Firefly Summer (21 page)

C
HAPTER
45

B
irdie was lying in bed—her pillow soaked with tears—when she heard a knock on the kitchen door downstairs. She sat up and listened as David—who was in the kitchen—put down his newspaper and started to get up, but whoever it was that knocked hadn't waited for someone to answer; they'd just come right in! “Hellooo . . .” a voice called. “Anybody home?” A moment later, she heard a commotion that included paws clicking on wood followed by exclamations—the sounds of joy!

“David?” she called, getting up and pulling on her robe. “David? Who's here?”

“Why don't you come and
see
who's here!”

Birdie hurried down the stairs, tying her robe, saw her sisters standing in the kitchen with their raincoats on . . . and then she saw Bailey standing between them. Tears streamed down Birdie's cheeks as the dog limped over into her arms, wagging her whole hind end. Her fur was wet and her paws were muddy, but Birdie didn't care. She just buried her face in her neck and sobbed. “Oh, Bailey, where have you been? I missed you so much.”

Piper and Sailor and David all watched as Birdie wrapped her arms around her sweet dog. Finally, she let go and Bailey hurried back over to David and back again to her, as if saying, “
Where, oh, where have you been? I've been looking all over for you!
”

Birdie stood up and wiped her eyes. “Where did you find her?”

Sailor smiled. “A family from Connecticut is renting a house on Bridge Road and their two boys were out running. They saw a poster and then they saw Bailey limping along the road. They called her name and she came right up to them. Her paw was bleeding so the older boy stayed with her while the younger one ran home to get the car.”

“I wonder how she hurt her paw.”

“I think one of her pads is cut—nothing serious.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Birdie said, kneeling down to examine her pads.

“Did they say how she was when they got her back to the house?”

Sailor nodded. “She drank a whole bowl of water, devoured the food they offered, and then curled up near the door and promptly fell asleep.”

“She must've been exhausted,” David said, kneeling down next to her. “You've had quite an adventure, haven't you, ol' girl? I bet you're glad to be home,” he added softly and Bailey licked his chin and thumped her tail.

Birdie gave each of her sisters a hug. “I can't thank you and Nat and Elias enough for all your help—taking time off from work, making posters, putting them up everywhere, and spending the whole day looking. I don't think we would've ever found her without you.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Sailor said. “She was still right here in Orleans—I think you would've found her.”

“Did you thank the family?” David asked.

“Of course,” Piper said. “They said they were happy to help.”

“We should give them a reward,” Birdie said.

“I think, if they haven't left already, then they're leaving first thing in the morning. Their car was packed and they were loading their bikes.”

“Then, we'll just have to send blessings,” David said.

“Very big blessings!” Birdie said, kneeling down to give Bailey another hug.

C
HAPTER
46

“T
he secret to rice pudding is adding the sugar at just the right time, and then, adding a little warm milk to the egg before adding the egg to the milk or it will scramble.” Piper read the directions out loud as she stirred. “This better be good,” she murmured, glancing at the clock, “because it's taking forever.” Ten minutes later, she was still stirring when Nat came into the kitchen. “What's for supper?” he asked, looking over her shoulder.

“I don't know because I'm too busy making dessert.”

“Is that what I think it is?!” Nat asked, raising his eyebrows.

“That depends on what you think it is,” Piper said.

“Why don't we just have that for supper?”

“Because you'd be missing out on several other major food groups.”

“How about pizza? Does that cover the other food groups?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?” he asked, sounding indignant. “There's tomato for the vegetable group, sausage for the meat group, cheese for the dairy group, and crust for the grain group—it sounds pretty balanced to me.” He opened the fridge and reached for a beer. “
And
we could have beer just to throw in some additional grain for the base of the pyramid.”

“Beer is in your grain group?”

“Yes—it has oats and barley,” he said as if it should be obvious. “Not to mention what you're making—rice is a grain and milk is a dairy . . .
and,
if you add raisins, that's a fruit. It doesn't get any more balanced than that.”

She shook her head. “You
do
know that the food pyramid from our childhood has been completely debunked?”

“It has?” Nat frowned. “And to think, all these years I've been making sure I had an abundant supply of grain in my diet.”

“Yeah, and you're still skinny as a rail,” she said with a hint of envy.

“That's because I have a great metabolism.”

“I know,” Piper said. “Elias has the same metabolism.”

“Speaking of Elias . . . where is
our
boy?” Nat said, wrapping his arms around her.

