Bird After Bird Page 3

  He smiled. “That’s not too intimate for a first date?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Is this a date?”

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind if it was, I guess.”

  I smiled. He pulled the blanket over his lap, but didn’t slide any closer to me on the swing.

  We swung for a bit, and I asked him questions about the house and about his art. The conversation turned to art history, and I was pleased that he knew so much about it. “I just started going to the Art Institute sometimes,” I said. “It’s such a big place, I never know where to start. What’s your favorite period?”

  “I couldn’t say, but lately I’ve had a real taste for Titian,” he said without missing a beat.

  “Got a thing for redheads, do ya?”

  He grinned, looking down for a moment like he hadn’t expected me to make the connection between the artist famous for painting women with hair the color of my own. He reached for his beer and had a quick sip. “Maybe.”

  “Laurie, I think you’re flirting with me.”

  I felt his hand reach out for mine beneath the blanket.

  “Maybe I am, Wren.”

  His hand was warm, rough and calloused, but I liked that. So different from the soft, manicured fingers of the guy I was dating in Chicago.

  Chicago. My home. The city where my life awaited.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled my hand away from his reluctantly to check it. My assistant, Darcy, didn’t usually text me on the weekends, so I was surprised to see her icon on my screen.

  -Total 911 on Monday. Call me tomorrow.-

  I sighed.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Work.”

  Gently, he took the phone from my hands.

  “What are you doing?”

  He scrolled through the phone’s menus and I fought the urge to grab it back. “Ah, there it is,” he said. He showed me the screen. “Contacts. I’m putting my number in here. Okay if I call my phone with it so I’ll have yours?”

  I smiled. “Sure. Why not?”

  “Maybe I’ll get up to Chicago sometime. We can go walk around the Institute together.”

  As he handed me back my phone, he brushed so close I thought he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to. My hand closed partially over his as I took the phone back, and I think I surprised us both when I gave him a kiss on the cheek. His expression glowed as he pulled away to see my face.

  “You always kiss on the first date?” he asked.

  “Not usually until after the duct-tape,” I said.

  While he laughed, I realized I did want to stay and kiss him. His arms were strong and his laughter so sweet, I wanted to stay on this swing in this moment forever. I felt like a schoolgirl, and I couldn’t stop smiling.

  The blanket and the rocking must have lulled me half asleep, because the mating hoot of a barred owl woke me some time after. “Who cooks for you?” it sang.

  Next to me, Laurie was sketching.

  “Are you drawing me with spit running down my cheek?”

  He smiled. “You’re beautiful. Couldn’t resist.”

  “You’re too sweet, Laurie.” I stood and stretched. “Sorry I fell asleep on your porch. I guess I’d better go. Thanks for rescuing me tonight.” I meant it more than he could know.

  “Sure you know how to get back to the main road?” He offered me his arm as we made our way down the steps to my car.

  My car. “Shoot. Do you need a ride back to your car?”

  “Left it here,” he said. “Billy was my ride tonight, so, really, you rescued me.”

  “Ah. You owe me, Mister.” I yawned as I said it.

  He opened the car door and I climbed inside.

  “Text me when you get home, let me know you made it, okay? Or you could stay here…”

  “I’ll text you,” I said.

  “Sure. I’ve heard that one before.” He was joking. Had to be. I doubted any woman who caught Laurie’s eye would be able to toss him aside.

  I winked, putting the car into gear.

  “Well, I mean it,” I said before rolling the window up and steering the car away.

  I left the cabin feeling better than I had when I arrived.

  When I got back to Dad’s house I realized it was the first time since Dad’s cancer that I regretted moving so far away.

  Chapter Six

  Wren

  The next morning, there was a knock on the door. Expecting the realtor, I pulled my hair into a messy bun and threw on some clothes. “Just a second!” I brushed my teeth as fast as I could.

  Out the window I saw a white-haired gentleman. Not the realtor.

