Sacrifice of Buntings (3 page)

Rachel decided that, judging by the reaction of the registration staff, Becker was important He didn’t look familiar to her. Like Saxby, he was decked out in the latest birding fashion—vented shirt, pants, and a khaki vest covered with pockets. Tall, with brown hair and smallish brown eyes, he paced the length of the registration table, tugging at the corners of a thin, brown moustache.

Rachel looked at the others. Dorothy and Cecilia stood with their mouths slightly agape, swiveling their heads as he paced back and forth, like Taco Bell chihuahuas at a tennis match. Lark returned Rachel’s gaze and shrugged.

Finally Trudy returned with a wiry, gray-haired man.

“What’s the problem, Paul?”

Becker jabbed the cover of the program with his finger. “We had a deal. I was supposed to have the Saturday keynote slot, and then I open up this to discover you’ve listed me on Friday and given my slot to Saxby.”

The man named Evan paled. “Look, Paul, the committee felt—”

“Don’t give me that crap,” Becker said. “You’re the conference coordinator. It’s your decision.”

“Unfortunately, the committee—”

Becker threw down the booklet. “I’m the headliner this year. I’m the draw. Either I speak on Saturday night or you can take me off the program.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“By God, I do.”

A small group of volunteers had gathered, including Saxby, who must have been in the back.

“What’s going on here?” he Rachel asked.

“You know damn well what’s going on,” Becker responded, spinning around to face him. “For some unfathomable reason, you’ve been given my keynote slot.”

Saxby looked at Evan.

The man raised up his bony arms. “The commit—”

“Screw the committee,” Becker hollered. “You promised me Saturday night when you brought me on board. Do you intend to honor the agreement or not?”

Evan tented his fingers and pressed them against his lips. After what seemed an interminable time, he lowered them to a prayer position. “You’re right, Paul. I did promise you the slot. But—” He raised his hand to silence Becker. “That was before we brought Guy on board. Once he had agreed to attend, the
committee
”—he stressed the word—“felt that Saturday night should be his. I’m sorry, but it’s out of my hands.”

“Then I’m gone.”

“Hold on a minute,” Saxby said, stopping Becker midway to the door. Reaching out, he laid a hand on Becker’s arm. Becker sloughed it off.

“Paul, listen to me,” Saxby said. “There are a lot of people looking forward to hearing you speak. You can’t just leave. What does is matter if you speak Friday or Saturday? The turnout is always the same.”

“Then you take Friday.”

There was a collective gasp, and the entire room full of people seemed to suck in their breath.

The silence stretched.

Saxby’s eyes narrowed, and he worked his jaw.

Becker waited, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Well?”

“Why not?” Saxby said. “Like I said, Friday or Saturday, what does it matter?”

“It matters to me,” Becker replied.

Based on Saxby’s expression, Rachel figured it mattered to him too. But what could he do after making a statement saying the night didn’t matter?

“What do you say, Evan?” Saxby asked. “The programs and brochures are already printed. I’m afraid it might upset the commit—”

“Ah, to hell with the committee,” Evan said. “I’ll just announce the change, and we can slip something into the packets.” Evan clapped him on the shoulder. “This is extremely generous of you, Guy.”

“Yes,” Becker said. “
Generous
.”

His sarcasm didn’t escape any of them, and Dorothy was still fuming a few minutes later when they were back at the car.

“What a horrible man!”

“Now, Dot,” Cecilia scolded. “You don’t know why he wanted the Saturday-night slot. For all you know, he may have a very good reason.”

“Such as wanting the limelight?”

Now who was being sarcastic?
Rachel bit down on her lip.

“I know bad behavior when I see it,” Dorothy continued. “Someone needs to teach that young man some manners.”

“Who was he, anyway?” Lark asked, flipping backward through the pages of her program. “He must have a bio in here somewhere.”

“If he’s a keynote speaker, it should be near the front,” Rachel said, starting the car and backing out of the parking slot.

