Chapter 24 #3
Her eyes scanned the room before landing on a five-by-seven photo in a silver frame on the antique table at the end of the couch.
The picture was taken at her fortieth birthday party—her and the love of her life along with their two young boys, all standing on the dock behind their home.
Jeffrey had planned a special surprise evening, inviting family and a small group of friends.
It was typical of him; he always pampered her on her birthdays.
The surprise trip to St. Croix, the new sedan, the starlit symphony in the park.
As she continued to stroke Dove’s and Pearl’s soft white fur, her teary eyes shifted to the butler’s pantry, which was stocked
with bottles of alcohol. The temptation was strong, so she decided to go for a second brisk run of the day to clear her mind.
Moira jogged down the path along the river, her footsteps muffled by the soft silt beneath her neon sneakers. She had always
loved the way the mossy oaks formed a cool, lush canopy overhead, their ancient branches intertwined. She slowly breathed
in the air that was thick with the earthy scent of the river and sea salt. A pontoon boat drifted lazily on the water, and
the distant strains of classic rock floated to her from the boat, mingling with the rustle of marsh weeds swaying in the wind.
She reflected on how everything—the music and the fresh air—seemed perfect for enjoying a drink. Whether it was wine or whiskey
didn’t matter; either would satisfy her longing at that moment. Her thoughts raced faster than her feet until she suddenly
stopped, her sneakers sinking into the silt. She had arrived at the shady bend between her home and the senator’s estate,
and just five feet away stood the familiar, magnificent blue heron.
Moira must have seen this same bird a hundred times in the far corner of her yard, but she had never been this close to such a spectacular creature before.
The heron did not startle or fly away in panic.
Instead, its sharp, inquisitive eyes were fixed on her with a calm, steady gaze.
Its tall, slender frame was graceful, and up close, the delicate blend of blue and white feathers looked even more striking, almost magical, than they had from a distance.
She remembered Nell’s words—specifically, her father’s drunken words—about the symbolism of the heron: purity, strength, and
determination. These were the very qualities she had needed this weekend, what she needed to successfully stay sober. God’s
purity and strength, her own determination. It was as if this bird stood there as a reminder.
They continued to study each other for what felt like an eternity, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Then, with
sudden grace, the heron spread its large wings. Moira heard the rustling of feathers and even the whooshing of wind catching
beneath them and watched as the bird took flight. Its long, slender legs trailed behind as it soared over the Savannah marsh,
disappearing into the golden hue of the afternoon sun. A sense of peace washed over Moira as she stood silently by the water.
She reached into the pocket of her pink windbreaker, pulled out her cell phone, and dialed Nell’s number.
“Hey, I’ve changed my mind,” she said, her voice resolute. “Will you meet me at the church tonight?”
Moira could tell Nell was smiling on the other end of the line as she said, “Six o’clock sharp at the south entrance.”
After ending the call, Moira slipped her phone into her pocket and resumed her pace, starting with a slow jog that quickly
turned into a sprint.
She crossed the small bridge. It wasn’t much—just a simple wooden arc that spanned the narrow tributary, hardly wide enough to justify its existence.
However, Jeffrey had insisted it was necessary.
He said it gave the place a sense of ceremony and reminded him of something from a Faulkner novel.
Moira laughed at that because Jeffrey had never actually finished a Faulkner novel in his life.
He drew plans for the bridge on a napkin one night while they sat on the cobblestone porch and cicadas sounded like static
in the trees. The next weekend he was at the lumberyard bright and early, talking angles and slats with a man named Roy who
called everyone “chief.”
For days, their side yard looked like a construction site: sawdust in the air, wood stacked in crooked piles, and Jeffrey
out there in an old Braves hat and jeans, hammering away.
Moira had brought him lemonade and Tylenol, and stood at the kitchen window watching him mutter to himself, argue with the
level, and finally step back to admire the little bridge with a look of such ridiculous pride that it made her laugh out loud.
“Come stand on it!” he called to her. “Behold what I’ve done here!”
The boards smelled like pine, and the railings were slightly uneven. The whole thing was charmingly crooked, but she crossed
it, barefoot, praying it would hold her since it had been constructed by a man who wore a suit and tie and sat behind a cherry
desk five days out of the week.
“This will still be here long after I’m dead and gone.” He leaned on the railing, beaming ear to ear.
And it was.
Just then, as she crossed the weathered wood, gray and splintered, her phone chimed. She pulled it out of her windbreaker
and felt her heart flutter when she saw Bradford’s name and number lighting up the screen.
“Hello, son,” she greeted him, her voice cracking with emotion.
His deep voice, which she had longed to hear for weeks, bathed her in contentment when he said, “Happy birthday, Mama.”
She quickly wiped her eyes and walked to one of the wooden chairs where she and Nell had sat earlier. There she talked with
Bradford for nearly an hour—about the weekend, about her plans to attend the church that evening. She offered apologies, she
accepted his, and for the first time in a long time, all felt right on Allyson Island.