CHAPTER 14
“Did you fall in?” Birdie called up the stairs.
“Very funny,” David called back from behind the closed bathroom door.
“I’m leaving.”
“Do you want me to drive you?”
“No, no,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Well, let me know if you want me to pick you up.”
“Why would I want that?” she asked, sounding annoyed.
There was a pause while they read each other’s minds. “Okay,” he said resignedly. “Have fun. Give your sisters a hug.”
“I will,” Birdie said more cheerily, feeling briefly emancipated from his judgment.
“Call if you change your mind.”
There it was again. “Okay,” she said to appease him, but as she limped to the kitchen, she muttered, “I won’t change my mind, and if you remember correctly, I’m not the one who backed into the lamppost.”
She checked her bag to make sure she had everything, eyed her crutches, decided she didn’t need them, slipped the bottle of pinot grigio that Alec, the new owner of the package store, had described as “crisp and elegant with hints of apple and citrus,” and the bottle of “PM” he’d said was “all the rage” into her bag. “It’s from the Patagonia region,” he’d said. “You’ll love it!” and although Birdie was old enough to be Alec’s grandmother, he was just so darn cute, with his short blond hair, blue eyes, and those stylish rectangular glasses—and so passionate about his recommendations—that she believed he could talk her into buying Boone’s Farm!
Birdie limped toward the door, trying to balance everything, and realized Bailey was waiting expectantly. “Oh, hon,” she said, kissing her sweet forehead. “You have to stay home with Dad tonight.” The old Lab gazed at her solemnly. “I know you want to come,” she explained, “but I’m not going to Piper’s. I’m going to Sailor’s . . . and Chloe’s not going, either, so don’t look so sad.”
Bailey folded her old limbs, clunked heavily to the floor, and put her head between her paws. “I’m sure Dad will take you for a walk, though,” Birdie consoled. Then she called through the ceiling, “Please take Bailey for a walk!” She listened to her husband’s muffled reply, assumed it was yes, and said, “See, I told you . . .”
She opened the door. “I’ll be home soon,” she said as the Lab’s forlorn eyes followed her out the door. “Next time, Bay, I promise.” Bailey sighed heavily and Birdie shook her head as she limped toward her ice blue MINI Cooper Clubman with the license plate that read: SNWOWL. “Even the dog knows how to make me feel guilty!” she muttered, looking heavenward. “My life is just one big guilt trip, Lord. I should’ve been born a Catholic.”
On a normal day, Truro was a twenty-minute ride, give or take, from Orleans, but as Birdie pulled onto the rotary and turned onto Route 6, she groaned—traffic was bumper to bumper. “Who are all these people?” she mumbled, and then she remembered it was the Friday before the Memorial Day weekend. She heard her phone beep and looked down. Piper had texted: Want me to pick you up? She merged into the right lane, stopped in the barely moving traffic, slid her finger across the screen, and started typing: Already left. Traffic is . . . She heard a loud honk behind her and looked up. The car in front of her had moved all of ten feet and she hadn’t kept up. As she rolled forward, she looked in her rearview mirror, gave the man behind her a wilting look, and resumed typing: terrible. See you th . . . There was another long, impatient honk, and when she looked up, she saw they’d moved another ten feet. She looked back down, finished typing her message, hit Send, and then looked in her rearview and held up her middle finger. As they continued to creep along at a snail’s pace, she looked back to see how the disgruntled driver behind her was doing, decided he was on the verge of blowing a gasket, and took her almighty sweet time the next time, too. She was sixty-seven, after all, and she deserved a little respect. . . and she was a full-time resident! “Someone needs to take a chill pill,” she muttered, shaking her head.
Moments later, the left lane started moving and the man pulled into it, and as he blew by, he returned her gesture and raised her one rude expletive.
“Back at ya,” Birdie said with a smirk as she clicked on her radio.
People began to gradually turn off Route 6 toward their destinations and the traffic began to move. Birdie glanced over at Arnold’s as she drove by. She couldn’t believe there was already a line curling around the building. “It’s definitely summer,” she said with a sigh.
A few minutes later, she turned onto Old County Road and into a sandy driveway straddled by a white picket fence. “Can you believe I finally got my picket fence?” Sailor had said when she’d been giving Birdie the directions.
“This is nice,” Birdie murmured as she parked behind Remy. She could see her sisters look up from where they were standing in the garden. She reached for the plate of Caprese salad—fresh tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil, drizzled with balsamic vinegar—and handed it to Sailor through the window.
“Mmm, this looks good,” she said, smiling.
