A Place to Land

Dedication

To Meme’s Crew, with love

Prologue

Sugar Bend has always been known as a place of secrets and mystery. In this small town nestled alongside Little River, words spoken in confidence turn to mist, evaporating before anyone else can take notice of them. Fish swim against the current, pushing themselves deeper into the rich river water even as the tide sweeps everything else out into the Gulf. Mourning doves float on the water’s early morning surface like ducks, as if the water were a safer place than land. And long-gone memories, thick as the rain-heavy air, tend to come back at the strangest of times, as sharp and clear as if they’d only just happened.

The town of Sugar Bend sprouted in a cozy crook of the river over a century ago, and its people built stores and homes along the thin ribbon of brackish water. Now lazy roads fan out on either side of it, full of candy-colored houses, birds that chirp in the middle of the night, and dogs that crisscross the road in search of the tastiest handouts.

But on the edge of town, the secrets deepen along with the river, and as the water grows shadowy under tree-dappled shade, the mysteries darken as well. For way down deep in the murky blue-green depths, a little boat sleeps. Forty years ago it was laid to rest in its silent, watery burial ground by a pair of strong hands—hands that belonged to a girl whose life was irrevocably changed in the span of one steamy, glass-calm night.

Part One
Lift

One

On a quiet silver morning, before the world—or at least the rest of Sugar Bend—had awoken, Violet Figg took in the spirited birdsong from her back porch overlooking Little River. She wrapped her hands around her mug of tea and closed her eyes to listen. There by the steps was the three-part whistle of a Carolina wren. Up in the scrubby oak along the side of the porch was the soft coo-oo of a mourning dove. A great blue heron squawked as it landed at the edge of the grass and lifted its head high atop its skinny neck.

At the quick, squeaky chit-chit coming from near the back steps, Violet smiled. She’d started seeing the ruby-throated hummingbirds a few weeks ago, back in town from their yearly jaunt down to Mexico and other parts farther south. She was always happy to see them return.

This morning there were two of them, a male and a female, with wings that beat so fast they all but disappeared. Where the male had iridescent green feathers on his back and the telltale bright red throat, the female’s feathers were paler green and she was missing that trademark ruby red. What she did have was a splotch on the underside of her neck that resembled a sun with brilliant rays shooting out from the center. This particular hummingbird had visited Violet’s feeders last season, and possibly the one before that too. Trudy didn’t believe her, but Violet knew her birds.

“Getting a little breakfast before you start your day, huh?” Violet rose and placed her hand against the screen, and the female turned her head toward Violet’s voice. “Well, hello to you too,” she murmured. She’d mix up a new batch of nectar for them when she returned from her morning survey. She glanced at her watch. Still had a little time.

At a rustle behind her the birds took one last sip, then flew away, and Violet turned to see her sister lean in through the doorway that led from the kitchen onto the porch. Trudy’s blue-striped pajamas were rumpled, and she rubbed a hand over her eyes as she yawned.

At one time in her life, Trudy Figg wouldn’t have stepped out of the house without her long blonde hair meticulously brushed and rolled, eyeliner in a perfect cat eye, and lips lined and glossed. She’d sheathed her lovely form in all manner of sparkly gowns and bikinis in her quest to win every beauty pageant she entered, which for the most part she had.

The gowns and bikinis were long gone, along with all traces of makeup, hair products, and her voice, but her face was still beautiful. As much as Trudy tried to run from it, it was hard to hide the still-bright eyes, Cupid’s-bow lips, and smooth cheeks, despite her sixty-three years. Today Trudy sported a particularly impressive bedhead, with short gray-brown curls sticking out all over. And knowing Trudy, she wouldn’t even try to tame it before shoving a hat on her head and heading out on her daily treasure hunt.

Pausing in the doorway, Trudy tapped her watch and tilted her head in question.

“I’m always up early.” Over the years Violet had learned to decipher her sister’s unspoken communication, and she often knew what Trudy was thinking even when Trudy didn’t reach for the ever-present notepad and pencil she kept in her pocket. Violet nodded toward the bird feeder hanging on the other side of the screen. “I saw Sunshine this morning.” It was her nickname for the hummingbird with the sun rays on her neck. “She found her way back.”

