Beach House for Rent Read online

  As lovely as everything appeared, inside she was feeling a great deal of dread at meeting her new landlady. She wished her father could just get the key and let this Mrs. Rutledge leave.

  As though reading her thoughts, her father called out, “Ready?”

  Heather darted a quick glance at her father. His face was an open book. Clearly he hoped she could be brave and not turn heel and run screaming. As filled with apprehension as she was, Heather couldn’t do that to him. Or to herself. This is it, she told herself. There was no turning back. She had arrived at her destination, and today she was moving into this sweet beach house for the summer. She turned again to the yellow cottage. It was some consolation that the house did, in fact, resemble the photographs. If the inside was anything like the outside, she felt she would be able to manage.

  Heather lifted her chin. “Ready.”

  Chapter Four

  HEATHER PUSHED OPEN her car door and, to her surprise, felt a delightful breeze sweep over her. Cool and refreshing. She caught the scent of something floral floating through the air. Not at all the press of heat and humidity she’d been expecting. The air was as balmy as a spring afternoon should be, she thought. Stretching in the sunlight, she held her arms out, embracing the breeze more fully. After hours confined in a car, it felt heavenly.

  The chirping of her canaries caught her attention.

  “Lend me a hand with the birdcages, Dad?”

  David was by the trunk hoisting out her large suitcases. Every square inch of the car was tightly packed with boxes crammed full of possessions Heather couldn’t live without, from clothing to her computer and books to the special health foods that helped her anxiety.

  Heather carefully lifted a small travel birdcage from the car and handed it to her father. It was covered with an old pillowcase. From beneath she heard the strident, curious call of the bird. David took the cage and began his trek through the scrubby grass to the front stairs. Heather murmured reassurances as she retrieved the two other cages, then slammed the door with her hip. Once on the porch, she set the birdcages at her feet and waited for someone to open the wooden door. It was freshly painted a brilliant blue and had a weathered door knocker in the shape of a mermaid. She wiped her hands on her pants. She was habitually nervous when meeting new people, and her palms were already sweating.

  The door swung open. Standing in front of her was a beautiful woman, tall, slender, and so striking it caught Heather by surprise. She’d been expecting someone middle-aged, soft and sweet with blond hair, not this chic woman of indeterminate age with full dark hair pulled back into a high ponytail. She was casually dressed in tight jeans and a crisp white cotton blouse, rolled up at the sleeves. The woman’s gaze shifted to the birdcages at their feet with uncertainty—perhaps even amusement—before a wide grin of welcome spread across her face.

  “You must be the Wyatts!” she exclaimed.

  Heather felt like shrinking into her shoes, confronted with such poise and confidence, but her father displayed no such reluctance. He’d always been his most comfortable and charming among comely women. He stepped forward, an amiable grin on his face.

  “We are indeed. And you must be Cara Rutledge?”

  “Guilty.” Her dark eyes shifted. “And these are the birds I’d heard about?”

  Heather nodded mutely.

  “Well, come in, please!” Cara exclaimed, stepping back to allow them to pass.

  Heather bent to pick up a birdcage in either hand and, careful to avoid eye contact with Cara Rutledge, hurried into the house. Inside, she was struck by the welcoming scent of fresh paint and polished wood. Someone had worked hard to prepare the house for her arrival. The walls were painted a pale ocean blue, and the floors were covered with large grass rugs, giving it a coastal feel. The foyer was very small, just an entryway to the large, open living room. Looking in, she saw two plump upholstered chintz chairs on either side of a coffee table topped with a tray holding fresh flowers. It looked like an old English cottage with a beach spin. Old-world yet fresh. On the right she caught a glimpse into a small galley kitchen and a bedroom beyond. To the left, a narrow hall led to more rooms.

  “Welcome to Primrose Cottage,” Cara said as she closed the door behind them. She spoke with the authority of the mistress of the house. “It’s a small house, but it’s cozy. It used to belong to my mother and she passed it on to me. Much of the furniture and artwork is original to the house, though I’ve updated it some for rental.” Cara paused and looked around the house, and her face softened with a wistful expression. “But it’s still very much the same place.”