“The basil’s from my garden,” Birdie said as she picked up her cumbersome bag, clanking with bottles, and gingerly stepped out.
“Where are your crutches?” Remy asked, frowning as she gave her a hug.
“Oh, I don’t need those old things,” Birdie said. She turned to Sailor, hugged her, too, and pulled out the bottle of pinot grigio with the festive ribbon tied around its neck. “I’m told the palate is full and ripe,” she said with a smile.
Sailor chuckled. “Is that what your favorite gay package store owner told you?”
“It is,” Birdie admitted with a grin. Then she frowned. “Do you really think he’s gay?”
Sailor nodded. “I love the label,” she said, admiring the da Vinci drawing. “And I do because he’s way too cute to be straight.”
Birdie laughed. “You’re probably right.”
“And what did you get for yourself?” Sailor asked, eyeing the second bottle.
“Malbec,” Birdie said, holding out the bottle of Phebus.
“Did he talk you into it?”
She chuckled at how true her sister’s observation was. “He said it’s all the rage!”
“So you’re betraying your beloved merlot?” Sailor teased, feigning shock.
“Just expanding my horizons,” Birdie said. “Do you have a corkscrew? Because I brought one just in case.” She started to reach back into her bag.
“I have one,” Sailor assured. “Come on in and we’ll crack these bad girls open!”
Remy offered Birdie her arm and she gladly took it, and as they followed Sailor into the little cottage, Sailor turned. “Do you want the grand tour now or in a little bit?”
“In a little bit,” Birdie said, sinking wearily into the only chair in the kitchen—a folding beach chair. “My ankle’s a little achy.”
“That’s why you should be using your crutches,” Remy scolded. “It’s only been a couple of days. . . .”
Birdie waved her off. “I’m fine. It’s just because I had to push the damn clutch in so many times on my way here—traffic was terrible! In fact, it’ll probably be a half hour before Piper gets he—”
“Hello!” a voice called cheerily.
Sailor looked out the window. “Here she is now!”
“Hey!” Piper said, sweeping in and giving her sisters hugs. She set down a platter of bruschetta and a bottle of the Black Dog Tavern’s new wine, Great White Chardonnay—it had a picture of the iconic black dog with a shark fin on his back.
“Where’d you get that?” Sailor asked, admiring the label.
“Package store.”
“Birdie’s package store?”
Piper laughed. “Yes, that cute new French owner tried to talk me into something else, but when I saw this label, I knew I had to get it. I don’t know how it tastes, but I’m easily swayed by labels.” She eyed Birdie’s ankle. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m doing . . . but I’ll be doing a lot better after your sister gets that bottle open.”
Piper looked over and realized Sailor had broken the cork. “What the heck are you doing, girl?” she teased.
“I’m a beginner . . . obviously!” Sailor said, laughing.
Piper reached for the corkscrew and Sailor stepped back. “Oh my, look at that bruschetta! Where’d you get the recipe?”
Piper glanced over her shoulder. “Allrecipes.com.”
“I love that site,” Sailor said. She offered the plate to Birdie and Remy. “Did you see Remy’s pie?!” she asked, nodding over her shoulder.
Birdie sat up to see. “Is that rhubarb?” she asked in happy surprise.
“It is,” Remy confirmed.
“Look at that fancy latticework,” Piper said, handing a glass of the red wine to Birdie and admiring the pie. “We should take a picture and send it in to a magazine!”
Remy smiled. Her sisters’ enthusiastic compliments made all the trouble—even going out the third time to get sugar—worth it!
“I can’t remember the last time I had rhubarb pie,” Birdie mused, taking a sip of her wine and immediately feeling the strain of the day exit her body like an evil spirit. “Mmm, this is good,” she said. “You should try it.”
Piper took a small sip and nodded. Then she looked at the bottle. “I’ve never had malbec.”
“You can have a glass,” Birdie offered, but Piper knew Birdie was a tad possessive of her wine and declined.
“No, thanks, I think I’ll just stick to white tonight—it is summer, after all.”
“It is indeed!” Birdie said, smiling.
Sailor handed glasses to Remy and Piper, and Birdie held up her glass in toast. “To Sailor’s new home!”
“To Sailor’s lovely new home,” Remy corrected.
They clinked their glasses and Piper added, “And to finally getting her to move out here!”
“Hear, hear!” Sailor said, laughing and taking a sip.
She put her glass down, uncovered the dip she’d made, and pulled open a bag of tortilla chips. “Want to sit on the deck?”
With everyone carrying a dish, they went outside. “Where’d all this outdoor furniture come from?” Piper asked, setting the plates on the table.
