And that had been the beginning.
    She thought about the artist with whom she had exchanged pictures all those years ago. The images of their annual offerings spun through her head: the seascapes and landscapes and — later — more personal pictures of the things that mattered to them. Though other eyes surely saw the pictures inthe guest book, none of those eyes ever mattered. It was always about the artist and Macy, the pictures in the guest book existing just for the two of them.
    Looking back, she had her dad to thank for it, and — in a strange way —Max. Had her feelings not been hurt over that shell contest, she wouldn’t have been pouting, and her dad never would’ve suggested she draw pictures of her shells in the book. She rolled her eyes, knowing Max would think that was rich — that their sibling rivalry had inadvertently led her to an exchange that would last far beyond the fifth summer of her life, had stayed with her to this day, still filling her thoughts and her heart. Especially now that their mother was taking them back to Sunset Beach, back to the house where maybe— just maybe — the guest book waited.
    She guided the car into the surprisingly full parking lot of the police station and parked next to a pickup truck with rolled-down windows. She yawned loudly and opened her car door. One last thought crossed her mind as she got out of her car, a thought that made her heart quicken: she might finally see the last picture he ever drew for her. She hoped he had left it, in spite of everything.

six
    T he clock that hung over the door of Ward’s Grocery seemed to have stopped, the hand barely moving past where it had been the last time Macy checked. She shook her head and looked at the watch on her wrist. It bore the same time as the clock on the wall. She scratched her forehead, leaving a smudge of red paint. She could feel it there and reached for a rag to wipe it off. Then she re-focused on the window she was painting.
    “Ready to get out of here?”
    She glanced back to find Avis, arms crossed, checking out the scene she was painting.
    “Every time I think your scenes can’t get any better, I’m proved wrong,” Avis said. “Your pictures