by Nan Rossiter
“That sounds good. Thank you,” the man said, extending his hand.
David shook it and the man turned and hurried back to his car. As David watched him go, he shook his head. He was willing to bet that at least half the birds they took in weren’t truly orphaned. He was certain that most had parents nearby watching anxiously as well-meaning humans scooped their babies into cardboard boxes and whisked them away to parts unknown. He often wondered how helpless and worried the parents must feel. Caring for young birds was the closest experience he’d ever had to parenting, so he could only imagine how difficult it was for a human to raise and release their offspring.
“Is it a barred?” Birdie asked, coming up behind him.
“It is,” he said, half-smiling, “but I bet she wasn’t really an orphan.”
Birdie nodded and peered into the box. “Don’t worry, little girl. We’ll get you home.”
CHAPTER 28
Sailor woke up to the sound of plaintive meowing outside her window. She lazily pushed her covers down and lay still, listening. Maybe it’s a catbird, she mused. Catbirds—she’d learned from Birdie—sounded just like cats, hence their very original name. She sat up, swung her legs over the side of her new bed, and as her warm feet brushed the cool floor, looked around—as she’d done every morning since moving—unable to believe her good fortune. She shuffled to the kitchen and peered out the window. Sure enough, there was a cat sitting on one of the Adirondack chairs, sunning himself. But what was that on the ground? She stared at a lifeless brown lump, trying to decide if it had feathers or fur. “You better not have killed one of my birds!” she warned, praying it wasn’t the female grosbeak she’d seen a few evenings earlier, but when she opened the door, she realized it was a mole. The skinny orange tiger cat looked at her with sage green eyes and swished its tail.
“What are you doing here, mister?” she asked, but he just blinked at her. She stepped closer, not wanting to startle him, but he didn’t move, and when she reached out her hand, he gave it a sniff, and then a thoughtful lick. She ran her fingers over his ears and realized one was half missing. “What happened here?” she asked softly, gently stroking his head, which made him purr so loudly it sounded like a truck had turned onto the road. “You certainly are a friendly fellow,” she said softly, feeling for a collar but not finding one. “Are you hungry?” she asked, trying to think of what she had. “How ’bout some milk?” The cat stood up, stretched his long, lanky body, hopped down, and padded after her as if he’d lived there all his life.
Sailor held open the door and he followed her inside, and as she poured some milk into a dish, he sat on his haunches and waited patiently. She set the dish in front of him and he leaned forward and politely lapped it up. When he finished, he licked his paws and wiped them over his ears. Sailor chuckled and shook her head. “You’re quite the gentleman . . . and as much as I’d like to keep you, I bet someone is missing you very much.”
She went to find her phone, tapped the camera icon, made a sound so he would look up, and took his picture. She looked at it. “Maybe we’ll make some lost cat flyers,” she said. Then she frowned. “I mean, found cat flyers”—she tapped through the prompts to e-mail it to herself—“and put them around the neighborhood.”
The cat padded softly into the living room, hopped up on the new soft chair she’d bought, circled around to curl up, and closed his eyes. “And while I do that,” Sailor said, “you go ahead and make yourself at home.” She sighed, filled the kettle with water, reached into the cabinet for the coffee can, measured some grounds into her coffee press, sprinkled a little cinnamon on top, and while she waited for the water to heat, found a scrap of paper. She located her new silver Birdwatcher’s General Store pencil in the drawer and started to jot down a list; at the very top, she wrote cat food. Then she looked out the window at her feeder and wondered how much of a threat the cat would be to her new little flock. “I’ll just have to make sure you have plenty to eat.”
She poured steaming water over her coffee, waited a few minutes for it to steep, pushed the press all the way down, and poured a mug. She reached for her Bible, picked it up, and went out on the deck to read that day’s passage—which happened to be from the book of Job. She read it once and then ran her fingers lightly over the page and read it again.... “But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish in the sea inform you. Which of all these does not know that the hand of the LORD has done this? In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind.” She looked up, wondering what message it held for her. Was it possible God wanted her to take in the cat?!
