Beach House for Rent Page 11

  Once her clothing was unpacked, the top priority was setting up an office/studio. Her work with shorebirds was, after all, why she’d selected Isle of Palms to spend the summer. Heather chose the sunroom for its light, but also because it made her feel like she was outdoors. She spent so much of her time indoors in Charlotte that she longed to go out more, to feel the fresh air on her face, to explore new destinations. The sunroom was for her a magical place that was part inside, part out. A step in the right direction. She erected her easel where it would catch the best light, and moved a small bookshelf in from the living room to house those texts she’d brought with her from Charlotte. She took great pleasure in lining up her different pencils, getting them ready for the inspiration she hoped would come. Stacking her sketch paper and notebooks was akin to laying the bricks for the big project ahead.

  Heather took an odd pleasure in doing the simple tasks. Accomplishing them silenced that negative voice in her ear and gave her a bit more confidence that she could actually make it living alone. Over a quick lunch of an egg salad sandwich, she opened her computer and did a few chores online. She checked her emails and found the garbage and recycling pickup dates.

  In this manner the next several days continued. Heather took small steps to make the beach house her own. She felt very much alone, like an explorer in a new world as she prowled through all the drawers, snooped through closets and cabinets. She didn’t discover much of interest, just the usual utilitarian items found in most rental houses. She rearranged a few pieces of furniture, laid her favorite comforter on the back of the sofa, and took great satisfaction adding some of her own personal items. On the mantel she placed a silver-framed photograph of her and her mother taken shortly before her death. They were laughing with such joy and life. There was another of the family together at the Grand Canyon. One of her grandparents. She placed her favorite books on the shelves, lit a scented candle. In an extravagant gesture, she ordered new linens online. When they arrived at the end of the week, she couldn’t wait to put them on her bed. And after several days of checking an empty mailbox, she hooted with excitement when she received her first piece of mail. It was verification that she lived here.

  None of the changes she’d made were dramatic. She was simply nesting. It was important that she noticed the changes, that they made her feel more at home. It was making a small statement that this was her house—at least for the summer. Declaring to the world—and most important, herself—that Heather Wyatt was beginning a new chapter in her life.

  At the end of her first week living alone Heather stood at the sliding doors of the sunroom staring out at the evening sky. She had just closed and locked them, as she had every night since her arrival. Not exactly the courageous behavior of a woman breaking old habits, she thought.

  Bo had not returned to work this week. She missed seeing his warm smile, hearing his cheery “Hello!” and his conversation. The job wasn’t done. Heather wondered when he’d return . . . if he’d return.

  Out in the great sky, a full moon provided a breathtaking trail of rippling light along the ocean, a direct path to the stars. Heather was filled with a sudden, overwhelming sense of yearning. The moon, the stars, the sea, life . . . they were calling to her. She felt the pull at her heart.

  She felt the coolness of the glass as she placed her hand against the windowpane. It was a solid thing, transparent, but one that kept her looking at the world outside from her safe haven indoors. Her fear kept her as caged as her canaries. The glass windows were no different from their metal bars.

  MEMORIAL DAY CAME and went. A swarm of people had descended on the island, horns honking, clogging the roads and filling the beaches. Heather watched them from behind her window. Countless brightly colored towels spread out on the sand, families gathered under large umbrellas, young mothers hovered over young children building sand castles, people bobbed and splashed in the surf. Even though it was real life, watching it from behind glass had the same effect as if she were watching it all on television.

  May was over and tomorrow June began. Heather felt a keen sense of urgency. After all, she’d come to Isle of Palms to sketch live shorebirds in their natural habitat. She couldn’t delay her commission any longer. Creating a small postage stamp was a long, intense process. Developing it easily took two to three years from application to when the Postmaster General approved the final art. As they’d told her when she was awarded the commission: “Work small but think big!”