  I opened the front door expecting to give directions to some lost traveler or send my regrets to the local chapter of a religious sect.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Wren! Glad I caught you.” The man held a small box in his arms with an old, familiar field guide on top. It took me a second, but I recognized him.

  “Mr. Price! Come on in.” I held the door for him and he entered the house, taking an apprising look at the living room.

  “Spiffed it up for the sale, I guess? Heard you put the place on the market, so I wanted to bring these by.”

  Mr. Price had been my math teacher sophomore year in high school, and he was the sponsor of the Math Club. Although my dad taught at the school in the next town, the two of them had become fast friends early on in their careers.

  I hadn’t seen him since the funeral and I felt bad about that now. He’d aged more in the last year than I would have expected.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Price. I’ll put some coffee on.”

  “Two sugars,” he said with a smile as he settled comfortably on the old couch. “Glad you didn’t do this old thing in. I know a lot of folks will just redo a house totally when they’re staging it.”

  “Didn’t have the heart,” I admitted, calling to him from the kitchen. There was a breakfast bar separating the living room from the kitchen, and a series of coffee mugs hung on hooks from a row of cabinets mounted over top. I reached for two. “Would you like the cardinal or the jay?”

  “Jay, please.”

  I wondered if he’d noticed I’d packed Dad’s Boilermaker mugs away. If he did, he was kind enough not to mention it.

  As the coffee brewed, I joined him in the living room, taking a spot on the loveseat perpendicular to the couch.

  “So, you got any bites yet?”

  “Not sure. Thought you were the realtor knocking, actually.”

  “Well, sounds like I came by just in time.” He handed me the field guide. “Borrowed that from your dad a few years ago. Made the mistake of showing him snapshots of some birds we spotted on vacation, and asking him to ID them.” He grinned. “I’m sure you’re all digital now—do you still bird, Wren?”

  “You know it,” I said. I could hear the coffee finishing, so I went and poured for us, adding two sugar cubes to Mr. Price’s and a boat full of creamer to my own. “Sort of took a break from it for awhile, but I’ll never give it up completely.” I carried the mugs to the living room. “We’ll have to use the side table—the realtor practically carted that coffee table out the moment I signed the listing contract.”

  “Yeah, it had seen better days, for sure. We’ll manage.”

  I handed him his mug and set my own down, then I picked up the field guide I’d left in my spot. “I remember this old thing. I think it’s the very one we took on our birding trip the year Mom passed.”

  He nodded, sipping his coffee and setting it aside. “Your dad said as much. The year’s written on the inside flap.”

  “So it is,” I said, opening it to look. In Dad’s hand, the words THE TWO BIRDITOS were written right after it. I smiled.

  “The thing is, Wren—and I apologize, I should have told Walt this years ago—but I found a photo inside.” He opened the box he’d brought with him and pulled a faded print out. It was a photo of my mother, the year before she’d gotten sick. Sh
e had long red hair like mine, but hers was straight instead of curly. In the photo, she was posed in front of a window and natural light was streaming in, catching some of her lustrous mane in shades of caramel and firelight.

  “Wow. Thank you.” I’d seen a copy of this same photo before, but it was larger, framed on the wall of my grandparents’ house. They’d died not long after my mom, their only child. Dad had packed all their things and as far as I knew they were still in a storage unit somewhere in Birdseye. It was one of the estate details I hadn’t yet dealt with—I paid for the place and thought someday I’d go through it. I just hadn’t found the time.

  “I knew I should have given it back, but your mom was…well, you know this, but Lark was special. I couldn’t bear to part with it. I think you should have it, though.” I looked at the photo for a moment, fighting back tears. It had been awhile since I’d seen anyone who knew my parents, and talking to someone who loved them in their prime was bringing on the grief I worked so hard to keep at bay. “You’ve grown into a woman she’d be proud of. Both your parents would be proud. Your dad never stopped talking about you, you know that?”

