by Barbara Lohr
Darkness was falling and her motion detectors came on as she zipped up the steps to the deck. Key in hand she went to open the back door. What was this? Pots were upended and sand was everywhere. Broken shells glittered in the overhead light.
Her heart constricted. “Oh, no. No, no.” She sank to her knees.
Who could she call? Nanny was sick and she’d just left Emily and Josie in such a happy place. No way did she want to ruin that.
But she had to talk to someone.
Chapter 10
“Hello?” When Trevor's phone rang, his mother was watching Jeopardy on TV. He was working in his home office when Bryn’s number flipped up. “What's wrong?”
“It's the t-turtles.” Sounded like she was crying and he could hardly understand her. “Something's been on the deck. Sand is everywhere. Sand and bits of shell. I just...I just don't know what to do.”
Pushing back from his desk, he was on his way to the garage. “I'll be right over. Don't do anything, Bryn. Go inside. Watch TV or read a book.” Now, that was lame.
She sniffled. “Don't speed.”
“I won’t. See you soon.” Heck with that. This would be worth getting a speeding ticket. Heart racing, he stepped into the family room. “I have to go out for a while. I won't be long.”
Half-asleep, his mother swung her feet from the hassock. “Wherever are you going at this hour of night?”
“It's only eight o'clock.”
“But you never go out at night.”
“I have to help a friend.”
By this time his mother was on her feet. “Is this about that Bryn? The woman the girls can't stop talking about?”
“As a matter fact, it is. She's had...an accident.”
“For heaven’s sake. Is she in the hospital?” His mother looked more annoyed than concerned.
While most people got casual in the evening, his mother was wearing a suit and heels with stockings. She had never known how to relax. “No, she isn't hurt. But the turtles the girls talk about? Something’s happened to them. I have to go check.” He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he had to do something.
His mother was still on her feet, hands clasped tight. “So this is that Bryn Peachum you knew in grade school?” She followed him from the family room into the kitchen.
“I don't have time for this right now.” He snatched his car keys from the hook near the door. “We can talk when I get home.”
His mother reached out as if to grab him and then gripped the kitchen counter instead. “Son, don't go. You don't want her dependent on you. I know she has those turtles and the girls like going over there. But don't get serious. She's not our kind of person.”
Oh, this was rich. “And Delia was? I don't think I could get much worse than Delia Stratton. And she’d been your choice. My future was decided over Sunday dinner, as I recall.” But that wasn’t fair. He’d been a grown adult when suddenly Delia and her parents came for dinner.
“Are you blaming me for your failed marriage?”
“Of course not. I’ll be back.” With that, he stepped into the garage and pressed the button for the door. While it was still rattling open, he started the car, checked his rearview mirror and backed out. The roads were dark as he headed out of town. For the first time in his life he exceeded the speed limit once he was in the country. Usually cautious, he took the turns at a rate that would have alarmed him in the past. The pain in Bryn’s voice drove him beyond the speed limit.
She needed him, plain and simple. And after all, she was his friend and he understood how she felt about the turtles. A sudden sense of pride felt strange and he questioned it. Why had he been the one she called?
Her boyfriend was out of town.
That put things in perspective. Get over yourself, Trevor. But it didn’t diminish his urgency.
“It only took me twenty minutes,” he announced when Bryn opened the door, her face red and puffy.
“I tried to clean some of it up but...” Her hair tousled and her eyes red, she led the way to the deck. In the harsh light of the overhead porch light, the devastation turned his stomach. And she’d come home to this? “Probably a raccoon or a possum.” Sand gritted under his shoes as he helped her set the pots upright.
“They didn’t get to all of them.” She gestured toward a few of the pots seemingly undisturbed. A paper bag stood upright nearby.
“Let's sort through them one by one.” Squatting, he began to pick up the shells. “What’s this?”
Bryn got down on her knees. “Is that a baby?”