“He went camping with the guys.”

“That's right! I forgot. How do you know he's camping with just guys?”

“Because that's what he said,” Piper said, slipping out of his arms.

“Where're you going?” he asked, sounding wounded.

“I have to add sugar,” she said, reaching for her measuring cup. “Could you keep stirring?”

Nat picked up the spoon and stirred while Piper measured a third of a cup of sugar and poured it into the hot milk and rice. “Keep stirring,” she said.

“I'm only too happy to stir in your sugar,” he teased with a grin.

“Very funny,” she said, rolling her eyes as she consulted her laptop. She spooned some of the hot milk and rice into the beaten egg and then added it, too.

Nat glanced at her laptop. “I thought you wanted to make the rice pudding from your mom's cookbook.”

“I did, but I keep forgetting to borrow it from Remy, and now she's away, so I thought I'd give this recipe a try—it has over three thousand reviews.”

“Is that a lot?”

“It's a ridiculous amount,” she said, turning the burner off and adding a teaspoon of vanilla, a tablespoon of butter, and a quarter cup of golden raisins.

Nat stepped back, watching as she took over. “Well, anyway, would you like to order a pizza since it's just the two of us?”

“That's fine,” Piper said. “The Fourth is next weekend and we really need to start getting ready.”

“It's next weekend?”

“It is,” Piper said, looking up. “Why?”

“Because the aquarium called and said the female loggerhead we rescued is doing much better and will probably be ready to be released by next weekend.”

“Not on the holiday, though. . . .”

“Well, it's up to us, but we'll have her back out here by then. They said they'll call when she's ready to be picked up.”

Piper nodded. “All the more reason we need to get this place straightened up—in case I don't have your help next week.” She held out a spoonful of rice pudding and he tasted it. “Mmm, it's still hot, though.”

Piper finished the spoonful and nodded. “It
is
hot!”

“I told you,” he said. “Didn't you believe me?”

“I believed you,” she said, taking a sip of his beer. “I just wasn't sure if your idea of hot was the same as mine . . . and I think I burned my tongue.”

“Let me see,” he said, motioning for her to stick out her tongue. “Hmm, it's a little red. Oh, by the way,” he said, frowning. “I keep meaning to ask you what that sex manual is doing on my bureau.”

“It was on the cookbook shelf.”

“I didn't know we had a copy.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Don't you remember the time we drank a whole bottle of Boone's Farm and I showed it to you . . . and you wanted to try . . .”

Nat's face lit up and he laughed. “I
do
remember,” he said, sipping his beer. “Why don't we go see if we can find that page again?”

“What about pizza? I thought you were hungry.”

“I
am
hungry. . . .” he murmured, handing her his beer and pulling her toward him.

“I really have a lot to do,” she murmured in protest.

“It can wait,” he whispered. “And I will help you.”

“Yeah, right,” she said skeptically, taking a sip of his beer.

“I
will
. . . Promise.”

He led her toward the stairs and as she passed the newel post, she reached for it. “I really think we should get started now.”

“I'm already started,” Nat said with a grin.

“I don't mean
that
.”

“Elias isn't here so we should take advantage of the moment.”

“What if he forgot something and comes home?”

“He didn't forget anything.”

“Where's Chloe?”

“Asleep on the couch.”

Piper realized she was running out of excuses and reluctantly let go of the post. “You know,” she said, as he led her up the stairs, “if I lie down, I'm going to fall asleep.”

“No, you're not,” he said, retrieving the book from the top of his bureau.

“Yes, I am.” She lay across the bed and pretended to start snoring.

Nat sat next to her and started to leaf through the pages. “What page was it on? Do you remember?”

“I don't remember, hon, it was like forty years ago,” she said sleepily.

“Hmm,” Nat said. “Look at this one. . . .”

Piper rolled to her side, wishing she'd left the book on the cookbook shelf, then looked at the page. “Interesting,” she said, smiling and sliding her hand along his thigh. “What's wrong with the good old missionary position?”

“Nothing's wrong with it,” Nat said, pretending to study the page.

“You should be happy to be getting any action at all,” she said, sliding her hand up his thigh.

“I
am
happy,” he said, trying to suppress a grin.

“Well, if you don't hurry up, I'm going to fall asleep.”

Nat closed the book and tossed it to the floor. “The missionary position it is,” he said, laughing and rolling on top of her.