She sighed, and as she continued to watch the birds fluttering back and forth to the feeder, her thoughts drifted to the date she’d had with Josiah the night before. They’d gone to Provincetown for drinks, walked around downtown—which was always an adventure—and then stopped at Arnold’s for ice cream. Josiah had been a perfect gentleman—holding the door open for her at every turn and insisting on paying for everything; she couldn’t imagine why his wife was divorcing him. In the three dates they’d had, he hadn’t talked about his marriage—but she’d shared everything there was to know about Frank. She needed to learn to talk less. She’d always been one to speak her mind—it was one of her biggest faults—and she often left a trail of wreckage behind her. Why was it that she always seemed to say the first thing that popped into her mind without considering how much pain it might cause? How many times, over the years, had she told Birdie to let go of the past—as if it were a balloon she could just release and watch float away? And how many times had she told Remy to stop worrying, even though she herself was probably a bigger worrywart? And how many times over the years had she asked Piper why in the world she wouldn’t marry Nat? Her sisters knew her too well, and loved her anyway, but would someone like Josiah be willing to put up with her constant sarcastic, off-the-cuff remarks? Oh well, she was sixty-three and stuck in her ways. If the wisdom of saying less—or nothing at all—was ever going to sink in, it would’ve by now . . . and if Josiah was meant to be, he’d have to get used to it, too.
She sipped her coffee, making a mental list of the things she wanted to get done that day—finish working on the final sketches for her new children’s book, get going on setting up book signings for the one that was coming out in a couple of weeks, catch up on her correspondence, and most importantly, figure out how she was going to proceed in her working relationship with her publisher without having to deal with her soon-to-be ex-husband. Her newest book was well under way and she had a contract. If she could work exclusively with Leslie, the art director, she wouldn’t have to deal with Frank at all.
She heard a meow and got up to open the door. The orange cat sauntered outside, and without looking back, trotted toward the woods. “Will I see you later?” she called, but he didn’t seem to hear her. She shook her head, gathered up her things, and went inside to shower.
She refilled her mug and carried it to the bathroom, but when she set it on the counter and looked in the mirror, she frowned. What was that bright pink stripe on her cheek? She touched it and realized it was bumpy. “Oh no,” she murmured. “Please don’t tell me . . .” She turned her face and lifted the silver strands of hair that covered her forehead and saw another stripe near her eye. “I don’t believe it!” she said, shaking her head. She turned on the shower, got undressed, and carefully surveyed her brown limbs and her snow-white torso—everything looked okay—but ten minutes later, when she turned off the water and looked at her reflection again, she gasped—there were angry red welts everywhere—it was as if the warm water had activated them. In her mind, she could hear her father’s warning voice: Leaves of three, leave them be! His words had been especially directed at her because she’d proven to be the child most prone to poison ivy. “That’s what I get for working in the garden,” she muttered remorsefully. “No good deed goes unpunishe
d!”
CHAPTER 29
Piper kicked off the sheet with her foot and sat up. Her favorite old T-shirt—the one with CELEBRATE FREEDOM across the top, READ A BANNED BOOK across the bottom, and listed in between, all of the offending books—everything from TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD to THE GREAT GATSBY—was soaking wet. “What the heck?” she muttered, pushing her damp hair off her forehead.
“What’s the matter?” Nat asked sleepily.
“I don’t know. I’m just so damn hot.”
Nat rolled onto his side, opened his eyes, and looked at her. “Do you have a fever?”
“It sure feels like it. I just want to rip my clothes off!”
“Well, feel free,” he said. “I won’t mind.”
