Filled with resolve, she began to plan a strict routine for her summer. Time to get rolling, she admonished herself. She might even create schedules she could affix to the fridge with magnets. She secretly loved making charts and to-do lists. They made her feel organized and boosted her confidence. Plus, just because she was living alone now didn’t mean she could laze around all day. She began working out what she’d need to put on the chart, things like what day to shop, exercise—and, of course, a large chunk of each day would be set aside for her art. Mulling all these possibilities, she pulled clothing from one of the suitcases that lay on the bedroom floor. She slipped into wrinkled navy shorts and a navy-and-white-striped nautical T-shirt. Flip-flops for the feet.
Eager to start working, Heather headed toward the sunroom. She’d decided it would serve as her art room. The light was excellent, she could get fresh air pouring in when needed, and it afforded her a fabulous view of the beach. The problem was that there was a strange man working out there, too. Certainly a distraction.
She peeked out the slats of the plantation shutters on the bedroom door to the sunroom. Yes, there he was, working farther out on the grounds. Curious, she opened the slats a bit more so she could watch him work. He was handsome, she couldn’t deny that. He began hoisting long pieces of lumber as if they weighed nothing and carried them up onto the deck. She was aware of the strength that took. Each time he dropped the heavy slat of wood, it banged loudly, startling her.
When he’d moved all of the slats to the deck he stopped, hands on his hips, to catch his breath. It was a hot morning and he was dripping sweat. In a swift movement, he reached down and lifted his T-shirt over his head, then used it like a rag to wipe his forehead and the back of his neck. He tossed the shirt on the deck and turned to stare out at the ocean. From her hiding spot, Heather couldn’t help but stare at him. She couldn’t take her eyes off his body. She wasn’t a voyeur. But as a woman—as an artist—she was struck by its tan, smooth, stark beauty.
His was a young man’s fit body, all lean, sinewy muscle, flat abdomen, and broad shoulders. There wasn’t any of the bulk that she found unattractive, or the thickness that might come later in life. This was a body in its prime.
At first she simply stared unabashedly. Then the artist in her picked up the details. Following a sudden urge, she hurried from the bedroom out to the sunroom and dug through her boxes until she found her sketchbook and pencil. She slid onto a wicker chair, flipped open her notebook, and began to sketch. She worked quickly, catching how different movements changed the muscle. He picked up a hammer and bent low, a few nails in his mouth. When he lifted his arm, the muscles changed. Soon the rhythmic pounding of hammer against wood filled the air, a backbeat to the scratching sound of her pencil on paper.
The pencil flew over the paper in short, quick strokes, capturing the taut muscle, the protruding vein, the droplet of sweat trickling down his taut abdomen. She sighed, thinking it was no wonder Michelangelo so often drew and sculpted a man’s body. Around her the birds chirped, but she didn’t hear them. She was completely focused on her work. So much so, she didn’t notice when her model stopped working.
“Hello!” he called out.
Heather gasped and swung her head around to again find the young man standing at the door. He was wearing once more the now-sweat-drenched black T-shirt and he held one hand cupped over his eyes as he peered in. She flipped her sketchbook closed and slammed her hand over it, blushing furiously and wildly wondering if he’d seen her gawking.
“Sorry,” he said, removing his sunglasses. “I seem to be making a habit of scaring you. I knocked, but you must’ve been too busy working there. And those birds sure sing loud.”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry.” She put the sketchbook on the table and stood up. “Can I help you?”
“It’s getting hot out there. Could I trouble you for some ice?”
“Of course. Come on in.”
The screen door jiggled, and he looked up with resignation. “It’s locked.”
“Oh.” Heather rushed across the room to unlock the screen door. He slid it open, and suddenly she was face-to-face with the most stunning blue eyes she’d ever seen. It felt like she was looking into the ocean when the sun made the water sparkle. She stood staring into them, mesmerized.
“Uh, excuse me,” he said politely.
Flustered, Heather stepped back, cheeks aflame, muttering apologies, cringing inwardly at acting like a silly schoolgirl.
