Of course Bo had felt rejected. He’d asked her out, and she’d refused. There were a million reasons to say yes, but only one for saying no. Her anxiety. At that moment she’d felt utterly overwhelmed. She needed some space and time to think. And that meant being alone. But how could she let him know that the problem was with her, not with him? That despite her anxiety, she didn’t want to be alone any longer. That she missed him.
Striding along the beach this morning Heather lifted her hands to her hair, clutched it tight and gave a little scream of frustration. She hated being this way! She had to stop letting her anxiety rule her life. Her hands formed fists at her sides as she picked up her pace. If her heart rate went up, it would be for a damn good reason, she told herself.
This morning she’d veered away from Breach Inlet and instead headed north toward the pier. She wanted to scope out a new area. The waves rolled in at a lazy pace, lapping the shore. The beach was smooth and as yet untrammeled. Beyond the dunes, the walls of pastel-colored mansions were dark. The sunrise was reflected in the plate-glass windows.
She’d walked at a brisk pace more than two miles when, closer to the pier, she spied an odd, unmoving mass on the beach. It was too big for a horseshoe crab. Maybe a piece of driftwood? Or . . . She paused. A sea turtle? She stopped and took a look around. There was no one else nearby. No dogs, thank heavens. She walked toward it, lifting her hand over her sunglasses and squinting into the sunlight. A few yards away, she stopped again. The mass was a brown pelican!
It looked fully grown, though she knew the brown pelican was the smallest of the seven pelican species. She walked slowly, so as not to startle the bird. Even when she drew near, it didn’t fly off. Its lovely yellow-and-white head lifted up a bit to regard her approach, revealing its long, gorgeous, chestnut-brown-and-white neck. Then it subsided again, as if the bird was too tired to hold it up. The long beak lowered to rest on the sand. It was a mournful sight.
“Poor baby,” she muttered softly. Clearly the bird was sick or injured. She kept a distance, not wanting to startle it. What to do? She pulled her cell phone from her backpack and looked up who to call for a bird emergency. Finding a listing for the Center for Birds of Prey, she punched in the number.
In short order, a woman answered and got her location.
“Can you wait with the bird until someone from the center arrives?”
“Yes. I won’t leave its side.”
“Thank you. It won’t be long. Oh, and don’t try to lift it. The beak can be quite snappy. It’s got a pointed hook at the end. Keep onlookers away, if you can. It needs to stay put. If the pelican gets into the water, we won’t be able to catch it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The pelican had grown nervous with the chatter and tried to rise and walk away.
“Oh, don’t do that, baby,” Heather crooned.
The bird didn’t walk very far. Weakened, it sat again, tucking in its wings. One wing drooped lower.
Heather sat on the sand and pulled her backpack around to withdraw her sketch pad. She scoped out the area, relieved that no one was walking close by. Out on the ocean a healthier pelican sat on the waves, rising and falling gracefully. Was it a mate? she wondered. The injured bird didn’t appear disturbed as long as she sat at a distance, so she used the opportunity to sketch it. Early bird artists, like the great Audubon, had worked from stuffed birds. Modern artists had the advantage of photographs, and she used her binoculars and spotting scope, too. But nothing compared to the up-close and personal study of a bird in its natural habitat.
Her hand moved swiftly across the page capturing the color variations, the shape of its eyes. Especially the eyes. The eyes were blue, which meant the bird was in breeding season. Her canaries’ eyes were dull and slitted when they were ill, their usual brightness dimmed. Looking at the pelican’s eyes, she saw the same listlessness. Every angle reflected illness.
Heather had always thought the pelican was an elegant bird, with its long neck and the distinctive pouch that made it unique in the bird world. If she dared mention a favorite bird, it would be the pelican.
Heather didn’t have to wait long for the bird center’s emissary. Within half an hour she saw a man approaching her from the beach path. He looked professional, wearing long pants and a brown T-shirt and carrying an animal carrier. She put her sketchbook into her backpack and rose to greet him. As he drew nearer, Heather recognized the long gait, the broad shoulders, the shaggy blond hair. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt her heart rate take off. As happy as she was to see him, she also felt a cold dread at the prospect of their first awkwardness after what she’d come to call “the dinner debacle.”
Bo walked at a steady pace toward her and the bird, then stopped cold. He stared for a moment, then began walking again. As he drew near, his face registered surprise and even happiness at seeing her.
“?‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.’?”
Heather was delighted with the quote and relieved at his humor. It broke that first awkwardness, despite the fact that Rick and Ilsa’s romance was doomed.
“Casablanca’s one of my favorite movies.” She smirked and returned another quote. “?‘I’ve heard a lot of stories in my time. They went along with the sound of a tinny piano playing in a parlor downstairs.’?”
Bo raised his brows. “I’m impressed.”
“I know a lot more than that,” she admitted. “Like I said, it’s a favorite, and I’m kind of a nerd about old movies so . . .” She let it go, a bit embarrassed at her intimation that she spent so many of her evenings alone, watching old movies. “But,” she said with import, “considering all the stories I’ve heard you tell, I don’t remember you ever telling me that you’re a rescue worker for the birds of prey center.”
“I didn’t?”
“You didn’t.”
He shrugged. Then his expression changed and his eyes cooled. Suddenly he was the professional. “I guess it never came up.” Bo set the large animal carrier on the sand as his gaze turned to the pelican. “You the one who called it in?”
Heather nodded, noticing his tone had a new edge to it. She took his lead and straightened, then spoke to him as if he were a stranger, a professional who’d come to help. “I was walking along the shore to the pier when I saw the bird just sitting there on the beach. Not moving.”
Bo went directly to the bird, all business now. “We’ve got a brown pelican,” he said aloud as he wrote on a clipboard.
“Do we have white pelicans here?” she asked. She’d never seen them listed on the range maps for shorebirds.
“Yes, but not many. Though numbers are increasing. Mostly we have brown pelicans in South Carolina. He paused. “Has it moved?”
“Very little. It tried to walk when I was talking on the phone. Tottered is more like it. Then it collapsed. I think it’s either sick or injured.”
Bo stopped writing and glanced at her with a hint of mockery in his smile. “Do ya think?”