A Bird on a Windowsill

by Laura Miller

  I know.

  We both know our trip down memory lane is over. It was over long before it ever started. It was over the day I left town six years ago. It was over once I spread my wings and flew back to my temporary home.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Savannah

  (23 Years Old)

  Day 6,601

  “Savannah, right?”

  I look up from my paint swatches and notice a man facing me.

  “Right,” I say.

  “I’m Jake Buckler.” He holds out his hand, and I shake it.

  He’s a tall guy—clean-shaven, dark hair, pleasant smile.

  “You’re running the paper now, aren’t you?”

  I nod. “I am.”

  “Well, welcome,” he breathes out. “I’m sure you’ve heard that already.”

  “Well, it’s more like welcome back, I guess. I grew up...”

  “Jake,” Salem interrupts, taking a place right next to me.

  Jake falls back on his heels and takes a good look at Salem.

  “Salem,” he says. It’s a simple acknowledgement.

  “Hey, I heard you were going out of town soon,” Salem says.

  Jake bobs his head once. “Yeah, for the weekend.”

  “Well, we should get that lumber order finished up for ya before you leave then. Here, Joey will fix ya right up.”

  “O-kay,” Jake says. There’s an obvious hesitation in his voice.

  “Joey,” Salem calls back to the register.

  Within seconds, a sandy-blond-haired kid, about sixteen, bounces up to Salem.

  “What do ya need, boss?”

  “Jake, here, needs to finish up his order. Can you manage that?”

  The boy bobs his head at Jake. “Sure thing. I’ll get ya taken care of over here at this register.”

  The boy faces Jake and points to a corner of the building.

  “Okay,” Jake says. He turns back toward me. “Well, it was nice finally meeting you, Savannah.”

  “You, as well,” I say.

  “Maybe I’ll have to stop by the paper sometime and see how much it’s changed since I’ve been there last.”

  Before I can say anything, Salem jumps in.

  “Nothin’s changed.”

  Both Jake’s and my gaze instantly go to Salem.

  “Still the same old place,” Salem says. “All right, Joey will take ya back there.” Salem rests his hand on Jake’s shoulder and points in the direction of the register.

  I notice Jake eye Salem’s hand on his shoulder. It’s one of those looks that says he knows more than he’s letting on. Then he smiles politely and follows the boy. And when they’re out of earshot, I look to Salem.

  He’s robotically fiddling with the top of a paint can. I know he’s trying to avoid eye contact with me.

  “Salem.”

  “Hmm?”

  “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  He stops turning over the one paint can and goes to reading the back of another. But I don’t say anything else until he finally looks up at me.

  “You know what,” I say, in a half-scolding tone.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I give him my best straight face, but then I quickly decide it’s probably just easier to let this one go. “Fine. You got my paint swatch thingy, right?”

  “What?” He seems distracted.

  “The paper thing that has the paint color I need on it?”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, I’ve got that.”

  “Okay, then, I guess I’ll see you later.”

  “See ya,” he mumbles.

  I get to my car in the parking lot, throw my bag onto the passenger’s seat and slide in behind the wheel.

  “Savannah.”

  I look up to see Salem jogging across the black asphalt.

  I take my hand off my keys in the ignition and sit back in the seat.

  “I’m sorry,” he mouths, when he gets to me.

  I roll down the window.

  “For back there,” he says. His eyes motion back toward the lumberyard building.

  I feel a lopsided smile slowly inching its way across my face. “But why? What were you trying to do? Is he like, a serial killer or something?”

  He shrugs and looks down, as if he’s trying to avoid my question.

  “Salem,” I scold.

  “No. No, he’s not a serial killer...that I know of.”

  “That you know of?” I try not to laugh.

  “I don’t know. It’s not like I’ve done a criminal background check on him.”

  “Salem!”

  “What? I just don’t like you talking to him.”

  I stare straight ahead, straight through the windshield, trying to figure out what to say next. I’m more than a little speechless right now.

  “Look, I know it was stupid. I’m sorry.”

  He’s quiet after that.

  “Is there something wrong with him?”

  He keeps his head down.

  “Salem, tell me.”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, there’s nothing wrong with him. He’s a good guy.”

  “Then, what on earth?”

  He still doesn’t look up. “He’s a guy.”

  I pause because I think I don’t hear him right, at first. But when he doesn’t say anything else, I start to laugh.

  “I’m sorry to break it to you like this, Salem, but I talk to guys every day. And I’m still here—healthy and emotionally sound and all.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  Out of habit, I press my lips together and narrow my eyes. “Salem, you’re gonna have to help me out a little here. I have no idea...”

  “It’s because you’re mine,” he says, looking at the ground again.

  Instantly, I feel my brows knitting together.

  “You’re my friend. My bird,” he says, with a smile. “I’m sorry. I’m just... I know you’re not mine like that. I know.”

  I’m scrambling for words. My mouth is open, but nothing is coming out.

