“Hello,” Cara replied despondently.
Flo spoke in her typical matter-of-fact style. “We’re worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“We don’t think you are fine,” Flo replied. “You’re not leaving your room, barely eating—honey, it’s just not healthy.”
“So?”
“So, we’ve come to help you,” Flo replied in a cajoling tone.
“Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” Cara said, pulling back her hand and clasping both arms across her chest, turning her face to the wall. “But I’ve been through the five stages of grief, okay? And now I’m tired and just want to rest.”
“Honey,” Flo persisted, not one to be pushed aside, “grief doesn’t come in five neat stages. You’re bouncing around all of them like a pinball and landing squarely in the depression zone at the end of each one. You forget I was once a social worker and I know about this stuff. You also forget that I was with your mother when she was in this very same state after Russell Bennett died.”
Cara turned her head back to search Flo’s face. She’d never heard this before. “Mama?”
“Yes, Lovie. She’d locked herself in her room, inconsolable, as you are now. She’d lost the love of her life, as you have. That kind of grief is dangerous. It can destroy you, if you let it.” Flo squared her shoulders. “I didn’t let it destroy your mama, and I’m sure as hell not going to let it destroy you.”
Tears filled Cara’s eyes and she reached up to wipe them away, surprised that she had any tears left to shed.
Flo cleared her throat, moved by emotion. “Now,” she said firmly, bolstering her resolve, “Emmi and I know you don’t want to see anyone right now, and that’s okay. You’re entitled. Grief doesn’t have a timeline. You take all the time you need. But you have to take care of yourself while you grieve. Frankly, Cara, you need to bathe. Give us a chance to change these sheets.”
“No!” Cara exclaimed, panicked, as she curled on her side. She spread her palm against the sheets on Brett’s side of the bed and rubbed them caressingly. “I can still smell him,” she choked out.
“Oh, Cara,” Emmi said in a broken voice.
“I’m not asking you to get rid of his things,” Flo said. “But we are going to help you take a nice bath. Wash your hair. Tidy up some in here. You’ll feel better.”
“I don’t want to feel better. I don’t deserve to feel better,” Cara said brokenly.
“Now, why would you say such a thing?” Flo asked.
Cara squeezed her eyes shut in agony, remembering again, as she had been remembering over and over since Brett’s death. “We fought,” she began haltingly. “On the day he died. We fought.”
Flo exchanged glances with Emmi. After a pause, she asked Cara, “Do you want to tell us about it?”
Cara did. “I came home from the bank and he was already home. He’d come home early from work. He said something about feeling strange. I wish I could remember his words,” she said, rubbing her forehead with her fist. “Why didn’t he go to the doctor then?” She shifted her head on the pillow to look at Flo beseechingly. “Why didn’t I listen?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because we all say things like that from time to time. No one pays it much mind.”
Cara heard the words, let them digest. “There was a problem with the loan for the boat. The bank . . . well . . .” She stopped with a defeated sigh. She didn’t want to talk about the boat or the loan. That all meant nothing, less than nothing, to her now. “We argued,” she continued, piecing the memory together. “I told him that it was his fault we were in trouble with the bank. Because of his buying the boat and all. One thing led to another.” She paused. “I told him I wasn’t happy.” She swallowed hard, wishing she could take back those words. She felt the air suck out from her lungs.
“Cara?” Emmi said.
“I was a fool. I had him!” Cara cried. “All I needed for happiness. Why did I say that?”
“Because you’re human,” Flo said in a weary tone. “Because you didn’t know it was the last you’d see of him. You thought you had time.”
Her face crumpled. “I did.” After a few moments, she wiped her face and sniffed. “But we patched it up at the end,” she said, more to herself. Hearing herself tell the story aloud helped her to think it through clearly. “He said we’d make it work out. How we always made it work.”
“That’s good,” Emmi said encouragingly. “See? That’s not fighting.”