“Very funny,” she said in a voice that wasn’t amused. She went to the bathroom and then padded quietly downstairs with Chloe trailing hopefully behind her. “It’s too early for breakfast, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said matter-of-factly, pushing the door open to let her out, but when the big golden came back in, wagging her tail expectantly, Piper looked at the clock, realized it was almost five, and relented. “Okay,” she said, “but you’re going to be hungry later.”
As she measured kibble into the dog bowl, she heard a distant rumble of thunder. She set down the food and went back outside to stand on the porch. A breeze was picking up and the dawning sky was an ominous gray.
The cool air felt good on her flushed skin so she sat down. A moment later, she heard a soft cry and stood up to let Chloe out. “Stay here,” she said and the big golden flopped down next to her. Piper was glad Chloe wasn’t afraid of storms. Willow—the old Lab they’d had growing up—had been terrified of thunder and had always tried to hide under the bed. Unfortunately, only her head and shoulders fit, leaving her whole hind end sticking out . . . but she thought she was safely hidden!
Piper leaned back and watched a circle of leaves swirling in the dark sky as the thunder rumbled closer and lightning flashed every few seconds. She heard Nat close the upstairs windows, and moments later, saw him peering through the screen. “Still hot?”
“I’m better out here,” she said.
“Want some coffee?”
“Sure,” she said. “Is Elias awake?”
He shook his head. “Sound asleep.”
Piper nodded. Elias had always been a sound sleeper, even when he was a baby—fireworks, thunderstorms, loud music—if he fell asleep, that was it. He was out!
A few minutes later, Nat appeared carrying two mugs and sat down next to her. “Maybe you’re hot because it’s your time. . . .” he said.
“My time?” she said, looking up—just the way he said it raised her hackles.
“Yeah, you know.” He paused. “Change of life.”
“You mean menopause?” she asked, the prickliness in her voice growing sharper. Why do men have such a hard time saying words like menstruation or menopause? Men is actually in these words!
“Yes, that,” Nat said nonchalantly, sipping his coffee. “You haven’t gone through it yet, have you? You must be due. . . .”
Piper frowned. Yes, it was true that she hadn’t “gone through” menopause . . . and yes, it was indeed possible that was the reason she was so damn hot—in fact, right this very minute, she could feel her temperature rising like a thermometer left out in the sun, but who was he to suggest it? What did he know about it . . . really?
Nat felt her eyes on him and looked up. “What?” he asked innocently.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Well, even your mood has been a little bit . . .”
She waited but he seemed to have trouble finding the right word. “A little . . . ?”
He swallowed. “Not your usual cheerful self, I guess.”
“Really?”
“Don’t take it the wrong way,” he said defensively. “I’m just throwing it out there because you seemed upset that you were . . . well, hot . . .”
She nodded, affirming she understood, but she still had trouble wrapping her mind around his observation that she was moody. Had he actually begun to use the word bitchy or was that just her imagination?
“You are in your late fifties,” he ventured, “and your sisters were all younger than tha . . .” He looked up and saw the venom in her eyes, and realized his error. “You know what? I’m going to let you figure this one out. You certainly know your body better than I do . . . although I do know it pretty well,” he added with a sheepish grin. “And I love it . . . too . . . but I think I’m going to take my coffee,” he said, getting up, “and wait for this storm to pass inside.”
After he’d gone, Piper looked at the sky and wondered whether he was right. Maybe she was going through menopause. She certainly was due—her sisters had all been in their early fifties . . . and they couldn’t believe she hadn’t gone through it yet.
Suddenly, the sky grew black and the wind whipped around the house, sending a pile of beach chairs clattering across the porch. The oak trees her father had planted swayed violently, sending a whirlwind of leaves swirling into the dark sky, but then, just as quickly as it had come, the wind ceased, and an ethereal light filled the yard.
CHAPTER 30
Birdie looked out the kitchen window to see whether David was on his way up from the barn yet, and when she didn’t see him, she refilled her glass.
“Have you seen my car keys?” he said, coming up behind her.
She spun around, startled. “I thought you were outside.”
