A Place to Land (Budgie Bay #1)

Chapter 1

Nora

Imissed my grandmother’s funeral for a marketing pitch in Spain, and now I’m back to clean up what’s left of her life.

You’re the worst.

The nostalgic scent of salty sea air blowing in through the cracked car window does nothing to distract me from the overwhelming guilt.

It’s deep in my gut, festering and clawing, as if it’s a caged animal that needs freeing.

Bile creeps up my throat. I wonder if I’ll make it to her house without puking.

“Busy time of year,” the driver says to me, meeting my gaze in his rearview mirror. “Are you here for BudgieFest?”

I close my eyes against my will, letting my childhood summer memories flood through me.

Grandma would take me from booth to booth, showing me all the cute, handmade trinkets, and even letting me get a couple.

We’d always eat at one of the multitudes of food trucks.

And, if I was well-behaved, we’d get ice cream after.

My favorite part was seeing all the budgies and hearing their delightful chirps among the crowds of chattering people.

“Uh, yeah,” I say to him. “Best funnel cakes on the west coast.”

The lie on my tongue is easier than explaining there’s been a death in my family and that I’d missed paying my respects. It seems self-centered, selfish, and cold.

Because it is…

My stomach twists painfully.

He chuckles and nods in agreement. “I hear there’ll be a light show this year.

They’re really building up The Tailstream River Landing District, but I’ll always be one of the old-fashioned types who prefers traditions of the past over newness.

You’re probably too young to remember when the festival was on Wing Whirr Way in The Mask District back in the 70s and 80s. ”

As he continues to chatter on about the annual festival, I attempt to shove down my guilt mixed with overwhelming grief deep into the pit of my belly where it can be drowned in the mediocre coffee they served me on my flight. First Class has its perks, but great coffee isn’t one of them.

“You got family here?” the overly friendly man asks, not taking the hint of how uncomfortable I am. “I’ve grown up here my whole life. You look familiar.”

The genes are strong in my family, so it’s no surprise, but again, I don’t want to get into the gritty details of my life with a stranger. He’ll drop me off at Grandma’s soon and I’ll never see the man again.

“Doesn’t everyone?” I say, keeping my voice light. “The turn is up ahead. Take a right on Lutino Lane.”

“I know a few people who live over there. Iris Ring Cove is one of the most beautiful places in Budgie Bay.” The man puts on his blinker and then takes a right at the stop sign. “Say, you don’t happen to know Goldie Everhart, do you?”

At the mention of my grandma’s name, my eyes fill with shameful tears. I love her more than anything, but I let her down in the end. I’m a horrible person.

“There,” I choke out, unable to answer his question. “That’s my stop.”

Before the man can connect me to being Goldie’s granddaughter, who couldn’t bring herself to show up to the funeral, I bolt out of the car. He hurries to climb out and help me with my luggage, but I’m too quick for the older man and already have it all pulled out by the time he rounds the vehicle.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, quickly shoving a hundred-dollar bill at him.

He opens his mouth to respond, but I swivel around on the driveway, dragging my rolling suitcase behind me and toward the cottage as if my dress is on fire.

I’m so focused on my escape from the well-meaning man that I almost don’t notice the state of the cottage. It’s not until he drives away that I allow myself to pause and really take it all in.

Overgrown hydrangea bushes in pinks and blues crowding the salt-worn wood of the small porch.

Mismatched and broken handmade wind chimes hanging from hooks at every corner.

The faint smell of juicy strawberries dancing its way from the backyard over to me.

It looks almost as it did how I remember a decade ago, just a little more rundown and aged.

I was fourteen and didn’t realize at the time that it would be my last summer here as a kid.

I can almost recall how the grass felt on my bare feet as I walked behind Grandma, babbling about school and ballet while she watered her endless plants.

The pain of missing her hits me hard and out of nowhere. While away from Budgie Bay, I was able to distract myself with work and friends and Mom. But now the noise has turned quiet and I’m here alone with the reality.

Grandma is gone.

Tears in my eyes have the quaint cottage blurring before me. Standing in her driveway and crying about missing her won’t bring her back. It certainly won’t help me fix up the place any faster to sell.

The thought of selling the vault of my best childhood memories hurts, especially now that Grandma is no longer here to share them with. Mom thinks if I spend time here, fixing the cottage up, I’ll find some healing along the way.

I’m sorry, Grandma.

It takes some effort, but I manage to wrangle my suitcase and bags up onto the porch.

Finding the key Mom gave me, buried at the bottom of my giant handbag, though, proves to be quite the challenge.

By the time I locate the key and shove it into the lock, I’ve broken a sweat and am desperate for a shower.

For as much as I fly, I never get used to the filmy, oily, germ-infested feeling on my skin after being trapped in a metal tube full of coughing people.

Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl.

I suck in a deep breath and attempt to steady myself before stepping inside. Reminders of our epic, laughter-filled summers will be everywhere and it’s going to be painful.