He walked past her into the house. He was at least six feet tall and deeply tanned, even so early in the season. Probably from working in the sun. His tanned skin was a sharp contrast to his almost-white blond hair and made his brilliant blue eyes shine out like beacons.
As he passed, Heather felt a sharp zing of attraction, unexpected and thus all the more powerful. Whenever she was attracted to someone, it made her even more embarrassingly awkward and tongue-tied. She clutched her hands together, holding herself erect in what she hoped appeared a poised stance similar to Cara Rutledge’s.
By contrast, he didn’t seem the least bothered by the awkwardness. His manner was easy and friendly without seeming overly forward. He stopped a few feet into the room.
“I don’t want to track sand into your house. If you could just put some ice into this here glass, I’d be grateful.” He held out a Tervis tumbler.
His hand was deeply tanned with long fingers and short nails. She clutched the tumbler, careful not to touch his fingers. “D-do you want some water, too?”
“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ve got water outside. I just need the ice. Thanks.” He sniffed the air and looked at her with charming appeal in his eyes. “Is that coffee I smell?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her.
“Oh,” she sputtered, realizing he was hoping she’d offer him some. She could be so dense. “Would you like a cup?”
“I wouldn’t say no. It sure smells good.”
Heather felt a fluttering in her stomach as she hurried to the kitchen and completed this simple task, returning a few minutes later with the tumbler filled with ice water and a mug of coffee. The man was standing near the birds, bent at the knees and making soft whistling noises. He straightened when she entered the room. Once again she was struck by how gorgeous a blue his eyes were. They drew her attention, sucking her in.
“What kind of birds are these?” he asked, gesturing. “Canaries?”
“Yes,” she replied softly, and handed him the tumbler. “I, uh, put water in, too. It’s nice and cold. And the coffee’s hot.” Could she be more inane? her inner voice asked. Of course the coffee was hot.
“Thanks,” he replied, and almost as a gift offered her a dazzling smile that carved deep dimples into his cheeks before he took a long sip.
“That’s good coffee.”
She nervously tucked her hair behind her ear and took a few steps back.
“They all the same kind of canary?” he asked, turning back to the birds.
“Uh, no,” she replied, surprised he’d asked. Most people thought all canaries were the same diminutive yellow bird. She walked over to the travel cages sitting on the table. She pointed awkwardly, not meeting his gaze. “The two yellow ones are American Singers. That white one is a Belgian Waterslager.” She paused, then added, “One of the few white ones in this country.”
His brows rose. “So I’m in the presence of a celebrity.”
She laughed.
“They sure can sing,” he said, his tone impressed.
Her face softened as she looked at her birds. There was so much she’d like to tell him about the birds—their history, how a canary was prized for its singing, how they could brighten even the gloomiest day.
He bent to look at them again. “Is it true only the boy canary sings?”
“Yes.”
He cocked his head toward her. “Sort of like those famous choirboys from England.”
“The Westminster choirboys?” Heather released a short laugh,
delighted with the comparison. “Yes, I suppose they are.”
“Do they have names?”
She took a step closer to the cages and pointed quickly to each bird. “The white one is Poseidon,” she began, deliberately keeping her eyes on the birds. “Because he’s a Waterslager. He sings the most beautiful water notes. The yellow one is called Moutarde because he’s not only yellow but he has a spicy personality.” She laughed briefly at the description, pleased to hear him chuckle, too. “And the variegated one is Pavarotti.”
“The fat one’s called Pavarotti?” He laughed, straightening. “That’s funny.”
She blinked. He’d surprised her again by knowing the name of the great opera tenor. She felt sheepish that she’d fallen into the stereotype of assuming that a man who worked with his hands wouldn’t know opera.
He took a long sip of his water and lowered his hand, nonchalantly scoping out the room with unabashed curiosity. “What you got going on here?” he asked, indicating the pile of white metal cage parts scattered on the floor. “Armageddon?”
