Love Is for the Birds

1. Teddy

“ NOT ALL STORMS COME TO DISRUPT YOUR LIFE; SOME COME to clear your path.” So said Anonymous, who was obviously not convinced enough of this truth to claim it. Nevertheless, Teddy recited the inspiration as she left the shelter for Bird Isle. She needed to clear many paths in her life and wondered which one the storm had chosen. Surely, the hurricane left her mother’s store unharmed. Fate must set some limits on doling out misfortune, like preventing a daughter from losing her mother and her mother’s candy store in the same year.

As Teddy passed over the wetlands, a bank of clouds parted, and a great beam of sunshine flooded the marsh, sparked off the paddling trails, set a golden flame to every blade of grass, and, just when she started to enjoy the view, the sun zeroed in on a pile of downed power poles. Teddy groaned.

She pulled into the ferry line of vans, utility trucks, and even a giant red rig pulling a barbecue smoker. Out her passenger window, three palms that marked the entrance to the tourist information center had snapped in two, their fronds shredded like slaw. “Don’t go there,” she told her mind. She refused to let her mind go dark as—since her mother died—her mind tended to do at the least little thing—a shortage of salt-free butter or a case of broken all-day suckers—and now with this very big thing, her mind just might decide to shut down altogether.

The red pickup pulled forward, maybe a foot. She pounded her steering wheel instead of leaning on her horn. At least she showed that much restraint. Soon, the three days of not knowing the fate of her mother’s candy store would end. She vacillated between not wanting to know and wanting to know. Now, she desperately wanted to know.

Everyone in the shelter called the hurricane “the storm of the century.” They said the wind roared like a freight train in a tunnel, and the rain shot from the sky like shards of glass. Teddy winced at the hyperbole. Bird Islanders said similar things after every blow.

“C’mon.” She pummeled the dashboard this time. The man in the red truck moved a car length. “Finally.” He waved at no one in particular, as far as she could tell.

One of the workers checked her identification and motioned for her to board the ferry. In minutes, the ferry lurched forward with a puff of diesel smoke. As always, dolphins chased after them, performing acrobatics in the wake. Her shoulders relaxed. This appeared like a normal day on Bird Isle.

But when the ferry docked, her chest tightened. Barrels lined the wharf, barrels blocked Ferry Road, and barrels barricaded the remains of the marina. They plastered the island in a field of glaring orange, like prisoners in jumpsuits. Crap, crap, double-fudge crap.

After exiting the ferry, an unfamiliar police officer motioned for her to pull over. He examined her driver’s license. “Utility bill, please.”

“They checked my ID on the ferry.”

“We need a utility bill.”

He flicked the top of his pen several times as if waiting for her to produce the bill she didn’t have.

“You said that. But you see, I didn’t think to pack up a utility bill when I evacuated from the ‘storm of the century.’”

The officer lifted a corner of his mouth, as if the phrase annoyed him as well. He peered inside her Jeep at the backseat stacked with a hamper full of clothes, boxes of Cheerios, mac and cheese, laundry detergent, a mop, and cleaning supplies. “You live here?”

“Yes, of course I do, why else would I . . .” She raised her hands into the air.

“We can’t let you in unless you live on the island full-time or have a business.” He lifted his sunglasses.

Teddy did the same. “This is my lucky day. I happen to fit both qualifications. Teddy Wainsworth,” she flashed a smile, “owner of Sweet Somethings. It’s a candy store.”

He scratched his cheek. “Candy store?”

“On Ferry Road.”

The officer shook his head. “Didn’t see one.”

No need for him to be so negative. She’d never seen him before. Besides, he wouldn’t know the difference between a candy store and a taco shack .

“Ask the guys on the ferry, they know me.” Teddy shifted into drive. “Where shall I park?”

The officer narrowed his eyes and pointed to a parking spot. “Be careful. You might have to take the beach trail.”

She waved. “I’ll do that. Come by for chocolate.”

On the dune overlooking the beach, she sucked in a deep breath of air that reeked of rotting fish and seaweed. A platoon of mosquitoes stormed her, searching for blood. She bolted toward the shore.

Cheerless Bird Islanders tiptoed around mounds of debris, uprooted palm trees, and plastic waste in every shape and size. Hundreds of cabbage-head jellyfish covered the shoreline. The sand essentially farted—smell and all—as she stepped. Okay, positive thinking. This could be bad, but she could handle a little rubble. She lived on an island, after all.

