Firefly Summer (13 page)

C
HAPTER
27

B
irdie listened as David picked up the phone early Thursday morning. “Are you sure it can't fly? And there are no other fledglings around . . . or parents?” He nodded, listening. “Do you think it's injured?” More nodding. “Where did you say you found it? Mm-hmm . . . Okay, well, if you'd like to bring it over, we'll be here.” Birdie raised her eyebrows and continued to listen as he gave directions to their house. For months they'd been trying to cut back on the number of orphaned and injured birds they took in, and the last two weeks had been the first time
ever
that they hadn't had a little flock of birds in their small aviary barn and fenced-in sanctuary.

David hung up the phone and saw her eyeing him. He smiled. “How could I say no? She was very upset.”

“The only way we're going to be able to stop people from calling is if we put a note on the website that says we're not taking in any birds at this time.”

“Do you really want to stop helping?” David asked.

“Well, no, but you have to admit, the last couple of weeks without any responsibilities have been kind of nice.”

“I don't know. I've kind of missed having some little creatures to look after,” David said, smiling.

“What kind of bird is it?”

“She wasn't sure—she thought it might be a ruffed grouse or a quail.”

Birdie sighed. “Is it injured?”

“She said it was flopping around next to the road so it might've been hit, but it wasn't bleeding.”

The phone rang again, halting their conversation, and David answered it. “Yes, this is he.” He nodded. “Are you sure its parents aren't around? No other fledglings? That's odd . . . they don't usually abandon their young.... Of course . . . where are you? Let's see . . . Mashpee . . .” He started to give directions again, and as Birdie poured a cup of coffee, she shook her head. She sat down, waiting for him to finish, and when he finally hung up, he was smiling like a boy on Christmas morning. “He thinks it's a baby barred!”

“Wonderful!” Birdie said, shaking her head. She knew how thrilled David would be if it really was an orphaned barred owl, she also knew how much two baby birds would tie them down.

“It's not like we have anything pressing going on,” David said, pouring a cup of coffee and sitting across from her. He looked at the pile of birthday presents still sitting on the table. “How come you're not using your new mug?” he asked, holding up the Susan Boynton mug.

“I will,” Birdie said, smiling.

“Haven't you already read this?” he asked, leafing through
That Quail, Robert
.

“Years ago. Have you?”

“I don't remember.”

“You'd remember.”

“Maybe I'll read it next.”

“You should, because we might have our own Robert heading our way right now.”

“We might. That would be fun.”

Birdie smiled.
It would be
.

Twenty minutes later, a young woman slowed down in front of the house, obviously trying to decide whether she was in the right place, and then pulled into the driveway. Bailey scrambled to her feet, sounding the alarm, and as the woman got out, carrying a cardboard box, David and Birdie both went out to greet her. David carried the box onto the porch and carefully opened it. A small bird blinked at him from where it sat huddled in the corner of a bird poop–covered towel. “What do you think it is?” she asked.

David smiled. “It's a ruffed grouse chick,” he said, picking it up and gently examining it. “And its wing
is
injured.” He saw the concern on the woman's face. “But not beyond repair,” he assured. “I'm sure we can help her.”

The woman sighed and smiled. “Good. I didn't know what to do. I was on my way to work and I saw it by the side of the road and I couldn't just
leave
it.”

Birdie nodded. “Would you like to leave your number and we'll keep you posted?”

“Yes, I'd love to,” the woman replied.

Birdie went inside to get a piece of paper and a pen, and the woman wrote down her name and number. After she left, Birdie looked at the paper and smiled—she didn't think anyone was named Martha anymore.

David was in the barn with the little injured grouse when a man pulled into the yard and got out of his SUV with another cardboard box. David opened it, peered inside, and a juvenile barred owl blinked at him and flapped its wings in alarm. David smiled. “It's okay, missy. We're not going to hurt you.” He closed the box and had the man write his name and number on top of the box. “When she's a little further along, she should be released where you found her.”

