Extinct Doesn't Mean Forever by Phoenix Sullivan (bill gates book recommendations TXT) 📗

“It’s just a ruddy sandpiper, Mabel. They’re supposed to be food for something else. Let it serve its purpose in life.” As I turn, though, something stops me. “Hang on.” The words fall from my mouth unbidden as my professional mind jolts from its holiday coma.

I look back at the bird. Remove my sunglasses. Peer down at it and squint against the sun’s dazzling glitter rolling on the water. “Can’t be.”

“Can’t be what? George? Can’t be what?”

“Help me get it,” I say. “Here, sit on my legs.” I lie on my stomach on the deck and lean out as far over the water as I dare. Mabel’s bulk settles onto my ankles and anchors me like shackles in concrete. I reach down and whisper sweet nothings to the bird, luring it closer.

I grasp it, pull it up.

My heart races. “It is. Dear God, I think it is.” I’ll have to go look it up, though. I need an Internet connection to be sure.

“Is what? George, what is it?”

I stand up and hold the bird in trembling hands, feel its quivering heartbeat.

“Extinct,” I whisper.

“What? Of course it’s not extinct. You just said it’s a ruddy sandpiper.”

“No, no. A Tahitian Sandpiper.Extinct for 200 years. Or, thought to be so, anyway.” I turn it over in my hands. It’s got an injured wing, but I believe I could mend it. “Mabel, do you know what this means?”

Her glassy stare is all the answer I need, but she says anyway, “Our holiday is ruined? It’s a working affair after all?”

“Oh, Mabel, don’t be so dour.” But she’s right. This is all the excuse I really need to keep her at bay the rest of the week. I almost can’t hide my glee. “It means publication. It means grant money. It means, in short, that this holiday has just paid for itself.”

She seems unimpressed, but I’ve got work to do. I rush the bird inside, grab a hand towel and make it a cozy nest. I set the bird gently on the dressing table, and it seems content.

“It’s hurt. I need to do some research on the Internet at the check-in. Oh! To be credited with finding a specimen like this!” I grab a wide-brimmed hat and shove it down upon my head, slip my feet into flip-flops and exit quickly.

I hurry down the long, wooden pier between the rows of huts, heading for shore. It will be magical, later, to fall asleep to the sound of the waves rolling underneath us. Most of the huts appear empty. Everyone must be at the beach, or parasailing or whatever it is young honeymooners do.

Only a few huts from where I am, the door slaps open. A young man, tanned and unshaven, his sunglasses not quite straight and his black hair mussed, staggers from the hut. A black rollaway suitcase clatters after him. A woman appears in the doorway, her finger pointed with malice at his chest. I can’t hear her exact words, but their meaning is not lost on the young man, or on me.

She yanks something from her own hand — ah, a wedding ring — and makes to throw it at him. He cringes — get some backbone, lad, it’s only a ring! — but she thinks better of it and clenches it in her hand. Must be worth a fair lot, I suppose.

The man grabs his bag in anger and stomps off toward the check-out. I continue to stroll along, hoping to get a sustained look at the beauty that just threw him to the watery curb. For a moment I consider catching up to the lad and convincing him to go let Mabel slather him with sunscreen, but he’s already had a bad enough day as it is.

The girl leans on the doorframe, turning the ring over and over in her hand. My God. Her golden hair glints with heaven in the sunlight, framing her perfectly smooth, tanned skin. She wears a red bikini which uses only enough cloth to cover exactly those things that the law wants covered, exposing all the curves that want to be revealed.

My eyes soak her up. In years gone by, I’d have had to go into deep breathing to get Mister Floppy to stand down. She sniffs and wipes at her eye, then gasps a little when she notices my approach.

“Is everything all right, Miss?” I know it’s the stupidest of questions, but if I don’t talk to her she’ll scuttle back inside and shut her door. I wouldn’t mind watching her walk away, but I’m not ready for that just yet.

She sniffs again, and it’s plain to see she’s been crying. I’ve seen Mabel blubbering at her soaps, and it’s not a pretty sight. This girl weeps so delicately, with such tragic beauty, that I want only to comfort her.

Almost without realizing I’m doing it, I reach out and take her hands in mine. “There, there, love. I’m sure you’re better off without him.” Her slender fingers are velvet on my rough skin. She smells of coconut and vanilla.

She looks down at our hands and nods, a teardrop gathering on the tip of her nose, letting go and splashing to the hot wood between our feet. She turns her gaze up to mine and shows me a sad smile.

“Actually, I’ve known for quite a while.” American. California. The southern part. “We came here on our honeymoon three years ago. I thought if we came back, maybe he’d remember how in love we were, and he’d end it.” She looks down at the ring rolling slowly in her fingers. “His affair, I mean.”

I nod a sage, fatherly nod. There’s no way this bird would ever invite me into her nest, but at least I can stay close a few more minutes if I act fatherly.

She laughs a breathy giggle, tears slipping down her cheeks. She looks up at the sky. “I even bought this bathing suit hoping it would make him notice