by Olivia Miles
She closed her eyes now, trying to bring the tune he played for her to the surface. Reaching for it. Aching for it.
Right. She needed a distraction. For the first time, she didn’t want to think or over think. She wanted to…avoid.
She called Abby. From the grogginess of her sister’s voice, it was clear that the call had woken her. At nine thirty.
Bridget struggled not to roll her eyes. Abby was content to live day by day, somehow scraping up rent for her studio apartment each month with part-time work, riding a bike instead of driving a car, and asking Bridget to trim her hair every other month in exchange for free babysitting. When Bridget had been Abby’s age, she’d been a single working mother with a toddler.
“Did I wake you?”
“No, no, I’m awake, just stretching.” Abby let out a luxurious groan.
Stretching. More like code for just waking up.
“What time is it?” Abby asked.
Now Bridget was really regretting this call. She’d been up since five to do laundry and shower. She’d started the slow cooker for dinner. She’d ironed Emma’s favorite dress for picture day. She’d cooked a pancake breakfast. She’d cleaned the kitchen after Emma spilled batter all over the counter, braided Emma’s hair, remembered to pack the library books so Emma could check out two new ones, filled out a field trip permission slip, answered three calls from Mimi, packed Emma’s lunch while listening to her grandmother alternate between bragging about that damn cat and asking when Bridget was going to take her home.
And now Bridget would have to be the one to tell her that there was no home. That she’d sold it. And then she’d have to hope to God that Mimi remembered that she had agreed to this in the not so distant past.
“Want to meet for coffee?”
“Sure!” Abby sounded so pleased by the idea that for a moment, Bridget felt guilty. Was it really such a rare occurrence for her to invite her youngest sister to something, just the two of them?
Sadly, it was. But then, when did Bridget have the time for things like coffee dates? When she wasn’t taking care of Emma, she was at work trying to make money to care for Emma, and even then she was cramming in weekly responsibilities like grocery shopping and visits to Mimi, who thought she was Margo half the time, even though they looked nothing alike.
“Margo, you always take such good care of me,” Mimi was fond of saying, and Bridget would fight back tears that she knew were childish and irrational, wishing that just for once she could get a thank you for everything she did for everyone else, or at least some credit.
But that was her role. They all had one. She was the mother hen, especially now that her own mother was gone. She was the only mother in the group, after all, and the oldest sister, and she cared. She cared so much. Too much.
“I’m surprised you have time to meet up!” Abby said now. There wasn’t a hint of malice in her tone, only honesty, but Bridget felt as if she’d just been slapped. Abby’s life was one long string of fun. She didn’t understand Bridget’s life. But it saddened Bridget that she couldn’t. That she took Bridget’s lack of time for her personally.
Her walk to the café was long, even if it was only three blocks away. She took her time, stopping to look at the storefronts that were decorated with bright purple and orange mums and fat pumpkins and colorful wreaths on every door. The bells above the door of Angie’s jingled as she entered the room, and her spirits rose slightly at the smell of cinnamon scones and percolating coffee. She grabbed the last available table near the window, settling in for the wait, but a few minutes later, Abby rolled by on her bike.
Her sister’s hair was pulled back in a casual knot, her face free of makeup, her bright green pea coat unbuttoned over her sweater and jeans.
She hopped out of bed to have coffee with me, Bridget realized, startled. When was the last time she’d dropped everything for Abby?
Bridget left her coat on the back of her chair and joined Abby at the counter, where she treated them both to an oversized blueberry muffin and latte, wishing she still had her sister’s metabolism.
“God, I’m hungry,” Abby said, grinning as she slid into her chair and shook off her coat. “I was out with Chase last night and he offered to cook, and…”
Oh dear God. “And you didn’t want to get food poisoning?” Bridget would never, ever forget the time Chase had treated Abby to a bag of croissants he had later revealed were plucked from this very café’s dumpster.