The man nodded.

“Are you sure her parents weren't around?”

“I'm pretty sure, but I can't be positive,” he answered, sounding a little less certain than he had on the phone. “I didn't want anything to happen to her. . . .”

David nodded. “Well, I bet she'll be ready to be on her own in a week or so. I'll give you a call and you can meet me.”

“That sounds good. Thank you,” the man said, extending his hand.

David shook it and the man turned and hurried back to his car. As David watched him go, he shook his head. He was willing to bet that at least half the birds they took in weren't truly orphaned. He was certain that most had parents nearby watching anxiously as well-meaning humans scooped their babies into cardboard boxes and whisked them away to parts unknown. He often wondered how helpless and worried the parents must feel. Caring for young birds was the closest experience he'd ever had to parenting, so he could only imagine how difficult it was for a human to raise and release their offspring.

“Is it a barred?” Birdie asked, coming up behind him.

“It is,” he said, half-smiling, “but I bet she wasn't really an orphan.”

Birdie nodded and peered into the box. “Don't worry, little girl. We'll get you home.”

C
HAPTER
28

S
ailor woke up to the sound of plaintive meowing outside her window. She lazily pushed her covers down and lay still, listening. Maybe it's a cat
bird,
she mused. Catbirds—she'd learned from Birdie—sounded just like cats, hence their very original name. She sat up, swung her legs over the side of her new bed, and as her warm feet brushed the cool floor, looked around—as she'd done every morning since moving—unable to believe her good fortune. She shuffled to the kitchen and peered out the window. Sure enough, there was a cat sitting on one of the Adirondack chairs, sunning himself.
But what was that on the ground?
She stared at a lifeless brown lump, trying to decide if it had feathers or fur. “You better
not
have killed one of my birds!” she warned, praying it wasn't the female grosbeak she'd seen a few evenings earlier, but when she opened the door, she realized it was a mole. The skinny orange tiger cat looked at her with sage green eyes and swished its tail.

“What are you doing here, mister?” she asked, but he just blinked at her. She stepped closer, not wanting to startle him, but he didn't move, and when she reached out her hand, he gave it a sniff, and then a thoughtful lick. She ran her fingers over his ears and realized one was half missing. “What happened here?” she asked softly, gently stroking his head, which made him purr so loudly it sounded like a truck had turned onto the road. “You certainly are a friendly fellow,” she said softly, feeling for a collar but not finding one. “Are you hungry?” she asked, trying to think of what she had. “How 'bout some milk?” The cat stood up, stretched his long, lanky body, hopped down, and padded after her as if he'd lived there all his life.

Sailor held open the door and he followed her inside, and as she poured some milk into a dish, he sat on his haunches and waited patiently. She set the dish in front of him and he leaned forward and politely lapped it up. When he finished, he licked his paws and wiped them over his ears. Sailor chuckled and shook her head. “You're quite the gentleman . . . and as much as I'd like to keep you, I bet someone is missing you very much.”

She went to find her phone, tapped the camera icon, made a sound so he would look up, and took his picture. She looked at it. “Maybe we'll make some lost cat flyers,” she said. Then she frowned. “I mean,
found
cat flyers”—she tapped through the prompts to e-mail it to herself—“and put them around the neighborhood.”

The cat padded softly into the living room, hopped up on the new soft chair she'd bought, circled around to curl up, and closed his eyes. “And while I do that,” Sailor said, “you go ahead and make yourself at home.” She sighed, filled the kettle with water, reached into the cabinet for the coffee can, measured some grounds into her coffee press, sprinkled a little cinnamon on top, and while she waited for the water to heat, found a scrap of paper. She located her new silver Birdwatcher's General Store pencil in the drawer and started to jot down a list; at the very top, she wrote
cat food
. Then she looked out the window at her feeder and wondered how much of a threat the cat would be to her new little flock. “I'll just have to make sure you have plenty to eat.”

