Heather took an odd pleasure in doing the simple tasks. Accomplishing them silenced that negative voice in her ear and gave her a bit more confidence that she could actually make it living alone. Over a quick lunch of an egg salad sandwich, she opened her computer and did a few chores online. She checked her emails and found the garbage and recycling pickup dates.
In this manner the next several days continued. Heather took small steps to make the beach house her own. She felt very much alone, like an explorer in a new world as she prowled through all the drawers, snooped through closets and cabinets. She didn’t discover much of interest, just the usual utilitarian items found in most rental houses. She rearranged a few pieces of furniture, laid her favorite comforter on the back of the sofa, and took great satisfaction adding some of her own personal items. On the mantel she placed a silver-framed photograph of her and her mother taken shortly before her death. They were laughing with such joy and life. There was another of the family together at the Grand Canyon. One of her grandparents. She placed her favorite books on the shelves, lit a scented candle. In an extravagant gesture, she ordered new linens online. When they arrived at the end of the week, she couldn’t wait to put them on her bed. And after several days of checking an empty mailbox, she hooted with excitement when she received her first piece of mail. It was verification that she lived here.
None of the changes she’d made were dramatic. She was simply nesting. It was important that she noticed the changes, that they made her feel more at home. It was making a small statement that this was her house—at least for the summer. Declaring to the world—and most important, herself—that Heather Wyatt was beginning a new chapter in her life.
At the end of her first week living alone Heather stood at the sliding doors of the sunroom staring out at the evening sky. She had just closed and locked them, as she had every night since her arrival. Not exactly the courageous behavior of a woman breaking old habits, she thought.
Bo had not returned to work this week. She missed seeing his warm smile, hearing his cheery “Hello!” and his conversation. The job wasn’t done. Heather wondered when he’d return . . . if he’d return.
Out in the great sky, a full moon provided a breathtaking trail of rippling light along the ocean, a direct path to the stars. Heather was filled with a sudden, overwhelming sense of yearning. The moon, the stars, the sea, life . . . they were calling to her. She felt the pull at her heart.
She felt the coolness of the glass as she placed her hand against the windowpane. It was a solid thing, transparent, but one that kept her looking at the world outside from her safe haven indoors. Her fear kept her as caged as her canaries. The glass windows were no different from their metal bars.
MEMORIAL DAY CAME and went. A swarm of people had descended on the island, horns honking, clogging the roads and filling the beaches. Heather watched them from behind her window. Countless brightly colored towels spread out on the sand, families gathered under large umbrellas, young mothers hovered over young children building sand castles, people bobbed and splashed in the surf. Even though it was real life, watching it from behind glass had the same effect as if she were watching it all on television.
May was over and tomorrow June began. Heather felt a keen sense of urgency. After all, she’d come to Isle of Palms to sketch live shorebirds in their natural habitat. She couldn’t delay her commission any longer. Creating a small postage stamp was a long, intense process. Developing it easily took two to three years from application to when the Postmaster General approved the final art. As they’d told her when she was awarded the commission: “Work small but think big!”
She’d submitted her proposal to the Postal Service a year earlier. Her proposal had passed the first set of rigorous reviews, a feat she’d never dared hope to achieve. The committee was highly selective and chose from a wide scope of both ideas and artists. Once the subject was approved, extensive verification by the committee had to be performed on each detail of a stamp’s design. The production procedures were complex. Now Heather was beginning the creative phase. For each stamp she’d create a series of sketches and drawings to develop the design. Working with the art director, she’d explore different approaches to the topic. It was a mountainous task that involved many hours of work. She had to complete dozens of sketches of select shorebirds in different settings, then send them for review. The committee would select four to six, and from these she would create paintings for the judges. Out of these, only one or two would be selected for national stamps.
It was a great deal of work for not a lot of money. Nor recognition. Most people didn’t know who the artists were behind the stamps. But the dollar amount didn’t figure into her decision. Where else would her work enjoy an audience of millions of people throughout the United States and around the world? To see her art on someone’s letter in the post—that was priceless.
Filled with resolve, Heather sat at the glass-topped iron table she’d converted to her work desk and pulled out all her previous research on shorebirds of the East Coast. Another artist had been assigned the task of shorebirds of the Pacific coast. Narrowing the scope to the Eastern Seaboard still left her with a large number of species that frequented the shoreline. From this list she’d selected birds from the most-endangered and most-threatened lists.
Soon Heather was enveloped in her work. She created a large tri-fold poster board to which she could add her photographs and sketches. Then she pinned up her list of the Ten Most Wanted Birds to discover on the beach.
1. Piping plover
2. Long-billed curlew
3. Wilson’s plover
4. American oystercatcher
5. Red knot
6. Least tern
7. Sanderling
8. Ruddy turnstone
9. Sandpiper
10. ?
Number ten was going to be a gut choice, she decided. A shorebird she fell in love with that demanded she paint it. Leaving the element of surprise in the process kept her open to new ideas as she worked. Especially in nature, Heather found she had to trust her instincts as much as, or more than, her intellect.
Her first job was the not inconsiderable task of actually getting outside. How many of her fellow artists had to deal with that challenge? Doesn’t matter, she told herself, focusing. All that mattered was that she couldn’t procrastinate any longer. No excuses. She tapped her pencil against her lips. Perhaps if she went out to the beach at dawn? When there were few people walking about? That would be a good way to start. And she had to start somewhere.
Decision made, Heather fetched her backpack and laid it out on the table. Tomorrow she would rise with the sun and venture out before the crowds arrived. It would be a first foray to get a feel for the landscape and scout out where the shorebirds hung out. She packed only a few things—her binoculars, notebooks and sketch pad, and drawing pencils. The zipper hummed in the hush of the room. It bolstered her courage.
Chapter Eight