“No.” Abby pressed her lips together. “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. So I said that I’d already eaten.” Catching Bridget’s disapproving look, Abby said, “He doesn’t believe in waste, Bridget. Do you know how much food is thrown out every day? Not all of it is trash.”
Bridget wasn’t up for this conversation again. Not this morning. “So you’re still dating Chase, then. It’s been a while, then. A couple of months?”
“Well…” And there was the look. The look that said Abby was bored and ready for something new. The same exact look she used to get when she was just six years old and ready to quit a board game she wasn’t winning. “I think we’re going to break up.” At this, to Bridget’s surprise, Abby’s eyes welled with tears that began to fall faster than Bridget could hand her paper napkins from the dispenser.
“Was it because…” Bridget trailed off. There were so many ways to finish that thought, but those were qualities that had drawn Abby to him, not away from him.
“He’s going on the road,” Abby sniffed. “With the band.”
Oh. Well, yes, that made sense, considering Chase lived in his van. What choice was there but to keep moving?
“He’s going to Florida,” Abby continued. “Says the climate is better for his lifestyle.”
The mother in Bridget wanted to tell Abby that if Chase really loved her, he would stay. That she was better knowing all this now, better off without him in the long run. That a guy like this would only cause her grief. But the sister in her just handed over another napkin and said, “I’m so sorry, Abby. I know you really liked him.”
Abby would probably use the word love, but considering she’d only known the guy for two months, Bridget couldn’t get on board with that. The beginning was the fun part. It was based on attraction and excitement and going out and trying new things. Not the real stuff. Not the hard stuff.
“He asked me to go with him,” Abby said, eyeing her across the table.
Bridget’s heart began to pound. Sure, Abby was annoying sometimes, carefree to a fault, even a little reckless, some might say. She certainly wasn’t any help when it came to worrying about things like the cost of Mimi’s care, or how to handle the house. But to leave?
Too many people had left already.
Bridget took a sip of her coffee, burying her face in the mug so Abby couldn’t see the emotion in her eyes.
“I said no, obviously,” Abby said, plucking a blueberry from her muffin. “Oyster Bay is my home. I could never leave it.”
Bridget smiled. “I’m happy to hear that.”
“I’d miss you. And Emma. And Mimi, of course. But I’ll miss Chase.” Abby gave a little shrug. “Who knows if I’ll ever meet anyone else.” She gazed dramatically out the window.
Bridget pinched her mouth. She’d give it until Thanksgiving, maybe even Halloween before Abby was professing her love again.
“I guess since we’re making announcements, I have one too.” She drew a deep breath. Was this really happening? Was she really going to say that she was selling the house?
Abby gasped as her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my God! You met someone. Finally.”
Bridget gave her a long look. “No. I did not meet someone. I got an offer on the house.”
Abby had the nerve to look disappointed. “That’s all?”
“That’s all? That’s our childhood home, Abby.” She had expected tears, maybe even an outburst. Certainly not disappointment of all things.
Abby’s expression was quizzical. “But I thoug
ht you wanted to sell it?”
“Needed to sell it,” Bridget corrected. “No one wants to sell it. But the taxes and upkeep are too expensive, and besides, Mimi’s room at Serenity Hills is far from free.”
“Have you told Margo yet?” Abby asked, and Bridget groaned.
“No, and I’m dreading it.” She took a sip of her latte, buying time. She and Abby weren’t as close as she and Margo were; their age difference seemed to play a bigger part than physical distance in many ways. They didn’t often have heart to heart talks, and Abby struggled to understand the root of the matter, it often seemed, but she also told things like they were. She was frank, and right now Bridget appreciated that honesty. “Do you think there’s something going on with Margo?”
Abby jutted her bottom lip as she considered this. “Like what?”
Bridget looked out the window as a gust of wind stirred up the fallen leaves. They swirled in the air before falling again, bright bursts of gold on the pavement. “I don’t know. I get the impression that something is troubling her.”
