Firefly Summer (9 page)

C
HAPTER
17

B
irdie pulled back the shower curtain and reached for her towel. She started to dry off, but then slid the towel away and looked at her reflection. She sighed. It was no wonder David wasn't aroused by her body anymore—she was an old, sagging, wrinkled woman, and although he insisted it wasn't her, she fully believed that if he had a gorgeous twenty-something lying beside him, it would trigger some signs of life.

She continued to dry off, taking comfort in the fact that she wasn't the only one in the “no-sugar-in-my-coffee” club. Both Remy and Sailor were members, too, although Sailor now had potential sugar in Josiah Gray. Piper, on the other hand, with her “own personal Christian Grey,” would probably have sex on her deathbed. “What an awful thought,” she chided herself. “What
is
wrong with me? Not only am I old and wrinkled, I'm bitter, too.”

She smoothed Oil of Olay under her eyes and onto her tan, ruddy cheeks, and then smoothed more onto her neck, which, she'd decided long ago, was a lost cause. “I'm still putting in the effort, though,” she murmured. “I'm still believing there's hope for my wrinkled, old chicken neck.”

She pulled on her shorts, buttoned her blouse, hung up her towel, threw her laundry in the hamper, and went into the bedroom to make the bed. As she smoothed the sheets, she gazed at the center of the bed—once the scene of so much lovemaking.
Never again,
she thought gloomily. David didn't want to take the “little blue pill” or any other color pill for that matter. He was worried about the side effects, and since she didn't want to pressure him into taking something he thought might be harmful, they didn't talk about it. So that, she guessed, was the proverbial
that
. At first, she'd been relieved—she could just go to bed and go to sleep, but now the idea of never making love again left her feeling lonely and grieving for a part of life they'd never share again.

As she pulled the quilt up, she recalled the first time she'd laid eyes on David Camden Snow. Oh. My. Goodness. Was he handsome! They'd both been freshmen at Cornell and they'd serendipitously showed up for the same introductory meeting of the ornithology department. It was 1967, but she remembered it as if it were yesterday. She'd been sitting in a row by herself reading William Styron's new novel,
The Confessions of Nat Turner,
and waiting for the meeting to start when she felt someone standing beside her. She'd looked up and there he was—a handsome, tweed coat–wearing boy with a square jaw and aristocratic nose.

“Excuse me,” he said, and when she finally came to her senses, she realized he wanted to sit down. She stood up so he could get by and then watched as he sat two seats away. He seemed distracted and slightly disorganized, but when he looked over and saw what she was reading, he chuckled, and held up a copy of the same book.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I'm not very far,” she said, “but I think it's amazing. He reminds me of Faulkner.”

The boy nodded. “I think it's extraordinary, and to think Styron's a Southerner! It makes it all the more powerful.”

Birdie nodded, barely hearing his words because his eyes were so . . . so strikingly blue. “I'm David,” he said, extending his hand. “David Snow.”

Birdie swallowed. “I'm Bir . . . I mean Martha. Martha Quinn. . . but my family calls me Birdie.”

David smiled. “Is that because you love birds?”

“Actually, it is,” she said with a smile. “My mom said I loved watching the birds when I was little, and since she and I share the same name, my family just started calling me Birdie. I've loved birds my whole life . . . especially the snowy owl.”

“I like owls, too. The barred is my favorite.”

“Who cooks for you?” she said with a grin. “Who cooks for you aaaalll?”

David laughed at her mimicking the owl's call. “Hey, that's pretty good!”

She smiled and nodded shyly.

When the meeting ended, David walked out with her and then, with an unassuming confidence, asked her if she'd like to go see a movie that weekend—he'd heard
The Graduate
was pretty good. Birdie had agreed.

A week after that, they went to see
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner
. . . and on their third date, he took
her
to dinner. Afterward, he snuck up to her room because her roommate was away, and they talked all night. One thing had led to another, and before she knew it, they were standing by the back door in the half-light of dawn, kissing good-bye.

Birdie sighed—those were the lovely old days, the days before life had become heavy and full of heartbreak. She straightened out the covers and then sank to her knees, her eyes filling with tears. She lightly traced the pattern on their Amish quilt, closed her eyes, and rested her head on her hands. “I know it's been a long time since You've heard from me, Lord,” she whispered. “I'm sorry I've turned out to be such a miserable wretch. I have so many things for which to be thankful . . . but I just wish things had turned out differently. I wish
everything
had turned out differently. I wish You'd blessed us with children . . . and I know, if You'd only let Easton live, all of our lives would be so much better right now.”

David—who'd come up the stairs with a cup of coffee for her—stood outside the door, listening to her pray, and tears filled his eyes.

C
HAPTER
18

R
emy smoothed sunscreen onto her speckled arms. It was too late, she knew, to save her tired, old skin from sun damage. She was freckled
everywhere
—some spots were the size of nickels! Not to mention the wrinkles! The last time she saw Dr. Sanders, though, he told her to use sunscreen every time she went outside. Even though her skin was damaged from years of lying in the sun
and
burning, he'd said, it still needed protection. He even gave her the name of a dermatologist and said the dermatologist would be able to spot little things he might not see. Remy had tucked the card away, and now she doubted she could even find it, but she was using her sunscreen,
and
even though he'd said SPF 30 was enough, she'd bought 75!

