Beach House for Rent

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Yes, ma’am. Right here,” Robert said, handing her the bank envelope. “It should all be in order. It was a busy month. Boat was full most every time.”

  Cara strode across the room to her office. She sat at her desk and pulled out the business’s checkbook. Her hands were shaking and she felt suddenly light-headed; her heart began pounding. Things were already beginning to slide. She needed to stay on top of them. Take over at the dock. Except she didn’t want to deal with the business or the banks or the mail. She wanted to crawl back into bed, put the covers over her head, and go back to sleep forever.

  She cleared her throat and straightened in her chair. But of course she couldn’t do that, she told herself firmly. She flipped open the business checkbook with crisp movements. She added the receipt amount to her balance. A shiver ran through her. With the increase for the home equity loan payment due, her balance was dangerously low. Chewing her lip, she wrote a check for Robert and one for Phillip. The tour business was doing very well this season, she noted with relief. That was something.

  Cara tried to smile as she strode from the office and handed the two checks to Robert.

  “Robert,” she said hesitatingly. “Could you please not cash the check until next week?” She saw his eyes widen. “I know this is unusual, but these are unusual times. I have to go to the bank and make a few changes. I just need a little time. Would that be possible?”

  “For me, no problem. I’ll check with Phillip. But I should think all is good.” He paused. “Cara, is everything okay?”

  “I don’t know,” she told him. She felt he deserved her complete honesty.

  Robert’s face clouded. “Okay,” he replied. Then, “You’ll let me know what develops? I care a great deal about the business, you know. Brett and I, we built it together.”

  “I know. And I will.”

  After she thanked him again for his good work and patience, he left.

  Cara returned to her cup of coffee and took a sip, frowning upon discovering it had gone cold. She was exhausted. To the left was her bedroom. Its cool darkness called to her. Before her, the tabletop was cluttered with papers. Duty won out. Cara sat back in her chair and tore open the two bank envelopes. The first was a friendly reminder that her payment on the loan was due. The second informed her that the payment was late and she’d incurred an interest charge.

  “Right,” she said aloud. Grabbing a large pastry, Cara rose and went to collect her phone from the bedside stand. Wiping crumbs from her fingers on her pants, she first called her brother.

  “Palmer?”

  “Hey, Sister. How are you holding up?”

  “I need to talk to you. Can you come by?”

  His voice lowered with concern. “I’ll make a point of it.”

  After hanging up with him, she found the number of her lawyer. John Denning was the son of her mother’s lawyer, Bobby Lee. He was bright and well educated, with all of his father’s southern gentlemanly qualities, and in her opinion was quite worthy of taking over his father’s firm after Bobby retired. She dialed his number, the line that went directly to him.

  “John Denning here.” His voice held a thick southern drawl, yet he still sounded busy.

  “John? It’s Cara Rutledge.”

  “Cara!” She heard the warmth seep into his voice, as she’d expected. “Hello. How are you faring?” he asked with concern.

  “Not very well, I’m afraid. I have a problem and must come see you. Things are in a terrible mess. I went in search of the important papers you requested and discovered that Brett let our life insurance policy lapse.”

  There was a brief pause. “To be clear, did he miss a payment or did the policy lapse entirely?”

  “It lapsed,” she informed him. “Some time ago.”

  “I see.” His voice was a monotone.

  “Also, the adjustable home equity loan rate for the boat has gone up. I’m late in making that payment as well. Frankly, John, I don’t know how I’m going to continue to pay them.”

  Another pause. She imagined him reaching for his schedule, grabbing a pen. “Can you come in tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” she replied with relief. “What time?”

  “Two o’clock okay?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Chapter Twelve

  DAYS FLEW BY, one after another. Each morning Heather awoke with the sun. She was determined to stick to her new schedule. She’d read somewhere about the positive power of new habits. Also about how exercise released endorphins in the brain, chemicals that improved mood and relaxation, so she’d decided to work that into her daily routine. She vowed to fight her anxiety with everything she had. To overcome her fears.