Trudy had already pulled out her notepad and was scratching out a note. When she finished she held it out for Violet to read. With all those birds crisscrossing the skies during migrations, what makes you think you have repeat visitors?

Violet shrugged. “It happens.”

Trudy threw out a skeptical glance, but Violet pushed it away. “The birds know a good thing when they see it, and they’ve been known to go back to the same feeder year after year.” She nudged her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “Regardless, they’re here and I like it.” Violet faced out toward the river and the wide sky above it. Clear as a bell, light breeze. An osprey swooped over the river, a fish dangling in its talons.

Behind her Trudy began to write again. I’m going to the island before the tide comes back in. Don’t call the coast guard on me like you did last time.

“I wish you’d take your phone.” Violet wrapped her arms around herself. Early May in Alabama wasn’t cold by any stretch, but she felt a chill nonetheless. “Those teenagers on the Jet Skis make me nervous. And the drunk fishermen. You know how they race each other to get out into the Gulf.”

A corner of Trudy’s mouth lifted in a grin as she wrote. Not too many teenagers out before seven in the morning. And fishermen won’t start drinking until lunchtime.

Violet opened her mouth to rattle off another reason why it wasn’t safe for Trudy to be out on the water alone, but Trudy began writing again.

I’m a big girl, Violet. You don’t always have to watch out for me. I’ll be just fine.

And with that Trudy winked, then ducked back into the house.

“‘Just fine,’” Violet murmured, her gaze still on the spot where Trudy had been standing. I do have to watch out for you, she thought. It’s my job.

With Trudy gone the porch seemed more still than usual. Trudy had been quiet for forty years, but even in her silence, she could be loud. At least with Violet. Sometimes she seemed to nearly vibrate with life, but she refused to open her mouth and let any of it out.

Violet would have been happy with anything—a shout of anger, a burst of laughter, a single word. There were times, just after everything had happened, when Violet fought the urge to grab Trudy by the shoulders and demand she speak. Or at least explain, on that blasted notepad, why she couldn’t even say a word to Violet. The rest of the world, okay, but to her own sister? Her only family? But Violet had learned to let that go.

She heaved a lungful of air and slowly let it leak out. Violet loved her sister with every fiber, every shred of her being, and though the past crept back in sometimes, pressing on her shoulders and jabbing her in the stomach with its long, scabby fingers, Violet no longer allowed herself to think about all she’d given up, for love and for obligation. For penance.

Violet settled down in her rocking chair, the floral cushion shaped from years of her back-porch bird-watching, and pushed off gently, setting the rocker into a slow back-and-forth. Before her, the sky over the river brightened by small increments. A splash of mauve here, a streak of pink there. A little while later, Trudy crossed the yard below. Dressed in a pair of black swim shorts and a yellow T-shirt, Trudy—Violet’s sole companion for all these years—lugged her kayak under one arm and a bucket for her treasures in the other. The last time she’d gone to Roberts Island, she’d brought home a three-foot piece of gnarly driftwood, now well on its way to becoming a quirky lamp, which their customers would no doubt love and fight each other for. The bucket was too small for wood that large, but it’d be perfect for the shells and dried pods and fronds Trudy was always picking up and toting home.

Violet and Trudy owned and operated Two Sisters Art and Handmade Goods in downtown Sugar Bend. What started as a place for Trudy to make and sell her popular mixed-media art pieces had grown over the years into a shop where patrons could find just-right gifts for any occasion. Trudy’s unconventional sculptures were always a big hit, and their inventory also included everything from hand-thrown pottery to small canvas paintings to handmade soap, candles, and door wreaths.

Aside from just an art shop, Two Sisters had become somewhat of a gathering spot for people who needed rest and community—men whose wives were busy shopping, lonely seniors who craved company and conversation, even a few book clubs and knitting circles. Violet and Trudy had bought the shop eight years ago from the previous owners, who’d had to sell quickly, for a song. Trudy had been selling her artwork at the annual art festival for years, but having a brick-and-mortar space allowed her to sell her wares all through the year rather than in one hectic weekend. It also gave her a place to spread out her materials and work without covering their home with sand and splinters of wood. Or at least not as much as she used to.