  “You’re going to make me cry in my coffee, Mr. Price.”

  “Call me Kerry if you want.”

  “Okay, Kerry.” I laughed, and he smiled with pleasure. I handed him the field guide back. “I want you to keep this. Dad would have wanted me to hound you to keep at it. It’s a great hobby, you know. Gets you out there into nature, it’s citizen science at its best—“

  “Well, to be honest, I’ve gone digital, too, Wren. Got probably seven different apps on my phone for spotting birds. Matter of fact, I’ve been donating some time and money to the Lake Wildlife Club. I guess you could say your old man rubbed off on me in that regard. He got me started and I just sort of decided to run with it when he got too sick to get out there and count birds, pick up trash, and stuff like that.”

  “Go, you,” I said. “I volunteer for Crane Days up at Goose Pond Fish and Wildlife Area once a year, myself. You should come up this year!”

  “I plan on it,” he said, before another sip of coffee. “I’ve never seen a Whooping Crane and I really want to check that off my list before I kick the bucket.”

  “You want another cup?”

  “Just one.”

  As I went to refill it, he said, “I’ve got more to show you, though.”

  I hurried back with his mug and he handed me the box. It was small, about the size of a videocassette sleeve or one of those pencil boxes we used to take to school. Inside was a stack of snapshots, some older than the one of my mom.

  “What are these?” There were a lot of faces vaguely familiar, and some I flat-out didn’t know. A series of snaps from the lake in summer seemed to be portraying a big barbecue, or a camp-out.

  “Oh, I don’t know if you remember, but when you were little—before all the couples started running after their own kids’ extracurricular stuff—we used to do an annual Memorial Day party out on the lake. Did it for about three or four years, I guess. Some would camp overnight, some just stop by for the day, but for most of us teachers, it was the highlight of the school year. Back then, school would let out and we’d pack up for the lake, stay up drinking beer and trading war stories from the year before. Do some fishing. Good times.”

  I flipped through the photos. They weren’t studio quality like the one of my mom, but there she was again, holding hands with my dad. A little blur with long red hair I thought was probably me ran in front of them. Another photo of Kerry and my Dad taken from behind, their legs hanging off the edge of a dock, fishing poles in hand. Mom & Dad kissing, each of them holding cans of beer behind their backs. Me on my Dad’s shoulders, in the lake, my hair plastered to my head. There were other kids in the water and I squinted, trying to make out their faces.

  “This is awesome,” I said. “Are you sure you don’t mind parting with these?”

  “Not at all. I want you to have them.” He stood and approached the love seat, gesturing to the spot next to me. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  He sat and started pointing out the people in the photos. “Those were the Thompsons. They moved to Lafayette, took their boy Doug—he was about your age, I think.”

  “Mmm.” I barely remembered him. I flipped to the next photo. A little girl with long red pigtails was running up a hill toward a picnic table, holding the hand of a little boy, toddler age.

  “And that’s Wren Riley, right there,” Kerry said, “with little Larry.”

  “Larry?”

  “Oh, that’s not right. It was something like that, though. Lenny? Not Leroy. At any rate, that one had a sister your age, I think. That was the last year the Byrds came to the picnic. Had a baby the following year and I think they just had their hands too full to make it. Either that, or maybe it was because Lynda got fired from the school office for spreading dirt about the principal.”

  I stared at the photo, and Kerry kept talking. Something about the picnic, horseshoes, other minute details. That man remembered everything, it seemed, but the name of the little boy in the photo.

  “Could it be…Laurie?”

  “Lori! Yes! Weird name for a boy, isn’t it?” He laughed, getting up and taking his coffee mug to the kitchen. “Well, kid, I gotta hit the road. I just wanted to make sure you got these things before you sold the house, because…”

  “Because I don’t come around. I’m sorry.” I started to tell him it was because of work, that my job kept me insanely busy and Chicago was so far away, but he smiled and pulled me into a crushing bear hug before I had the chance.