  Heather’s first impression was that the little beach house was perfect. Not big, shiny, and new. Rather the cottage was filled with the charms of a vintage house—moldings, built-ins, and old-world quality. She felt right at home the moment she stepped into the house.

  “You probably want to find a place to put your birds,” Cara offered, noting the birdcages weighing down Heather’s arms.

  “Please,” Heather said.

  “Maybe the sunporch?” Cara lifted her arm, directing their attention to the back of the house.

  Heather felt a surge of delight. The possibilities fluttered in her mind as she hurried across the living room, lugging her cages, David and Cara trailing in her wake.

  “I didn’t know there was a four-season room!” she exclaimed.

  “We just built it,” Cara explained, pushing the French doors open wider so they could fit the cages through. “I didn’t have time to update the website photos before you rented. It all happened so fast,” she added with a light laugh.

  Heather set her two cages on the white wrought-iron, glass-topped table. Her father deposited the final cage beside the others. That done, she looked at the wall of windows bringing in great shafts of sunlight. It had a pretty effect on the room, but she worried it was too much light for her birds.

  As though reading Heather’s mind, Cara walked to a window and pulled on the string that lowered a sunshade. “These shades will control the sunshine and heat in here. You can lower the shades and still see through them. You’ll appreciate that on days when you want to cut the glare but not feel cooped inside.”

  Heather met her father’s gaze and knew they were both thinking the same thing. Cara could not have known how important it was that Heather not feel cooped up inside the house.

  “There’s a ceiling fan, too,” Cara added, pointing overhead. “I recommend that during the nights and early mornings you turn off the air-conditioning and let the ocean breezes cool you. The ocean sounds are like a lullaby. I live on the creek side of the island, and though I love looking at the wetlands, I miss the sound of the ocean while I sleep. On super-hot days, though, keep those doors to the house closed and turn on the AC.”

  She turned toward the ocean and her voice softened. “But you will love this view. We wanted to offer maximum opportunity to enjoy it year-round.” She pointed. “That ocean lot in front was left to conservation and will never be built on, so the view is guaranteed.”

  David whistled softly. “That’s a lucky break.” He stood at the open window, hands on hips, taking in the wide expanse of ocean view.

  “More than luck. It was determined by a friend of my mother’s. Mr. Bennett was a sea turtle expert and hoped to set a precedent for conservation. As it turned out, no one else followed suit. This is the only lot that’s been left to conservation that I know of, which makes it all the more precious.”

  “It certainly adds to the value of your property.” His eyes gleamed with appreciation. “Yes, sir, it’s a very special spot.”

  “The deck isn’t quite finished,” Cara said, assuming again the role of landlady. “We still have to add some more decking and finish the stairs and railings. You’d better not go out there until it’s done. Someone will come by tomorrow to work on it. I hope it’ll be finished this week. I do hope that’s not an inconvenience.”

  “That’s no problem at all,” David assured her. He
looked at Heather. “I know Heather is happy with the sunroom. Aren’t you, honey?”

  She nodded and smiled briefly. In her mind, she was working out where to put the cages.

  “You’ll love the deck when it’s done,” Cara assured Heather. She turned to look out again through the glass. “We have several white rockers that will go out on the deck after it’s stained. Brett, my husband, is painting them even as we speak. You’ll be able to sit out there and enjoy the sunsets like a proper islander.” She paused. “My mother and I used to sit out every night, just the two of us, and watch the sun go down, before she . . . passed away.”

  Cara’s voice trailed off and she quickly turned her head from the view and looked at Heather, catching her gaze. Though surprised, Heather shyly smiled in return. She felt a sudden, unexpected bond with this fellow motherless woman.

  “My sympathy. When did your mother pass?” David asked.