  Her work was progressing well. She’d driven her golf cart to the far northern point of the island and far south on Sullivan’s Island to observe and sketch the birds that clustered there. She always brought her camera on her forays, and more and more often her spotting scope. Some days she sat for hours spying on those shorebirds that would remain on Isle of Palms and Sullivan’s Island for the summer—plovers, sandpipers, oystercatchers. As well as the seabirds that most people readily recognized—pelicans, gulls, and terns.

  No matter how busy she kept herself, or how many miles she walked, each morning she missed Bo. She missed his easy smile, his conversation, and his presence. She missed him. The little beach house had a sense of silence with him gone that felt like loneliness. One morning she’d come back from the beach to find the freshly painted chairs on the deck. Four pristine, empty white rockers. That he’d dropped them off and not waited for her to return delivered a pain she felt she’d deserved.

  Of course Bo had felt rejected. He’d asked her out, and she’d refused. There were a million reasons to say yes, but only one for saying no. Her anxiety. At that moment she’d felt utterly overwhelmed. She needed some space and time to think. And that meant being alone. But how could she let him know that the problem was with her, not with him? That despite her anxiety, she didn’t want to be alone any longer. That she missed him.

  Striding along the beach this morning Heather lifted her hands to her hair, clutched it tight and gave a little scream of frustration. She hated being this way! She had to stop letting her anxiety rule her life. Her hands formed fists at her sides as she picked up her pace. If her heart rate went up, it would be for a damn good reason, she told herself.

  This morning she’d veered away from Breach Inlet and instead headed north toward the pier. She wanted to scope out a new area. The waves rolled in at a lazy pace, lapping the shore. The beach was smooth and as yet untrammeled. Beyond the dunes, the walls of pastel-colored mansions were dark. The sunrise was reflected in the plate-glass windows.

  She’d walked at a brisk pace more than two miles when, closer to the pier, she spied an odd, unmoving mass on the beach. It was too big for a horseshoe crab. Maybe a piece of driftwood? Or . . . She paused. A sea turtle? She stopped and took a look around. There was no one else nearby. No dogs, thank heavens. She walked toward it, lifting her hand over her sunglasses and squinting into the sunlight. A few yards away, she stopped again. The mass was a brown pelican!

  It looked fully grown, though she knew the brown pelican was the smallest of the seven pelican species. She walked slowly, so as not to startle the bird. Even when she drew near, it didn’t fly off. Its lovely yellow-and-white head lifted up a bit to regard her approach, revealing its long, gorgeous, chestnut-brown-and-white neck. Then it subsided again, as if the bird was too tired to hold it up. The long beak lowered to rest on the sand. It was a mournful sight.

  “Poor baby,” she muttered softly. Clearly the bird was sick or injured. She kept a distance, not wanting to startle it. What to do? She pulled her cell phone from her backpack and looked up who to call for a bird emergency. Finding a listing for the Center for Birds of Prey, she punched in the number.

  In short order, a woman answered and got her location.

  “Can you wait with the bird until someone from the c
enter arrives?”

  “Yes. I won’t leave its side.”

  “Thank you. It won’t be long. Oh, and don’t try to lift it. The beak can be quite snappy. It’s got a pointed hook at the end. Keep onlookers away, if you can. It needs to stay put. If the pelican gets into the water, we won’t be able to catch it.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  The pelican had grown nervous with the chatter and tried to rise and walk away.

  “Oh, don’t do that, baby,” Heather crooned.

  The bird didn’t walk very far. Weakened, it sat again, tucking in its wings. One wing drooped lower.

  Heather sat on the sand and pulled her backpack around to withdraw her sketch pad. She scoped out the area, relieved that no one was walking close by. Out on the ocean a healthier pelican sat on the waves, rising and falling gracefully. Was it a mate? she wondered. The injured bird didn’t appear disturbed as long as she sat at a distance, so she used the opportunity to sketch it. Early bird artists, like the great Audubon, had worked from stuffed birds. Modern artists had the advantage of photographs, and she used her binoculars and spotting scope, too. But nothing compared to the up-close and personal study of a bird in its natural habitat.

