Despite their words, she still felt the residue of unresolved feelings. She stood stiffly in his arms, not daring to speak.
“We’ll figure something out,” he said reassuringly. “We always do.”
“I know,” Cara replied. But her tone belied her vote of confidence.
After a minute, when it became clear nothing more was going to be said, Brett dropped his arms and took a few steps back. “Okay, then. I’m off. I can still get that run in.”
Cara nodded, lips tight. It was typical of Brett to run off from a difficult money discussion, especially when it started to get heated. Money and emotion were never a good combination. She knew he’d worry about it, in his own way at his own pace. If she stopped him now the argument would only escalate into something ugly. So she said nothing and let him go.
A moment later she heard the door close. Only then did she release the ragged sigh she’d been holding. She didn’t know what she was going to do. She was still too angry to make plans. But she felt the weight of the world on her shoulders.
She strode into the kitchen and retrieved a wineglass. This she filled with red wine. She took a long swallow. Then another. Then, because she couldn’t think of what else to do, she carried the glass and the bottle into the living room, turned on the television and plopped down on the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her. She didn’t care what she watched. She merely needed a distraction. Something to calm her down before round two began when Brett came home.
That was what she was doing when the front doorbell rang a little later. She was watching some inane reality show about a hoarder. It was creepy to see how someone could hang on to so much worthless stuff. Rising to answer the door, she looked around the house as though checking to see she didn’t have too much clutter.
She opened the door, and her breath caught in her throat. Two uniformed policemen stood on her threshold with somber expressions. She felt her heartbeat quicken.
“Good afternoon, officers. Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Beauchamps?”
“I’m Cara Rutledge, but, yes, I’m married to Brett Beauchamps.”
One officer looked at the other. This one cleared his throat and seemed to have difficulty speaking. “Can we come in, please?”
“What’s this about?”
“We have some news. Please, could we come in?”
Cara swallowed thickly and stepped aside, allowing the officers into her home. She was aware of the television noise in the background. The half-empty bottle of wine and the glass on the cocktail table.
The senior officer spoke again. “You should sit down.” He indicated the sofa with his hand.
“I don’t want to sit down. What’s this about?” Cara replied in a terse voice.
The officer cleared his throat and assumed a face of regret. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Beauchamps,” he began, using her wrong name. “There’s been an incident. Your husband collapsed on the street. Someone called an ambulance. Thankfully, that person also recognized him for an ID.”
“Brett . . .” His name escaped her lips. “Is he all right? Which hospital did he go to?”
“The ambulance took him to MUSC.”
Cara was already hurrying toward her purse.
“Ma’am,” the second officer said, going to her side as she snatched up her purse. He touched her arm.
Cara wasn’t listening. She was in a panic. All she could think of was getting to the hospital as fast as she could. To get to Brett. She needed to be at his side.
“Ma’am,” the officer said again, louder this time.
Cara stopped and looked into his face. His eyes were downcast in sorrow, his skin pale with the news. With dreadful certainty, she knew what he was going to say. She began shaking her head. She didn’t want to hear it.
“I’m sorry. Your husband, Mr. Beauchamps, had a heart attack. I’m sorry,” he said again. “He didn’t make it.”
Chapter Seven
DISCOMBOBULATED. HEATHER LOVED words, especially those that sounded like what the word actually meant. She snorted and scratched her head as she woke slowly. Discombobulated was exactly how she felt. When she opened her eyes, it took her a few minutes to remember where she was. She was steamy, covered in a sheen of sweat from another night with all the windows shut and locked. Heather wondered how long it would take before she woke up and felt the beach house was home.
Sitting up, she looked around the bedroom. It was a pretty room, very Jamaican with white paint and dark wood. Lovie’s room, once upon a time. Then Cara’s. Two strong women. Heather hoped some of their strength would flow into her through some cosmic osmosis.
This morning, however, the room felt foreign—and it was a mess. Her clothes were still in suitcases, and boxes cluttered the floor. Her stomach was growling and she didn’t have a clue what there was to eat for breakfast. She felt like a guest in her own house.
Out in the sunroom, her canaries were chirping, and she smiled. At last, something she recognized! Looking at the clock, she saw she’d overslept again. The poor birds were still under their covers. She heard their insistent, demanding chirps as Wake up, sleepyhead! Where are you, you hopeless dawdler? Rise and shine! One of the birds had even started singing under his cover, a slave to his hormones and eager to start his day.
“Coming, babies,” she called out, whipping back the covers of the large, spacious cages that Bo had put together for her. “Pavarotti, look at you, all alert and sitting by your seed dish. Don’t worry, fatty, I’ll feed you.” On to the next cage. “Good morning, sweet Poseidon! Hearing you sing made me feel at home. Thank you.” In the third cage, Moutarde was chirping stridently. He didn’t like being the last to be uncovered. “Such a fuss, Moutarde,” she called out, removing his cover. “We’re all a bit out of sorts this morning. But you don’t have to complain. I’ll feed you first, okay?”
Heather enjoyed her chatter with the birds. For her, the seemingly meaningless exchanges were very meaningful. Talking to her birds, especially living alone and with her anxiety keeping her from others, connected her to other living creatures. She didn’t feel so alone in the world—or in this still strange house. Her canaries were her greatest allies. Her dear little friends that let her know in a thousand chirps each day that she was important to them. She was good enough. They cared for her unconditionally.