  “Ten years ago this summer,” Cara replied, turning back to face David with a perfunctory smile. “Her name was Olivia Rutledge, but everyone called her Lovie. You’ll likely hear stories about her from some of the islanders. Everyone knew her and, I daresay, loved her. She was kind of an institution on Isle of Palms. She was the island’s first turtle lady.”

  Heather brightened. “Has . . . has turtle season begun?”

  “We’re just starting to walk the beaches this week. We don’t have any nests yet.” Cara wiggled her brows. “But soon!”

  “Maybe you could paint one,” David suggested to Heather.

  “I could try.”

  “That’s right,” Cara said with interest. “You’re an artist.”

  Heather looked at her hands, feeling that choking sensation she always experienced when put on the spot. “I-I’m not in galleries or anything like that. I do illustrations for textbooks.”

  “Don’t be modest,” David said, his chest expanding with pride for his daughter’s accomplishments. He extended his arm her way. “Heather was just awarded the task of painting shorebirds of the southern Atlantic Coast by the United States Postal Service. They’re going to make stamps from her work. She had to beat out several other contenders to win the commission. It’s a great honor to be selected.”

  Heather felt a bit embarrassed by her father’s boasting. She explained in a soft voice, “That’s what I’ll be working on this summer.”

  “Really?” Cara said, obviously impressed. “I’ve never met someone who paints stamps. Do you paint very, very small?” She lifted her fingers to indicate the inch size of a postage stamp. “I would think that’s very hard on the eyes.”

  A laugh escaped from Heather. She shook her head, knowing full well Cara was joking. “Thankfully, no.”

  “And you’re doing shorebirds. I’m glad they’re getting the attention they deserve. Pelicans especially. They’re my favorite. I think everyone’s,” Cara added.

  Heather felt encouraged by Cara’s enthusiasm. She walked over and began lifting the covers from the birdcages. Immediately the canaries began jumping from one perch to another, chirping, obviously excited to be back in natural light. Heather watched them like a mother hen, checking for any trouble wrought by the long journey. She was pleased that they appeared to have done just fine. They were sprightly, tight-feathered, and healthy-looking. Their chirping was melodious and sweet-sounding to her ears.

  “So those are canaries?” asked Cara.

  “Yes. They’re the sons of champions,” Heather said proudly. Her beloved canaries were the one subject she could open up about without feeling anxious or forced.

  Cara drew near the cages, making smacking noises with her lips. It was a common mistake people made with caged birds. Heather knew that in a moment Cara would be sticking her finger into the cage. She wanted to tell Cara not to stand too close to the cages. Most people didn’t realize canaries were not like the ever-popular parakeets. The most she could muster was “Canaries don’t like to be touched.” Her voice was so soft she wasn’t sure Cara heard her.

  “Oh,” Cara said, and immediately stepped back. “They’re charming birds. So pretty. I hope I’ll get to hear them sing someday.”

  “You won’t be able to not hear them,” David said with a laugh. “Those birds sing all day. And I mean all day.”

  Heather was grateful to him for smoothing over the awkwardness created by her shyness.

  “I remember my grandmother had a canary in her front room on East Bay Street,” Cara said, reminiscing. “It had the prettiest pagoda cage. She adored that bird. But I don’t see many canaries anymore. Not any, really.” Cara again addressed Heather. She seemed determined to draw her out. “You’re quite young. How did you get interested in canaries?”

  “My mother always had a canary,” Heather said simply. She caught her father’s eye and he returned a sad smile of understanding.

  Heather didn’t remember ever not having a canary. After her mother died, she’d taken care of Hanzie, her mother’s Belgian Waterslager. The little yellow bird’s song lifted her spirits during the desperate days of her mourning. She’d missed her mother terribly. Heather had talked to Hanzie, pouring out her grief-stricken heart to the bird as though she were talking to her mother. In some ways, that little bird had saved her. Not long afterward she got a second canary, this time the popular American Singer. She quickly fell in love with Pavarotti’s robust song. When Hanzie died, she spent weeks researching breeders and at last found and bought another rare Waterslager. Then, as happens, a neighbor who was moving had asked if Heather would please adopt her American Singer, bringing her collection of canaries to three.