  Her hand moved swiftly across the page capturing the color variations, the shape of its eyes. Especially the eyes. The eyes were blue, which meant the bird was in breeding season. Her canaries’ eyes were dull and slitted when they were ill, their usual brightness dimmed. Looking at the pelican’s eyes, she saw the same listlessness. Every angle reflected illness.

  Heather had always thought the pelican was an elegant bird, with its long neck and the distinctive pouch that made it unique in the bird world. If she dared mention a favorite bird, it would be the pelican.

  Heather didn’t have to wait long for the bird center’s emissary. Within half an hour she saw a man approaching her from the beach path. He looked professional, wearing long pants and a brown T-shirt and carrying an animal carrier. She put her sketchbook into her backpack and rose to greet him. As he drew nearer, Heather recognized the long gait, the broad shoulders, the shaggy blond hair. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt her heart rate take off. As happy as she was to see him, she also felt a cold dread at the prospect of their first awkwardness after what she’d come to call “the dinner debacle.”

  Bo walked at a steady pace toward her and the bird, then stopped cold. He stared for a moment, then began walking again. As he drew near, his face registered surprise and even happiness at seeing her.

  “ ‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.’ ”

  Heather was delighted with the quote and relieved at his humor. It broke that first awkwardness, despite the fact that Rick and Ilsa’s romance was doomed.

  “Casablanca’s one of my favorite movies.” She smirked and returned another quote. “ ‘I’ve heard a lot of stories in my time. They went along with the sound of a tinny piano playing in a parlor downstairs.’ ”

  Bo raised his brows. “I’m impressed.”

  “I know a lot more than that,” she admitted. “Like I said, it’s a favorite, and I’m kind of a nerd about old movies so . . .” She let it go, a bit embarrassed at her intimation that she spent so many of her evenings alone, watching old movies. “But,” she said with import, “considering all the stories I’ve heard you tell, I don’t remember you ever telling me that you’re a rescue worker for the birds of prey center.”

  “I didn’t?”

  “You didn’t.”

  He shrugged. Then his expression changed and his eyes cooled. Suddenly he was the professional. “I guess it never came up.” Bo set the large animal carrier on the sand as his gaze turned to the pelican. “You the one who called it in?”

  Heather nodded, noticing his tone had a new edge to it. She took his lead and straightened, then spoke to him as if he were a stranger, a professional who’d come to help. “I was walking along the shore to the pier when I saw the bird just sitting there on the beach. Not moving.”

  Bo went directly to the bird, all business now. “We’ve got a brown pelican,” he said aloud as he wrote on a clipboard.

  “Do we have white pelicans here?” she asked. She’d never seen them listed on the range maps for shorebirds.

  “Yes, but not many. Though numbers are increasing. Mostly we have brown pelicans in South Carolina. He paused. “Has it moved?”

  “Very little. It tried to walk when I was talking on the phone. Tottered is more like it. Then it collapsed. I think it’s either sick or injured.”

  Bo stopped writing and glanced at her with a hint of mockery in his smile. “Do ya think?”

  Heather flinched. He wasn’t making this easier. “Actually,” she said, irked, “while I was sketching, I noticed its left wing was held lower.”

  Bo lowered to inspect the wing. “There’s the problem,” Bo said, waving her closer and pointing. A large fishhook was visible piercing the wing, and the fishing line was wrapped around it. “What a mess. It’s good we caught this early. It’s embedded deep. I don’t dare try to cut the line off. Nope, it’s got to go in.” Bo walked back to his supplies and pulled a towel out of the crate.

  “Heather, you walk around on the ocean side of the bird. I’m going to catch it. If it starts heading toward the water, ward it off. If it goes into the ocean we’ve lost it. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Heather replied, though she couldn’t imagine the pelican going far. It could barely walk. Still, she hurried to the shoreline and held out her arms at the ready.