Lark stopped flipping.

“It says here that ’Paul Becker is a wildlife research biologist for the University of Georgia,’” she read. “’A graduate of the university, he worked with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service for twelve years before returning to UGA to head up a specialized ten-year research study on painted buntings.’” Lark looked up. “That means he works in Saxby’s department at the university.”

“Which explains the animosity,” Rachel said, turning the car onto the main road.

“How so?” Cecilia asked.

“Because Saxby’s the department head,” Dorothy answered.

“Right,” Rachel said. “And I’m willing to bet he’s tenured. Becker wouldn’t be if his bio is correct. He worked for the government for twelve years, and he’s got to be ten years younger than Saxby.”

“At least,” the others said.

“Professional jealousy,” Cecilia murmured.

“Or any number of things.” Rachel flipped the turn signal and turned left onto Hyde Island Club Road. “Project funding, personalities, office space—”

“Notoriety,” Dorothy added.

“That too,” Rachel said. “What else does it say about him?”

Lark bent over the program. “’Becker has received numerous awards for his efforts on behalf of Georgia’s endangered species. An avid birder with an emphasis on North American species, his life list totals 825.’”

“Oh my!” Cecilia blurted. “He certainly has my record beat.”

“
Our
records,” corrected Dorothy.

Lark stuck the program between the center console and the seat. “Everyone’s records. That number puts him within reach of the top ten listers in America.”

Dorothy sniffed. “Do we care?”

Rachel thought back to her conversation with Saxby about the painted buntings. “I wonder how many birds Saxby has listed. He seems like the type of guy who likes to win.”

Rachel took a roundabout way back to the hotel, circling the island to get the lay of the land. White sand beaches to the south gave way to driftwood to the north, then salt marshes. Gulls, wood storks, cattle egrets, and pelicans gave way to great blue herons and greater yellowlegs.

When they arrived back at the hotel, Saxby stood at the front desk talking to the clerk.

“But the Becker reservation is a couple,” the clerk was saying.

“I don’t care,” Saxby replied. “I want a room at least as good as the one he has, or better.”

“We’re booked solid, sir. I assure you, I don’t have any available rooms, and it’s not in my power to move any of our guests. I apologize if your present accommodations are unsatisfactory—”

“Exactly,” Saxby said. “My present accommodations are unsatisfactory. I don’t intend to accept second best here.”

The desk clerk frowned. “One moment, sir.”

The desk clerk picked up the phone, held a quiet conversation, and a minute later handed Saxby a new key. “This room is in the west wing.”

Our wing, thought Rachel.

“It’s the first suite to the left on the third floor. Our best,” the clerk said. “I’ll send up a porter to move your things.”

“Thank you.” Saxby’s response was polite, if equally stiff. He half turned, spotted the women, and smiled, nodding recognition to Rachel as they passed.

“They’re both jerks,” Rachel said.

“Who, the clerk?” Dorothy asked.

“No. Becker and Saxby.”

“Becker, yes,” Dorothy agreed as they ascended the stairs. “But Saxby just got rooked out of the Saturday keynote. Maybe Evan told him to ask for an upgrade for his magnanimous gesture.”

Rachel looked askance. “Then why didn’t he just say so?”

The rest of the
evening went smoother. Dinner was a quiet affair, and they all steered clear of talking about the scene at the registration desk. Instead, conversation swirled around common friends, Elk Park, and the excitement each felt about the next day’s trip to Sapelo Island.

Retiring early, Rachel showered, donned her pajamas, and propped herself up in bed with the program and her guidebook while Lark brushed out her hair.

“This reminds me of when we were kids having sleepovers at the Drummond,” Rachel said.

They had been friends growing up, spending their summers together in Elk Park, playing in the meadow between Bird Haven and the Drummond Hotel. After Lark’s grandfather died, she had stopped coming, but years later they had reconnected. The same summer Rachel had met Kirk Udall.

“Do you have any secrets to share?” Rachel asked.

