Cara was jealous that Heather had found such passion in her life. As her mother had discovered her passion—the sea turtles. Cara knew a great emptiness in her soul. This passion, this fervor, this excitement for living was what she was missing in her life. It was the reason she’d felt untethered and lost before Brett’s death. Why turning fifty had loomed large as an obstacle rather than a milestone.
Passion was the wind in her sails. The source of her imagination. She smiled. The bubbles in her champagne. She missed feeling that excitement when she woke up in the morning, eager to get started on some project. She missed those moments while taking a walk when a great idea would burst forth from the fallow ground of her mind, one that she couldn’t wait to work on. What had Van Gogh said? I would rather die of passion than of boredom.
Cara rose and stretched, feeling the lateness of the hour. A slight chill was in the air. She slapped the sand from her pants and took a final, sweeping gaze at the sea. Far out in the distance she saw the slim line of lights of a ship heading out to sea.
“Good night, Brett,” she whispered into the night.
Only the wind answered, whistling softly in the tall sea oats surrounding her.
HEATHER FELT A dramatic difference in Cara since she’d returned to the turtle team. Her skin, no longer pale and drawn, now sported a suntan that matched her renewed vigor. And she’d gained a few pounds that rounded out the sharp edges of her contours.
The same could be said of Cara’s attitude. Gone were the sulking and depression, replaced by, if not happiness in the traditional sense, an acceptance of the change in her life and a willingness to move forward. Not to say she wasn’t still struggling. There were good days and bad, and Heather knew from the light footfalls outside her door at all hours that Cara still wasn’t sleeping well. But it seemed that walking every day on the beach, having a sense of purpose, taking over again as the team leader, filled Cara’s time so she was no longer curled up in bed dwelling only on her loss.
Best of all, Cara had warmed up to Heather. Something had shifted in Cara, a lowering of her guard, a tincture of time to build trust, and now they talked freely to each other, laughed at each other’s comments and jokes. They prepared meals together, invited Emmi and Flo over to dine, and went to their house as well. The doors were always open between the women’s houses.
Emmi and Flo continued to take Cara out to restaurants, the theater, art shows, and such, according to the three women’s plan. But in these final weeks of August, Heather had to remain at home and work. Her September deadline for the four completed shorebird postage-stamp paintings was fast approaching. She’d struggled to find the right approach to best present the personality of the three birds selected by the committee—the red knot, the American oystercatcher, and the semipalmated sandpiper. Being ultimately so small, the art had to have a big impact. She’d cast away at least a dozen paintings as unsuitable. Cara argued with her that they were perfect. Flo, in her succinct manner, told her she was plumb crazy and they were great. Emmi was supportive. She loved them all.
It was precisely at such times that Heather had to trust her instincts. If she sensed something was off, hers was the only opinion that mattered. She was never shy when it came to her work.
Yet, as time was running out, she felt the pressure mount. She worked long hours, slept little, and ate less. There was no more time for dawn walks on the beach or studying birds in their natural habitat. She was strictly in production mode, and every stroke of her brush counted. It was taking its toll. She missed being out on the beach at dawn, seeing the sun rise over the water. It was very spiritual, akin to going to church. Sunny or rainy, foggy or clear, she loved whatever manner of light she captured in her art.
To make matters worse, Bo had taken an extended job on Dewees, a small island off Isle of Palms. It couldn’t be helped, he’d told her. He’d reserved these few weeks in August every summer. He had several jobs scheduled, including a big one he was nervous about, and he couldn’t cancel now. Bo had returned to Isle of Palms to see her three evenings in the past week but, like Heather, he was under deadline to finish the projects before the homeowners returned and had to spend most of his time working. Everything seemed to be coming to a close so swiftly; it felt like her world was spinning. Not the best feeling for a woman prone to anxiety.
“I brought you some lunch,” Cara said as she entered the studio.
Heather reluctantly turned from her painting of the sandpiper to see Cara carrying in a tray. Her face was pink from a morning spent in the sun, on the beach with the turtle team. She was still wearing her ISLAND TURTLE TEAM shirt, this one yellow.
“Thanks. Can I eat it later? I’m almost done.”
“Just don’t forget to eat. It’s tuna salad. You shouldn’t let it sit out too long.” She set the tray down on the table and leaned over Heather’s shoulder to study the painting. “Oh, Heather, well done,” Cara said with awe. “You’ve captured the personality of our dear little peeps.”
Heather studied the painting critically. The semipalmated sandpiper was a lot of personality packed into a small, chunky body. In her painting she wanted to show the short legs in motion, the way most people recognized the peeps as they played tag with the sea. She sighed and set down her brush.
“I think this one’s okay.”
“Okay? It’s your best one yet. I love it,” Cara crooned.
As though on cue, Moutarde began singing at the sound of Cara’s voice. His clarion voice reached new heights as he perched close to Cara, his throat bobbing with passion.
“I swear, that bird is in love with you,” Heather said with a much-needed laugh.
“I have that effect on spicy males,” Cara quipped, but she smiled as she spoke and turned to make soft whistling noises to the yellow canary. Hearing the fuss, the other two canaries joined in, and the entire room was suddenly filled with song.
Her concentration broken, Heather wiped her hands on her painter’s cloth and reached for the sandwich. She’d skipped breakfast that morning, fueled only by her power drink, and now she was starving.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do after you leave,” Cara said with a note of sadness. “I’m so used to the birdsong. Not to mention you,” she added with a smirk. “I may have to get myself a canary.”
Heather slowly finished chewing a bite of tuna salad on toasted multigrain bread as a thought took root in her mind. She rarely acted on impulse. Yet something about this felt so right that she couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. She wiped her mouth, then said, “Cara, would you like to keep Moutarde with you?”
Cara’s face stilled and her eyes widened.
“Only if you really want him, of course,” Heather hastened to add.
“I don’t know what to say,” Cara said, a bit breathless. She swallowed. “This might be the time to tell you I’ve never had a pet before.”