“Now that we’ve identified the guy, no pun intended, can we go?” asked Lark. “Dorothy and Cecilia are already inside.” Lark looked wilted in her jeans and flannel shirt, and Rachel felt a stab of sympathy. The others were dressed for Colorado weather. It was only late April, but the temperatures in Georgia were already into the eighties. At this point, all any of the Coloradoans cared about was air conditioning.
Rachel wasn’t exactly dressed for birdwatching herself. She’d worn black silk crop pants and a tank top on the plane, but at least she was cool. “You go ahead. I’ll follow you.”
“Don’t tell me. You’re going to go and introduce yourself, aren’t you?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Lark climbed the stairs while Rachel retrieved her binoculars from the car. Creeping up to stand beside Saxby without scaring the birds on the feeder, Rachel adjusted her binoculars.
A brightly painted bunting squatted at the base of the broken-down bird feeder, seemingly oblivious to the aesthetics of its surroundings. Georgia greenery touched the sky to the south and east. To the north and west were the parking lot and a Dumpster. Small and sparrow-sized, the bird kept a watchful eye as he ate, peering out from behind a scarlet eye ring and swiveling his blue-violet head side to side.
“Beautiful, isn’t he?” asked Saxby.
Rachel kept her binoculars trained on the bird. “Gorgeous.”
A light breeze molded the painted bunting’s bright apple-green feathers flat to its back and ruffled its scarlet underparts as though underlining her statement. Behind him, two lime-green females twittered like schoolgirls enamored with a new beau.
Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel gave Saxby the once-over. Based on the gray that peppered his hair, he had to be in his mid-fifties, maybe twenty years older than she. Tanned and fit, he was of average height, average build. His shorts zippered at the knees, and he wore a state-of-the-art, long-sleeved, vented shirt straight out of the BigPockets catalog.
He seemed to sense her scrutiny, and returned it. “Are you from around here?” he asked.
“No.” She kept her answer short and simple. She figured it was obvious by the way she was dressed—no colorful T-shirt and shorts like the locals. “I’m from New York.”
“City?”
The question sounded rhetorical, so she didn’t answer.
“You’re not down here for the festival, are you?”
Rachel lowered her binoculars. “Do you find that so hard to believe?”
“A pretty, young businesswoman . . .” He half-shrugged, then straightened and focused sharply on something beyond her. “Whoops! Here comes trouble.”
He pointed, and Rachel glanced left. In a flash of rainbow colors, a second male painted bunting swooped into the trees, rousting the first male off the bottom of the feeder. Hopping up and along the pole, the feeder bird perched at the topmost point and belted out a song.
Saxby joined in with a husky baritone. “This land is my land. It’s not your land.”
Rachel grinned. He had scored a direct hit on the painted bunting psyche. It was one of the species Lark had said they would see on this trip, and Rachel had boned up on the bird. The males of the species were territorial, and had even been known to kill their competition in defense of their breeding ground. The females tended to choose the best provider, even if it meant sharing a mate. Obviously, the bird in control of the feeder had the edge.
The interloper dived out of the live oak, swooped past the Dumpster, and landed on the graveled driveway, cutting a swath past the wax myrtles. Pressing himself close to the ground, he shook out his wings.
“He’s making a challenge!” Saxby raised his binoculars and twisted them into focus.
Rachel followed suit.
The painted bunting flitted across the Georgia dirt, and hopped a few inches closer. Defiantly, the feeder bird flaunted his scarlet rump and sang louder, his voice jerky and off-key. The females stopped eating and huddled closer together on the backside of the feeder.
In a riot of colors, the male birds flew. Rachel lost track of which bird was which as they fluttered their wings in each other’s faces, grappling mid-air before tumbling to earth.
Rachel leapt forward. “We have to stop them before one of them ends up dead.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” yelled Saxby. He grabbed her arm, but it was too late. The birds broke apart. One bird flew into the trees. The other hopped up on the feeder.
Saxby’s body tensed. “Do you know how many people would kill for the chance you just had, to see two painted buntings in battle? Very few people ever have the opportunity to witness life in action like that.”