“I was outside,” he said, looking under a pile of papers, “but now I’m inside looking for my keys. I want to be on my way before the Quinn sisters converge on this house.”
Birdie pushed her glass back behind the coffeemaker and continued chopping marinated artichokes for the dip she was making. “What time do you think you’ll be home?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Oh, probably late. It takes time to lure these men into thinking I don’t know what I’m doing and then steal the pot out from under them.”
“Mmm,” Birdie murmured, knowing all too well her husband’s poker skills. “I’m sure they’re going to fall for your scheme.”
David chuckled.
“Are the fledglings set for the evening?”
“They should be,” he answered distractedly as he headed back up the stairs to look in his other pants’ pockets.
Birdie sighed and sipped her wine—half of her problem was her guilty conscience. “All I need is more guilt,” she muttered cynically, sliding the glass back behind the coffeemaker.
“What’d you say?” David said, coming back in with his keys in his hand.
“Talking to myself.”
“Is that because you’re the only one who understands?” he teased, kissing the back of her neck.
“Yep. It’s not easy being me.”
“I know,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist. “What are you making, by the way?” he asked, eyeing all the ingredients on the counter.
“Dip,” she said, stiffening at his unexpected display of affection.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, frowning.
“Nothing . . . just a little busy right now.”
He let go. “Okay. I’ll see you later then,” he said, sounding wounded.
“Okay,” Birdie said, pretending she hadn’t noticed that her words stung. Man up, she thought cynically. Don’t start something you can’t finish. She and David had never talked about the lack of intimacy in their bedroom, and whenever he put his arms around her lately, it just made her bristle because he didn’t seem to want to do anything about it. It had just become a sad, unmentionable fact, over which she had no control. “Good luck pulling the wool over their eyes,” she said. “Oh! And let me know if you need a ride.”
“Touché,” he said with a sad smile. “But I’m sure by the time I’d need a ride, you shouldn’t be driving, either,” he added, nodding toward the coffeemaker. He leaned over and gave Bailey a kiss on the top of her head
. “See you later, old pie.” She thumped her tail and kissed his cheek in return, and as he went out the door, he called over his shoulder, “Say hi to your sisters for me.”
“I will,” she called back and then sighed, relieved to be alone. She pulled her glass out from behind the coffeemaker and took another sip. She loved baking and cooking, especially when she had a glass of wine nearby.
She scraped the artichokes into the bowl along with mayo and grated Parmesan, added a can of mild chopped chilies and then spread the mixture evenly in a pie plate and slipped it into the oven. She put the bowl in the sink, filled it with hot, sudsy water, dropped all the utensils in, and refilled her glass, finishing the bottle—which, she reminded herself, hadn’t been full. She rinsed out the bottle and put it in the recycling bin, under the milk jugs and OJ bottles. Then she retrieved two more bottles from the cellar and put them on the counter. She turned on the radio, and set to work washing the dishes.
“Need to go out?” she asked, drying her hands on a dish towel and holding the door open. Bailey struggled to her feet and followed Birdie outside, and while she took care of business, Birdie cut several lush purple blooms off one of the lilac bushes next to the house. She put them in an old glass pitcher that had belonged to her mom, and as she set the pitcher on the table outside, she heard Bailey sounding the alarm. She looked up and saw Sailor’s white MINI pulling into the driveway with Remy in the passenger seat.
“Hi, sweetie pie,” Sailor said, leaning down to kiss the top of Bailey’s head. “Hi, sweetie pie,” she said again as she gave Birdie a hug and handed her a bottle of wine.
Birdie eyed the plate her sister was balancing in her other hand and frowned. “No dip?!”
“No dip,” Sailor confirmed with a smile. “I thought you guys might be getting tired of it so I made a baked Brie with apricot instead.”
“Mmm, that sounds yummy, too,” Birdie said.
“I just need to stick it in the oven a minute.”