  “I don’t know,” he goes on, before I can even think of anything. “Sometimes, I think about other people knowin’ you better than I do, and... They can’t know you better than I do. I mean, I haven’t seen you in a while, I know.” His eyes are shadowed by the bill of his cap. “But I know you, Savannah. I know you better than anybody in this town. And sometimes... Sometimes, I feel as if that makes you mine.”

  I still don’t know what to say, but despite myself, something comes.

  “I get it.”

  That’s all I say, and he just lowers his head so that I can’t see his face anymore behind his baseball cap.

  “Do you really?” he asks. “Or are you just sayin’ that to make me not feel so crazy?”

  I look into his eyes, now unhindered by the cap. “Yeah,” I assure him. “I do. I mean, sometimes, I think I feel the same way.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Like, just the other day, you were talking to Anna... And this is going to sound crazy and totally out of line, but...”

  “I don’t care,” he says, cutting me off.

  I meet his stare; he’s got this little smile playin’ on his lips. And it makes me smile, too. “Okay,” I go on. “You were talking to Anna at Lakota’s, and I wanted to say hi, but I felt as if I’d be intruding, so I just kept on walking, until I walked right out the door. And it wasn’t until I was outside that I stopped. Right there in the black of night, I stopped, and I thought: But I had him first.” I let my gaze fall to the steering wheel. “I know that’s crazy, but...”

  “Then I’m crazy, too,” he quickly says.

  My eyes find his. His are warm and welcoming, happy and fiery—everything I always loved about them.

  “Because I had her first.” He keeps his stare in mine.

  His words are like spring water to a thirsty desert.

  “Do you think we’ll always feel that way?”
he asks.

  I lift my shoulders and then let them fall, and then I slowly shake my head. “I have no idea.”

  The words come out sounding more weighed down than I had anticipated.

  “It feels kind of like I’m in limbo with you here,” he breathes out.

  I look up at him. My heart starts to pound in my chest. I want him to say he wants me. I want him to say he loves me. Only me. Not her. Me. And I want him to say it—if only for the sake of our past.

  “But the day you stop looking back,” he says.

  And with that, my heart breaks in two. It breaks for an us that is no more, as moments trudge on in painful silence.

  “Is the first day of the rest of your life,” I whisper.

  He lets go of a small, guarded smile and then taps the roof of my car before taking a step back.

  Meanwhile, my attention falls to the steering wheel, and I quickly work to put the pieces of my heart back together, until his words slip back into my thoughts.

  “Your bird, huh?” I look up at him and try to smile.

  He laughs to himself and lowers his gaze before finding mine again.

  “Well, this is my windowsill, so you must be my bird.”

  “But you forget,” I say, smiling thinly. “I have wings.”

  “Well, then why do you keep coming back if you’re not my bird?”

  I shrug. “Maybe because I like your windowsill.”

  “Or maybe it’s because you like me.”

  My brittle grin burns into a thoughtful one. I don’t know if he’s joking or if he really means it. And worse, I don’t know if it’s true or not. I love him, but I’d like him a whole lot better if he loved me, too.

  “That might be a little presumptuous,” I say, trying desperately to hide the fact that his last comment means more to me than I think he intended it to.

  He tilts his head in my direction and lifts one shoulder before pressing his lips into an easy smile.

  “I’ll see you later, Eben.”

  He nods and tips his cap.

  “Later, Vannah.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Savannah

  (23 Years Old)

  The little bell above the door rings just as I’m finishing up a story. I hit save and make my way out to the front of the office.

  “Hi.”

  I hear the voice, and I look up to a man with eyes the shade of coffee, smiling back at me.

  “Oh, hi. Jake, right?”

  “Right,” he says, bobbing his head.

  For the first time, I notice he wears his hair a little longer than most guys around here. And I watch as he forces his hands into his pants pockets and assesses the little office. “The place looks nice.”

  I look around. My eye catches on the little old desk in the corner first and then the old clock on the wall and then the same old papers still in their stacks.

  “It looks the same,” I say.

  He laughs.

  “Yeah,” he says. “It looks the same.”

  It’s quiet for a second—just long enough for his eyes to amble back to mine.

  “Are you doing anything Friday night?”

  Immediately, I suck in a breath.

  “Um.” My gaze quickly hits the floor. And my first thought is Eben. My second thought is Anna. My third thought is Eben saying that Jake is a good guy. And my final thought comes from my Uncle Lester: Don’t let it tie ya down.

  “No, actually,” I say, looking back up. “I’m not.”

  “Can I take you out?”

  An instant smile takes over my face. He looks kind of cute the way he’s standing there, motionless, in his nice black slacks and white, collared shirt—as if all his hopes are hanging on my answer.

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  It’s only now starting to sound as if maybe it’s a good idea.

  “Good,” he says, bobbing his head again. “I’ll pick you up at seven, then?”

  “All right,” I agree.

  He nods his head once more. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll let you get back to work then.” He turns to leave but then freezes before he gets to the door. “Uh, where should I pick you up exactly?”

  I feel my lips twisting into a grin. “That would help, wouldn’t it?”

  “It just might,” he agrees.

  I laugh softly.

  “Do you know where Lester used to live?”

  “Yeah, out on Kohl City Road?”