“That,” she said on a dramatic sigh, “is my futile attempt at putting together the birdcages.” She shook her head with resignation. “I’m afraid I’m hopeless. As are these directions.” She looked accusatorily toward the balled-up wad of paper she’d angrily tossed in the corner earlier. “They’re impossible. They don’t make any sense.”
“They rarely do anymore. All that stuff is made in China. The translations are the pits. Do you want me to take a look?”
She was struck with hope of rescue. On the one hand, it would mean this strange man with the brilliant blue eyes would be in her space, maybe even wanting to talk, for a significant chunk of time. On the other hand, her poor birds needed their space even more than Heather did.
Heather’s love for her birds won out. “Would you?”
“Honey, a lowcountry man never leaves a damsel in distress.”
Heather didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t know modern men could still be so chivalrous. She looked at her hands and asked. “I’m, uh, sorry, but . . . what did you say your name was?”
“Bo. Bo Stanton. Not spelled B-e-a-u. Just B-o.” He seemed intent that she got that point. “My father’s name is Robert and Bob. When I came along I was called Robert, after him. I could’ve been Bobby or Little Bob or Bobbie Lee, but my grandmother declared I’d just be called Bo. And it stuck.”
Heather looked quickly up at him. “Well, thank you . . . Bo. I’d be grateful for your help. I surely need it.”
He cocked his head and his eyes sparkled with curiosity. “And what’s your name?”
“Oh,” she replied, flushing slightly at the oversight. “Heather. I’m Heather Wyatt.”
“Heather,” he repeated. “That’s a right pretty name. Suits you.” He stretched out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Heather.”
She stared at his hand for a nanosecond, then tentatively placed her smaller palm in his large, roughened one. Every neuron in her skin came alive at his touch. She felt herself blushing again and discreetly pulled her hand back. Was he flirting? It had been a long time since she’d felt this kind of attraction to a man. But it seemed somehow improper. The last thing she wanted was to give the impression she was one of those seductive women coming on to the workman.
As though sensing her shift in mood, he turned to look at the birdcage parts scattered on the tile, all business.
“Where are the directions?” he asked, glancing around the room.
“I, uh, tossed them somewhere. Over there. . . .” She jerked a finger toward the corner.
He tracked down the ball of crumpled directions. “I’ve been known to file directions like that,” he said with a soft laugh. He unfolded the paper and spread the directions out on the wrought-iron table. After studying them for several minutes, he whistled softly and shook his head.
“You weren’t far wrong tossing these away. What a mess. Tell you what. I think I can figure out this puzzle.” He crouched down and spread the directions on the floor. “Just have to be creative.” He immediately began work.
Heather understood about getting sucked into the work. While Bo began laying out the cage pieces in order, she retreated to the living room to unpack her boxes of books and art supplies.
“Would you mind if I turned on some music?”
“No, I like music,” Bo replied, looking up.
“Classical okay?”
“Sure. Got to say, though, I enjoyed that Johnny Cash you had playing earlier.”
“I can play that,” she rushed to say.
“No, I like classical, too. Fact is, there’s little music I don’t like.”
She smiled, pleased he didn’t crumple his face with distaste. She slipped her phone into a speaker and teed up a medley of classical music. At the first few notes the birds burst into song, standing at the fronts of their cages, chests near bursting with passion. Bo looked up from the floor to watch them, then turned her way, a grin of surprised pleasure on his face.
Looking back, Heather would remember that as the moment she fell in love with Bo Stanton. But at the time she only felt a surge of inexpressible delight that this man shared her passion. He’d heard and thrilled to the incomparable joy of the birdsong, as she did.
After that, they settled into a companionable working mode. While she unpacked and sorted out her paints, brushes, and paper, she sometimes hurried to his side to hold the cage panels steady while he tightened the screws. She discovered that Bo could fill a silence. While they worked he talked on and on in a monologue, which suited her fine. He was very engaging and she didn’t have to worry about carrying on her part of the conversation. Bo regaled her with the history of Isle of Palms and Sullivan’s Island, as well as some of its more colorful natives.
“Did you know Olivia Rutledge?” she called out to him from the living room. “The woman who owned this house?”
