The days became weeks and August continued the unyielding, unwavering procession of ninetysome-degree days that was a southern summer. And the bugs were back in town. Whether it was the unusually warm winter, the excessive spring rains, or the pressing humidity of this summer, Cara had never seen bigger or more aggressive skeeters.
The turtle team was hit hard by mosquitoes and the tiny, invisible sand flies they called no-see-ums, especially as they patrolled the nests at night. Bottles of repellent were passed around continually. On especially buggy nights when the armadas of insects relentlessly swarmed, some of the team waved the white flag and retreated. Cara, however, was what Brett had laughingly called “unattractive” to mosquitoes. She didn’t know why some people were magnets and swarmed by bugs, while others, like her, were left alone. There were lots of theories—who did or didn’t eat bananas, who drank beer, what color clothing someone wore. No matter the reason for her immunity, she counted her blessings.
She still couldn’t sleep well anyway, so she was happy to take on turtle midwife duty at the beach on nights when nests were due to hatch. And on the nights when there were no expectant nests to keep her occupied, Cara sat on Lovie’s dune. On this night, with no nests to watch over, Cara brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, resting her chin on them.
Oh, how she missed Brett. Especially at times like this when the balmy breeze was not windy enough to toss sand in her eyes but was blowy enough to keep the bugs at bay and rattle the straw-colored panicles of the sea oats. They sounded like castanets. On a night like this when the moon was full and shone majestically in a sky littered with stars, while pinpricks of light on the shore below seemed to mirror the stars, Cara could feel his presence.
It was near midnight, and from where she sat it seemed the world was asleep. The lights were out in the wall of mansions facing the sea. She whispered a thank-you to the people inside who heeded the “lights out for turtles” message. Sea turtles emerged from the sand and followed that natural light home to the sea. Out in the distance, the sky and sea blended together into an inky blackness. This was how it had been for thousands—millions—of years when the moon and the stars were the brightest lights on the horizon. Today, electricity had changed that ancient formula. The brightest lights were no longer over the sea but shone in the streets and houses, in the ambient light of cities far away. The hatchlings emerged from the sand and followed their primeval instincts to run to the brightest lights. And if that light was artificial, they inadvertently scrambled away from the sea, their home, to their certain deaths.
That was how she felt, she thought. She’d hatched into this new world of widowhood and wasn’t sure where to turn now for her own personal source of light. Lost without bearings, scrambling madly toward some unseen goal. She no longer trusted her instincts. She didn’t know how to be alone. She was afraid to be the solitary swimmer she’d once been. Brett had changed that in her. She needed the companionship of her friends more than ever.
Even Heather.
Especially Heather.
Cara stretched out her legs and leaned back on her arms, lifting a handful of cool sand and allowing it to run through her fingers. When she was in this sort of pensive mood, sitting on her mother’s dune, Cara felt each gentle breeze against her face as a caress from Brett. Closing her eyes, she heard the rhythmic rush of the waves against the shoreline as Brett’s beating heart. She wished she could have just one more conversation with him, to ask for his advice about what she should do now that he was gone.
I’m here, she heard whispered on the wind.
Cara closed her eyes, accepting the voice, believing in it. Her mother had told her she’d talked to Russell on this small bit of sand. Why couldn’t she talk to Brett? Even if it was her imagination, it brought her comfort.
“What’s my problem with Heather?”
Your problem?
“Yes. She’s been so good to me. So kind and thoughtful. She makes me a special energy drink in the morning, prepares a healthy meal at night. Cleans the house. She’s a worker bee, always attentive. What’s holding me back from feeling close to her? Is it because she’s young?”
No.
“Why?”
You know why.
Cara shook her head with a sigh. “I don’t. . . .”
Who does she remind you of??
“No. Don’t say it.”
The wind blew, a whistling in her ear that sounded like laughter.
“Okay,” Cara said begrudgingly, sweeping away a biting ant with a swipe of her palm. “She reminds me of my mother.”
Yes, the wind answered.
“But I loved my mother. I miss her terribly. Especially now that you’re gone. Why did you have to go?”
Only the muffled roar of the gentle waves sounded in the night.
“I miss her comforting words. Her guidance.” The words were like pinpricks of pain in her heart.
She is guiding you.
“No, she isn’t! She’s ignoring me!” Cara squeezed the sand resting on her palm to form a fist. “She’s guiding Heather.”
You’re jealous.
“No, I’m not,” she fired back—but even as she said the words, she knew she was lying. She was jealous of Heather. Sweet, generous, gracious Heather.
Yes.
But why was she jealous of Heather? Cara struggled with the question. The woman had given her no cause. Cara knew it wasn’t only because her mother visited Heather’s dreams and not hers. Or that Heather smelled her mother’s perfume when she was uneasy and Cara could not catch the scent, no matter how doggedly she wandered the house. Cara put her elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her palms as she stared out into the vast darkness. And Cara knew.
Yes.
Cara knew why she’d been jealous of Heather. Her delicate appearance was not what troubled Cara, or the fact that she resembled Lovie. And neither was her sweetness or youth or even her connection with her mother.
Cara was jealous of Heather’s passion. It shone in her eyes and sang in her voice. Her passion was the music she loved and the way her spirit danced when she worked. How many mornings had Cara awakened to find Heather already gone, hiking the beach with her sketchbook and gear? How often had she come running back into the house, jumping with glee, shouting, “I saw a piping plover!” or some other shorebird? Heather couldn’t wait to get to her studio to dive into her work with a zeal Cara could only imagine. Cara watched her hunched over her paper, her hand moving quickly, creating a stunningly beautiful rendition from nothing. A miracle. And now that she was painting the final four birds, how many hours did Heather spend sitting at the easel, paint dripping over her, forgetting to eat, an expression of focus lighted by moments of ecstasy on her face?