  “That’s it. I’ll be there.”

  “Good,” he says. “Can’t wait.”

  I smile wider, and then he slips through the door.

  I haven’t got a clue as to what I’ve just gotten myself into, but I guess it wouldn’t be my first mistake, either.

  I rub my eyes and then gather my hair into a ponytail. But I can’t stop thinking. A part of me is excited—excited to meet someone new, excited to start a new life here. Yet, there’s a part of me that still feels stuck—stuck in the past, stuck in someone else’s life, stuck in a dream.

  I walk back into my office and fall into my chair. And after a few minutes of my mind wandering here and there, I find myself smiling at the wall, thinking about this new stranger—Jake Buckler. He stood there, in this office, just moments ago, with his beautiful smile and his dark eyes and his commanding self, and he bashfully asked me on a date. It was one of the cutest things I’ve ever witnessed. I would have been crazy to have said no. And who knows, just maybe this Jake Buckler can rescue me from the past. ...Just maybe.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Savannah

  (23 Years Old)

  “Hi.” I open the door to Jake.

  “Hi,” he says, finding my eyes. He’s wearing a big smile, and for a moment, I get lost in it.

  “Uh.” He shifts his weight to his other leg and drops his stare to his hands. “I wasn’t sure if you liked flowers, but I thought of you when I saw these the other day.”

  He holds out a box the size of a big shoebox.

  “I noticed them on your office door...and the wall...and the desk...and the phone... And I’m pretty sure I saw a couple on your steering wheel, too. Thought you might be running low.”

  I take the box and laugh. “My uncle always said that sticky notes keep you sane. It’s a learned behavior, I guess.” I meet his gaze. “This is sweet of you. Thank you. But how’d you find such a big box?”

  “I have my ways,” he says, grinning. “Hopefully, that’ll last you a day or two.”

  “Maybe.” I laugh and then set the box onto the table. “Well, come in. I just have to grab my purse.”

  I turn and head for the other room.

  “You look beautiful.”

  His words make me stop. It’s almost as if he had just discovered something new, and he couldn’t wait to tell me.

  Slowly, I swivel back around.

  “Thank you. You look great, too.”

  I stand there for a second, in his eyes. There’s something about him. There’s just something about him that’s so different from most people around here. He’s kind of Hollywood, in a way, with his slightly longer haircut and his perfectly faded jeans. And I’m not really sure why that even matters, but somehow it does because I’m trying my darnedest not to blush.

  But then suddenly, I remember my purse.

  “I like your place.”

  I pause on my way back to him and steal a glance around the room, trying to take in what he’s seeing.

  It does look nice, I guess. I hadn’t really stopped to look at it yet. All of Uncle Lester’s papers are gone now. The walls are all freshly painted. My new furniture is mixed with some of Uncle Les’s old pieces, like his little writer’s desk and his antique hall tree. I couldn’t bear to store those in the dusty attic.

  “I like the art.”

  His eyes are caught on the photo in the entryway.

  “I don’t know if it’s art, necessarily,” I say, trying not to laugh. “It’s Sullivan’s Island in South Carolina. And it’s really for just when I miss the
ocean.”

  He looks into the photo a little bit longer, as if he’s examining every detail, every shade of blue. And then his attention is back on me.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  I lower my eyes, trying not to look awkward. “Thank you.”

  “Did you take it?”

  “I did.”

  “You’ve got an eye.”

  I laugh under my breath, as his eyes linger in mine. I feel as if I should say something to fill the silence, but oddly, I don’t mind existing in his stillness, really. There’s something strangely appealing about being the subject of his interest.

  “Well, are you ready, Miss Catesby?”

  My face beams, as if it’s a mirror image of his. And I nod. That’s all I do. I’m afraid if I try to speak, nothing will come out of my mouth.

  I follow him out of the door and to his car in the driveway. He has a nice, shiny, black sports car. Immediately, I feel bad that by the end of the night, it’ll be a nice, dust-covered, sandy-colored sports car, thanks to the gravel road.

  “So, did I hear you right? You’re from here?”

  “Born and raised. You?”

  “Uh, no,” he says, opening the door for me. “I’m from a little town in Illinois. Chester. Home of Popeye.”

  I laugh. “That, I didn’t know.”

  “What? The Chester part or the Popeye part?”

  I smile. “Both.”

  Who knew? Such a beautiful man—from the Home of Popeye.

  “Do you work here?” I ask.

  “Yep,” he says, after he starts the car. “Well, around here, anyway. I mostly work in Washington. Real estate. Been here for several years now.”

  I nod.

  “Is that where you were...South Carolina?”

  “Yeah, my family moved to Mount Pleasant, right next to Charleston, when I was sixteen.”

  “Aah, so how is it being back?”

  I take a moment to think about it.

  “You know, nobody’s asked me that yet.” I don’t even think I’ve asked myself that. “But it’s different, I guess.”

  “Different how?”

  I look over at him. There’s something about a guy driving a stick shift that makes me feel at home. But there’s something strangely fascinating about a guy who drives a stick shift to a fast car.