  Each bird was a pet with his own personality and quirks. Heather spent hours studying the small birds—their behavior, the way they moved, how they expressed their personalities through cocking of the head, tweets and chirps, positioning of their bodies. They were her first bird models and taught her how to pay attention to the telling details. Her work with the birds prompted her focus on art and led to her career illustrating birds and small animals for textbooks. They were, in short, her muses.

  “Well, if the birds are settled,” Cara said, indicating the living room. She was clearly ready to move on to business. “Let’s take a brief tour of the house. I’ll try to answer all your questions. But don’t worry,” she said, offering Heather a quick smile. “You’ll have my home number and you can call me anytime.”

  Heather returned the smile politely but doubted she’d ever call. She found her poised, self-assured, striking landlady quite intimidating.

  TWO HOURS LATER Cara had provided her new tenants with a thorough tour of the beach house, taking the time to make sure Heather knew how to work all the appliances. She also provided a thick portfolio that included not only household information but also emergency numbers, groceries, restaurants, local shops, and assorted other services. Heather watched Cara drive away in a gold VW convertible bug, not quite the car she would have imagined the stylish woman driving. As much as she liked Cara Rutledge, Heather felt a great relief that she was gone and at last she could truly relax.

  “That woman is a wonder,” her father proclaimed as they closed the door.

  “Yes. A force of nature.”

  “She was very thorough. The folder of information is jam-packed. I thought she was very thoughtful, didn’t you?”

  “I do,” Heather replied hesitatingly. “But a bit reserved.”

  “That’s class,” he said with authority. “She’s from an old Charleston family. One of the originals. Probably a DAR. I’m surprised she’s not wearing pearls. Count your blessings—you probably won’t see much of her. Some landladies like to get in your business.” Her father turned to face her and placed both hands on her shoulders. “My dear. How are you? Do you like it here?”

  Heather cast a sweeping glance around the front rooms. “I do,” she replied, and was pleased to find she meant it. “I feel comfortable here. Not quite at home yet, but I suspect that will come.”

  “Well, I think you’
re all set. Everything is out of the car. I double-checked.” He shifted his weight, a frown of worry creasing his brow. “Are you sure you don’t want your car delivered?”

  Heather shook her head. “We’d just have to have it driven back to Charlotte at the end of summer and that’d be a hassle. I don’t need a car. I can always call a cab or have food delivered. And I can get a bicycle. Or walk. There’s a grocery store on the island. I’ll be fine.”

  Her father didn’t look convinced.

  “Besides, you brought enough food to feed an army. I wonder if they have Uber out here?”

  “I doubt it. But it’s quite a hike to the grocer’s. That reminds me—Natalie and I have a housewarming gift coming for you. Delivery is scheduled for next week. I tried to get it here sooner, but—”

  “What is it? A Crock-Pot? Please don’t let it be a Crock-Pot. I will never use it.”

  He laughed. “No, not a Crock-Pot. And don’t bother guessing. I won’t tell you. You’ll just have to wait. But I think you’ll like it. You’ll certainly use it. At least, I hope you will.”

  “Then thank you in advance, Daddy.” She stepped closer to deliver a kiss to his cheek.

  Standing at the front door, he gave the house a final look around. “I guess that’s that. You’re settled in.”

  “I am.” She sensed his reticence to leave. But the hour was growing late and her father had a four-hour trip back to Charlotte. “Are you sure you can make the drive back? You can spend the night if you’d like.”

  He waved his hand. “Nah, I’ll be fine. You know me. I like to drive.”

  Heather realized then that she’d misread him. He was, in fact, eager to leave. To get back on the road to his new wife who was, undoubtedly, waiting for him with a cocktail and dinner. David lifted his wrist to look at his watch. It was the gold Patek Philippe that her mother had given him on their twentieth anniversary. He never wore another, not even now that he’d remarried. Heather was glad to see it. It reminded her that, even as things changed, some things remained the same.