“Sure. Cara’s mother. Everybody knew Miss Lovie. She taught all us kids about the loggerheads. And let me tell you, she’d tan the hide of any boy fool enough to try to ride on the back of one.” He paused, screwdriver in hand. “My daddy told me about the time back when he was in high school when he and some pals were walking the beach, probably drinking beer. All of a sudden they saw this turtle crawling back to sea. It was a big ol’ mama. Not something you see every day. They were drunk and they began hassling that old girl, taking turns riding on her back. Then out of the dark comes Miss Lovie, running at them and shaking a broom. She swatted their behinds, I can tell you. Chased them clear away from that turtle. My daddy and his friends took off. Nope. No one messed with Miss Lovie.” Bo wagged the screwdriver to make his point. “God broke the mold when He made her.”
Heather hesitated, then asked in a nonchalant tone, “Is Cara like her?”
Bo paused, considering. “Hard to say. But no, I don’t think she is.”
“But . . .” Heather was confused. “She’s a turtle lady, too.”
“Yeah,” Bo acknowledged. “And she’s dedicated. Don’t get me wrong. But . . .” Bo returned to screwing together the cage panels. “There was a genuine sweetness to Miss Lovie. I never heard her say a bad thing about anyone. She was a real lady.”
The doorbell rang. “Be right back,” Heather said as she hurried to the front door. She swung open the door to find Cara carrying a bouquet of flowers. Her face was only slightly made up, blush, mascara, and lip gloss, but with her tanned skin that was all she needed. She was wearing skinny jeans that showed off her slim figure, a well-fitted navy blazer over a simple white cotton shirt, and polished boots. Her thick, glossy dark hair fell loose to her shoulders.
Heather thought of her father’s comment when she spied the sizable pearls at the ears and neck. Cara looked polished, as if she might be on her way to work.
Heather tucked her long blond hair behind her ear, suddenly self-conscious in her rumpled shorts and flip-flop-clad feet.
“Good morning,” Heather stuttered, caught off gua
rd.
“Hi, there,” Cara said. “I hope I’m not interrupting. I’m on my way to Charleston for a meeting and realized there was something I left in a closet. I’m terribly sorry.” She raised the large bouquet of flowers in her hand. “I brought you a little something for your trouble.”
“Come in,” Heather blurted out, and swung the door wider. “There was no need for flowers. It’s your house.”
“It’s yours for the summer,” Cara corrected her. “Better put these right in water. It was hot in my car.” She walked toward the kitchen, then stopped short, peering into the sunroom. “Bo? Is that you?”
“Hey, Cara,” he called out from the floor where he was assembling a wall of one cage. Rising, he walked into the front room, wiping his hands on his jeans, and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “Nice to see you.”
Heather registered their closeness.
“And you,” Cara replied, smiling. To Heather she said, “I see you two have met.”
Heather nodded, feeling awkward at having Bo in the house rather than outside working on the deck.
Bo obviously felt the same, clearing his throat as he shifted from foot to foot. “Hope you don’t mind, boss, but I’m helping Heather put her birdcages together. I’ll get back to the deck when I’m done.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” Cara replied magnanimously. “That was very kind of you, Bo. I know how much Heather loves her birds. Go on, get back to it. I’m just stopping by.”
With the same authority she’d shown the day before, Cara walked into the kitchen and headed straight for a specific cabinet. Heather followed meekly. Opening it, Cara pulled out a glass vase, then handed it to Heather. “Here you go. I left something in the back closet. Can I grab it?”
“Of course,” Heather replied.
Cara headed down the hall with the ease of someone who knew the house like the back of her hand. Heather filled the vase with water and added the flowers, then set them on the table. When done, she followed Cara down the back hall, unsure what the correct, polite thing to do was in such a situation. She found Cara in one of the two back bedrooms. Cara had told her during the walk-through that this room had been her childhood bedroom. She’d redone it with creamy walls and bright, tangerine-colored bedding. Heather paused at the door. She didn’t want to tag along like a puppy or make Cara feel like she was shadowing her in her own home.
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