Yet as charming as the bedroom was, after Heather had changed into her nightgown, washed her face, and crawled into the spacious bed, sleep eluded her. She’d tried to follow Cara’s suggestion to leave all the windows open and enjoy the sounds of the ocean, but she only startled at every noise, shivering at every foreign murmur and echo. A feral cat was courting. A few cars drove past. Her imagination became a terrible thing, conjuring up burglars and worse. With a huff of frustration, Heather flung back the duvet and went from window to window in the house, closing each tight and locking it. Climbing back into her bed, she felt safer, more secure, even if the air grew stifling. She propped up a few pillows and began to read the book she’d placed on the bedside table, a love story. The night dragged on. Gradually, in the wee hours, her eyelids grew heavy and, too tired to fight against it, Heather relinquished her fears to a deep sleep.
She awoke from her sleep once, sometime before dawn, calling out for her mother. Sitting upright in bed, she remembered her dream. There was a mother—not her mother, she realized now, but someone like her mother with golden hair. And kind. Even loving. The air was filled with the scent of jasmine. This woman she didn’t know had smoothed back the hair from her face, then placed a tender kiss on her forehead. It was one of those dreams that had felt so real. She wasn’t frightened by it. On the contrary, she felt comforted, soothed. Even welcomed. She sighed, feeling the need for sleep overcoming her once again.
Part Two
GROWTH
Barbara J. Bergwerf
AMERICAN OYSTERCATCHER
Oystercatchers are large, boldly patterned birds common to seacoasts in temperate to tropical parts of the world. Their heads and necks are black, and the wings and backs are dark brown, and have white breasts and bellies. Their distinctive, bright red, long bills are used for feeding on oysters, clams, and mussels.
Conservation status: Greatest Concern
Chapter Five
THE NEXT MORNING Heather felt refreshed, despite the sheen of sweat forming on her brow. The house was muggy and hot shafts of sunlight pushed through the slim cracks in the plantation shutters. She rose to sit at the edge of the mattress, then slowly yawned and stretched her arms over her head, blinking in the light. From the brightness, she could tell the sun was high. She reached over to grab her watch from the bedside table and was shocked to see it was almost 9 a.m. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so late.
A burst of birdsong from the porch brought a smile to her face. Her birds! The poor things, she thought, whipping back her blanket. They’re still under their covers. And they’re singing! What good sports. She slid off the mattress and hurried out her bedroom door that led to the sunporch. Part of her joy in having canaries was their cheery disposition early in the morning. It was as though they started her days off on the right note. Despite the drawn shades, she was surprised that there was quite a bit of sunlight filtering into the room. It was no wonder the birds were awake and singing.
“Coming, sweet friends,” she sang out as she rushed to the cages. One by one she lifted the white cotton covers. The canaries were bright-eyed, jumping from perch to perch in the tiny travel cages. Their cheerfulness was contagious.
Heather hurried to the windows and sliding doors of the sunroom and opened them wide. Feeling the cooler air blow in she breathed in and knew she had to overcome her fears and leave the windows open at night as Cara had recommended. She paused to stare out at her first morning on the beach.
The sun was high in the sky and the great ocean glistened blue in reflection. It had rained during the night, no doubt the same fast-moving storm that she’d driven through, but it was far out to sea now, leaving in its wake a crisp morning sans humidity. She docked her phone in her speaker. In another moment she heard the rich baritone of Johnny Cash.
Heather stretched out her arms and began dancing to the beat. Music had the power to scatter her inhibitions and allow her to feel free. It filled the empty spaces of her life as a shut-in. She shared this love of music with her birds who sang exuberantly in the background. For her, music was better than medicine. It never failed to lift her mood and boost her energy. The strong backbeat had her feet moving and she laughed out loud with the joy of it.
MUSIC POURED OUT from the open doors and windows of the beach house when he arrived. Bo dropped his heavy bag of tools on the ground and rolled back his shoulders. His heavy work boots made imprints on the sandy soil as he walked around the frame of the deck, assessing what had to be done. Brett had explained the job thoroughly; a deck wasn’t rocket science. Still, Bo took pride in his work and wanted to build the best deck he could. Brett was his mentor and his friend. He’d expect no less from him.
Bo surveyed where the dunes ended and how much room he had to play with for his steps. As he walked, the shape of the deck formed in his mind. At least he’d be out on the island near the surf as he worked this job, he thought with pleasure. As with Brett, the ocean called to him. Whenever the waves were forming in the early hours of morning he grabbed his board and headed for the beach to surf.
He walked up to the deck to get started. The voice of Johnny Cash floated out from the house and he smiled, grateful for the choice of music. Then he laughed, hearing the song punctuated by the high trill of birdsong. Brett had told him he had a new tenant. A young woman with birds. He laughed again at the notion. She had to be weird. . . . Looking toward the house a movement inside caught his eyes. It was his custom to knock on the door and make his presence known. He didn’t want some freaked-out homeowner to call the police on him. He walked carefully along the narrow strips of wood toward the screen door. Then he stopped short, arrested by the vision of movement waltzing across the floor.
The young woman was beautiful. Damn gorgeous, in fact. Her arms were stretched out as her feet moved in time to the music, her long white nightgown twirling around her ankles, her blond hair loose down her back. She hummed as she danced and it took him a minute to realize she was talking to those birds, moving from cage to cage as she fed them. He wasn’t a voyeur. It wasn’t his style to peek inside windows at pretty ladies. But something in her movement, so uninhibited, told him this was meant to be private. He didn’t want to interrupt, or worse, embarrass her.
Without knocking he stealthily moved back and climbed down off the deck. He stood a moment, flummoxed. There was something about this girl . . . a spirit of innocence and joy . . . that he felt drawn to. Like a moth to the flame, he thought ruefully. This girl was here for the summer, Brett had told him. Then she’d be off again, back to Charlotte. He shook his head of fanciful thoughts and looked at the pile of lumber waiting to be installed. Mister, you have your work cut out for you and best get started, he told himself. He could make his presence known in a little while, after the lady of the house got settled.
The music changed. Now Bob Dylan was singing “Girl from the North Country.” One of his favorites. Bo took one last glance at the house then turned and began working, singing along with the song.