They began their descent past the Intracoastal Waterway where speedboats raced full-throttle and the narrower Hamlin Creek, lined with long docks with boats at moor. Without further fanfare they were on the Isle of Palms.
Heather’s head turned from side to side. She’d visited other barrier islands along the southeastern coast—Hilton Head, Tybee, the Outer Banks. This one wasn’t so different. Long and narrow, it held a grocery store, a few shops, a gas station, and hotels. That would make her life here much easier. Mostly, however, there were private homes owned by those lucky enough to live on the island full-time, those who came here for part of the year, and those who rented by the week, eager to escape the heat and spend precious vacation time on the beach. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be able to live here all summer.
When her father turned off Palm Boulevard onto a narrow street, Heather sat straighter in her seat. He drove slowly a few blocks till they reached Ocean Boulevard. On the ocean side a row of mansions, one after another, lined the sea, blocking the water from view. Across the street more houses filled every lot, but here there remained some of the smaller, historical cottages that had once been oceanfront before the dunes were paved over. They drove a few blocks south and she kept her eyes on the smaller cottages, seeking out the one she’d seen online. She’d taken one look at the quaint house and something inside of her had pinged. It had spoken to her of the quieter, nostalgic island living she not only wanted . . . but needed.
“There it is!” she exclaimed, leaning forward and pointing.
Primrose Cottage was perched on a dune between wispy clumps of greening sweetgrass and leggy stalks of sea oats that grew wild, a sharp contrast to the meticulously landscaped properties of the mansions beside it. The house was as pale a yellow as the blossoms of wild primroses that crisscrossed the dunes among the brilliantly colored gaillardia and purple morning glories, creating a riot of color. For all the reticence she’d felt as she began this journey, Heather suddenly couldn’t wait to get inside. All along she’d known they were lucky that her father had found any house available for a summer rental at such a late date. Yet now, seeing the beach house, she felt that the small cottage had been waiting just for her.
At last they pulled into the narrow gravel driveway beside the house. The car came to a shuddering stop when the ignition turned off. Heather and her father sat quietly in the resulting hush. Neither of them spoke or moved, simply looked out at the house in a companionable curiosity flavored with relief. Heather felt the miles still racing in her veins as she stared at the cottage, devouring the details. The front yard also had the slightly unkempt appearance that she preferred. A broad, freshly painted front porch was lined with hanging pots of trailing asparagus ferns, and at the foot of the steps sat two large pots filled with cheery red geraniums.
As lovely as everything appeared, inside she was feeling a great deal of dread at meeting her new landlady. She wished her father could just get the key and let this Mrs. Rutledge leave.
As though reading her thoughts, her father called out, “Ready?”
Heather darted a quick glance at her father. His face was an open book. Clearly he hoped she could be brave and not turn heel and run screaming. As filled with apprehension as she was, Heather couldn’t do that to him. Or to herself. This is it, she told herself. There was no turning back. She had arrived at her destination, and today she was moving into this sweet beach house for the summer. She turned again to the yellow cottage. It was some consolation that the house did, in fact, resemble the photographs. If the inside was anything like the outside, she felt she would be able to manage.
Heather lifted her chin. “Ready.”
Chapter Four
HEATHER PUSHED OPEN her car door and, to her surprise, felt a delightful breeze sweep over her. Cool and refreshing. She caught the scent of something floral floating through the air. Not at all the press of heat and humidity she’d been expecting. The air was as balmy as a spring afternoon should be, she thought. Stretching in the sunlight, she held her arms out, embracing the breeze more fully. After hours confined in a car, it felt heavenly.
The chirping of her canaries caught her attention.
“Lend me a hand with the birdcages, Dad?”
David was by the trunk hoisting out her large suitcases. Every square inch of the car was tightly packed with boxes crammed full of possessions Heather couldn’t live without, from clothing to her computer and books to the special health foods that helped her anxiety.
Heather carefully lifted a small travel birdcage from the car and handed it to her father. It was covered with an old pillowcase. From beneath she heard the strident, curious call of the bird. David took the cage and began his trek through the scrubby grass to the front stairs. Heather murmured reassurances as she retrieved the two other cages, then slammed the door with her hip. Once on the porch, she set the birdcages at her feet and waited for someone to open the wooden door. It was freshly painted a brilliant blue and had a weathered door knocker in the shape of a mermaid. She wiped her hands on her pants. She was habitually nervous when meeting new people, and her palms were already sweating.
The door swung open. Standing in front of her was a beautiful woman, tall, slender, and so striking it caught Heather by surprise. She’d been expecting someone middle-aged, soft and sweet with blond hair, not this chic woman of indeterminate age with full dark hair pulled back into a high ponytail. She was casually dressed in tight jeans and a crisp white cotton blouse, rolled up at the sleeves. The woman’s gaze shifted to the birdcages at their feet with uncertainty—perhaps even amusement—before a wide grin of welcome spread across her face.
“You must be the Wyatts!” she exclaimed.
Heather felt like shrinking into her shoes, confronted with such poise and confidence, but her father displayed no such reluctance. He’d always been his most comfortable and charming among comely women. He stepped forward, an amiable grin on his face.
“We are indeed. And you must be Cara Rutledge?”
“Guilty.” Her dark eyes shifted. “And these are the birds I’d heard about?”
Heather nodded mutely.