“You can do this,” I say to myself, firm and no-nonsense, the same way I speak confidently to a client. “You’re an Everhart and Everharts are strong women.”

The wind chimes clatter against each other as a warm breeze tickles over my sweaty flesh. I get another whiff of strawberries and it’s grounding.

I can do this.

The door creaks on its hinges as I open it. A puff of dust swirls around me, sending me into a coughing fit. My eyes burn and it takes a beat for the dust to clear from my abrupt entry.

As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I realize this is not what I remember.

Am I at the right house?

I blink over and over, trying to focus on anything that might clue me in on what’s going on here. It’s then I see a picture of my mom when she was pregnant with me. There, sitting on the mantel above the fireplace, covered in inch-thick dust is the proof I need.

What happened?

I drop my luggage and bags so I can fish my phone out of my pocket.

It’s been buzzing nonstop with work stuff.

I’ve conveniently ignored everything, resentment of my job stubbornly making itself known.

Even now, seeing multiple worried texts from my boyfriend and boss, Denver, I skip over them to dial my mother.

“Hi, love,” Mom says, voice breathy as she answers. “I’m at my spin class. Is this an emergency or a check-in?”

My throat tightens and chin wobbles. “Everything’s so filthy. Covered in dust.” Boxes are stacked everywhere. Piles of paper clutter any and all surfaces. It smells faintly of mildew too. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

The upbeat dance music in the background makes it hard to hear her response. Something about how she “didn’t go inside,” and “you know how your grandma is,” and “I’m sure a little sweeping and it’ll be good as new.”

And then she’s off the phone, promising to call after her workout.

I stand in the middle of a war zone, confused, and frankly, traumatized.

All those texts and calls and postcards of Grandma asking me to come visit… They didn’t exactly go ignored, but there was always an excuse. It’s not that I didn’t ever see Grandma, but she flew out to visit us on holidays, never the other way around. Not once did she ever mention struggling.

And, yet she was.

This house is proof that she could no longer handle caring for the cottage, and likely, herself.

A sob crawls up my throat and I release it, my entire body shuddering. Grief swallows me up like the tide. I gasp for air, trying to make it all make sense.

While Mom was in spin class and shopping and being with her boyfriend, Ron, Grandma was in this.

While I was off galivanting all over the world, helping Denver build his marketing firm, Grandma was in this.

We’re her family, and when she needed us most, we were absent.

I’m frozen in horror. Guilt eats me from the inside out. I want to turn on my heel and run far, far away from this childhood dream turned nightmare. At least when I’m on the east coast or traveling for work, I can put Grandma and Budgie Bay in the back of my mind. It’s easy to stay distracted.

There’s nothing to do now but face the music. Admit that we failed a good woman and have to live with that the rest of our lives.

You’re an Everhart and Everharts are strong women.

I certainly don’t feel very strong right now.

“One thing at a time,” I say aloud, voice raspy and trembling, as I sidestep my bags piled on the dirty floor beside me. “When I finish, it’ll be as good as new.”

Feeling slightly better, I dry my cheeks with the heels of my palms. I’m sure I have mascara everywhere and look pretty pitiful. Thankfully, here at Grandma’s, I won’t run into anyone I know.

It’s then, I hear it.

Well, technically I don’t.

Silence. Complete and utter silence.

Dread consumes me as I realize what this means. All her rescue budgies are suspiciously quiet.

They probably all died of a broken heart.

I take off in a run, nearly face planting when I trip over a pile of blankets left haphazardly on the floor in the middle of the room.

Grandma’s aviary was always my favorite part of the house.

It felt special and held so much meaning since Grandpa built it for her.

When I was a kid, anytime I’d walk into her cottage, the birds would all sing their greeting from the back of the house.

But now it’s so quiet.

Haunting.

I’m worried about what I’ll discover on the other side of the closed door.

As soon as I’m near it, I lean my ear toward it, hoping to hear even the tiniest chirp.

Nothing.

Not only did we fail Grandma, but we failed her budgies too. Why didn’t Mom have someone take care of them until I got here? Surely, she wouldn’t just let them die.

I clutch onto the doorknob, mentally amping myself up to go inside the room. If I’m met with a dozen dead budgies, I’ll be sick.

Please let them just be napping…

The stench of death doesn’t hit my nostrils because it isn’t here. All of the cages in the room have been emptied. No dead birds.

Thank God.

But where are they?

Did someone steal them? Did they escape? Did Mom forget to tell me she rehomed them?

Panic claws its way up inside me and I rush from the room, desperate for answers as to where the birds went. I need air and I can’t catch my breath in this dusty tomb.

I stumble out of the aviary and toward the back door that’s closer than the front one. It takes a few frustrating seconds to get the locks undone and then I’m ripping open the only thing standing between me and fresh air.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

I just want to go home.

I’m so sorry, Grandma.