She tilted her head to the tiny wisps of clouds that sailed like kites in the crisp, blue sky, and the wind skimmed her face with the song of waves. “Showtime.”

“Tedster, hey, Tedster.”

The voice came from her friend Walt. No one else called her by that name.

“You talking to yourself?” Walt pulled a headband from the pocket of his overalls and slipped it over his curly hair. “Where you headed?”

“Checking out the damage.”

Walt placed his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently. “We had one wicked blow, Tedster. Let’s just chill for a minute. You might want to go to your house first.”

Walt absolutely never had a grim expression on his face. He lived his life exactly opposite of the way she lived hers—a real “the-Dude-abides” kind of guy. They hung out together briefly once. He knew how to kiss—soft lips, tender bites, just the right amount of tongue—but he had the attention span of a gnat. So, the relationship switched to friendship as easily as a sailboat coming about.

“I’ve got to see Sweet Somethings.”

“You’re not gonna like what you see. I won’t lie. You took a drilling.”

“I can take it.” She made fists and boxed the air between them.

“Okay, but I’m going with you.”

When they turned onto Ferry Road, she held her breath. Just ahead, Island Boutique still stood next to Tio’s Tacos. Maybe, just maybe, some of Sweet Somethings remained.

As a child, first thing in the morning she would rush to the beach to see if her sandcastle survived the night. Some of the time, her creation would be wiped out. Other days, only remnants remained—turrets worn to a nub, the winding staircase collapsed. But surely, today her store with a shingled roof and sturdy wooden beams had survived.

“This is it.” Walt pointed to a slab of cement littered with pieces of Bird Isle.

He frowned and watched her face as if he’d never seen her before, as if she’d just landed on the planet. She might as well be on the moon, then at least a spaceship might return her to earth. Pressure built in her chest. She blew out three breaths. She ran back to Tio’s, and then spun around and walked back. Tio’s, the liquor store, the shell shop, check, check, check. Sweet Somethings came next.

“This is it?” Teddy kicked a lone plumbing pipe jutting out of an empty slab. The scene could be a CNN special, and she was the poor victim.

“I told you.”

“It’s all I have of my mother.” Tears gushed over her face. “What am I going to do?” Her stomach convulsed, and a sour taste rose into the back of her throat.

Walt draped his arms around her.

Teddy sunk onto his chest. This time the Bird Islanders were right. The hurricane was the storm of the century. She wanted nothing more than to cry and scream as she had for days when her mother died. She learned no amount of tears could bring her mother back, and they couldn’t bring back the store either. She gave herself a shake.

Walt squeezed her and then pulled back. “Geez, Tedster . . .” He bit his lip. “You got this. Your mother hasn’t gone anywhere. She’s right there.” He poked her on the sternum.

She placed a hand on her heart. “I’ll have to trust you on that.”

“I love you, man. I mean . . .”

Walt waved his hands pantomiming to forget what he just said.

“Not I love you, love you, like in I love you.”

“Don’t worry. It’s our secret.” She managed to smile. “I love you, too. Like a brother.”’

Walt threw her a guns-up sign. “That’s what I meant. You’re all right, you know that?

“What a relief.” Remembering that Walt had a business, too, she said, “Enough about me. How’s Walt’s Surftown?”

“Lost the roof, but I’ve still got my Dick Brewer boards.” He lifted a hand to receive a high five.

She slapped his palm weakly. Walt loved his Dick Brewer boards.

“We’ve got this. We’ll rebuild Sweet Somethings good as new.” Walt gave her a half hug. “You sure you’re okay? You’re not going to go all wonky on me?”

“No, all wonked out.”

A bugle horn playing “Deep in the Heart of Texas” sounded behind them.

Walt jumped. “Whoa, man.”

She whipped her head toward the noise. A lollipop-red pickup parked in the street—the same truck she’d seen on the ferry. The monstrosity sported an enormous front grille, and a bed large enough to carry all three strings of a football team. Honestly, who needed a truck that huge?

The driver hopped out, and she collected the available data—starched Lee jeans, ostrich cowboy boots, possibly handmade, and aviator sunglasses. He could’ve been a younger version of George Strait.

The man tipped his cap to her. “Howdy. Name’s Jack.”