She poured steaming water over her coffee, waited a few minutes for it to steep, pushed the press all the way down, and poured a mug. She reached for her Bible, picked it up, and went out on the deck to read that day's passage—which happened to be from the book of Job. She read it once and then ran her fingers lightly over the page and read it again.... “
But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish in the sea inform you. Which of all these does not know that the hand of the LORD has done this? In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind.
” She looked up, wondering what message it held for her. Was it possible God wanted her to take in the cat?!

She sighed, and as she continued to watch the birds fluttering back and forth to the feeder, her thoughts drifted to the date she'd had with Josiah the night before. They'd gone to Provincetown for drinks, walked around downtown—which was always an adventure—and then stopped at Arnold's for ice cream. Josiah had been a perfect gentleman—holding the door open for her at every turn and insisting on paying for everything; she couldn't imagine why his wife was divorcing him. In the three dates they'd had, he hadn't talked about his marriage—but she'd shared everything there was to know about Frank. She needed to learn to talk less. She'd always been one to speak her mind—it was one of her biggest faults—and she often left a trail of wreckage behind her. Why was it that she always seemed to say the first thing that popped into her mind without considering how much pain it might cause? How many times, over the years, had she told Birdie to let go of the past—as if it were a balloon she could just release and watch float away? And how many times had she told Remy to stop worrying, even though she herself was probably a bigger worrywart? And how many times over the years had she asked Piper why in the world she wouldn't marry Nat? Her sisters knew her too well, and loved her anyway, but would someone like Josiah be willing to put up with her constant sarcastic, off-the-cuff remarks? Oh well, she was sixty-three
and
stuck in her ways. If the wisdom of saying less—or nothing at all—was ever going to sink in, it would've by now . . . and if Josiah was meant to be, he'd have to get used to it, too.

She sipped her coffee, making a mental list of the things she wanted to get done that day—finish working on the final sketches for her new children's book, get going on setting up book signings for the one that was coming out in a couple of weeks, catch up on her correspondence, and most importantly, figure out how she was going to proceed in her working relationship with her publisher without having to deal with her soon-to-be ex-husband. Her newest book was well under way
and
she had a contract. If she could work exclusively with Leslie, the art director, she wouldn't have to deal with Frank at all.

She heard a
meow
and got up to open the door. The orange cat sauntered outside, and without looking back, trotted toward the woods. “Will I see you later?” she called, but he didn't seem to hear her. She shook her head, gathered up her things, and went inside to shower.

She refilled her mug and carried it to the bathroom, but when she set it on the counter and looked in the mirror, she frowned. What was that bright pink stripe on her cheek? She touched it and realized it was bumpy. “Oh no,” she murmured. “Please don't tell me . . .” She turned her face and lifted the silver strands of hair that covered her forehead and saw another stripe near her eye. “I don't believe it!” she said, shaking her head. She turned on the shower, got undressed, and carefully surveyed her brown limbs and her snow-white torso—everything looked okay—but ten minutes later, when she turned off the water and looked at her reflection again, she gasped—there were angry red welts everywhere—it was as if the warm water had activated them. In her mind, she could hear her father's warning voice:
Leaves of three, leave them be!
His words had been especially directed at her because she'd proven to be the child most prone to poison ivy. “That's what I get for working in the garden,” she muttered remorsefully. “No good deed goes unpunished!”

C
HAPTER
29

P
iper kicked off the sheet with her foot and sat up. Her favorite old T-shirt—the one with
CELEBRATE FREEDOM
across the top,
READ A BANNED BOOK
across the bottom, and listed in between, all of the offending books—everything from
TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD
to
THE GREAT GATSBY
—was soaking wet. “What the heck?” she muttered, pushing her damp hair off her forehead.

“What's the matter?” Nat asked sleepily.

“I don't know. I'm just so damn
hot
.”

Nat rolled onto his side, opened his eyes, and looked at her. “Do you have a fever?”

“It sure feels like it. I just want to rip my clothes off!”