“Has she said anything?”
“No,” Bridget admitted.
“Well, she’s not happy about the house being sold. It came as quite a shock to her,” Abby pointed out.
“True.” Bridget considered that Margo’s visit had started on a rough note. Perhaps that was all it was. After all, what could really be wrong in Margo’s life? She had a big house, a wonderful, fulfilling job, and a responsible and settled husband.
“I guess I’ll have to break the news to her soon,” Bridget sighed.
“You’re making the right choice,” Abby said. “And really, what choice is there?”
Bridget marveled at her sister, who for all her silliness could be surprisingly wise.
“I suppose we’ve all moved on,” she said, even though a part of her wasn’t so sure that was true. Her heart would always be in that home, even if that phase of her life was behind her now.
“So you didn’t meet anyone?” Abby tried again, and Bridget didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Given the circumstances, she decided to laugh.
***
Margo walked into town for a late lunch, telling herself it was because of her rumbling stomach, but she couldn’t lie, especially to herself.
She’d spent half the morning unfolding and refolding her meager belongings, wrestling with whether or not to call Ash, to have the big conversation, the one she could have had last week if she’d stayed around long enough for him to come home as if nothing was amiss.
The walk was about half a mile, but today she didn’t mind the wind. It was fall in Oyster Bay, and that meant bright, warm colors, and the crunch of leaves under her feet. By the time she got to the café, her fingers were stiff and red. She thrust them into her pockets as she studied her options at the counter—finally deciding on a turkey sandwich on one of Angie’s buttery and flaky croissants, with an Earl Grey tea to warm her up.
With her order placed, she wound her way through the crowded tables to the back corner, nodding and smiling at the familiar faces of people she’d grown up with or casually known around town, people who were born and raised in Oyster Bay and would never leave. There was the librarian, who still wore her hair in a long grey braid, and Bonny Brenner, who used to babysit the girls on the rare occasions when Mimi wasn’t able to. Bonny was a grandmother now herself, from the looks of the two chubby-cheeked toddlers squabbling over a fudge brownie. And there was Dottie Joyce.
And it was too late to turn and run.
Dottie Joyce was the town historian. A role she took a bit too literally when it came to keeping track of the lives of all the residents of Oyster Bay. She had a knack for getting information out of people, which she attributed to her keen research skills. Margo’s mother called her harmless. Margo’s father called her bluff. And Margo…well, Margo was thinking that now might be the time to call Ash, just to have some way of looking busy.
She settled into a chair, avoiding direct eye contact as she draped her borrowed coat over the back. She faced the window, wishing she’d had the sense to bring a magazine or a book from the pile she’d found in a trunk back at the cottage, when a tapping on her shoulder made her jump.
“Jesus!” she exclaimed, putting a hand to her racing heart.
“They swear like that down south?” Dottie’s blue eyes were round and wide.
“Hello, Dottie,” Margo said through a tight smile that she hoped passed for pleasant. She glanced around the room, wishing Bonny would make eye contact and save her. Unfortunately the younger of the two children took that opportunity to wail, and all attention went to soothing things him.
“I heard you were in town,” Dottie continued. “Staying at the cottage down near the harbor?”
“That’s right,” Margo said, saying nothing more.
Dottie didn’t back down easily. “Your husband didn’t come with you this time?”
Margo stifled a sigh and mentally rehearsed her excuse about Ash. “Afraid he was stuck at work.”
“He doesn’t miss you? You’ve been here almost a week,” Dottie pressed, and this time Margo struggled to keep her smile.
“A little time apart never hurt anyone,” Margo replied in what she hoped was a breezy tone. She kept her smile fixed. “Besides, he’d get bored with all the girl talk with my sisters, no doubt.”
“Yes, it’s just the Harper women in Oyster Bay now, isn’t it?” Dottie’s smile widened. “And do you plan on staying much longer?”
Dottie waited patiently for Margo to answer, and Margo saw no choice. “Probably a little longer,” she said lightly.