Being very careful, he picked up the tiny shell. “Looks like he was just about to come into the world.” But the hatchling wasn’t poking its head out.
“Is something wrong?” She gave Trevor a worried look.
“We won’t know for a while. Can you put him in a bucket with sand? This poor little guy probably has had enough trauma tonight.”
Cuddling the shell in one hand, Bryn took charge. He was glad she was distracted from the carnage. “Do you have a dustpan and brush?”
“Of course. Sure.”
In two minutes she was back, handing him the dustpan. The green bucket holding the one survivor was cradled on her hip. Bryn shivered. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
Dropping the dustpan, Trevor took her in his arms as easily as if she were Annabelle or Daisy. “Please don't cry. I know how you feel about these turtles. And this is terrible. But the diamondbacks will come lay more eggs.”
“I know. But still.”
He felt her hiccup against his chest and it turned him inside out.
“This is the way of nature, Bryn,” he murmured into the soft hair that tickled his nose. She felt so delicate in his arms, so breakable. While he patted her back, feelings unfolded inside him, sensations he’d never experienced.
How interesting. More interesting than any of his experiments.
With a sniffle and a sigh, Bryn pulled away. Trevor struggled to separate his feelings from the facts. He was pretty good at that. But not tonight. He’d think about this later.
Setting the bucket in a safe place, they began to work. At least eight of the pots had been left undisturbed. From what she told him, Bryn’s return may have scared the animal off. Taking the kitchen spoons that Bryn used, they gently poked through the sand of every upended pot. He was relieved to find that in almost half of them, some of the eggs still remained. “Let's consolidate these.”
Bryn didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure? Then I won't know when the eggs were laid.”
How could he have forgotten that? Trevor glanced down at his hands, still tingling from touching the bare skin on her back. “We’ll put the groups next to each other but keep them separate with the dated sticks.”
“Okay. Right.”
He didn't know if what he was saying made sense or not. Jamming a hand into his hair, he felt sand on his scalp. Great. Trevor hated the gritty feel of it, but Bryn’s state of mind was all he cared about right now. Because she had her system with the popsicle sticks, they managed to sort everything out. Each flat stick dated the group of eggs, even if there were only three left in each set. He hated watching her cross out the original number, tears glistening on her cheeks.
“Where do you keep your broom?” he asked when they were wrapping things up.
“In the kitchen. The closet next to the sink.”
When he came back with the broom, he handed her a box of tissues he’d picked up in her kitchen. “Thank you,” she said softly, whisking two from the box. He set the box on the bench seat next to the bucket with the survivor.
Sweeping the sand from the deck didn’t take long. When it came to the shells, he discreetly chucked them into a paper bag. This reminded him of cleaning up after an intern had left one of his experiments out all night. Since it concerned plankton, it hadn’t been as personal as Bryn’s hatchlings. This was about more than the loss of the turtles. It was about the loss of time and planning that went into it. At least that's how
he saw it.
But with Bryn? This loss was different for her. He could see that. You would've thought she was the mother. For her, the loss seemed to run that deep. For the one millionth time, he wondered how Delia could have left Daisy and Annabelle to traipse off to Europe.
Only women like Bryn should be mothers. His scientific mind told him that there should be a process of selection established. If you didn’t have the right genes, you didn’t get to be a mother.
Many would tell him that was another hair-brained idea. Bryn might be counted among them so he didn’t share his thoughts. Wrapping up the paper bag, he took it down to the trash can he’d noticed next to the house.
His mother was right. Annabelle and Daisy had done nothing but chatter about Bryn after the day at the beach. While his mother fussed about their sunburn, all they wanted to talk about was how they’d floated on theirs backs with Daddy and Bryn. So they’d gotten a little sun. Big deal.
Bryn had applied sunblock. He didn't want his kids to look like the walking dead. Later he told his mother as much. She didn't take that comment kindly. But he wouldn't think about his mother now. She was right up there with the sand in his hair, and he’d take care of it later. Next, he rinsed out the broom under the hose and propped it against the siding to dry. No use tracking sand into the house.