“Well, feel free,” he said. “I won't mind.”

“Very funny,” she said in a voice that wasn't amused. She went to the bathroom and then padded quietly downstairs with Chloe trailing hopefully behind her. “It's too early for breakfast, if that's what you're thinking,” she said matter-of-factly, pushing the door open to let her out, but when the big golden came back in, wagging her tail expectantly, Piper looked at the clock, realized it was almost five, and relented. “Okay,” she said, “but you're going to be hungry later.”

As she measured kibble into the dog bowl, she heard a distant rumble of thunder. She set down the food and went back outside to stand on the porch. A breeze was picking up and the dawning sky was an ominous gray.

The cool air felt good on her flushed skin so she sat down. A moment later, she heard a soft cry and stood up to let Chloe out. “Stay here,” she said and the big golden flopped down next to her. Piper was glad Chloe wasn't afraid of storms. Willow—the old Lab they'd had growing up—had been terrified of thunder and had always tried to hide under the bed. Unfortunately, only her head and shoulders fit, leaving her whole hind end sticking out . . . but she thought she was safely hidden!

Piper leaned back and watched a circle of leaves swirling in the dark sky as the thunder rumbled closer and lightning flashed every few seconds. She heard Nat close the upstairs windows, and moments later, saw him peering through the screen. “Still hot?”

“I'm better out here,” she said.

“Want some coffee?”

“Sure,” she said. “Is Elias awake?”

He shook his head. “Sound asleep.”

Piper nodded. Elias had always been a sound sleeper, even when he was a baby—fireworks, thunderstorms, loud music—if he fell asleep, that was it. He was out!

A few minutes later, Nat appeared carrying two mugs and sat down next to her. “Maybe you're hot because it's your time. . . .” he said.

“My
time?
” she said, looking up—just the way he said it raised her hackles.

“Yeah, you know.” He paused. “Change of life.”

“You mean
menopause?
” she asked, the prickliness in her voice growing sharper. Why do men have such a hard time saying words like
menstruation
or
menopause? Men
is actually in these words!

“Yes, that,” Nat said nonchalantly, sipping his coffee. “You haven't gone through it yet, have you? You must be due. . . .”

Piper frowned. Yes, it was true that she hadn't “gone through” menopause . . . and yes, it was indeed possible that was the reason she was so damn hot—in fact, right this very minute, she could feel her temperature rising like a thermometer left out in the sun, but who was he to suggest it? What did he know about it . . . really?

Nat felt her eyes on him and looked up. “What?” he asked innocently.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Well, even your mood has been a little bit . . .”

She waited but he seemed to have trouble finding the right word. “A little . . . ?”

He swallowed. “Not your usual cheerful self, I guess.”

“Really?”

“Don't take it the wrong way,” he said defensively. “I'm just throwing it out there because you seemed upset that you were . . . well, hot . . .”

She nodded, affirming she understood, but she still had trouble wrapping her mind around his observation that she was moody. Had he actually begun to use the word
bitchy
or was that just her imagination?

“You are in your late fifties,” he ventured, “and your sisters were all younger than tha . . .” He looked up and saw the venom in her eyes, and realized his error. “You know what? I'm going to let you figure this one out. You certainly know your body better than I do . . . although I do know it pretty well,” he added with a sheepish grin. “And I
love
it . . . too . . . but I think I'm going to take my coffee,” he said, getting up, “and wait for
this
storm to pass inside.”

After he'd gone, Piper looked at the sky and wondered whether he was right. Maybe she was going through menopause. She certainly was due—her sisters had all been in their early fifties . . .
and
they couldn't believe she hadn't gone through it yet.

Suddenly, the sky grew black and the wind whipped around the house, sending a pile of beach chairs clattering across the porch. The oak trees her father had planted swayed violently, sending a whirlwind of leaves swirling into the dark sky, but then, just as quickly as it had come, the wind ceased, and an ethereal light filled the yard.