  “Like I used to tell your dad, ‘Lark’s gotta sing, a Wren’s gotta fly.’ You don’t owe me nothing, kid. Just wanted you to know you still got friends down here, is all.”

  He saw himself out, and I waved as he drove away.

  If Darcy hadn’t texted me again about the work emergency, I might have pored through the photos for the rest of the day waiting for the realtor to call.

  -Can you call me ASAP? Major Auto Maker is blowing up your email and I think you need to pacify them tonight, mitigate the tension before tomorrow’s meeting. Troy’s out, you’re back in.-

  That really did sound serious. Whatever Troy had screwed up, I was going to have to work overtime to fix it. No time to waste.

  Just let me check in with the realtor and I’ll be on my way.

  Chapter Seven

  Laurie

  The chickadees hit my bird feeders hard the next morning. Their little black caps and white breasts made such great contrast, they were a joy to sketch. I sipped my coffee and worked, waiting and hoping a Carolina Wren would alight on one of the suet cakes.

  Wren.

  Before I knew it, I was sketching a bird from memory. That seemed to evoke their presence, and before long a mated pair of wrens were buzzing around the windows, twittering with their feathered friends.

  Just drawing wasn’t hitting the spot, though. I had a painting class to teach that evening, and I got up to inspect the work on the canvas—the covered one that I hadn’t let Wren see the night before.

  It was good. Probably close enough to call finished, even though I hadn’t touched it for months.

  I went to the mantel and picked up the framed 8 x 10 of the model. Smiling, blonde, pretty, just the way I remembered her. I didn’t normally paint portraits, but this one had meant a lot to me.

  “Yeah, I think you’re just about complete,” I said, opening a drawer on my art cabinet and putting the photo inside.

  I took my sketchbook to the front porch, where I’d left the blanket from the night before. The spot Wren had fallen asleep in seemed preferable to my normal side of the swing, and I wrapped myself in the blanket we’d shared. It smelled like her, some light floral perfume she must have been wearing.

  I thought about texting her, but it was probably too soon.

  As usual, the house was quiet, except for the sound of the occasional passing car and the
songs of birds. I’d always loved the peace of this cabin, but today it felt too quiet. It felt empty. The leaves were budding out giving me the privacy I loved, I had plenty of food in the fridge, all the chores around the place were done, but there was no doubt about it: something was missing.

  “Well. Let’s go for a drive, then,” I said. For the first time in a long time I didn’t want to be home alone.

  I took my sketchpad and pencils and let the road guide me.

  Chapter Eight

  Wren

  I don't know why I returned to Dad’s birding spot on the lake the next day. After Mr. Price left, I packed my ditty bag and hit the road, but still felt like I’d left something behind. I turned my purse inside out, but everything was there—phone, keys, sunglasses, lip gloss…what else does a girl need?

  I texted the realtor, and he said the couple had other houses they were checking out. I should have been able to take the route to the highway unfettered, but for some reason I just couldn’t bring myself to leave.

  “I left one of those Arnold Palmer bottles at the lake,” I said. “Here this very morning I just talked up conservation with Kerry Price and I’m a first-class litterbug. This will never do, Wren.”

  I couldn't head back to Chicago with that hanging over me.

  Before I could make it to the spot where I’d gone to read Dad’s letter the night before, I got a text from Troy.

  -Babe, dinner tonight?-

  I thought about texting him back that I’d already heard he’d screwed up one of our biggest accounts, but I thought better of it. I dialed Darcy’s number, instead. Might as well get the skinny first.

  She answered on the first ring. “Boss. Deep doo doo.”

  “First of all, I don’t want you working on Sundays. That’s above and beyond your job description.”

  “Noted, but whatever—I’m earning that raise.”

  “You earned it before we gave it, but forget about that now. What happened with MAM?”