Lark blushed.

“Dish,” Rachel demanded, scooting toward the edge of the bed.

“Eric and I are talking about getting married.”

“Really?” Rachel clapped her hands in excitement, and Lark brought her finger to her lips.

“Shhhhh.” She gestured toward the adjoining door. “We haven’t told anyone yet.”

“You will call me as soon as it happens?”

“Of course,” Lark said. “When,
if
, we make plans. Right now, we’re just exploring the idea.” She went back to brushing her hair. “What about you and Kirk?”

Rachel settled back against the headboard.
What about me and Kirk?
“We’re friends, that’s all.”

Friends who sleep together on occasion and who spend a lot of time together. But after her disastrous first marriage, Rachel wasn’t sure she ever wanted to hear someone utter the
M
word again. Not in relation to her.

“Remember who you’re talking to, Rae.”

“What’s that old saying—’once burned, twice shy’?”

“Don’t let your experience with Roger get in the way of your happiness. You’d only be letting him win that way.”

It was hard to argue with logic. Still, Lark didn’t know how awful it was to go through a divorce. It had taken her a year to settle things with Roger, and that had tainted her “friendship” with Kirk.

The silence stretched.

Finally Lark changed the subject. “What does the program say about Sapelo Island?”

Rachel felt a surge of relief that the conversation had moved on, and she picked up the booklet. “Do you want me to read from the top?”

Lark nodded.

“’State-owned and largely undeveloped, Sapelo Island is considered the midpoint of Georgia’s barrier islands, the location of the oldest remnant of Indian activity, and the probable site of the first European settlement in Georgia.’” Rachel glanced up from the program. “We have history.”

“Keep going.”

“’The majority of land was privately owned until the establishment of the University of Georgia’s Marine Institute in 1953, followed by the R. J. Reynolds Wildlife Management Area in 1969 and the Sapelo Island National Estuarine Research Reserve in 1973.’” Rachel looked up again. “We have more history.”

This time Lark made a twirling motion with her finger.

“’Descendants of the Geechee culture still inhabit the island community of Hog Hammock…’”

“What’s the Geechee culture?” Lark asked.

Rachel lowered the program. “I read about them in my guidebook,
Denton’s Guide to Coastal Georgia
. They’re the descendants of freed slaves who used to work the coastal island plantations of South Carolina and Georgia. They’re called
Gullah
in South Carolina.”

Lark set down her brush and began plaiting her hair. “What does it say about birds?”

Rachel skimmed through the write-up. “It talks about the land, then… oh, here. ’A mix of woodland, grassland, marsh, shore, and seabirds can be seen here year-round.’ Then we’re into ’Recommended Needs.’” Rachel set aside the program and scooted down in the bed.

“Okay, so we should see some terns, some buntings, and hopefully some eastern warblers tomorrow,” Lark said, her voice tinged with excitement. “Does the program say who the trip leaders are?”

Rachel reached for the program, and rescanned the page. “’Recommended Needs,’ ’Trip Rigor,’ ’Leaders’! Evan Kearns and—”

“Who?”

Rachel handed Lark the program. “Guy Saxby.”

Five a.m. came early the next morning. Rachel sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her eyes, and watched Lark bustle around the hotel room.

“You are a definite morning person,” Rachel said. This was her time zone, and she was dragging while Lark virtually bubbled with energy.

“I’m serious, Rae. Birding buses don’t wait for anyone, not even trip leaders. They’ll leave without us. Do you have all your stuff?”

Rachel pulled her fingers through her hair and thought about it. She was wearing a long-sleeved shirt over her tank top,
check
, long pants,
check
, socks and tennis shoes,
check, check
. Her binoculars were inside her backpack along with a field guide, a Georgia checklist, insect repellent, sunscreen, water, snacks, and some money for the ferry and lunch. As an afterthought, she added her travel guide and the program with the field trip description.

“How about your name badge and your trip ticket?” Lark asked.

Those were items Rachel had forgotten.

