Bones and Roses by Eileen; Goudge Page A

leg, flapping its wings, pursued by the guy waving a butterfly net at it—I stopped to watch. He didn’t see me until he almost ran into me.
    â€œOh, hey,” he said as we stood facing each other after the seagull had hop-flapped down the path. He explained that the bird had a plastic ring from a six-pack holder caught on one of its feet. “Happens all the time. I rescue the ones I can catch so they won’t die of starvation.” Seagulls feed mainly on fish and mollusks, he explained.
    I helped him catch the gull and we wrapped it in my windbreaker before removing the plastic ring and setting it free. After we’d watched it fly off, we sat on of the benches alongside the path and talked. I learned his name was Daniel Gunderson. He’d moved here from Racine, Wisconsin, after he was accepted into the graduate program at the university. The minute he’d set foot on this rugged and largely unspoiled stretch of coastline, he knew he was here to stay. “This is my spiritual home,” he said, and coming from him it didn’t sound like trite New Age blather.
    I warmed to him right away. I mean, how can you not like a guy who goes around rescuing birds that are generally referred to in these parts as flying rats? (If you’ve ever been pooped on by a seagull, you’d know why.) I also found him attractive, with his broad Scandinavian face, lively blue-green eyes, and sandy hair that flopped over his forehead. Romantic relationships are generally frowned on in the first year of sobriety, besides which, pretty much the only guys with whom I came into contact in those days were the ones at AA meetings. Before that, my romantic life had been a distant second to my drinking. Suffice it to say I didn’t need to have my arm twisted when he phoned the next day to invite me over for a lobster dinner.
    One week later we were lovers and a month after that he was living in one of the guest cottages at the Trousdales.’ Their previous groundskeeper had been deported to Mexico. (This was before I learned to be scrupulous in checking green cards) and Daniel had experience, having worked summers for a landscaper throughout high school, so it was the ideal arrangement for all concerned.
    This evening as we stroll hand-in-hand down the path to the guest cottages after saying our good-byes, I feel something settle inside me. Where I’d once taken solace in drinking, he’s hot cocoa with marshmallows on top. I know what Ivy would say about that: there’s nothing sexy about hot cocoa with marshmallows. Which is fine, because right now I’m not feeling very sexy. I’m content just to have him at my side.
    Daniel’s cottage is the farthest from the house and closest to the swimming pool and tennis court. The exterior is shingled in cedar shakes silvered by exposure to the sea air. Inside it’s decorated with light-colored wood furnishings and fabrics from the Ralph Lauren California Romantic collection, and there are touches of whimsy such as the fireplace mantle fashioned from a piece of driftwood and re-purposed factory skid that serves as a coffee table. I release a breath as I step through the doorway, and Daniel puts his arms around me, pulling me close. “I’m sorry about your mom,” he murmurs into my hair. “I know you never lost hope that she’d turn up one day.”
    â€œAnd guess what? She did.” I choke out a laugh.
    â€œHave you told Arthur?” I feel a tightening in my belly at the mention of my brother.
    â€œNot yet.” I draw back and cross the room to sink into the chintz armchair by the fireplace. “I’ll tell him tomorrow when I see him.” I drop by my brother’s every other day on my way home from work to make sure he’s taking his meds, keeping his place clean, and not neglecting his personal hygiene. Often I cook him supper or we just hang out playing video games. Saturday mornings are for