Cara shook her head. “But I was still mad at him. I held it inside, like I always do,” she added with a heavy dose of self-recrimination. She could see Brett again in her mind, his gray T-shirt and jogging pants. He’d caught her gaze before he left and smiled. She saw again his eyes, so blue and hopeful . . . trusting . . . confirming that all was well between them. But she hadn’t smiled back. She was still annoyed.
“He went out for a run. I heard the door close and . . .” She slammed her hand to her mouth as tears sprang to her eyes. “I didn’t say good-bye,” she burst out on a sob, covering her face with her hands.
Cara completely broke down. She had named her greatest grief. If she could go back in time and change one thing, she’d go to that single moment. She’d run into his arms and tell him, “Yes, I believe all will be well because we’re together. I love you.”
But that moment had passed. She’d not said good-bye, and the guilt of having withheld her farewell would curse her forever. Cara wailed openmouthed, howling, and feeling no need to hide her emotions with her dearest friends. Flo and Emmi put their arms around her as she wept, keeping her safe as she released a torrent of feelings—fear, guilt, unspeakable sorrow.
She didn’t know how long she cried, but in time the heaving sobs dissipated to a tremulous sighing. Her face was wet with tears that she wiped away on the bedsheets. But she felt spent, willing to do as her friends asked. Emmi quietly rose and went to the bath. Soon Cara heard the water running full force. Together Emmi and Flo guided Cara to the bathroom and helped her remove her pajamas, unbuttoning her top, guiding her feet from the pants—left foot, right foot. She felt tended to like a child, and it was surreal and soothing. The scent of lavender wafted through the room, otherworldly and calming. Next she stepped into the tub—left foot, right foot. It was hot but not scalding. She slowly eased into the steaming, scented water. While Flo changed her bedsheets, Emmi washed her hair, chattering about something of little importance. Cara closed her eyes and relished the feeling of Emmi’s strong fingers massaging her head. It felt like she was slowly awakening from a long, heavy sleep. She stepped into a thirsty towel, and let Emmi dry and comb her hair. Then Cara brushed her teeth and slipped into clean clothes.
They gathered again on the sofa in the living room with cups of hot tea. Emmi put out a plate of cookies that no one touched, but it seemed proper to have them there, just in case.
Cara sat with her fingers wrapped around the warm mug and looked around the room. Her house was clean and tidy, thanks to Emmi. Her eyes searched out every corner. Everything was just as it had been the day Brett left the house. His bicycle was still parked by the front door. His gym jacket hung on a hook by the door, his wallet and keys in the sweetgrass basket on the front table. It was all unchanged. Normal.
“I expect to see him walk into the house any minute,” Cara said quietly, feeling another wave of anguish.
“You’ll feel that for some time,” Flo said.
“How long?”
“It’s different for everyone.”
“I can’t go on feeling like this much longer.”
“Like how?” asked Emmi.
“Like I’m going crazy. Sometimes I lie in bed and wonder if all this is really the dream and if I wake up he’ll still be here.” She paused. “How was the funeral?” she asked them, feeling in a daze. “I barely remember it.”
“It was just beautiful,” Emmi assured her. “Everyone came.”
“And his ashes? Where . . . ?” Th
e one thing Cara and Brett had spoken of once over too many bottles of red wine was that he wanted to be cremated. “Ashes to ashes,” he’d pronounced, clinking his glass against Cara’s when she’d agreed she wanted cremation as well.
Flo patted her hand. “They’re waiting for you to decide what you want to do.”
Cara licked her lips. “What I want to do,” she repeated softly. “You know, one of the things we talked about that—that last day was how I didn’t know what I wanted to do. For a job. Seems so silly now.” She laughed shortly. “Now I don’t have any idea of what to do for anything. For my life. I don’t know what to do with myself. All I can seem to manage is to lie in bed.”
“What do you want to do?” asked Flo.
She chuckled without humor. “That was what Brett asked me. I didn’t have a clue then, and I have even less of one today.”
“You’re grieving, Cara,” Flo told her. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Grief can make you question your goals and purpose. How you want to spend your life.”
“A life without Brett . . .”