  She watched as Bo slowly approached the pelican. As she’d expected, the poor bird didn’t move. In one swift movement, Bo wrapped the towel around the pelican and, bending at the waist, scooped it up into his arms. Heather came closer to see if there was anything she could do to help. She could see the bird’s dark webbed feet dangling from beneath Bo’s arms.

  “Could you keep the people away?” he asked as he hefted the bird toward the carrier.

  Looking over her shoulder, Heather saw two women approaching. They were in jogging gear and, seeing the commotion, trotted closer. Heather’s eyes widened. Her last experience keeping a woman away hadn’t ended well. But she wasn’t going to back down in front of Bo. Heather licked her lips and hurried across the sand at an angle, cutting them off.

  “Hi,” she began with a smile. She pushed on. “Sorry, but could you wait here? The pelican is injured and very nervous. He’s putting it into the carrier.”

  “Of course,” one of the women replied. “He’s a professional?”

  “Yes.”

  “That poor bird. Can I take a picture?”

  Heather was relieved at their willingness to cooperate. “Of course.” She waited by the women while Bo put the docile pelican into the carrier. Then she thanked the women and hurried back to his side.

  “What happens next?”

  “I take it to the birds of prey center.”

  “Of course.”

  Heather watched as he put a towel over the carrier and gathered his backpack, zipping it and sliding it onto his back. His movements were slow and deliberate. Then he turned to face her, a final gesture.

  “Thanks for calling it in.”

  “Do you need any help? I can carry your backpack.”

  “I got it. Thanks.” He bent and picked up the bird carrier.

  Heather walked beside him as he carried the bird to his truck. He put the carrier in the back and secured it. Heather hung around, feeling like an awkward teenager, wondering how to ask if she could go with him.

  Bo slammed the gate closed and slapped the sand from his hands. He looked up and appeared almost surprised that Heather was still there.

  “Do you need a ride home?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Uh, no, thanks.”

  After an awkward pause he said in a professional manner, “Okay. I better get going.”

  “Bo?” she blurted out.

  He looked at her. His face gave
away nothing.

  “Would it be out of line for me to—to go with you? To the center?”

  “You want to come along?”

  “Yes! I really want to come. I promise I’ll stay out of your way.”

  “It’s a long drive. I don’t know when I’ll be done.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Bo considered this. He nodded once. “Then hop in.”

  On the forty-five-minute drive to the center, Heather sat in the passenger seat of his truck looking out at the view as they whizzed past, desperately trying to make a few comments about the scenery or the weather. They were inane, but she didn’t have to facilitate brilliant conversation, she told herself. She just had to engage. This wasn’t a date, after all. It was just two people riding together to rescue a pelican. She was dressed comfortably in her nylon fishing pants and shirt. Not in some tight dress with high heels. It helped her feel emotionally comfortable.

  “Have you been a volunteer long?” she asked Bo.

  “Eight years,” he replied. “It’s hard work, but I love it. Love being out with the birds.” He paused. “Mostly the Center for Birds of Prey has raptors—eagles, hawks, falcons, owls. They’re a lot different than shorebirds.” He glanced at her. “And those sweet little canaries you’ve got.” His gaze returned to the road. “They’re wild. Fierce. They might be injured, but their MO is to get you. That’s why we wear leather gloves and gear. And we don’t name them. The goal is to release them, and they need to have the predator instinct to survive in the wild. So we’ve got to be careful not to habituate them. But they’ll take a chunk out of you if you’re not careful.” His hands tapped the wheel. “Yes, they will.”

  “So why volunteer with shorebirds?”

  “I love raptors, don’t get me wrong. But being a surfer, my heart’s with shorebirds. My first rescue was a pelican. A fledgling that wasn’t making it. The birds of prey center started taking in shorebirds after they signed on for oil-spill disaster relief. So I volunteered for transport. I know how to catch them and bring them in.”

  He drove a few minutes, then added, “You know, in some ways shorebirds are like canaries.”