  She’d submitted her proposal to the Postal Service a year earlier. Her proposal had passed the first set of rigorous reviews, a feat she’d never dared hope to achieve. The committee was highly selective and chose from a wide scope of both ideas and artists. Once the subject was approved, extensive verification by the committee had to be performed on each detail of a stamp’s design. The production procedures were complex. Now Heather was beginning the creative phase. For each stamp she’d create a series of sketches and drawings to develop the design. Working with the art director, she’d explore different approaches to the topic. It was a mountainous task that involved many hours of work. She had to complete dozens of sketches of select shorebirds in different settings, then send them for review. The committee would select four to six, and from these she would create paintings for the judges. Out of these, only one or two would be selected for national stamps.

  It was a great deal of work for not a lot of money. Nor recognition. Most people didn’t know who the artists were behind the stamps. But the dollar amount didn’t figure into her decision. Where else would her work enjoy an audience of millions of people throughout the United States and around the world? To see her art on someone’s letter in the post—that was priceless.

  Filled with resolve, Heather sat at the glass-topped iron table she’d converted to her work desk and pulled out all her previous research on shorebirds of the East Coast. Another artist had been assigned the task of shorebirds of the Pacific coast. Narrowing the scope to the Eastern Seaboard still left her with a large number of species that frequented the shoreline. From this list she’d selected birds from the most-endangered and most-threatened lists.

  Soon Heather was enveloped in her work. She created a large tri-fold poster board to which she could add her photographs and sketches. Then she pinned up her list of the Ten Most Wanted Birds to discover on the beach.

  1. Piping plover

  2. Long-billed curlew

  3. Wilson’s plover

  4. American oystercatcher

  5. Red knot

  6. Least tern

  7. Sanderling

  8. Ruddy turnstone

  9. Sandpiper

  10. ?

  Number ten was going to be a gut choice, she decided. A shorebird she fell in love with that demanded she paint it. Leaving the element of surprise in the process kept her open to new ideas as she worked. Especially in nature, Heather found she had to trust her instincts as much as, or more than, her intellect.

  Her first job was the not inconsiderable task of actually getting outside. How many of her fellow artists had to deal with that challenge? Doesn’t matter, she told herself, focusing. All that mattered was that she couldn’t procrastinate any longer. No excuses. She tapped her pencil against her lips. Perhaps if she went out to the beach at dawn? When there were few people walking about? That would be a good way to start. And she had to start somewhere.

  Decision made, Heather fetched her backpack and laid it out on the table. Tomorrow she would rise with the sun and venture out before the crowds arrived. It would be a first foray to get a feel for the landscape and scout out where the shorebirds hung out. She packed only a few things—her binoculars, notebooks and sketch pad, and drawing pencils. The zipper hummed in the hush of the room. It bolstered her courage.

  Chapter Eight

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Heather awoke to music playing on her phone. The room was filled with the soft, pewter-gray light of predawn. She threw back the sheet and, rising, felt the usual sweltering h
eat of a closed-up room.

  Today was a day for positive thinking and new initiatives. She quickly dressed in the clothes she’d laid out the night before: lightweight khaki-colored nylon fishing pants and shirt, her typical uniform when she did research. She hurried to the dimly lit sunroom, needing to draw a moment of strength from her precious companions before venturing out of doors. Her canaries were still one-legged puffballs on their perches. They jerked their heads up, startled, and began chirping as though to say, Why are you up before the sun?

  “Sorry, sleepyheads,” she crooned to the birds. “I’ll be back to feed you soon.” She slipped into her sandals, grabbed her backpack, and, resolutely ignoring the roiling sensation in her stomach, stepped outside.

  Dawn by the ocean was a world fresh and new. Lifting her face, Heather breathed deep the moist air. A hush hovered over the land. Feeling the birth of adventure in her heart, she hoisted the backpack onto her shoulder and climbed from the side of the as-yet-unfinished deck to the ground.

