Chapter 3
Nora
What a rotten, horrible man.
Anger has chased away my grief, and frankly, I’m a bit relieved. It fuels me to do something. Anything other than crying. Guilt gets shoved into a neat, tidy box in my brain as I start making a plan for what to do next.
No utilities. Ugh.
Not the end of the world, though. I can stay at the inn or a hotel or an Airbnb until I get in touch with someone who can fix that. These are all to-do list items that I’m more than capable of handling.
The only problem is I don’t have a car. I knew Grandma stopped driving last year and sold her vehicle, but she still managed to get around. Surely, I can too.
With a steadying breath, I make my way to the garden shed. It’s shockingly neat and orderly inside, much more so than I ever remember. Because of that, I’m able to easily locate Grandma’s bike. The one I used to ride sits nearby, knocking me in the chest again with heartfelt memories.
“Don’t think about it,” I mutter to myself, fighting more tears. “Take care of business first. Break down later.”
I nod emphatically as if I agree wholeheartedly with this statement and then wrangle the aging bike from the shed.
Once I’ve maneuvered it to the driveway, I put the kickstand up and then head inside to grab my purse.
I shove a change of clothes into the giant thing and then step back outside in the early summer heat.
My shoes aren’t exactly bike friendly, so I yank them off, shoving both the purse and the shoes into the bike basket. It takes me a second to find my balance, having not ridden a bike in ages, and then I’m off, though a bit wobbly.
As I ride away from Grandma’s house, I feel like I can breathe again. My mind reels with what all I’d seen. The chaos and dust. The missing birds. The new aviary. The handsome jerk next door.
Handsome?
Not handsome in a Denver Locke—son of a billionaire, Ken-Doll hair, face-cream-costs-more-than-my-monthly-rent—kind of way.
Sweat trickles down my back and I groan. I’m hot and bothered because this entire day has been stressful. Not because I was arguing with the manliest man I’ve ever been around.
He smelled like bold coffee and sawdust. I bet he could bottle it up and sell it for a fortune in New York. Tons of business bros would love to confuse the opposite sex with a new fragrance called Blue Collar Lumberjack Man Sweat Breeze.
I nearly topple my bike when I hit a pothole and am thankful to interrupt my manic thoughts of the mean neighbor with the nice smell.
Preen Street is busier than I remember. Luckily, they’ve built a bike lane that wasn’t here last time I visited.
I zip over to it and can’t help but smile when a whiff of the salty ocean envelops me.
When I’d follow Grandma to town on my bike, I’d revel in all sights and smells.
Compared to Budgie Bay, New York City was stinky and crowded and oftentimes stifling.
Budgie Bay always promised fresh air and freedom.
I’m the only one on the bike path which suits me just fine. That’s another thing about Budgie Bay. Even when BudgieFest is in full swing, it’s still not as crowded as the city. I hang a left onto Skyblue Shore Road that’s been freshly paved.
A motorcycle cruises past and the man driving waves at me. Everyone’s so friendly around here. Well, not everyone.
I get another flash of the rude neighbor in my mind, and it’s distracting. It makes me want to call Denver right now so I can speak with a normal, sane, logical, polite male.
My stomach grumbles and it’s not just because I’m hungry. Thoughts of my boyfriend and work haven’t been the most pleasant on this trip. There’s a sourness that churns in my gut. I think they call it resentment.
You made the decision to stay in Spain, Nora.
Did I? Or was that some version of loyalty that felt right at the time?
They call it a guilt trip, girl.
Since I don’t exactly want to dissect my relationship with Denver right now, I focus on the bike path ahead. I’m in awe as an affluent, glossy shopping strip comes into view, directly across from the Plumage Expo Center. It’s definitely new and feels high-end, and completely wrong for Budgie Bay.
This must be The Tailstream River Landing District my driver mentioned earlier. It’s impressive, and I’m curious, but there’s a cold, unfamiliar vibe that doesn’t sit well with me.
My calves start to burn as I hurry past the new development. The ride that felt like it took ages when I was a kid is much quicker as an adult. Before I know it, I’m weaving along Opaline Avenue, nearly to Wing Whirr Way.
Someone honks, loud and long, and I cry out in surprise.
A truck slows down. Scraps and Things is scrawled in bright red paint on the side of the dingy, aging white vehicle.
Almost immediately, I recognized the bearded man.
His muscular arm sits on the edge of the open window, and he stares me down as he passes.
I wave to him.
With my middle finger.
He gasses it and zooms off, returning the gesture.
What an arrogant piece of—
I screech to a halt in front of the old sign at one end of The Mask District. It’s ancient and dilapidated. Over the years, as businesses have changed, it’s been painted over and over. I study the sign, looking for changes.
The Budgie Café, a local legend, still remains. My mouth waters for some fried clams that’ll bring a tear of joy to your eye. I’m grateful that with all the change, it’s still around.
I scan the sign to make sure The Nest Box Inn is also still here and breathe a sigh of relief when I see it at the bottom.
At least I’ll have a place to stay if I can’t get the utilities turned back on today.
I’m curious about the other businesses listed, especially Preening Pages, which I hope is a bookstore.
