knew the electricity was out. What if Lachlan texted? What if he changed his mind and came for her and thought she was ignoring him? What if one of her daughters had an emergency? What if . . .
She sank to the bed and dropped her head in her hands.
Keep moving.
Do not cry.
All is well.
These mantras did no good for her heart but kept her mind in some kind of civilized order.
Beatrice stood from the bed and made her way back to the kitchen, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and began unpacking the groceries. By the time she’d organized everything, her mind racing to the ends of her life and back, Red still hadn’t returned with the others.
She unpacked her art folio and slipped out the sketchpad and pastels, placing them on the top of the crammed bookshelf. She removed the drawings she’d made for each friend, wrapped in plastic casing with a white silk bow wrapped around each, their name and bird in calligraphy. This was how she’d spent her time between Lachlan’s rebuttal and the day she left for this island—drawing her friends their totem birds.
She walked to the first bedroom and placed the swan for Daisy on a single bed in a small bedroom one door down, and Beatrice’s thoughts meandered back to the day when they’d each chosen a bird, their own bird that represented their personality and choices. It had been a game back then, a playful amusement at Beatrice’s graduation art show thirty years ago. With over fifty paintings of her bird paintings hanging on the white walls of the SCAD student center, gooseneck lamps illuminating each bird she’d painted, they had stood shoulder to shoulder and picked their favorites.
Dani, both adorable and fragile in a flowered yellow dress, a fashion major wearing one of her own fantastic creations, chose the oystercatcher with its distinctive red beak.
Beatrice had told her, “It’s a little shorebird who always needs to be in large groups, so that works quite well for you.”
Dani had smiled. “I don’t care about all that. I just think it’s cute.”
Now Beatrice looked for oystercatchers wherever she went, and because of that she often found them and smiled thinking of her friend who had passed twelve years ago.
Victoria, on the other hand, had chosen the brightest and most beautiful of the paintings. Victoria, with her blond chignon and looking like she’d stepped out of a 1940s poster, had lit a menthol cigarette and leaned toward Beatrice, who took the cig from her and took a long draw. Victoria had pointed, “I want this one!” She’d pointed at a bird in flight, its blue feathers intricate and vibrant.
“A Blue Bird of Paradise.” Beatrice’s words had laughter hidden in them. “Of course you would pick that. They are the most extravagantly beautiful birds in the world. And polygamous to boot.”
The roommates had laughed, and Victoria, who now ran her own art gallery in Atlanta, had grinned like she’d just won the bird-choosing contest.
Then Daisy had stepped forward and said, “This is so fun, like pulling a Tarot card.”
Daisy, the most ethereal of them, who’d been at SCAD on an equestrian scholarship and whose study of architecture kept her wandering the streets of Savannah day and night, sketching and dissecting the preserved buildings. She’d stood in front of Beatrice in bell bottom jeans and a five-year-old Billy Joel concert T-shirt and said, “I want one of those.” She’d pointed at a murmur of starlings.
“Those are starlings,” Beatrice had told her. “They’re known for speed, agility, and staying in groups, called murmurs, for keeping each other safe.”
“Exactly then.” Daisy had smiled. “That’s my bird.”
“You merely want to be safe?” Victoria had asked, stepping next to her, smoke curling from her nostrils. “Please tell me you want more than that.”
“Oh, way more,” Daisy had said. “But I like how they stick together. You know, like we do. We’re a murmur. And the speed and agility. I like that a lot.”
“Yes.” Beatrice had hugged her friend and turned to Rose. “Your turn.”
“So much pressure.” Rose had grinned and bit the end of her thumbnail just as she always did when she felt pressure but wanted to pretend she didn’t.
“The swan.” She’d pointed at a painting of two swans sitting serenely on the water of a pond. “They mate for life just like Chip and I are about to do. And they are so serene and beautiful and peaceful.”
Victoria had groaned. “Oh God, here we go. Chip. Chip. Chip.