“Don’t be modest,” David said, his chest expanding with pride for his daughter’s accomplishments. He extended his arm her way. “Heather was just awarded the task of painting shorebirds of the southern Atlantic Coast by the United States Postal Service. They’re going to make stamps from her work. She had to beat out several other contenders to win the commission. It’s a great honor to be selected.”
Heather felt a bit embarrassed by her father’s boasting. She explained in a soft voice, “That’s what I’ll be working on this summer.”
“Really?” Cara said, obviously impressed. “I’ve never met someone who paints stamps. Do you paint very, very small?” She lifted her fingers to indicate the inch size of a postage stamp. “I would think that’s very hard on the eyes.”
A laugh escaped from Heather. She shook her head, knowing full well Cara was joking. “Thankfully, no.”
“And you’re doing shorebirds. I’m glad they’re getting the attention they deserve. Pelicans especially. They’re my favorite. I think everyone’s,” Cara added.
Heather felt encouraged by Cara’s enthusiasm. She walked over and began lifting the covers from the birdcages. Immediately the canaries began jumping from one perch to another, chirping, obviously excited to be back in natural light. Heather watched them like a mother hen, checking for any trouble wrought by the long journey. She was pleased that they appeared to have done just fine. They were sprightly, tight-feathered, and healthy-looking. Their chirping was melodious and sweet-sounding to her ears.
“So those are canaries?” asked Cara.
“Yes. They’re the sons of champions,” Heather said proudly. Her beloved canaries were the one subject she could open up about without feeling anxious or forced.
Cara drew near the cages, making smacking noises with her lips. It was a common mistake people made with caged birds. Heather knew that in a moment Cara would be sticking her finger into the cage. She wanted to tell Cara not to stand too close to the cages. Most people didn’t realize canaries were not like the ever-popular parakeets. The most she could muster was “Canaries don’t like to be touched.” Her voice was so soft she wasn’t sure Cara heard her.
“Oh,” Cara said, and immediately stepped back. “They’re charming birds. So pretty. I hope I’ll get to hear them sing someday.”
“You won’t be able to not hear them,” David said with a laugh. “Those birds sing all day. And I mean all day.”
Heather was grateful to him for smoothing over the awkwardness created by her shyness.
“I remember my grandmother had a canary in her front room on East Bay Street,” Cara said, reminiscing. “It had the prettiest pagoda cage. She adored that bird. But I don’t see many canaries anymore. Not any, really.” Cara again addressed Heather. She seemed determined to draw her out. “You’re quite young. How did you get interested in canaries?”
“My mother always had a canary,” Heather said simply. She caught her father’s eye and he returned a sad smile of understanding.
Heather didn’t remember ever not having a canary. After her mother died, she’d taken care of Hanzie, her mother’s Belgian Waterslager. The little yellow bird’s song lifted her spirits during the desperate days of her mourning. She’d missed her mother terribly. Heather had talked to Hanzie, pouring out her grief-stricken heart to the bird as though she were talking to her mother. In some ways, that little bird had saved her. Not long afterward she got a second canary, this time the popular American Singer. She quickly fell in love with Pavarotti’s robust song. When Hanzie died, she spent weeks researching breeders and at last found and bought another rare Waterslager. Then, as happens, a neighbor who was moving had asked if Heather would please adopt her American Singer, bringing her collection of canaries to three.
Each bird was a pet with his own personality and quirks. Heather spent hours studying the small birds—their behavior, the way they moved, how they expressed their personalities through cocking of the head, tweets and chirps, positioning of their bodies. They were her first bird models and taught her how to pay attention to the telling details. Her work with the birds prompted her focus on art and led to her career illustrating birds and small animals for textbooks. They were, in short, her muses.
“Well, if the birds are settled,” Cara said, indicating the living room. She was clearly ready to move on to business. “Let’s take a brief tour of the house. I’ll try to answer all your questions. But don’t worry,” she said, offering Heather a quick smile. “You’ll have my home number and you can call me anytime.”
Heather returned the smile politely but doubted she’d ever call. She found her poised, self-assured, striking landlady quite intimidating.
TWO HOURS LATER Cara had provided her new tenants with a thorough tour of the beach house, taking the time to make sure Heather knew how to work all the appliances. She also provided a thick portfolio that included not only household information but also emergency numbers, groceries, restaurants, local shops, and assorted other services. Heather watched Cara drive away in a gold VW convertible bug, not quite the car she would have imagined the stylish woman driving. As much as she liked Cara Rutledge, Heather felt a great relief that she was gone and at last she could truly relax.
“That woman is a wonder,” her father proclaimed as they closed the door.
“Yes. A force of nature.”
“She was very thorough. The folder of information is jam-packed. I thought she was very thoughtful, didn’t you?”
“I do,” Heather replied hesitatingly. “But a bit reserved.”
“That’s class,” he said with authority. “She’s from an old Charleston family. One of the originals. Probably a DAR. I’m surprised she’s not wearing pearls. Count your blessings—you probably won’t see much of her. Some landladies like to get in your business.” Her father turned to face her and placed both hands on her shoulders. “My dear. How are you? Do you like it here?”
Heather cast a sweeping glance around the front rooms. “I do,” she replied, and was pleased to find she meant it. “I feel comfortable here. Not quite at home yet, but I suspect that will come.”
“Well, I think you’re all set. Everything is out of the car. I double-checked.” He shifted his weight, a frown of worry creasing his brow. “Are you sure you don’t want your car delivered?”
Heather shook her head. “We’d just have to have it driven back to Charlotte at the end of summer and that’d be a hassle. I don’t need a car. I can always call a cab or have food delivered. And I can get a bicycle. Or walk. There’s a grocery store on the island. I’ll be fine.”
Her father didn’t look convinced.
“Besides, you brought enough food to feed an army. I wonder if they have Uber out here?”
“I doubt it. But it’s quite a hike to the grocer’s. That reminds me—Natalie and I have a housewarming gift coming for you. Delivery is scheduled for next week. I tried to get it here sooner, but—”
“What is it? A Crock-Pot? Please don’t let it be a Crock-Pot. I will never use it.”