Snatching her badge holder off the bedside table, she slipped it around her neck and stuffed the ticket in behind the name tag.
Check, check
.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, stopped, and scooped her auburn curls into a ponytail, feeding it through the hole in the back of her cap and forcing upon it some semblance of control. Swiping a final layer of sunscreen across her nose, she said, “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Then let’s go.”

The hallway was empty, which meant either everyone else was sleeping, or the two of them were running quite late. Based on Dorothy’s pacing of the foyer, Rachel guessed the latter.

“There you two are,” Cecilia said, shoving a cup of coffee into Rachel’s hands. “We need to hurry.”

Lark drove. Rachel waved at the one or two protestors standing at the end of the drive. Five minutes later they pulled into the parking lot at the convention center.

“That’s the bus. You had better step lively,” said a volunteer, wearing a beige sweatshirt embellished with the conference logo. She pointed them toward the bus—a retired Greyhound, painted green, with “Okefenokee Swamp Tours” stenciled on the side in hot turquoise.

Rachel climbed the steps and found herself standing in an aisle between two rows of worn, cloth-covered seats. Birders packed the inside. Birding scopes, backpacks, and jackets were jumbled into the overhead storage, and Guy Saxby sat front and center, holding out a hand for their tickets.

“Glad you could join us, ladies.”

Rachel worked to extricate her ticket from behind her name badge with one hand. Giving up, she tried handing her coffee cup to Dorothy, who kept staring at Saxby and wouldn’t respond. She must not have read her program book. “Dorothy!”

The woman startled, a pinkish stain flooding her face. “Sorry,” she mumbled, taking the cup.

Rachel suppressed a smile.

Dorothy continued to preen while Rachel fished out her ticket. The older woman shifted her weight from side to side, fluffed her hair with her free hand, and chattered nonstop to Cecilia about how excited she was to go on this particular field trip.

“Here you are,” Rachel said, handing Saxby her ticket. She waited for Dorothy to notice she was ready to take back her cup.

“Thank you,” Saxby replied, gesturing for her to pass.

“You’re welcome.” She signaled Dorothy to give back her cup. Dorothy just kept up the patter.

“I can take that back now,” Rachel said.

Dorothy’s face grew redder.

By the time Rachel had recaptured her coffee, Lark had moved to the back of the bus. Rachel followed, winding her way through the elbows that jutted out into the aisle. Behind her, Dorothy pulled Cecilia into the empty front seat reserved for the second trip leader.

“Check it out,” Rachel said, slipping past Lark to sit next to the window. “Dorothy has a crush on Saxby.”

“Dorothy and half the women on the bus.”

There was truth in that statement. A lot of the female birders had crammed themselves into the front seats, where they twittered like a sacrifice of female buntings lusting after the feeder bird. In the back around Lark and Rachel sat mostly couples and a few stray men.

Rachel watched Dorothy laugh at something Saxby was saying, and then watched Saxby smile. It seemed like he was going to let them stay in the reserved spots. Settling back against her seat, Rachel closed her eyes and listened to the snatches of conversation floating around her. From what she could tell, the birders comprised an eclectic bunch—young and old, rich and poor, experienced and relative beginners. Based on some of the terms being bantered about, several were clearly professionals—people who either specialized in bird-related areas or had made birding their postretirement profession. Across the aisle were a housewife and her daughter, a student from the University of Georgia. A doctor, a dentist, and a lawyer rounded out the seating, with at least one pseudo-auto mechanic giving someone directions on changing the oil in a BMW. This was a bus full of people, Rachel decided, who came from all over, united by only one thing—a desire to see birds.

A burst of static caused Rachel to open her eyes. The passengers quieted, and Saxby rekeyed the mike. “Hello.”

“Hello,” the groupies in the front parroted.

“Are we ready to go birding?”

“Yes,” the groupies replied.

“I can’t hear you in the back. Can you all hear me?”

Heads bobbed.

