“Wha—” Heather was stunned. Then hurt. She’d never imagined it was him.
“For the summer,” David hurried to explain. Then he added, in a tone that implied she should know all this already, “Natalie and I need some time alone together. We need to get to know one another better. Settle in. And”—he paused—“you need time on your own, too. You need time by the sea for your art. And, as you said, you’re not a child anymore. Frankly, honey, in bird terms”—he jerked his head toward the backseat where the cages of birds were nestled in boxes—“it’s time for you to leave the nest.”
Heather’s eyes flashed with anger mixed with embarrassment at the truth in her father’s statement. “It’s more like I’m getting kicked out of the nest.”
“Hardly. You’re going to a luxury barrier island for the summer to complete your art commission. To a charming house that you picked out and I’ve paid for. I wouldn’t exactly call that a hard landing.”
Heather’s cheeks burned. What he said was true. She knew she was behaving churlishly. Like a spoiled child. She knew she wasn’t a child any longer, nor did she want to behave like one. Since the trauma of the accident, her childhood shyness had grown into a case of full-blown social anxiety. She’d attended a local college rather than the prestigious art school she’d been accepted to because she wouldn’t consider leaving home. She rarely dated. When she did, it was usually a favor set up by an acquaintance, or the son of one of the women her father was dating. It wasn’t Heather’s looks—in the least self-aggrandizing way possible, she knew she was an attractive woman. But her shyness hung over the coffee/dinner/drinks and ultimately doomed the relationship, no matter how promising it seemed.
She wasn’t unhappy. In fact, Heather was quite content with her life. When people sometimes raised their eyebrows at her isolation, she blithely referred to herself as the Belle of Charlotte, a nod to her favorite poet, Emily Dickinson. Who, Heather believed, had suffered from social anxiety as well. Emily Dickinson had retired from society in her twenties and had still lived a fruitful, productive life. Heather believed she could, too.
She knew this day had to come. Her father had dated so many women, and Heather hadn’t found any of them suitable for him, for them, for the quiet but relatively satisfied life they’d led together after her mother’s passing. She’d been critical of them all, assuming they were all calculating how to get their hands on his wealth. She’d never considered that someone might actually truly fall in love with her father, and he with her.
What hurt the most was that she felt she was losing her best friend. Again. Once her mother had been her confidante. After her mother’s death, her father had taken her place as Heather’s best friend.
She felt his hand pat her back gently in the same rhythmic beat with which he’d consoled her for as long as she could remember. She relaxed into the familiar scent, the sound of his heartbeat. He was a good father. A good man. She had to love him enough to let him live his own life.
Heather pulled back and wiped her damp cheeks with her palms. She looked down at her crumpled clothing and stroked away the wrinkles. Slim camel-colored pants, a thin white boat-neck sweater, and an Hermès scarf that had been her mother’s. On her feet were strappy sandals that showed off her new cherry-red pedicure, a bold color she’d chosen hoping it would make her brave. She wanted to appear mature and confident when she met her new landlady.
Heather pulled back and ventured a forced smile. “Looks like the rain has slowed down. I guess it’s time to get back on the road.”
HEATHER DIDN’T KNOW when she fell asleep. Somewhere after Orangeburg, she supposed. She awoke when her father nudged her shoulder.
“You won’t want to miss this,” he told her, smiling with anticipation. “Welcome to Charleston. No city like her anywhere in the world. Take a look.”
Heather straightened, blinking the sleep out of her eyes, disoriented in the bright sunshine. Outside her window she could see they were approaching a great bridge that spanned the harbor. She gazed with wonder at the shining, towering, diamond-shaped structures that held the suspension design. From a distance they looked like two sailing masts.
“That’s the great Cooper River,” her father informed her. “We’re leaving Charleston, now heading to the islands.”
Already? she thought. But she remained silent, peering over the guardrails to take in the scope of the busy harbor as they sped by. The storm clouds had not reached this far south. The sky shone blue, dotted with white cumulus clouds that cast shadows on the sparkling water below. Here and there she spotted small sailboats cruising the harbor between the Charleston peninsula and Mount Pleasant. But the enormous cargo ships dominated the scene. The behemoths lined the docks like sleeping beasts, while beside them equally giant cranes loaded colored containers into the ships’ holds as if they were Lego pieces. The stacks were so high it was hard to believe the ships wouldn’t topple over.
Heather studied the miles of shops that lined the four-lane road as they journeyed through the town of Mount Pleasant. Which would be her grocery store, her gas station, her butcher? At last they reached the long, curved, arched road that took them away from the mainland to the small barrier island called Isle of Palms. She leaned closer to the window, amazed at the sharp contrast to Charleston Harbor the vista of wetlands offered. Vast acres of sea grass stretched out seemingly forever, dotted here and there by tiny islands that held a few palm trees. This truly was going someplace far away, she thought with a mixture of wonder and trepidation. The car climbed higher up the arched span of road, and at the top, in a breath, she was staring at the great expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. The suddenness caught her by surprise and elicited a soft gasp. The mighty ocean was so huge, so vast, it seemed to stretch out into infinity. In light of such power, Heather felt her own smallness and relative weakness.
“We’re here, baby,” her father said with relief. “Not bad, huh?” He turned her way, searching for her approval.
She smiled, trying to be upbeat. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
“And it’s not raining!”