C
HAPTER
47

S
ailor took a sip of her coffee, knowing—since it was after eight o'clock
in the evening
—she'd probably regret it, but she really needed to get some work done. When she was in college, she'd lived on coffee. “Those were the good old days,” she murmured with a smile. Burning the midnight oil had been the norm back then. She and her roommates had stayed up until all hours of the night painting and drawing and lost in their own worlds. It had been a long time since she'd been so caught up in a drawing that she'd lost track of time.

She picked up her paintbrush, dipped it into the smooth paint, and felt her shoulders start to relax. She looked at the sketch she'd lightly traced onto the gessoed board and started to paint. This was what was missing. Almost immediately, she felt the strain of the last month drain from her body. She turned her radio to a classical station and swirled the paint, meticulously blending the colors. The lovely first notes of “Pachelbel's Canon” began to play and she stopped to sip her coffee—
life is good,
she thought, smiling. Suddenly her cell phone started to ring and she looked at the clock. It was after eight on a Saturday night—who could be calling?
Maybe it is Merry,
she thought hopefully, but when she looked at the screen, her hopes were dashed. She hesitated and then tapped the Accept button. “Yes?” she said and listened as Frank spoke. “My signing is at Where the Sidewalk Ends in Chatham on Saturday.... Yes, everything's fine.... You?” She nodded, absentmindedly swirling her paintbrush into the red and blue paint and watching the pattern it made. “No, I'm working on them, though. I should have them soon.” She paused. “Maine? But they always come here on the Fourth.... No, I'm not going to be too busy. I thought Merry would bring the kids to the signing . . . she always does.” She shook her head. “Whatever, Frank . . . honestly, I don't think anything is sacred to you.” She ended the call and turned off her phone. Then she looked down at her palette smeared with purple paint and sighed—so much for working. She carried the gloppy paintbrush and her coffee mug out to the kitchen, dumped the coffee, cleaned and dried her brush, and went back into her studio. She changed the radio back to Ocean 104.7 and turned it up so she could hear it in the kitchen.

She heard a meow on the back porch and opened the door. The orange tiger cat sauntered in, bringing with him the cool summer breeze. “Hello there, mister,” she said. “Are you hungry?” she asked, opening the cabinet. “I don't have lobster . . . but I
do
have tuna.” She opened a can and scooped it into a bowl. “I promise I'll get more cat food this week,” she said, setting it in front of him and jotting
cat food
on a scrap of paper.

She opened the fridge, pulled out a slice of leftover pizza, and poured herself a glass of wine. She turned on the oven, put the pizza in, and went into the living room. Without turning on the light, she sank into her new chair, leaned back against the pillow, and took a sip of her wine. She couldn't believe Frank had invited their kids to Maine for the Fourth. He
knew
they always came to the Cape—it was tradition! Piper always had a big picnic and they all helped out. It was the
one
holiday when they were all together, and just because he wasn't invited—he should've thought of that before he started fooling around—that didn't mean the kids weren't . . . and the kids knew it, too—at least they should've known! She couldn't believe they'd accepted his invitation.

Didn't they know how disappointed she'd be? It was bad enough she had to share them with their in-laws, but now she had to share them with Frank, too. God help her—she'd never see them! Suddenly the ramifications of being a divorced parent hit her like a Mack truck—nothing would be simple again when it came to the kids. Even though they were adults, Frank was still their father and they would still want to spend time with him. Life just wasn't fair!

She took another sip of her wine and listened to the haunting sound of Stevie Nicks singing “Gold Dust Woman” and tears welled up in her eyes. She knew the song was about drug use, but at that moment, the lyrics seemed to have been written for her. “I can't believe it,” she whispered, shaking her head. She wiped her eyes, but more tears just kept spilling down her cheeks . . . tears of grief and sorrow for her broken family
and
for all the broken pieces of her life. She'd thought she'd been strong, moving out here alone. She'd told herself it didn't matter, but now, she realized—it was thirty years of her life and it
did
matter because . . . what else was there?

She felt something brush against her legs, and in the next moment, the nameless, homeless orange cat hopped lightly onto her lap and leaned against her, brushing his soft fur against her wet cheeks. “Hello there, mister,” she said softly. “You know, you really need a name,” she said, smiling as she listened to the last line of the song that was playing, “Call Me the Breeze.” “How about Mister Breeze? What do you think?” she asked. The cat curled up on her lap, pushed his head into her hand, and purred loudly. “Consider yourself named,” she said, taking a sip of her wine, “Mister Breeze.”