“I asked, are we ready to go birding?” Saxby raised his voice and held out the microphone.

“Yes,” the busload responded.

Rachel sipped her coffee.

As if on command, the old Greyhound sputtered to life. A white mist spewed from the vents, and a murmur rippled through the bus. Saxby leaned toward the driver—a tall, well-built man with a short brush haircut. He grinned into the rearview mirror.

“It’s okay, folks,” he said in a deep Southern twang. “It’s just the swamp cooler kicking in.”

The ladies in the front giggled.

Saxby smiled. “This is Dwayne,” he explained, gesturing toward the driver. “One announcement: Evan Kearns can’t be with us today. He was scheduled to be my co-leader, but some changes have occurred in the weekly program, and he needed to stay behind and orchestrate things.”

Rachel and Lark exchanged glances.

“We’ve been more than compensated for his loss, however. We have several people taking this trip who are more than qualified to take his place.” Saxby pointed out two men seated in front of Lark and Rachel. “Would you two mind raising your hands, gentlemen? Folks, if you have any questions about what you’re seeing and you can’t find me, these are the guys to ask.”

The bus lurched forward, and Saxby grabbed for a handrail. Rachel instinctively checked her watch.
A definite on-time departure!

“Now, we have a half-hour’s drive to the ferry,” Saxby said, “so sit back, relax, and let me tell you a little bit about Sapelo Island.”

His voice droned on with information straight out of the program book, and Rachel leaned over to Lark, keeping her voice low so no one could hear her. “He’s really more Sean Connery-ish than you think.”

“Oh, please.”

Rachel put her finger to her lips. “Seriously, he’s got the nicely trimmed moustache, the beard, and his eyes are to die for.”

Lark wrinkled her nose. “Right, if you’re Dorothy’s age.”

“Is that what bugs you, his age?”

Lark checked to see if anyone was listening and then leaned closer to Rachel. “Remember how I said he had a reputation?”

“The Indiana Jones of birding.”

“Right, well the same goes with the ladies, and rumor has it he likes them young.”

“How young?”

“Too young.”

“Do you mean like underage?”

“Not that young.”

“And you don’t approve.”

“No!” Lark looked shocked. “Do you?’

Rachel had never given it much thought. She knew a few couples with age differences, and they seemed happy. Meanwhile, she and her ex-husband had been close in age, and look what had happened to them.

“Doesn’t it bug you when movie heroes are paired with women half their age?” Lark asked.

“Maybe a little,” Rachel admitted, and she couldn’t deny, it had creeped her out when Saxby had given her the once-over at the nature center. Tucking her feet up in the seat, she watched Dorothy flirt across the aisle through the notch between the headrests. “Maybe turnabout is fair play,” she said, jerking her head toward the front of the bus. “In this case, rather than a she’s May and he’s December romance, she’s December and he’s August.”

Lark stuck her head out into the aisle and then quickly pressed back against her seat. “He’s October,” she corrected, “which means we have nothing to worry about.”

• • •

Rachel must have dozed off, for the next thing she knew she was jolted awake as the bus lurched to a stop in front of the Sapelo Island Ferry building. Propelled by the salty sea air and a bevy of birders, she made her way onto the boat; a half hour later, she found herself standing at the rail scanning the Sapelo Island shoreline.

Waterfowl was scarce, the sign of an early spring, though several flocks of birds dotted the beach.

“Does everyone see the great black-backed gulls?” Saxby asked, pointing along the beach. “Beyond them is a flock of terns. On the far left, you’ll see a gull-billed tern.”

Rachel peered through her binoculars and panned the shore.

“Do you see it?” Lark asked.

“No.” Rachel swept her glasses over the huddled terns, butts to the shoreline, their faces tipped to the wind. “Wait, does it have a black crown and a short black bill? Sort of light gray, with a white breast?”

“That’s it.”

“I count more than one.”

“There are twenty-four,” Saxby affirmed. “Does everyone have them?”

A murmur passed through the crowd.