“The previous owner left it, even the grill. I think he must’ve rented the house out to people. There were some plates and pots and pans in the kitchen, too.”
“How come he sold it?” Remy asked.
“He died.”
“Oh,” Remy said softly.
“Happens to the best of us,” Birdie said, her voice edged with sarcasm. She paused. “So, ladies, I have a tidbit for you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone.”
Sailor looked up from scooping dip. “Oo-oo! Promise not to tells are the best kind of secrets.”
“Well, it’s not that big a deal. It’s just that I was sworn to secrecy.”
“Do tell,” Piper pressed.
“Dr. Sanders is retiring!”
“Oh, no!” Remy groaned. “Who are we going to go to?”
“He’s hiring some young new whippersnapper to take his place.”
Sailor shook her head. “I hate changing doctors. So much so, I’ve even driven out here from Boston just to get my thyroid prescription refilled. It’s bad enough we have to go to a doctor at all, but to have to start all over with someone new.” She shook her head. “Did he say when?”
“October. But you can’t tell anyone . . . and you have to act surprised—or dismayed—when he tells you.”
They all nodded.
Piper sipped her drink and looked over at Sailor. “Have you heard from Frank?”
Sailor started to scoop some dip but broke her chip. “He called but I didn’t pick up,” she said, fishing it out.
“Are you going to sell the house?” Birdie asked.
“We are, unless he wants to buy me out. I’m only communicating with him through my lawyer.”
“How are the kids taking it?” Remy asked.
“Merry said she doesn’t know what took so long and Thatcher is so busy I don’t think he’s had time to think about it, but it’s not like they’re kids anymore. They both have spouses and Merry has the girls and they’ve both been in previous relationships that didn’t last, so they know how it is.”
“This is a little different,” Remy said, seeming to mourn her sister’s failed marriage more than she did.
“Rem, I can’t spend any more time agonizing about it. Frank is not like Jim—he cheated on me more times than I can count—he even cheated on me when I was having chemo. Life is too short. I’ve known it was coming, and now I’m relieved it’s over. Plus, God obviously has a plan; just look at this place—it’s the perfect retreat.”
Piper scooped some dip. “I think God has a bigger plan for you than just a beach cottage. You guys should’ve seen the handsome Realtor who stopped by to give her a box of Munchkins and these lovely flowers,” she said, motioning to the sunflowers on the table. “Not only that, but Sailor told him she was a Munchkin girl!”
Birdie raised her eyebrows. “A Munchkin girl? Really?”
Sailor laughed. “I guess I did. We met at a Dunkin’ Donuts—that’s probably why he brought them.”
“What’s his name?” Birdie asked.
“Josiah Gray.”
“Any relation to Christian Grey?” Remy asked.
Sailor laughed at the reference. “OMG, Remy, did you read Fifty Shades of Grey?!”
“I did,” Remy said sheepishly. “I wanted to see what all the hubbub was about.”
“What did you think?”
Remy shrugged. “It wasn’t anything to write home about.”
“That’s for sure,” Sailor said.
“Did you read it, too?” Remy asked in surprise.
“In a moment of weakness,” Sailor admitted. She looked at Birdie. “And you?”
“Pshaw! I don’t have time for such nonsense,” Birdie said indignantly.
They all turned and looked at Piper, who just smiled. “I have my own Christian Grey.”
Sailor chuckled. “I don’t think Nat’s cravings are quite like Christian Grey’s ... but if they are, I’d rather not know.”
Piper’s phone made the sound of a cricket chirping and she picked it up and looked at the screen.
Birdie raised her eyebrows and Piper laughed. “Elias’s home—he says since I’m out with the girls, he and Nat are going out for boys’ night.”
“Tell them to come here!” Sailor said.
Piper continued to read. “They’re going to Yarmouth Pizza—he has a craving.”
Sailor grinned. “He takes after his father!”
Piper laughed. “I hope not. Some of Nat’s cravings are pretty X-rated.”
“Yes, we know,” Birdie said, chuckling as she refilled her glass.
The sisters whiled away the evening, catching up on each other’s news and relishing each other’s company. It had been several weeks since they’d all been together on a Friday night, but now that summer was here—and Sailor had moved to the Cape—they hoped it would become a weekly occurrence.
“Who’s ready for pie?” Sailor asked as the evening wound down.
“Let me help you,” Remy said, getting up.
She followed Sailor inside and took the ice cream she’d brought out of the freezer. “Anyone want ice cream?” she called.
“What flavor?” Birdie asked.
“What flavor do you think?” Remy asked, peering out the window.
“Vanilla!” they chorused.