When he climbed back up to the deck, Bryn was seated there, staring at the clean boards, as if they still held broken eggshells. She kept peering into the bucket held carefully in her hands. How he wished that hatchling would appear. “How many turtles do you think they a-ate?”
The words hurt for her to say them. “They were probably still eggs, Bryn. Not turtles.” Since when had he started telling blatant lies? It’s not like a raccoon would look at the sticks and take them in order. “Well, except for...”
“Our survivor,” she supplied.
“Let’s name it.” What if this one didn’t make it? The name Survivor would be a cruel twist.
“I can’t think of anything.” Bryn looked totally done in.
“Sheldon,” he blurted.
Bryn squinched her eyes at him as if he were crazy. “You mean that smart, nerdy kid on TV?”
“Sure. Why not?”
The hint of a smile teased her lips. “Only you would think of that.”
Why, because he’d been that nerdy kid? He didn’t want to ask. That turtle better poke its head out soon. I’m rooting for you, Sheldon.
Was the overhead light casting those deep shadows under her eyes or was she still crying? “Nanny still isn't feeling well. She's been sick for the last few days. I was with Josie and Emily trying on bridesmaids dresses. I haven't had a chance to check the yard. And I haven’t gotten over to Nanny’s to see how she’s doing.” She drew a shuddering breath that held a world of heartbreak.
If there was further disaster in the yard, he didn't want her finding it. Trying to tuck a strand of hair into her ponytail, she looked done in. Setting the bucket aside, he took her hands and pulled her up. How could such delicate fingers send a wave of heat up his arms? “Why don't you go see how Nanny’s doing. I’ll walk around and check things out. I'm sure that everything's okay.”
He wasn’t sure of that at all.
“Okay. But Sheldon?” Her eyes went to the bucket.
“Put him in the kitchen.” Was he really saying this? “Maybe on the floor.”
She threw him a look. Bryn would probably sleep with that bucket. “I’ll grab some flashlights.” She disappeared inside. Hands braced on the railing, Trevor listened to the crickets. How could nature seem so peaceful, yet allow something like this?
Before long she was back with two big yellow torches.
Clicking on his flashlight, he watched her cross the short distance between the two houses. Then he began his search. When he reached one of the big oaks, Trevor was glad he’d sent her off. The sand had been disturbed and was littered with broken shells. Poor mama turtle. All that work.
But after all, they did go off and leave their offspring, like someone else he knew.
Right now he had to get rid of the evidence. With one eye on her neighbor’s porch, Trevor ran back to Bryn’s house, grabbed the bag from the trash and the spoon from the deck. Man, he’d never scooped anything so fast in his life. Then he smoothed the sand with his shoe. Nothing else in any of the other spots seemed disturbed. She’d never know.
***
Taking the key from under the mat, Bryn opened the back door. “Nanny?” No answer. The TV blared from the living groom. Nanny should get a hearing aid. Walking through the kitchen, she peeked into the living room. While a TV ad touted the latest medication for heart health, Nanny slept on the sofa. Bryn had bought her this TV for Christmas, but her neighbor had never gotten the hang of the remote. There was only one volume level and that was loud.
When Bryn clicked off the TV, Nanny awoke with a start. “Oh honey, you didn't have to come over here.” Running her gnarled hands over her eyes, she struggled to sit up.
“Just wanted to make sure you’re all right.” Reaching behind Nanny, Bryn plumped pillows and helped her sit up. A summer blanket slipped from her lap and Bryn settled it over her again. “That TV is so loud.”
“Don’t know how it got that way,” Nanny grumbled, casting Bryn an accusing glance, as if she’d fooled with it herself.
“When was the last time you ate?”
Nanny's eyes went to the darkened window. “I may have forgotten a meal or two.”