Remy looked at her reflection and sighed. She'd read a book, or maybe it was a movie she'd seen—she couldn't remember which—about a woman who'd written a letter to her younger self, warning her of all the pitfalls that lay ahead in her life and how to avoid them. Remy had found the idea intriguing, and afterward, she'd thought about the warnings she'd give
her
younger self if she had the opportunity. She remembered thinking she'd warn herself to make sure Jim took better care of his heart. She'd also tell her not to worry so much about the kids, because, after all, Sam
was
found when he got lost at Boy Scout camp, Eliza was able to walk again after she broke her leg skiing, and Payton did get into the college of her choice—Amherst, not Middlebury—despite having low SAT scores. And now they were all happily married with families of their own. Yes, she had definitely spent too much time worrying!

Now, though, she'd also warn her younger self not to spend so much time in the sun; to use copious amounts of sunscreen, wear a hat, rent a beach umbrella, and do everything possible to protect her skin. She'd tell herself to not worry about having a golden summer tan—it wasn't worth it, because if she did, someday, she'd just be an old, brown speckled hen!

She pulled an old T-shirt with cranberries on it over her head—she remembered buying it at the original Cuffy's—be-fore the store closed for a year—
or was it two?
She couldn't remember. She reached for her hat, tied her sneakers, and opened the door. Immediately, she heard little paws padding across the floor as Edison scooted between her legs and out the door. “Good morning to you, too, sir,” she said with a chuckle.

She closed the door and headed down the driveway for her daily constitutional around Great Island. She walked the trail every day—no matter what the weather—and she never grew tired of it. There was always something new to see; just the other day, she'd seen a common yellowthroat sitting right in the middle of the path, and when she knelt down to see if it was injured, it fluttered up and latched onto her finger. She decided it must have been a baby, just learning to fly and not knowing enough to be frightened.

Birdie was always interested in hearing about the birds she saw, although she didn't always believe her. “There aren't any of those around here,” she'd scoffed when she'd told her she thought she saw a brown pelican. “It was probably a gannet.”

As Remy stepped onto the trail that meandered along the coastline of the island, she remembered how her sisters had raved about her pie the night before and even asked her to make another one for the next time. “There's no better compliment!” she'd said, smiling, “but I think I might make blueberry next time.” “That would be good too,” they'd all said, nodding as they walked to their cars, and then Birdie had tripped and almost fallen. Piper had asked her if she wanted a ride, but she'd said no, she was fine. Thinking back now, Remy wished Birdie had let Piper give her a ride. They shouldn't have let her drive—she'd drunk the whole bottle of wine she'd brought and then she'd started in on the bottle of white she'd brought for Sailor. The problem was, if they'd tried to stop her from driving, she would've been furious.

Remy stepped out into a clearing along the tip of the island—from which there was a gorgeous view of the bay—and stopped to watch a small brown-striped bird walking along the shore, its hind end bobbing up and down as it moved. “What a funny bird,” she murmured, wondering what it was. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something else move and looked up to see a red-tailed hawk watching the little unsuspecting bird, too! “Nooo!” she shouted in horror, clapping her hands and startling both the hawk and the bird. She could almost hear Birdie's scolding voice, “
The hawk has to eat, too
.”

“I don't care,” she mumbled. “He can eat somewhere else.”

As she passed the rock outcropping she knew to be about halfway, she felt the sudden urge to use a bathroom. She hadn't even had her tea yet! She'd only had a small glass of water, which she now regretted—water always went right through her.
How do you stay hydrated when water doesn't spend any time in your body?
she wondered.
When it just takes a direct route from your throat to your bladder?
She looked around—she knew other people liked to walk the trail in the morning, and now that it was Memorial Day other hikers might come around the bend any moment. She trudged on, looking for a secluded spot into which she could duck and relieve herself. She hated when this happened, because now, instead of enjoying her walk, all she would think about was where she could
go
. . . and she worried what would happen if no opportunity presented itself. Would she make it home? She shook her head in frustration and remembered the time when she was a girl of about twelve. She'd been riding her bike when she suddenly realized she had to
go
right then! There was no way she'd make it home. She tried straddling the crossbar of her bike, but that didn't help, and then, all of a sudden, she panicked and just couldn't possibly hold it anymore. She'd never forget the warm sensation trickling down her legs, soaking her pants. She'd been utterly humiliated . . . and then the situation had gotten worse! A family she knew stopped next to her in their car to see whether she needed a ride home. “No, thank you,” she'd said nonchalantly, praying they wouldn't notice her wet pants.