Rachel felt her hackles go up. “One of them was sure to be hurt. It seemed only right to stop them.”
Saxby looked disgusted. “Have you ever heard the saying ‘survival of the fittest’? By interfering you’ve upset the ecological balance.”
Rachel felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I just . . .”
Saxby’s body language softened. “You’re new to birding, aren’t you?”
She nodded. She had started birding just three years ago, and only had the opportunity now and then. She’d been doing more serious birding with Kirk, but only for the past year.
“Well, what’s done is done. I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.” Saxby dangled his binoculars against his chest. “Besides, it looks like the older bird would have won.”
Rachel frowned. “How can you be so sure?”
“Check out the face of the bird on the feeder. The incoming male was a young bird. The feeder bird bears a few scars. He’s learned to defend himself in a turf war.”
“By eliminating the competition?”
Saxby shrugged. “It works for him.”
“That sounds a bit cavalier if death is the usual outcome.”
“Not usual.” He paused and studied her. “You disapprove. Is a fight to the death not romantic or idealistic enough for you? Sometimes life is like that.”
Rachel wondered if Saxby’s cynicism had to do with his age. Maybe it was time to change the subject. “You’re Guy Saxby, aren’t you?”
“In the flesh.” He seemed pleased that she had recognized him.
“I’m Rachel Wilder.”
“Rachel.” He had just reached for her hand when a pretty brunette in a green Honda pulled up and tooted the horn. Squeezing Rachel’s fingers, he nodded toward the vehicle. “My chariot awaits. Enjoy your stay on the island. Perhaps I’ll see you at the festival.”
Before Rachel could think of something clever to stop him, Saxby had walked away and climbed into the car.
The brunette gunned the engine and pulled away.
“Rae!”
Rachel turned and spotted Lark galloping back down the steps of the Hyde Island Nature Center.
The tall blonde lolled out her tongue, and fanned the collar of her flannel shirt. “Whew boy, it’s hot. I’m ready to check into the hotel and change into my shorts.”
Rachel nodded absently and watched the Honda speed away.
“Guy Saxby and friend?” asked Lark.
“Guy Saxby and driver.” The girl was obviously too young to be his friend. Wasn’t she?
“Did you learn anything?”
Rachel remembered his lecture and felt herself blush. “Nothing Kirk would be interested in.”
“He didn’t look anything like I’d expected,” said Lark.
That struck Rachel as odd. “Why? What did you expect?”
“I don’t know, someone more dashing. He has a reputation, you know. He
is
the Indiana Jones of the birding world.”
Was she being facetious?
“Are you saying he doesn’t look roguish enough?”
“I just thought he’d be cuter,
younger
, that’s all. More like . . .”
“Colin Farrell?” Rachel supplied.
“Right,” said Lark, tugging at her long braid. “He’s too Sean Connery-ish, minus the English accent and the sex appeal.”
Lark sat down on a bench and Rachel sat down beside her. “What else do you know about him?”
“Not much.”
“Come on, Lark. You have to know more than I do.”
Kirk hadn’t had much time to brief her. He’d given her Saxby’s bio, and copies of two or three articles about the man. She knew he was a gifted writer and teacher, and that he’d once held the record for a “Big Year.” The logic behind a competition to see the most North American birds in one year escaped Rachel, but Saxby’s second book,
Chasing the Feather
, immortalized his adventure, detailing how he had stalked the birds and ended up besting James Vardaman’s 1979 record of 699 species by one—a record that had stood until 1983.
“I know he travels a lot,” offered Lark, tapping the heel of her boot against the iron leg of the bench. “He goes all over the place looking for birds. He’s well known for his escapades, a few of which are captured on film.”
“Like the Bouilia Incident?”
Lark nodded. “Except that time he didn’t get the bird.”
Rachel had read at least one account of that most recent adventure—a foray into the Western Australian outback in search of the elusive night parrot. The bird had been discovered in 1845 by a participant in Charles Stuart’s central Australian expedition. By 1912, twenty-two specimens of the species were collected, after which the night parrot was never officially documented again. It was deemed a “lost species” until 1990, when participants of an Australian Museum-sponsored trip collected a night parrot carcass from the side of the road near Bouilia. The hunt was on.