  She followed the narrow, winding beach path that cut through the dunes. The sand was cool and damp with dew. In and around the plants along the dunes she saw the narrow scratches of ghost crab trails. Suddenly the path opened up, and she stood before the vast vista of sea and sky as dawn broke around her. Great shafts of rosy light spread across the gray sky. The beach below, washed clean by the tide, shimmered in the pearly tints of the sunrise. Here and there she spotted horseshoe crabs dotting the beach, waiting for the next tide. This thrilled her because she knew that these creatures—twice as ancient as the dinosaurs—were laying eggs. And these nutrient-rich eggs were a feast to migrating shorebirds.

  To her left a long swath of beach led to the pier miles away. From the maps she’d studied, that would be Front Beach, where shopping, hotels, and restaurants clustered. To her right, the beach curved where it met Breach Inlet, a no-swimming area of turbulent water; just across was the northern end of Sullivan’s Island. This was where she’d read shorebirds were more likely to gather. Only one way to find out, she thought. Heather adjusted her backpack and took off to the right. As she walked, the pink light of dawn spread out to stain the entire sky and shimmer on the moist sand below. It was so beautiful it felt unearthly—almost like a fairy tale.

  She smiled as a small group of sandpipers ran across the beach in their comical, stiff-legged gait, searching for their morning meal of crustaceans and insects. She pulled binoculars and a notebook from her backpack. Looking more closely at the birds, she made out the yellow legs and dark, ruddy brown coloring and corrected herself: “Least sandpipers.” Lowering the binoculars, she put a check mark next to the name and noted where she’d spotted them. Heather paused, chewing the end of her pencil. She thought that was correct—but truth was, sandpipers were hard to distinguish from other “peeps” in the genus Calidris. There might have been a couple of semipalmated sandpipers in the mix. She tucked the binoculars back in her backpack, knowing she’d have to return to photograph them to capture the distinguishing marks that could be frustrating for casual bird-watchers.

  During the spring and fall, shorebirds migrated in large numbers along the Carolina coast. Birdlife on the beaches was a sight to behold. Many of the shorebirds were just passing through. These beaches were important way stations for migrating birds, and they were hungry after traveling thousands of miles. Other birds stayed for the summer to nest and raise chicks, then left again in the fall. Still others made the Carolina beaches their winter homes.

  Heather stopped short, listening, her heart pounding with excitement. Near the inlet she spotted numerous shorebirds poking in the sand and skittering from point to point, creating a cacophony of sound that, to her, sounded like a song of welcome. She stopped a fair distance away so as not to disturb them as they foraged for food. This was what she’d come for!

  She sat on the cool sand and pulled the binoculars from her backpack. Resting her elbows on her knees, she peered at the birds she’d spent hours researching up to now only in books. In the brightening light she recognized royal terns, least terns, black skimmers, oystercatchers, and plovers, taking care to check off the species on her list. She felt elated when she spotted the endangered red knots that came to feast on the horseshoe crab eggs. Heather lowered her binoculars, grinning from ear to ear. It was so much more vivid and compelling to see them alive in their habitat, and it was the first time Heather could recall feeling real, unbridled joy in quite a while.

  She had only meant to stay a short while, but she hadn’t expected to see a cornucopia of shorebirds. So many on her list . . . She pulled out her sketchbook and began to draw. To create an authentic rendition, she had to observe a bird’s interaction with its own and other species, its hunting pattern and diet, and how it ate, built its nest, raised its young, found shelter. She’d come to the right place. She’d concentrate on the chunky medium-size red knots today, high on her list of endangered shorebirds. They’d be moving on soon. There would be ample time for her to observe, photograph, and sketch other birds she needed for the stamps.

  Her hand moved quickly over the paper as she drew the red knots. She was lost in concentration when she heard an excited bark, loud and gruff, coming from behind her. Heather jerked her head up to see a brown Labrador charging right for her—and the birds. Heather leaped to her feet and spread out her arms to chase the dog away.

