In the midst of all her mourning and heartache, Cara had turned fifty. In the end, it was just another day. She had reached that milestone with a whimper, not a roar. Perhaps it was appropriate, she thought. Instead of lamenting that she was getting older, it was time for her—at last—to grow up.
When she’d marched out of her parents’ house at eighteen, she’d forged a life with a chip on her shoulder. She’d climbed the ladder ruthlessly. Got the corner office with a window, a good salary, a title—and it still wasn’t enough. Not in that world. She’d thought she’d given up that lifestyle when she’d stayed on the island and married Brett. To an extent, she had. But in truth, a spark of that misplaced ambition still burned inside of her. Not being a boss in a business didn’t stop a woman from being coldhearted and strategic in her personal life. How many women who’d never entered the corporate world could say they didn’t wage battles at home?
Well, she’d had her “come to Jesus,” as Mama would’ve said. Guilt was a terrible thing. Regret even worse. Since Brett’s death, she wasn’t guilt-ridden thinking she hadn’t loved him enough. She knew without doubt that she’d given him all her love, freely and without reservation. He’d known that she loved him. However, the guilt that haunted her at night was how often she should’ve been more understanding. Kinder. More careful with her words. More grateful for what she had. She recalled the conversation she and Brett had had earlier in the spring about her sense of inertia, how reaching the milestone of fifty was making Cara feel so unmoored and unsatisfied, in need of a passion to pursue. Hah! She longed for the days when not feeling professionally fulfilled was her greatest cause for upset.
At Brett’s funeral, one person after another had spoken of his generosity, his kindness, how he’d always been there for a friend. How he had the right priorities and lived life fully. How he was the very definition of a lowcountry man.
Like Brett, Lovie had been an embodiment of all that was best about the South—exuding a lowcountry woman’s gentility, natural grace, a vulnerability that opened her heart and tamped down her ego, empathy for others, generosity, and strong conviction of right and wrong. Like the graceful palm tree she treasured, Lovie bent in the harsh wind but did not break. At her funeral, someone had declared that Lovie had never said a bad word about anyone. Enough said.
What, she wondered, would people say about her when her time came? It was a daunting thought.
Cara swallowed hard and lowered her head, humbled by this self-reckoning. Power isn’t telling someone what to do, she told herself. Strength isn’t having the upper hand. Nobility and grace are revealed in the manner in which love is given.
She took another sip of Heather’s magic potion, feeling the caffeine and whatever superfood ingredients were in it racing through her bloodstream. And, more, the kindness that Heather had shown in making it for her.
Damn, but it was good.
IT WAS A glorious morning on the islands. The rain and storm of the past several days had cleared, taking with them the pressing humidity and the pesky bugs. At least for a short while. Heather reveled in these post-storm mornings, when the air smelled as green and moist as God’s promise to Noah, when everything felt fresh and renewed.
Bo walked beside her on Sullivan’s Island for her dawn patrol. He had heard her talk so often about sighting a flock of shorebirds on the beach at dawn that he wanted to see it for himself. Bo had proved to be one of those rare individuals who were as comfortable with silence as with conversation. They held hands as they walked along the deserted beach, bumping hips, each awestruck by the majesty of the brilliant sunrise over the ocean. The world was aflame with pink and gold.
“I see this almost every day,” she said to Bo. She stopped and he stood beside her, slipping his arm around her waist as they stared out at a beauty that was indescribable and overwhelmed logic. “I never grow tired of it. I think everyone should take time, at least once a week, to catch a sunrise. Just to feel alive and that there’s hope.” She leaned into him. “I don’t know how to explain it. There’s something about that rosy light that silences the negative voices in my head and reaffirms that there is something good in me.”
He pressed her closer. “There’s so much good about you, Heather.”
She felt the blanket of security she always did when he said such things. Looking up, she met his gaze.
They turned and continued walking. Heather picked up an occasional seashell. Bo inspected each intriguingly shaped piece of driftwood, settling on one large chunk he declared held promise.
After tiptoeing around the house trying not to disturb Cara, Heather appreciated being back outside in the fresh air and searching for her birds. That’s how she was beginning to feel about the shorebirds that clustered along both sides of Breach Inlet—as her birds. That was silly, of course. The birds belonged to nobody, and also to everyone. If more people understood that, she thought, the shorebirds’ future would be protected.
Approaching beach entry point Station 22, Bo explained to her it was so named because it was a remnant from the time a trolley would drop visitors off at different stations. They found a large cluster of plovers and sandpipers—so many she couldn’t count them. Bo set up the tripod for her scope while she spread out a towel behind it. Bo stretched out his long legs beside her.
Heather got comfortable in front of the tripod and put her sketch pad in her lap. She looked out over the beach and the water, then tilted her head to let the early-morning sun warm her face. She sighed contentedly.
“The light here is so beautiful and so different from the light in Charlotte. It reminds me of the light in Florence.” She turned her head. “Have you ever been there?”
“To Florence? Sure, many times.”
“Really?”
He laughed. “Sure. It’s just an hour away.”
Heather did a double take. “What?”
Bo laughed his low laugh. “I know you meant Florence, Italy. Baby, I’ve never been to Europe. I don’t even get to Florence, South Carolina, that often. Truth is, I’ve never been outside the South. Someday I’d like to travel. But frankly, I don’t feel the urgency.” He looked out at the sea. “Not when I live here.”
She matched his outward gaze toward the Atlantic Ocean, calm today after the stormy weather. “It is beautiful here,” she agreed. “Light helps define a place. Here the light has color. It changes throughout the day and it’s unpredictable. I’d never grow tired of painting here.”
“Glad to hear that.”
She caught his meaning and dipped her head to look into her scope, not ready to think about what the future held for her—and for them—when summer ended, and with it her lease at Cara’s.
In this moment, she had work to do.