“Well, you could make an appearance at the office,” Emmi suggested.
Cara looked at her. “Are you serious?”
“It would give you a purpose.” Emmi shifted closer. “Robert’s been by a few times. To check on you, of course,” she quickly added. “But also to let you know the summer season is taking off and he can’t manage the tours and the office alone. He sounded desperate. He was wondering if he could hire another captain.”
“I don’t know,” she said dully.
Emmi took a deep breath. “If you could just tell him it’s okay.”
Cara shrugged. “It’s okay.”
“I’ll let him know. See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Cara didn’t think it was hard because she hadn’t made a real decision. She was just going along with things, saying yes at the appropriate places. In the back of her mind was the niggling thought that she really shouldn’t take on another employee. There was that mess with the bank to muddle through. But all that seemed so deep in a fog she couldn’t see it clearly.
“Also, Cara,” Emmi continued, “I’m afraid I must go back to my job, honey. I’ve run through all my vacation time.”
“Oh, Em, you used your vacation days to babysit me?” Cara was horrified.
Emmi saw her distress and was quick to wave it away, rolling her eyes. “I had a blast.”
Cara released a short laugh. Emmi was always good at cheering anyone up. “I’ll find a way to make it up to you. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
“Frankly, Cara, neither do I. That’s why we’re having this little talk. Honey, your grief will take a long time to heal. We’re not trying to tell you to move on or any such fool thing. In time—a few months, maybe—you’ll find you’re able to resume usual activities. You’ll be able to remember Brett without feeling that intense pain.”
“Never,” Cara said with a brusque shake of her head.
Flo nodded vehemently. “Trust me, my dear, you will. In time. But for right now we must be practical. Frankly, you really must climb out of bed. Emmi won’t be here to prepare your meals, so you must do it for yourself. I know it’s going to be hard. But there’s a freezer full of food, and people are still dropping things off.” She pointed a finger. “And when people offer help, accept it.”
“I can’t. I don’t care.”
Flo sighed. “Honey, the first week we understood you not wanting to get out of bed. Even the second week. Now, I’m not saying you should go back to work, or go out shopping. But if you can’t manage to take care of yourself, then maybe it’s time to get some help.”
“You mean a therapist? Or a maid?”
“Someone you can talk to.”
“I don’t need a therapist.” Cara brushed away the suggestion.
“We’ll see,” Flo replied, unfazed.
“We’ll be by often,” interjected Emmi, hoping to help. “You won’t be alone. In fact, I can just keep staying here.”
“No, you can’t,” Flo reminded her. “Your grandchildren are arriving this week.”
Emmi’s face contorted with conflict.
“I’ll be fine,” Cara said, though she didn’t really believe the words.
“Good, now, that’s the spirit!” Flo set her mug on the table and, with some effort, rose to her feet.
Cara realized with a pang of worry how old Flo was getting. Her once indefatigable hardiness was gone. Her spirit was still strong, but her body had weakened—she was thinner, frailer, slightly stooped. Cara leaped to her feet and came to Flo’s side.
“Thank you,” she said, and wrapped her arms around Flo. “Thank you for being there for me.” Flo hugged her back, and once again Cara felt like a young girl with the woman who had been a second mother to her all her life. Flashes of summers past when she’d go running to Flo’s house next door to play cards or for art lessons with Miranda, Flo’s seemingly exotic mother, who always had sweet tea and sugar cookies waiting.
Cara reached out to Emmi and reeled her in. “You, too, of course.”
She looked at her two friends’ faces. They both looked pale and tired. New lines coursed through their faces, as she was certain they did through hers. Grief was a harsh taskmaster. They’d been there for her since she’d called them in hysterical desperation after the police had delivered the news. The policemen had been very considerate. One had stayed with her until Flo had rushed over. Emmi had met them at the hospital and stayed by her side ever since. These two women were more than her friends. They were her family.
“I’ll try,” she told them. She looked around the house, feeling anew the pain of memories. “But I don’t know how I’ll manage when everywhere I look I see him.”