Downstairs Trudy stepped into the shallow water alongside their dock and slid the kayak in, then carefully sat and picked up the double-bladed paddle. Only when she began paddling, her strong arms pulling the kayak through the glass surface of the river, did Violet stand to ready herself for her morning bird survey.

But just as she reached for her mug, a strange sensation washed through her, like ice water rippling under her skin. She paused, then turned to the screen door and pushed it open. There on the top step, as if someone had laid it there just for her, was a complete set of fish bones.

Violet’s breath rushed out and her skin tingled, a chill shooting up her arms and across the back of her neck. The skeleton was about as long as the width of her hand. It had a head with a gaping hole where the eye had once been, a spine with slender ribs sticking out, and at the end, the wispy, fragile bones of a small tail fin.

Despite living mere feet from the river and just a few miles from the Gulf of Mexico, the sight of the bones didn’t bring to mind the river teeming with life or the many fish she’d grilled, fried, or baked over the years—instead, she remembered the last day she’d seen him. He’d been wearing a crisp navy suit, starched white shirt, shiny wing-tip shoes. And the girl on his arm—Trudy, in a red dress, matching lipstick, and an anxious smile. And his trademark cuff links—tiny silver fish bones winking in the light.

In a quick, angry motion, Violet scraped the bones off the top step with the sole of her slipper, and they landed with a dull clatter in the saw grass growing next to the porch. Dropping to a half crouch—knees aching, heart pounding—she swiveled her head, expecting to see him looming on the dock or in the grass or behind her on the porch. But nothing was there. No one watching. Just a dewy morning stretching out its arms, unconcerned by the warning bells ringing in Violet’s ears.

* * *

Several years ago when Violet first began taking bird surveys for the Coastal Alabama Audubon Society, she’d wake up ludicrously early on survey days, nervously checking and rechecking her small backpack to make sure she had everything she needed: binoculars and camera, clipboard with plenty of data sheets, three pens in case her first two ran out of ink, visor and official birding T-shirt. It was so important to her—this process of observing, counting, and monitoring the birds she’d loved for so long—that she grew shaky and nauseated. Oftentimes her anxiety was so bad that when she finally made it to the beach and the beginning of her route, her hands would tremble and the data she was supposed to collect would disappear as soon as she’d try to write it down.

It was different now, thank goodness. She’d learned to relax into it, to remember she was dealing with the natural world, where things didn’t always go according to plan. It wasn’t the plans she cared about anyway—the checklists and routines, the data sheets and computer logs—it was the birds themselves. Their effortless flight through the sky, the ease with which they changed course.

Even as a young child, Violet had watched everything from the tiniest blue-gray gnatcatchers with the squeaky calls to the white ibises and great horned owls that soared over her childhood home. Each species was different—Violet was able to identify most birds in her backyard by the time she was seven or eight years old—but they all had one thing in common: total freedom. Violet loved nothing more than to watch “her” birds, as she thought of them, calling and cackling, foraging and flying, all with the ease and freedom of a creature not bound by anything but the needs of its own little body and brain. Nothing stopped them. Watching them fly was always the balm she didn’t know she needed.

Today, after a breakfast of oatmeal and a handful of blueberries, she grabbed her trusty backpack—always stocked with the essentials to prevent the nervous checking of her earlier years—and drove south out of Sugar Bend toward the coast. Though the stretch of white sand fronting the Gulf of Mexico had been virtually empty when she was a girl, it was now lined with overpriced restaurants, trendy boutiques, boat-rental shacks, and tall glittering condos. But despite the constant forward motion of progress, the birds were still there, and it was Violet’s duty—and pleasure—to keep her eye on them.

She parked at the resort, as she always did, and passed between the two condo towers. She’d walked the path between these condos so often, she’d worn the grass down to sandy dirt, but the man in the resort’s guardhouse always looked the other way when she approached with her binoculars and camera around her neck, her wide green visor shading her face and neck from the unforgiving Alabama sun. A sign proclaimed this portion of beach reserved for “Registered Guests Only,” but it had been years since he’d asked for her room number. She’d even taught him a little about identifying the birds he saw flying past his windowed box by the entrance gate.