Heather loathed that the home improvement project was coming to an end. No more deck building meant no more Bo. Heather found she’d gotten quite used to his presence every day, and she was none too much looking forward to losing it—put simply, Bo made her feel less alone.
It had been such a wonderful week! One that she couldn’t have imagined just a month or two ago. The stars had aligned somehow, and everything had seemed to fall into place. She’d started this week with a renewed burst of energy, going out to the beach every morning at dawn to photograph the birds. When she returned home, she’d poured herself into the process of sketching from the photographs to the backbeat of Bo’s hammering outdoors. She’d focused first on the red knots. She’d been so lucky to find a few stragglers of this endangered shorebird still on Isle of Palms. Yearly these master navigators flew more than eighteen thousand miles round-trip between their wintering and breeding grounds. And to think she’d caught a few on her first day out! She’d drawn dozens of sketches of their chunky, long-winged bodies, their short yellowish legs and thin black bills. Sketches and photographs were taped to the walls and windows of the sunroom, along with profiles that described her selected shorebirds. A large map of the South Carolina coast was hung on the wall, and red pins marked where the different shorebirds that she spotted were, and green pins were where there were reported sightings.
Heather loved to see evidence of her ideas come alive around her. Her workroom energized her now. It was where she spent most of her time. She was pleased with the week’s work. Yet, looking at her sketches today, she saw with chagrin that most of them were really of Bo Stanton. With an exasperated sigh, she pushed the sketches back with frustration. What am I doing? she asked herself, putting her face in her palms. I have serious work to do. Her attraction to Bo was becoming nothing short of an obsession. She thought about him too much. She’d even dreamed about him.
Since their golf cart ride, there had been an undeniable shift in their relationship. Bo was much more attentive than someone who merely came to work on the deck each morning. Whenever he paused to come inside for ice, he would linger, talking about anything and everything. She loved every minute and listened, utterly engaged. No doubt urging him on with their flirtation. Now she lowered her hands and expelled a gusty sigh of frustration. All this was clearly distracting her from her work, and that was unacceptable for someone like Heather. She looked again at the sketches of Bo, then in a rush gathered them up and placed them in a file folder. She was falling behind schedule. She could feel the pressure mounting, and rubbed the spot that ached at her breastbone.
“Enough,” she said, and dropped her hands. Work was the only thing that would help her get through the anxiety that was building in her chest. “Red knots,” she said aloud, pulling out fresh sketching paper. She methodically smoothed it with her palms, then picked up her pencil and focused on the photos of the birds clustered at the shoreline. She studied the rusty, reddish color of the feathers, how some stood straight as though staring out to sea with their dark, bright eyes. Some were bent at an angle, digging their sharp beaks into the moist morning sand for a meal of small snails, bivalves, or, if they were lucky, horseshoe crab eggs. She began to draw.
Some time later, she heard a knock on the front door. Glancing at her watch, she saw that an hour had passed already. Reluctantly, Heather rose and hurried to the front door, her mind still occupied by her work. Opening it, she was surprised to see Bo. Carrying a bouquet of yellow tulips, no less.
“Come in,” she exclaimed, near giddy despite herself at seeing him, and opened the door wide.
Bo passed her, and she felt again the fluttering in her stomach. She smoothed back her hair, which was slipping from its clasp, ran her hands nervously over her slim-cut jeans.
“I ran out to grab something to eat and I saw these,” he told her, and handed her the tulips. “Their color reminded me of your hair.”
Heather couldn’t stop the flush of pleasure that bloomed on her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said, and brought the bouquet to her nose. “This is so . . . unexpected. They’re beautiful.” She didn’t think any man but her father had ever brought her flowers before.
“Well,” he began with a grin of pleasure, “I came to tell you I’m finished. The deck is all done.”
“It’s beautiful. Great job,” she said, feeling unusually tongue-tied again with him. The job over, there was a new tension between them. What would happen next?
“I wouldn’t go out there for a few days yet. Give the stain time to dry. The weather should hold for the next few days. Then I’ll swing by and deliver the chairs. Brett started painting them, but he never got to finish. I can start that tomorrow and come by with them when I’m done,” he added with a smile.
“I’d like that,” she said, clinging to the chance to see him again.
Then his expression changed as an idea came to mind. “You know what’d be real nice?”
Heather shook her head.
“You ought to invite Cara to come on over to take a look, now that it’s all done. It’d be a way to get her out of her house. Flo was around the other day and told me Cara still hasn’t come out, not since the funeral. It’d do her good.”
It wasn’t the invitation she’d hoped for, but Heather was both oddly relieved and touched by his concern for Cara. Thoughtfulness came so easily for him. In truth, she should have thought of it herself.
“That’s a great idea. I will. And I’ll invite Emmi, and Flo, of course. Flo will have a hissy fit if I don’t.” Her nervous laugh followed. She sidled a glance at Bo. “You’d come, of course.”
“Of course! Wild horses couldn’t keep me away. I’m proud of that deck; it’s the last project I worked on with Brett. It really means something.” He looked at his feet. “And I’d like to have an excuse to come back and see you,” he added quietly.
Heather stared back at him, her anxiety spiking. Her sudden speechlessness didn’t seem to bother Bo in the slightest.
“Say, I have a friend who’s the chef at a restaurant on the island. The Long Island Café. It’s real good. I’m talking about the best fish on the islands. All local, too. I was wondering if you’d like to come out with me. We could go there for dinner.”
She swallowed hard. “When?”
“How’s tonight?”
She felt her throat clutch. She wanted to go. Very much. But just the idea of going on a date was sending her anxiety spinning out of control. She couldn’t breathe. She felt light-headed. In a moment she’d be sweating as if she were running a marathon. Excuses rallied in her brain—she had nothing to wear, she had to wash her hair. Oh, stop being such a baby, she scolded herself. After all, it was only dinner at a local restaurant at the end of a long day. They were friends. It was the equivalent of going out for coffee. And if she was being honest, the steady diet of organic soups and salads-for-one with only the canaries for company was beginning to wear on her.