Dear Birdy, Princess Birdzilla von MuffinStuff, Keeper of Dreams, Lover of our Fine Feathered Friends, queen of my life and light of my world, I hope this letter finds you well. If you are reading this then I am gone, and sweetheart, I am so sorry.
Chi-town professional Wren Riley is 25 and a rising star in the business world. She can eat a man alive and laugh about it to her girlfriends in seconds flat--and she does, on the regular. Behind the power suits and the flashing, flirty eyes, however, Wren has a secret, vulnerable side. Following a devastating loss and the discovery of a bird journal she and her father made together years before, Wren sets out to seek peace, closure, and something she just can't name. Is that something tied to the little paper cranes she keeps finding along the way?
Laurence Byrd grew up a lanky Hoosier kid with the good/bad fortune of having the same name as the state's perennial basketball legend. With a better affinity for dogs than sports or school, he ends up in the Army instead of the Chicago art school of his dreams. Still, his service to our country is something he can be proud of--until an argument with the girl who means the world to him results in a series of events that blows his life apart. With no one left to understand him, black sheep Laurie pours out his heart into letters and drawings he never intends to send--then he folds them into paper cranes that he leaves behind like messages in little winged bottles. He never dreams someone might be finding them.
God damn it, Sylvia, for a few moments I tricked myself into feeling really alive. I cut it off before anyone got hurt, but just for a moment or two, I really thought I might feel something again--something like trust. Something like love. Not the kind of love we had, but something new. Something like hope.
Spoiler alert: Wren and Laurie are going to meet. And when they do, their lives are never going to be the same.
There was a gift shop, and Dad had bought a postcard and put it in the bird book along with his fuzzy snapshots of bluebirds and tree swallows.
Delight in the common things, he’d written beneath one of the photos.
I remembered how we’d talked on the drive home. How he’d asked me which I liked better, rare birds or everyday varieties.
I thought about it, and answered “The everyday.”
He’d been surprised. “Really? You sure?”
I’d nodded, pointing out a hawk circling the highway below for a kill. Hawks love open spaces—to them, highways are like big open hunting grounds.
“Why everyday birds, Birdzilla?”
I shrugged. “If all I cared about were the rare ones, I wouldn’t have near as much fun on this trip.”
He laughed. “You know—I never thought about it that way, but I guess you’ve got a point.” He’d patted my knee in that way he had—comforting, with just enough pressure to let me know he was there. I was loved, and he’d always be there for me. “You’re too young to be so old,” he’d said.
About Leslea: Leslea Tash is a journalist-turned-novelist, an avid bird nerd and the happily married mom of four. She has been a professional writer for many years. This is her first romance novel.
Leslea's Website: http://lesleatash.
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