“Let's get you settled in the kitchen.” Helping Nanny into a chair at the kitchen table, Bryn scolded her while she took her soup from the refrigerator and heated it in the microwave. She laid out a bowl and spoon, along with some crackers and cheese. “Now nibble on those.”
“You can be so bossy,” Nanny grumbled with a grudging smile.
“Funny but that's what Trevor says.”
Nanny glanced up. “He does, does he?”
Bryn couldn’t meet her eyes. “Well he always tells me that I'm bossy. But I'm not.”
Taking the soup out when the microwave beeped, she set the soup bowl on a plate and slid it toward Nanny. “We had some excitement tonight.”
Nanny picked up a spoon. “Sounds like fun.”
“I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.” Putting a hand gently on her forehead, Bryn couldn’t detect a fever. That was an improvement. “Trevor came to help me with something so I've got to run.”
“You go on now. I'm fine. That nap did me a world of good.” Grabbing a cracker, Nanny pointed it toward the door.
Bryn was relieved that Nanny was her old snappish self. “I'll see you in the morning. I just wanted to make sure you were cleared for duty.”
“Don’t you worry. I'll be back checking on those turtles and their eggs. You can count on me.”
Never would Bryn tell her what had happened. If Nanny had been around, the raccoons might never have gotten close. “Good night. I’m locking this door.”
“Have it your way. Haven’t got anything worth stealing, and Sweetwater Creek isn’t known for burglaries.”
Piss and vinegar in her voice, Nanny was definitely feeling better.
Picking her way across the yard, Bryn saw Trevor out on the grass with a measuring stick. Next to him stood the flashlight, casting light upward into the darkness. “Whatever are you doing?”
“I have an idea.” Whisking a small notepad from his back pocket, he started to scribble. She’d seen him do this a lot when they were growing up.
“You always have an idea.” Shaking her head, she came up beside him.
He looked up. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Absolutely not.” They chuckled together.
“Remember the time we made the go cart?”
“Sure do. Here, hold this please.” The metal tape stretched between them as he walked backwards. “The wheels gave us a problem.”
“Your parents were so mad when they found out we’d taken the wheels off your bike and one off the fa
mily lawn mower for the cart.”
“That did not go over well.”
Sitting down next to her, he got serious. She much preferred the playful Trevor. “Those pots up on your deck leave the eggs too exposed. If the hatchlings pop out when you’re at work and Nanny isn’t around, they’re an open invitation.”
She shuddered. “Those poor helpless things.”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to make a screened enclosure that will sit out here in the sunny area.” He pointed to the stretch he’d just been measuring between two trees. “I’ll put mesh on the bottom so that no rodents can get in. Then I’ll fill it with sand. The box will have a lid. You'll see. Everything will be fine.”
“But you don't have time to do that.”
“Think of it as a scientific study.” That crooked smile warmed her all the way to her toes. This was the sweetest thing a man had ever done for her.
Bryn felt all choked up as they got to work. Heads together, they mumbled in low voices that made those moments amazingly intimate. The moon had come out, carving out the planes of Trevor’s face. His crazy curls threw shadows over his eyes, but the brown depths snapped with excitement. They could have been back in seventh grade, except that this handsome man was not thirteen. And what she was feeling right now?
Wow, this sure felt like what she’d seen on Emily’s face. She gave herself a shake. “How about a glass of wine?”
Straightening, he shook his head. “I've got to drive but anything cold would be great.”
She pointed over to the glider. “Now you just sit right there, mister. I will be right back.” Scurrying up the stairs to the deck, she couldn’t even look at the pots. Tonight was going to haunt her a long time. Bryn went inside, checked on Sheldon and grabbed two cans of root beer. Pushing the screen door open, she walked through the darkness to the glider.
“Ah, reinforcements. This darn heat.” Trevor patted the seat next to him, as if they did this every night. She liked the feel of it. Taking the cans, he popped them open and handed her one. After taking a long gulp while she admired his neck, he sat back and pressed the cold can to his forehead.