He smiled at her despite her tough girl uniform—snot-stained overalls, a Bird Isle Whooping Crane Rescue tank top, a classic red bandanna, and a borrowed pair of white shrimper boots, a size too big. She wiped the snot stain with her bandanna and finger-combed her hair. She didn’t want to be in tears for her CNN interview or a chat with a George Strait lookalike.

Jack offered Walt his hand. “Y’all live here or are you volunteers?”

Teddy scowled at him. How did this guy pass through the checkpoints? “We’re not volunteers.”

Jack shook his head. “I guess that means y’all live here. This your place?” He pointed to the empty lot.

“This used to be Sweet Somethings, her business.” Walt put an arm around Teddy.

Jack removed his hat and bowed slightly. “I’m real sorry to hear that.”

“So am I,” Teddy said, not looking at him.

“I just drove down from Fort Worth with some barbecue to feed the workers, but I can see I’m about as welcome as a skunk at a picnic.”

Thank gawd he picked up on social cues. Jack’s lips slowly revealed a row of perfect white teeth confirming his resemblance to George Strait. His good looks were almost enough to distract her from her situation— almost being the operative word.

“She’s just now found out about her candy store.” Walt frowned and nodded to Teddy.

Oh, great. Now Walt, of all people, pitied her. “ She is standing right here.”

“I’ll let you take care of your Mrs.” Jack backed away.

“For your information, Mr. Barbecue Man from Fort Worth, I am nobody’s Mrs.” She raised her chin and put her hands on her hips.

“That so.” Jack pressed his lips together causing a dimple to appear on one cheek. “If you need any help, just say the word.”

He gazed at her with brown eyes, a color that landed somewhere between milk and dark chocolate—she had no business thinking about his eyes or chocolate while viewing the aftermath of the storm of the century.

“I hope to see you at the pavilion at five.” Jack put his hands together as if about to pray. “You won’t regret it.”

“Sorry. What?” she asked.

“Barbecue. You know brisket, sausage, ribs. And chicken if, God forbid, you don’t eat red meat. Which is okay if you don’t. Nothing wrong with that. And if you’re vegetarian, we’ve got beans . . . no scratch that, they’ve got salt pork in them. But there’s coleslaw and potato salad. And plenty of white bread. Who doesn’t love a good loaf of sliced white bread?” He took a breath and leaned toward her. “And, I just went on and on like an auctioneer waiting for bids.”

She snickered. In addition to good looks, Jack had some personality. Even though his Texas accent slathered every word as thick as warm toffee, he had sounded like an auctioneer.

“Count me in.” Walt shook Jack’s hand again. “I’m going to burn off. Got to get back to Walt’s Surftown.” Walt pointed to Teddy. “No wonking.”

She nodded. “Go on. Take care of Surftown.”

Her stomach growled. The one bowl of stale Cheerios she’d eaten for breakfast wore off hours ago. At least Jack arrived in town with a load of barbecue instead of socks and canned sweet potatoes.

“So, I’ll see you tonight?” Jack lowered his eyes to hers.

She shook her head and motioned to the bare concrete in front of her.

“You can’t work if you don’t eat. We’re over at the docks. Come on over at five o’clock. You could use some meat on your bones.” He frowned. “I mean, you know, you need to take care of yourself.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “I’m going to leave now before I say something else stupid.” Jack climbed into the truck. “See you there.”

“No. I don’t think so,” she yelled, as he started up his gigantic truck.

She needed to work and pay bills not mingle at a barbecue social. Daniel waited for a full report. He’d want her to abandon Bird Isle and go back to Houston. A sane person might move back to Houston. Daniel cared about her, not enough to move to Bird Isle, but then she didn’t care enough about him to stay in Houston when her mother died. He never understood why she wanted to manage her mother’s candy store. How could he know how she felt after losing her mother? And, now, Daniel would never understand how she felt losing her mother’s life’s work.

Every creative flourish of her mother’s shop—the peppermint-striped awning, the sugar sandcastle window display, the coconut-roofed surf shack filled with candy seashells—had disappeared, just like Teddy’s future.

“Pfft, stop it, just stop it.” She spit into the sand. “Don’t be such a baby.” She pressed her hands against her chest and tapped twice. “. . . time and chance happen to them all.” Her mother often quoted the Bible verse. In this case, Teddy used the words “ tide and chance.” Mom would have appreciated the play on words—tide and chance happen to them all.