CHAPTER 17
Birdie 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.