Firefly Summer by Nan Rossiter Page B

when she suddenly realized she had to go right then! There was no way she’d make it home. She tried straddling the crossbar of her bike, but that didn’t help, and then, all of a sudden, she panicked and just couldn’t possibly hold it anymore. She’d never forget the warm sensation trickling down her legs, soaking her pants. She’d been utterly humiliated . . . and then the situation had gotten worse! A family she knew stopped next to her in their car to see whether she needed a ride home. “No, thank you,” she’d said nonchalantly, praying they wouldn’t notice her wet pants.
    Why did she always remember the awful moments? She looked around desperately, and finally hurried into the scrubby pine underbrush, dropped her shorts, her eyes filling with tears of relief. What a sight I must be—a sixty-five-year-old woman crouching in the woods with my big butt waving in the wind . . . and if anyone comes along, there’s no way I can put the brakes on! Just then, she heard voices and her heart started to pound. “Oh, Lord, please don’t let them see me . . . and please don’t let me have a heart attack in this position!”

C HAPTER 19
    S ailor rinsed out the wine bottles and began washing the dessert plates and glasses. She didn’t usually leave dishes in the sink overnight, but after her sisters had left, she’d been too tired to deal with them. She looked out the kitchen window—it was another beautiful spring day and she was anxious to get out in the gardens and figure out what plants were there. But she still had so much to do inside, not to mention she needed to go food shopping.
    She dried her hands, popped a stale chocolate Munchkin in her mouth, and washed it down with the last of the cold coffee. Then she looked around for a pencil and a scrap piece of paper. She didn’t find either but when she opened the fridge, she realized she didn’t need a list because she needed everything . She looked at her phone—it was 9:15 . . . and it was Saturday, so she’d better just skip her shower and go right to the store or she’d be there at the same time as the thundering herd.
    Twenty minutes later, she turned into the Birdwatcher’s General Store parking lot. On her way down Route 6, she’d remembered she wanted to get a bird feeder and some seed for her new yard and she’d decided she should do it before she went food shopping. She climbed out of her car and stepped onto the porch of the long gray building.
    â€œHey, Mike,” she said when she saw the owner standing behind the counter.
    â€œHi!” Mike said jovially, giving her a little wave.
    Sailor knew he didn’t know who she was, but that was okay—he was really a friend of Birdie’s. For many years, Birdie had led guided bird tours on the beaches and marshes of Cape Cod for the Massachusetts Audubon, and she’d even stayed at the famous Outermost House before it washed away in the winter hurricane of 1978 that buried all of New England in snow, so Birdie’s and Mike’s paths had crossed many times over the years, and Birdie always sent bird lovers to his store.
    Sailor had been in the store countless times, by herself and with Birdie (in fact, it was the perfect place to find gifts for her bird-loving sister)—which reminded her—she needed to get a gift for Birdie’s birthday too! She headed across the worn wooden floor in the direction of the bird feeders. There were so many from which to choose—tube feeders, house feeders, shelf feeders, suet feeders, window feeders, and feeders specifically designed to stymie the efforts of squirrels and raccoons—feeders with perches that dropped when something heavy was on them; feeders in cages; and posts with baffles. There was even a video playing on a loop in the back of the store of a squirrel hanging on for dear life with his hind feet while his little arms were stretched