The device beeps and vibrates on the coffee table, exactly where Grace left it after she and Jenny ended their call. Groggy, she tries to gauge the time based on the way the light hits the room. How long has she been asleep? Minutes? Hours? A whole day? Until recently, Grace wasn’t a napper. Now? She finds herself nodding off constantly, like a tuckered-out toddler. Too much emotion or activity in one sitting and she zonks out. Just one more consequence of grief.
Who’s even calling?she wonders. Not Adam (who rarely calls, typically texts). Maybe Jenny (prepared with a list of additional reasons why Grace should come stay). Not Mollie (likely already embarked on her own getaway).
Birdie used to call at the same times every day. 7:00 a.m. (Morning, love! What’s on the agenda?) 3:30 p.m. (Just left the high school and going for groceries. Should I pick up those cookies you like for when I visit this weekend?) 8:00 p.m. (Just checking in, my girl. What’d you have for dinner? Tell me about the chapters you wrote this afternoon.) Birdie wasn’t the sort to text. She preferred a real conversation—to hear the emotions in a person’s voice and to talk.
Ring, ring.
Grace wipes a line of drool from her chin, glances at the clock on her phone—4:16 p.m.—then finally answers the call before it goes to voicemail.
“Hello?” Her words are scratchy. She clears her throat, tries to sound like a person who wasn’t just drooling on a throw pillow in the middle of the day. “Hi.”
“Oh, hi there.” A male voice she doesn’t recognize. “I was getting ready to leave you a message. I’m glad you picked up.” The person’s tone is bright, cheerful—too personable to be spam. “Did I get you at a bad time?”
Is there such a thing as not a bad time these days?Grace privately ponders.
“N-no. It’s fine.” She quickly peers at the screen, noting the unfamiliar number, then presses it back to her head. “I-I’m sorry. Who is this?”
“Caleb. From Beach Coast Rentals.” A pause. “How are you doing today?”
“I-I’m good,” Grace lies. “Wh-where did you say you’re calling from?”
“Beach Coast Rentals.” He waits for his comment to land. “We handle most of the rental homes down on Sea Drift.” Another pause, as if he’s giving her time to catch up. “The island. Down the shore?”
Grace straightens, then looks around, like she’s being pranked. “I-I’m confused.”
“Right. So this is out of left field, but based on our website history, it looks like you may have been in the market to rent one of our properties this week.” He stops, gauging the situation. “I apologize. Maybe I have the wrong number.” Through the line, the sound of fingers tapping a keyboard. “Am I speaking with Grace Whittaker?”
“Y-yes.” Her pulse picks up. “That’s me.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s great.” Caleb’s intonation lifts. “In that case, and this is obviously spur-of-the-moment, but we have some last-minute availability for a listing you were browsing earlier: 116 Surf Street. Ring a bell?”
Her stomach flips. This morning. Her desk. Had that only been a few hours ago, when she’d mindlessly browsed the page? “I’m familiar.” Whatever dreamlike feelings previously blurred her thoughts are gone, everything suddenly in razor-sharp focus. “I know the address.”
“Well, it’s a bit of a long story, but things fell through with the original renter for this week. Since you plugged in the dates earlier, I thought I’d give you a ring, see if it’d be of interest. Saturday-to-Saturday rental. Check-in’s tomorrow at two.”
Grace blinks. Her heart flutters. Already, she’s shaking her head. Going back to Sea Drift now—at any point—is an awful idea. “No.” Her pulse drums in her ears. “I—I can’t.”
“Oh,” Caleb says, dejected, as if he’d been banking on this. “All right.”
“I appreciate the call,” Grace adds, trying to buff away some of her rudeness. “But to be honest, I was only poking around for ...fun.” A knot forms in her throat, dry and burning. “My mom used to rent that property for us every year.” She swallows hard, but the feeling stays. “I haven’t been down to the island in a long time.”
“Well, the good news is that nothing’s changed,” he teases. “Unless that’s bad news.”
She exhales a quiet, reluctant laugh.
“Water’s warm right now,” Caleb continues, waiting to see if he’s hooked her, like bait to a fish. “No jellyfish. Tide pools have been gorgeous every afternoon.”
Grace glances at her open laptop, still on the coffee table from earlier. With a fast swipe, she summons the blank page, praying the story has magically appeared.
“I wish I could, but I ...” She stumbles, reaching for a reason, knowing there are several options. The boxes. Her deadline. “I’m just ...” Her palms sweat. “I’m really busy and bogged down with work at the moment. I’m tied up all weekend—”
“I can give you a decent discount,” Caleb interjects. “I hate to see the house sit empty. It’s older, a bit rough around the edges. Even so, it’s always been one of my favorites.”
She sighs. Lets down her guard. “Mine, too.”
As soon as the words fall from her lips, Grace hears it. A sound at the front window. She swivels her head. And there it is, looking back at her through the glass: a bright-red cardinal, perched on a branch amid a canvas of vibrant green leaves, its head tilted as if in question. Her chest tightens, some invisible force pulling it from both ends.
“Well, if that’s the case, and you plan on staying there again, now’s probably your chance,” Caleb explains. “Seeing as it might not be an option much longer.”