  “Stop!” she shouted, waving her arms madly. “Get out of here! Go away!”

  The dog didn’t even slow down. It simply detoured around her and headed straight for the birds, still barking enthusiastically. Heather turned, mouth agape with shock, to watch the entire group of shorebirds scattering in the wind. The dog barked after them, tail wagging, having a good ol’ time.

  Heather stood staring at the now-empty shoreline with her arms limp at her sides, breath ragged and all earlier sense of peace as dispersed as the birds fluttering in the sky. And things had been going so well! Against her will, she felt the hot prick of tears behind her eyes, and angrily brushed them away.

  A woman in a pink jogging outfit trotted closer with an angry scowl on her face. She was twice Heather’s age and size, with an air of entitlement.

  “What’s your problem?” the woman shouted at her.

  Heather turned, perplexed, toward the angry woman. She couldn’t respond.

  “It’s no-leash time on the beach!” the woman shouted, clearly irritated that her dog had been perceived as misbehaving.

  Heather felt her insides tighten as her fists clenched at her sides. Her mouth worked but no words would come out. She wanted to tell this woman that it wasn’t the leash that was a problem; it was the fact that her dog was chasing the birds to begin with. It wasn’t cute when a dog—or a child—scattered a flock of birds on the beach. One seemingly fun moment could spell disaster for shorebird families. Especially the migrating birds; forcing them to fly or run caused them to use up valuable energy for their journey. But Heather couldn’t explain any of this to the woman, her breath still evading her. She could only clutch her sketchbook to her chest and point to the birds squawking and circling in the sky, hoping she would understand.

  “What?” the woman demanded.

  Heather wanted to run away. Even a year ago, she probably would have. But she’d come so far to run away now. She gathered her courage and finally squeaked out, “Your dog is chasing the birds!”

  The woman looked at the birds, and then turned back. “So what? That’s what dogs do!”

  Heather felt as she had in high school when classmates had taunted her and she couldn’t say a word back. She just stood there, offering no resistance, wishing she could just disappear, hoping she wouldn’t throw up.

  The woman walked closer and started thrusting her finger at her as she made her point. “It’s people like you who ruin vacations. Busybody! I paid three thousand dollars for a week here and I’m following the rules.”

  Heather was trembling, but she felt the need to stand up for herself. This woman di
dn’t understand. She had to explain, not just for herself but for the birds.

  “The birds . . . they’re feeding.”

  The woman glared at her. “And?”

  Heather took a deep breath. It was very difficult to form words. “It’s not good for them to chase them.”

  “Godiva is just playing. She does this every morning. It’s none of your business.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve never seen you around here before—where do you live? Are you even supposed to be on this beach? What’s your name?”

  Heather just stared at her mutely.

  After another few moments, the woman scowled once more, then waved her hand in rude dismissal and turned her back, shutting down any further discussion. But to Heather’s relief, she at last called the dog to her side. Thankfully, the Labrador obediently returned. She watched the insufferable woman jog off, her dog trotting faithfully at her side.

  Heather was so shaken by the confrontation she felt light-headed, a sure sign a panic attack was about to happen. She couldn’t prevent it, but she could try to manage it. She stared out at the calm ocean and took deep breaths. “Take it easy,” she told herself. “You aren’t in any real danger. It’s just symptoms of panic.”

  She clenched her fists and sat down on the sand, willing herself to pay attention. “I accept that I’m feeling afraid at this moment. But it’s only a feeling. I accept it won’t kill me. This feeling is the worst that will happen. I just need to ride it out.”

  Heather remained in the same spot and continued talking to herself in a calm, placating voice. It was like counting to ten when she was mad. More and more of the shorebirds returned to cluster along the gulley and at the lapping shoreline. The waves rolled in and out in a regular pattern, and Heather matched her breathing to their ebb and flow. Gradually she felt her body relax and the panic attack subside.