Flo kissed her cheek. “Maybe you should do what your mama did.”
Cara, needing desperately to hear about her mother now, leaned forward. “What was that?”
“She cut loose and returned to the only place that ever truly felt like home to her. The beach house.”
Chapter Eleven
BO HAD MADE up for lost time over the last few days, working long hours to finish the deck. Heather’s canaries loved the sound of the buzzing saw and sang enthusiastic arias to accompany the hum and whistle of Bo’s assorted power tools. So much so, in fact, that Heather had had to move her work from the sunroom to the kitchen table to concentrate. It didn’t hurt that, from this vantage point, she could watch Bo as he worked.
She could tell he took pride in his work by his careful precision as he set the railings into place, the way he sanded the wood until he was satisfied. He was methodical in applying the deck stain, his arms swinging back and forth in a steady, unhurried rhythm with the brush. She couldn’t prevent herself from picking up her pencil and sketching the way his arm muscles moved and his back shifted, the expression of intense concentration—narrowing brows, lips slightly protruding. This afternoon he’d applied the last stroke of stain, sealed up the cans, and begun cleaning up the work area and loading up his truck.
Heather loathed that the home improvement project was coming to an end. No more deck building meant no more Bo. Heather found she’d gotten quite used to his presence every day, and she was none too much looking forward to losing it—put simply, Bo made her feel less alone.
It had been such a wonderful week! One that she couldn’t have imagined just a month or two ago. The stars had aligned somehow, and everything had seemed to fall into place. She’d started this week with a renewed burst of energy, going out to the beach every morning at dawn to photograph the birds. When she returned home, she’d poured herself into the process of sketching from the photographs to the backbeat of Bo’s hammering outdoors. She’d focused first on the red knots. She’d been so lucky to find a few stragglers of this endangered shorebird still on Isle of Palms. Yearly these master navigators flew more than eighteen thousand miles round-trip between their wintering and breeding grounds. And to think she’
d caught a few on her first day out! She’d drawn dozens of sketches of their chunky, long-winged bodies, their short yellowish legs and thin black bills. Sketches and photographs were taped to the walls and windows of the sunroom, along with profiles that described her selected shorebirds. A large map of the South Carolina coast was hung on the wall, and red pins marked where the different shorebirds that she spotted were, and green pins were where there were reported sightings.
Heather loved to see evidence of her ideas come alive around her. Her workroom energized her now. It was where she spent most of her time. She was pleased with the week’s work. Yet, looking at her sketches today, she saw with chagrin that most of them were really of Bo Stanton. With an exasperated sigh, she pushed the sketches back with frustration. What am I doing? she asked herself, putting her face in her palms. I have serious work to do. Her attraction to Bo was becoming nothing short of an obsession. She thought about him too much. She’d even dreamed about him.
Since their golf cart ride, there had been an undeniable shift in their relationship. Bo was much more attentive than someone who merely came to work on the deck each morning. Whenever he paused to come inside for ice, he would linger, talking about anything and everything. She loved every minute and listened, utterly engaged. No doubt urging him on with their flirtation. Now she lowered her hands and expelled a gusty sigh of frustration. All this was clearly distracting her from her work, and that was unacceptable for someone like Heather. She looked again at the sketches of Bo, then in a rush gathered them up and placed them in a file folder. She was falling behind schedule. She could feel the pressure mounting, and rubbed the spot that ached at her breastbone.
“Enough,” she said, and dropped her hands. Work was the only thing that would help her get through the anxiety that was building in her chest. “Red knots,” she said aloud, pulling out fresh sketching paper. She methodically smoothed it with her palms, then picked up her pencil and focused on the photos of the birds clustered at the shoreline. She studied the rusty, reddish color of the feathers, how some stood straight as though staring out to sea with their dark, bright eyes. Some were bent at an angle, digging their sharp beaks into the moist morning sand for a meal of small snails, bivalves, or, if they were lucky, horseshoe crab eggs. She began to draw.
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