Dottie inched her chair a little closer and lowered her voice. “Well, then, perhaps you might be of service to me. I’ve lived in my home for thirty-five years. It’s a historical landmark, you know.”
Margo knew. She nodded, wondering where Dottie was going with this.
“Well, it needs a bit of freshening up. Nothing major. But…I was wondering if you might give your professional opinion? I’ll pay you, of course.”
Well, this was a surprise, and a pleasant one at that. “I’d love to come by your house, Dottie,” she said, feeling her spirits lift. “Would tomorrow afternoon work for you?”
“Two o’clock?” Dottie looked pleased.
“Two is perfect,” Margo said as she stood to collect her order from the counter. Strangely she was happy it had taken as long as it did to prepare. A new project was just what she needed right now, and not just because she could use the money. Creative work always took away her troubles, even if Dottie was a fair bit of trouble herself.
Chapter Eleven
At two o’clock the next afternoon, Margo stood on the steps of Dottie’s yellow-painted Colonial, questioning just how desperate she was to have agreed to this meeting. She should be thinking about her future, and how she was going to handle things with Ash, not standing outside the house of Oyster Bay’s nosiest local. She was avoiding her problems, she didn’t need a therapist to tell her that.
Or maybe, just maybe, in a way that didn’t exactly feel familiar, she was trying to move on.
She didn’t know which was worse, honestly.
She was just considering turning around and hightailing it back to the cottage where she could hide from everything and everyone and pretend that nothing was happening, that nothing had to be dealt with or avoided, when the door swung upon and there was Dottie, her blue eyes as round as ever.
“Margo!” Dottie seemed a little breathless. “Come, come in.”
Margo had to admit she was a bit curious. Dottie Joyce had lived alone in this big old house near the center of town for as long as she could remember. Her husband, Arnie, supposedly died in a fishing accident, but details on that were surprisingly vague.
She stood in the center hallway and removed her ballet flats, wishing she wasn’t now barefoot in the woman’s home.
If Dottie noticed, she didn’t seem to care. She was far more interested i
n taking Margo by the elbow and leading her into the front living room.
Which was covered from floor to ceiling in birds.
“I call this, the aviary room,” Dottie said, glancing nervously at Margo, as if searching for approval.
Margo knew she had to say something, but her jaw was slack and no sound was coming out and…Oh, my God, some of the birds were real. In the corner of the room sat an enormous cage, where three birds sat on a perch. But that wasn’t all. There were birds on the throw pillows. Birds on the drapes. Birds on the wallpaper. There were framed prints of birds and even the area rug had a pattern of…birds.
“You’ve really followed a theme in here,” she said politely. Her eyes darted over the room, trying to take it all in.
“But not just in here!” Dottie danced over to the pocket doors and flung them open to reveal a bright pink dining room. Full of birds.
“I love birds,” she gushed.
Margo swallowed. “I can see that.”
“I got my first bird when I was a teenager,” Dottie said eagerly, opening a curio cabinet full of bird figurines and almost reverently lifting a porcelain dove. “I call him Sweetheart.”
Margo’s eyes widened a notch. “He has a name?”
“Oh, they all have names!” Dottie said gaily.
“This is quite the collection,” Margo said, nodding.
“Over ten thousand in total,” Dottie said, carefully setting her figurine back on the shelf. “Whenever I go anywhere, I can’t help myself. I have to buy a bird.”
“It’s certainly a conversation starter,” Margo said. She was quickly running out of diplomatic things to say.
“Yes, but not everyone understands my passion,” Dottie said, her expression darkening. “Arnie didn’t like the birds. Said he preferred fish.” She snorted at that, and led Margo into the kitchen, which was bird-free with the exception of a few faux bird houses hanging from the ceiling.
“Lately, I’ve been thinking that I need a better way to display my birds,” Dottie said, proffering Margo a plate of cookies, which appeared to be homemade.