Why did she always remember the awful moments? She looked around desperately, and finally hurried into the scrubby pine underbrush, dropped her shorts, her eyes filling with tears of relief.
What a sight I must be—a sixty-five-year-old woman crouching in the woods with my big butt waving in the wind . . . and if anyone comes along, there's no way I can put the brakes on!
Just then, she heard voices and her heart started to pound. “Oh, Lord, please don't let them see me . . . and please don't let me have a heart attack in this position!”

C
HAPTER
19

S
ailor rinsed out the wine bottles and began washing the dessert plates and glasses. She didn't usually leave dishes in the sink overnight, but after her sisters had left, she'd been too tired to deal with them. She looked out the kitchen window—it was another beautiful spring day and she was anxious to get out in the gardens and figure out what plants were there. But she still had so much to do inside, not to mention she needed to go food shopping.

She dried her hands, popped a stale chocolate Munchkin in her mouth, and washed it down with the last of the cold coffee. Then she looked around for a pencil and a scrap piece of paper. She didn't find either but when she opened the fridge, she realized she didn't need a list because she needed
everything
. She looked at her phone—it was 9:15 . . .
and
it was Saturday, so she'd better just skip her shower and go right to the store or she'd be there at the same time as the thundering herd.

Twenty minutes later, she turned into the Birdwatcher's General Store parking lot. On her way down Route 6, she'd remembered she wanted to get a bird feeder and some seed for her new yard and she'd decided she should do it before she went food shopping. She climbed out of her car and stepped onto the porch of the long gray building.

“Hey, Mike,” she said when she saw the owner standing behind the counter.

“Hi!” Mike said jovially, giving her a little wave.

Sailor knew he didn't know who she was, but that was okay—he was really a friend of Birdie's. For many years, Birdie had led guided bird tours on the beaches and marshes of Cape Cod for the Massachusetts Audubon, and she'd even stayed at the famous Outermost House before it washed away in the winter hurricane of 1978 that buried all of New England in snow, so Birdie's and Mike's paths had crossed many times over the years, and Birdie always sent bird lovers to his store.

Sailor had been in the store countless times, by herself
and
with Birdie (in fact, it was the perfect place to find gifts for her bird-loving sister)—which reminded her—she needed to get a gift for Birdie's birthday too! She headed across the worn wooden floor in the direction of the bird feeders. There were so many from which to choose—tube feeders, house feeders, shelf feeders, suet feeders, window feeders, and feeders specifically designed to stymie the efforts of squirrels and raccoons—feeders with perches that dropped when something heavy was on them; feeders in cages; and posts with baffles. There was even a video playing on a loop in the back of the store of a squirrel hanging on for dear life with his hind feet while his little arms were stretched out like Superman's as the motorized base of the tube feeder spun wildly.
It's truly amazing how much time and energy we humans spend trying to outsmart the pesky little varmints!

She selected a small, simple tube feeder, a bag of sunflower hearts, and then stood in front of the birdbath display. Finally, she decided she would come back at a later time to get a birdbath, after she straightened out the gardens—it would be her incentive!

While she waited in line, she noticed the cover of a thin volume she'd read years earlier. She'd always been drawn to the simple illustration of a quail on the cover and she picked it up again and glanced through it.
That Quail, Robert
was the true story of a little quail that had been hatched from an egg and raised by a woman on the Cape in the early sixties. Robert—who turned out to be female—had all kinds of funny habits and Margaret Stanger's story was a poignant tribute to the little quail's life and to the love she shared with her humans. Sailor stood there, wondering if Birdie had ever read it, and finally, she added it to her pile, along with a Susan Boynton coffee mug that had her famous characters on it singing “Happy Birdie to You,” and stepped forward to pay.

“Did you find everything?” Mike asked.

Sailor nodded and then noticed the silver pencils in a can on the counter. “How much are the pencils?”

“They're free,” Mike said, smiling and pointing to a sign above him, “
if
you can tell a good joke.”

Sailor frowned, trying to think of a joke. “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully, looking around. She spied a hummingbird feeder hanging in the window. “I have one!”

“Go,” Mike said and waited with raised eyebrows while everyone around them stopped to listen.

“Why did the hummingbird hum?”

Mike looked puzzled. “Hmm . . . why did the hummingbird hum?” he mused thoughtfully. “I don't know. Why
did
the hummingbird hum?”

Sailor grinned. “Because he didn't know the words.”

“Bada-bing!” Mike said, smiling and ringing the bell above the counter—a signal that someone had just told a good joke. Then he handed Sailor a pencil.

She smiled as she walked out, and as she put everything in the backseat, she heard her phone
beep
. She looked at the screen. It was a text from Josiah.
Coffee?

She got in the car, rolled down her windows, and wrote back.
I'm in Orleans . . .

She stared at the screen, thinking about all she still needed to do—she hadn't even gone to the store yet . . . and soon, it would be mobbed.

She shook her head slowly.
Hot Chocolate Sparrow's?

She sighed. She knew she was going to regret not going to the store, and then, just as she pulled into the coffee shop parking lot, she remembered she hadn't even taken a shower yet! She looked in the rearview mirror and groaned—
what
had she been thinking?!