Saxby flew down with a small contingent, but failed to document the species on film. He did, however, find another carcass in a low chinapod shrub, and succeeded in winning the Bouilia Desert Sands Camel Race. He even provided stunning images of himself crossing the finish line in first place—a small consolation to the University of Georgia for the thousands of dollars spent.
“There you two are,” called Dorothy MacBean from the top of the stairs. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”
Her sister, Cecilia, traipsed down the stairs behind her. “Are we ready to go?”
“More than, ” said Lark, flapping her flannel-clad arms against the muggy, Georgia heat. Her face shone a deep, cherry red, and Rachel experienced a pang of guilt for keeping her out in the heat.
Rachel pulled Lark to her feet and steered her toward the car. “We need to get you into some air conditioning. Plus I didn’t tell you what we saw.”
“What?” demanded Dorothy.
Cecilia fixated on the “we.”
“You and who else?” she asked, looking at Lark.
“Rachel and Guy Saxby.”
“
The
Guy Saxby?” blurted the sisters in unison.
Rachel stifled a laugh. She was reminded of
The Patty Duke Show
theme song—“They look alike, they walk alike, at times they even talk alike. You could lose your mind . . .” Except for the fact that Dorothy’s favorite color was pink while Cecilia’s was blue, they wore the same stylish clothes, had the same pale skin, the same gray-colored eyes, and the same ash-blonde perm, with a youthfulness that belied their sixty-plus years.
“You
are
aware that he is an eligible bachelor,” said Cecilia, elbowing her sister.
“Don’t even start.” Dorothy held her fingers up in the sign of the cross.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Cecilia, feigning innocence. She had been trying to fix up her sister for years. Or, for that matter, anyone else who was single.
Rachel raised her own palms in surrender. “Don’t look at me. I’m already taken.”
“Count me out, too,” said Lark. She was practically engaged to Eric Linenger.
“Well you girls might be spoken for, but I know one of us who’s eligible.” Cecilia eyeballed her sister.
In truth, thought Rachel, they were both single. Dorothy had never been married, and Cecilia had been widowed for nearly forty-five years.
As if reading her mind, Dorothy waggled two fingers in Cecilia’s face.
“I was married.”
Dorothy smirked at her sister. “And I’ve had lovers. It doesn’t count.”
Like a guppy out of water, Cecilia opened and shut her mouth several times until finally she blurted out, “Well, I’ve seen Saxby’s picture, and I think he’s cute. He would be perfect for you.”
“Grow up, Cec.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t agree, Dot. He’s a real . . . what’s that term you use, girls?” She looked to Rachel and Lark. “A real ‘piece of eye candy.’ ”
“That would be my aunt Miriam’s expression,” said Rachel.
Cecilia shrugged, linking elbows with her sister. “Come on, admit it. Say you’re interested.”
Dorothy yanked her arm free. “He’s too young for me. I probably have ten years on the man.”
“Eight,” said Cecilia.
“Besides, I’ve never even met him.”
“We can remedy that.” Cecilia beamed at Rachel. “She knows him.”
Judging by Dorothy’s expression, Rachel decided it was time for intervention. “Enough already, do you guys want to hear about what we saw or not?”
“We do,” replied Dorothy and Lark in unison.
Rachel pointed to the birds on the feeder and recounted the challenge, the battle, and her blunder. When she was done, the four of them stood for a moment and admired the victor.
“Saxby was right,” said Cecilia. “You should never have intervened.”
“It’s okay, dear,” said Dorothy. She tipped her head and smiled at the bird. “Do you know, the painted bunting’s a life bird for me.”
It was a life bird for Rachel, too, but with as many birds as Dorothy had seen, it was hard to believe this was the first painted bunting she had seen in her lifetime.
Cecilia whipped around, surprise etched in the wrinkles on her face. “It is not, Dot. We saw one on that trip we took to Florida when we were teenagers.”
“No, it doesn’t count. This is the first one I’ve seen since I started counting.”
“What’s wrong with counting the first one you saw?” asked Cecilia. “I did.”