“The Westminster choirboys?” Heather released a short laugh, delighted with the comparison. “Yes, I suppose they are.”
“Do they have names?”
She took a step closer to the cages and pointed quickly to each bird. “The white one is Poseidon,” she began, deliberately keeping her eyes on the birds. “Because he’s a Waterslager. He sings the most beautiful water notes. The yellow one is called Moutarde because he’s not only yellow but he has a spicy personality.” She laughed briefly at the description, pleased to hear him chuckle, too. “And the variegated one is Pavarotti.”
“The fat one’s called Pavarotti?” He laughed, straightening. “That’s funny.”
She blinked. He’d surprised her again by knowing the name of the great opera tenor. She felt sheepish that she’d fallen into the stereotype of assuming that a man who worked with his hands wouldn’t know opera.
He took a long sip of his water and lowered his hand, nonchalantly scoping out the room with unabashed curiosity. “What you got going on here?” he asked, indicating the pile of white metal cage parts scattered on the floor. “Armageddon?”
“That,” she said on a dramatic sigh, “is my futile attempt at putting together the birdcages.” She shook her head with resignation. “I’m afraid I’m hopeless. As are these directions.” She looked accusatorily toward the balled-up wad of paper she’d angrily tossed in the corner earlier. “They’re impossible. They don’t make any sense.”
“They rarely do anymore. All that stuff is made in China. The translations are the pits. Do you want me to take a look?”
She was struck with hope of rescue. On the one hand, it would mean this strange man with the brilliant blue eyes would be in her space, maybe even wanting to talk, for a significant chunk of time. On the other hand, her poor birds needed their space even more than Heather did.
Heather’s love for her birds won out. “Would you?”
“Honey, a lowcountry man never leaves a damsel in distress.”
Heather didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t know modern men could still be so chivalrous. She looked at her hands and asked. “I’m, uh, sorry, but . . . what did you say your name was?”
“Bo. Bo Stanton. Not spelled B-e-a-u. Just B-o.” He seemed intent that she got that point. “My father’s name is Robert and Bob. When I came along I was called Robert, after him. I could’ve been Bobby or Little Bob or Bobbie Lee, but my grandmother declared I’d just be called Bo. And it stuck.”
Heather looked quickly up at him. “Well, thank you . . . Bo. I’d be grateful for your help. I surely need it.”
He cocked his head and his eyes sparkled with curiosity. “And what’s your name?”
“Oh,” she replied, flushing slightly at the oversight. “Heather. I’m Heather Wyatt.”
“Heather,” he repeated. “That’s a right pretty name. Suits you.” He stretched out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Heather.”
She stared at his hand for a nanosecond, then tentatively placed her smaller palm in his large, roughened one. Every neuron in her skin came alive at his touch. She felt herself blushing again and discreetly pulled her hand back. Was he flirting? It had been a long time since she’d felt this kind of attraction to a man. But it seemed somehow improper. The last thing she wanted was to give the impression she was one of those seductive women coming on to the workman.
As though sensing her shift in mood, he turned to look at the birdcage parts scattered on the tile, all business.
“Where are the directions?” he asked, glancing around the room.
“I, uh, tossed them somewhere. Over there. . . .” She jerked a finger toward the corner.
He tracked down the ball of crumpled directions. “I’ve been known to file directions like that,” he said with a soft laugh. He unfolded the paper and spread the directions out on the wrought-iron table. After studying them for several minutes, he whistled softly and shook his head.
“You weren’t far wrong tossing these away. What a mess. Tell you what. I think I can figure out this puzzle.” He crouched down and spread the directions on the floor. “Just have to be creative.” He immediately began work.
Heather understood about getting sucked into the work. While Bo began laying out the cage pieces in order, she retreated to the living room to unpack her boxes of books and art supplies.
“Would you mind if I turned on some music?”
“No, I like music,” Bo replied, looking up.
“Classical okay?”
“Sure. Got to say, though, I enjoyed that Johnny Cash you had playing earlier.”
“I can play that,” she rushed to say.
“No, I like classical, too. Fact is, there’s little music I don’t like.”
She smiled, pleased he didn’t crumple his face with distaste. She slipped her phone into a speaker and teed up a medley of classical music. At the first few notes the birds burst into song, standing at the fronts of their cages, chests near bursting with passion. Bo looked up from the floor to watch them, then turned her way, a grin of surprised pleasure on his face.
Looking back, Heather would remember that as the moment she fell in love with Bo Stanton. But at the time she only felt a surge of inexpressible delight that this man shared her passion. He’d heard and thrilled to the incomparable joy of the birdsong, as she did.
After that, they settled into a companionable working mode. While she unpacked and sorted out her paints, brushes, and paper, she sometimes hurried to his side to hold the cage panels steady while he tightened the screws. She discovered that Bo could fill a silence. While they worked he talked on and on in a monologue, which suited her fine. He was very engaging and she didn’t have to worry about carrying on her part of the conversation. Bo regaled her with the history of Isle of Palms and Sullivan’s Island, as well as some of its more colorful natives.
“Did you know Olivia Rutledge?” she called out to him from the living room. “The woman who owned this house?”
“Sure. Cara’s mother. Everybody knew Miss Lovie. She taught all us kids about the loggerheads. And let me tell you, she’d tan the hide of any boy fool enough to try to ride on the back of one.” He paused, screwdriver in hand. “My daddy told me about the time back when he was in high school when he and some pals were walking the beach, probably drinking beer. All of a sudden they saw this turtle crawling back to sea. It was a big ol’ mama. Not something you see every day. They were drunk and they began hassling that old girl, taking turns riding on her back. Then out of the dark comes Miss Lovie, running at them and shaking a broom. She swatted their behinds, I can tell you. Chased them clear away from that turtle. My daddy and his friends took off. Nope. No one messed with Miss Lovie.” Bo wagged the screwdriver to make his point. “God broke the mold when He made her.”
Heather hesitated, then asked in a nonchalant tone, “Is Cara like her?”
Bo paused, considering. “Hard to say. But no, I don’t think she is.”