Also, Baked & Brewed sounds promising. First things first, though, is the post office.
When I’d ride to town with Grandma, it wasn’t always for fun, exciting things like ice cream or BudgieFest. Often, we’d run boring errands. She liked going in to the post office to pay her utilities even though she was pretty savvy with a computer and could have easily done it that way.
She was probably looking for him, Grandpa Amos, and just didn’t want to tell me.
It might have gotten back to Mom and Grandma would never have heard the end of it.
I can’t imagine falling so deeply in love and then losing your fisherman husband when his boat sank all before the birth of your first and only child.
Another trickle of sweat rolls down my back and I grimace. I should have at least changed into shorts before racing off on this chaotic journey. I ride past the sign to the corner of Wing Whirr Way and grin when I smell the famous fried clams wafting over from The Budgie Café.
“Soon,” I promise my stomach, gently rubbing away the ache there.
I ride my bike down the street passing a business called The Attic on Whirr.
From what I can tell by the crap piled up in the windows is that it’s an antique shop or a thrift store.
If my best friend Kayla were here, she’d drag me inside.
She romanticizes everything, especially other people’s old things.
The scent of fresh, lovely flowers greets me next.
Wild Petal, a cute floral shop, beckons for me to come take a peek.
I’ve always been a sucker for flowers. Denver does well in that department, sending me obligatory arrangements for birthdays and special occasions, all of them expensive and over the top.
I’m so focused on the flower shop, I almost plow into a teenage boy leaving the Maple Millet Table. I run over his tennis shoe and he grunts.
“Sorry!” we both cry out at once.
He runs across the road and disappears out of sight. I roll to a stop in front of the post office, heart racing, sweat soaking through my dress, and a headache forming behind my eyes.
I climb off the bike and lean it against the brick on the post office building. It takes a minute to put my shoes back on and then pull my purse straps over my shoulder. As soon as I reach the door, I freeze.
Closed.
As of five minutes ago.
No.
I cup my hands around my eyes and peek in through the window, hoping to see a worker who might let me in. The place is already dark and deserted.
“Ridiculous,” I cry out, frustration lacing my words. I smack the glass as if I can rouse someone from the back to help me.
Nobody comes to let me in.
“You okay, miss?”
I whirl around, slightly alarmed to come face to face with a rugged, bearded man around my mom’s age. His muscular arms are crossed over his chest, and I don’t miss the word “Sheriff” emblazoned on his ball cap. He’s frowning and doesn’t exactly seem eager to help.
“Oh, thank God.” I force a bright smile, turning on my practiced charm. “Finally, someone capable who can help.”
He blinks, unmoved by my tricks. “I suppose it depends on what you need help with.”
Fair.
I rush out a breath and gesture behind me. “I just got into town and learned the utilities are out at my place. If I could get someone to turn them back on for me, I’ll be out of your hair.”
His eyes narrow as he studies me intently. I haven’t done anything wrong, but he makes me feel like I have. Is he going to arrest me for an attempted break-in? I was tempted…
“Where’s your place?” he asks, features tight with suspicion.
I didn’t expect to have to come to Budgie Bay and tell everyone my business, but here I am. He’s the sheriff for crying out loud. I can’t lie.
But the truth sucks.
My hesitancy has his eyes narrowing further. “Ma’am?”
“I’m Goldie Everhart’s granddaughter,” I blurt out, spilling my guts in a rush of breath.
The corner of his mouth twitches like he might smile, but then nothing happens. He continues to stare at me, now with even more scrutiny. As if he knows me somehow. I don’t like it.
“Sheriff Calder. Miss Everhart, is it?”
I nod, frowning. “Yes.”
“I’m really sorry about your grandma,” he says, features softening almost imperceptibly. “But, as far as your utilities go, you’re looking at Monday before you’ll get anyone to turn them back on for you.”
I shake my head. “No. I need them on now. At the very least in the morning. The post office is open on Saturdays.” I jab a finger at the sign to prove my point.
“They are,” he agrees, “but not the power, gas, and water companies.” He sighs heavily. “They open up on Monday morning. Maybe see about finding a place at The Nest Box Inn in the meantime.”
He tips his hat at me and then strides over to his police cruiser that’s parked behind Elias’s truck.
A thrill shoots through me as I wonder if he’s giving him a ticket.
That would teach him for being a jerk. Unfortunately, the sheriff has other plans.
He plucks off his ball cap and takes off his uniform shirt, before shoving them inside the vehicle, and then heads for the building next to the post office.
The Icehouse.
Cold drinks. Warm company.
A bar.
I guess everyone goes home at five around here, or they head next door.
For a long beat, I remain frozen, wondering if I made a huge mistake coming to Budgie Bay. I should have just let Mom handle Grandma’s cottage and things. This was a bad idea.
The only silver lining in this entire day is I’ll finally be able to book a room at The Nest Box Inn. Every summer I’d beg Grandma to let us stay there one night, and she always said no.
I need a win right now.
Even if it comes in the way of a floral print wallpapered hotel room complete with handwoven doilies and vintage quilts.
Tomorrow has to be better.