Liam’s face hardens, but almost instantly, his easy smile returns. “This is Abigail. She’s new to the island, and she’s hired me to fix up her house. Abby, this is Hannah.”
I stretch out my hand, and she shakes it as though I have a communicable disease.
“Nice to meet you, Hannah.”
“You, too.” The two little words are loaded with disdain. She turns back to Liam. “Well, I should go.”
“Nice to see you. Take care of yourself.”
She gives him a brief nod, then turns to leave without answering.
I return to the safe topic of kitchen chairs so Hannah won’t think we’re going to talk about her behind her back (which I certainly hope we will do). “So, you think this one will work?”
She swirls around. “A little tip for you, Annabelle … if you need to find out what Liam thinks, you should ask his daughter.”
Annabelle? Okay, now I’m getting annoyed. “I’m sorry?”
Her words come out as shards of glass. “You need to ask his daughter if he likes the chair because he doesn’t know.”
I glance at Liam, completely unsure of what to say. Nothing? Probably nothing is the way to go.
He rubs the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes for a second. When he speaks, his voice is calm. “Hannah, I’m very sorry things didn’t work out. Truly. But it would’ve been a disaster if we’d tried to force—”
She holds up one hand. “You know something, Liam? If you keep letting her rule your life, you’re going to end up old and alone.”
“I should be so lucky.”
Hannah shakes her head in disgust and stalks away. I watch her open the door and storm past the window.
When I glance at Liam, he seems suddenly tired. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay. I’ve seen worse.” I shrug. “Although there was a moment when I thought I might have to fight her.”
He offers me a flicker of a smile before his face clouds over again.
* * *
Liam’s jovial mood doesn’t return. He’s quiet and clearly distracted as we make our way around the city. After four hours of driving from store to store and examining fixtures and comparing measurements until my brain hurts, I’m desperate to go back home, put my jammies on, and spend the evening in bed watching Netflix. Our last stop is at a hardware store to find a new sink for the tiny main floor bathroom. Once we’re done, we need to head back to South Haven so Liam can pick up Olive from her babysitter.
I play with Isaac’s ring while I try to choose between two sink pedestals.
“If you don’t mind me saying, I think you’re better off with that cabinet over there.”
I glance up and see Liam pointing at a white bathroom cabinet with matte black cup handles.
“It’ll give you some storage.” He shrugs.
I grin up at him. “Sold, to the lady who wants to go home, get into her duckie pajamas, and put her feet up.”
The drive back is quiet. I spend most of it crossing things off my ‘to buy’ list and jotting notes. When I finish, I stare out at the sea, watching the waves roll and the odd seagull fighting the wind.
Liam clears his throat suddenly. “About that business with Hannah ...”
“Oh, you don’t have to explain that to me.”
“I know, but I’d like to. I told her it was because she and Olive didn’t warm up to each other—which was true. But it was more of a timing thing. I had some personal stuff come up that I didn’t want to drag her into, and I knew if I told her about it, she’d insist on sticking around, which wouldn’t have been fair to her … or Olive.”
I nod even though I don’t really know what the hell he’s talking about.
“Anyway, I just didn’t want you to think Olive is some sort of tyrant who runs my life, because she’s actually a very sweet little thing.” He glances over with a sheepish grin. “And I know every dad thinks that of his daughter, but in my case, it’s true.”
“Okay, thanks for filling me in because I was worried about that—as people usually are when they hire a contractor.”
Liam’s playful grin comes back. “I’m not a real contractor though.”
Chuckling, I say, “Right, so I needn’t have worried.”
“Exactly.”
We drive along for a few more miles in a comfortable silence, then Liam says, “I worry all the time. A little girl growing up without a mom—it’s a lot harder than I would’ve guessed.”
“I bet.”
“It’s the little things, you know? Like, she inherited her mom’s naturally curly hair and I don’t have the first clue what to do with it. And I’m not exactly oozing with fashion sense, so even though I try to help her pick out nice clothes, most of the time she ends up looking like some feral seven-year-old who lives on her own in the woods. Except she’s always clean,” he adds, sounding just on the verge of defensive. “I make sure of that.”
“I’m sure you do.” I know he needs to talk, but part of me really doesn’t want to hear any of this. I have my own sad shit to deal with.
“Half the time, I’m worried I'm screwing it all up, and the rest of the time I know I am. And to be honest, when I think of her teenage years, I break out in a cold sweat."
"Sure, I can see that. Teenage girls are widely considered the most terrifying sub-sect of human beings on the planet. You should definitely find a very brave woman to marry before she turns twelve." There, I’ve lightened the mood. Let’s stay here, shall we?
“Or by next week. It’s the Mother’s Day Tea at her school. Every year it just guts me. Everyone dresses up and the teachers bring in china tea sets. Sarah’s mom goes, and Olive makes a nice card to give her, but the truth is, I’d rather the school would abandon the whole thing. There are already so many reminders for the poor kid that she doesn’t have a mom. But that one … Jesus.”
My nose prickles and an unwelcome swell of emotion rises. I mentally swipe it away and tap into the injustice of it. “That’s a stupid tradition. Olive can’t be the only one who doesn’t have a mother. That’s just rubbing it in the kids’ faces!” I make a tsking sound that reminds me very much of my own mother. “Fucking morons. They should know better.”
Liam’s eyes grow wide and he looks slightly taken aback. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You’re not the one who upset me. It’s the thoughtless idiots of the world who prefer to forget that other people out there don’t have perfect lives.” I allow my righteous indignation to flow through me. “You know what you should do? Take her out of school when they have that Mother’s Day Tea. Just go see a movie or something and forget all about the whole thing.”
“Could do, I suppose,” he says, scratching his cheek. “It would upset Sarah’s mom though. She enjoys it.”
“Well, it’s not about her, is it?” I bark. “It’s about Olive.”
We look at each other, and the shock in Liam’s eyes suddenly makes me all too aware of how ridiculous I sound. I cover my mouth with one hand and laugh at myself, then say, “That rant was brought to you by PMS. PMS, for the times you need to get angry in an instant.”
Liam chuckles and shakes his head. “I can’t say I’ve ever met anyone quite like you.”
“Then you’ve been lucky.”
“Up to now, that is.”
Swatting him on the arm, I find myself laughing, and Liam joins me.
After a moment, he starts to imitate me. “Fucking morons putting on a stupid tea.”
“How dare they?” I say, mocking myself. “The bastards.”
When the moment passes, Liam sighs. “Thanks for getting it, Abby.”
“No problem,” I say, with a firm nod. “You can’t really understand unless you’ve been through it. Not that my situation is the same. But, in general, you know, grieving.”
“Yes, I knew what you meant. You had it perfect for a while, and when it ends, the world is never quite the same.” Liam gives me a sad smile. "But at least we both had it for a
while, right?"
"Yes. Some people never even get that."
Chapter Eleven
A ship is safe in harbor, but that is not what ships are for.
~ John A. Shedd
The next morning, Liam helps me move Isaac’s desk into my new office, then he goes upstairs to start knocking the wall down between the small master bedroom and the tiny one next to it. I spend the next few hours unpacking all my work-related items and setting everything up just how I like it.
When I finish, I make a slow circle, taking in the butter-yellow walls which brighten the north-facing space, and the white sheers that frame the large window. The built-in walnut bookshelves have been scrubbed and now hold dozens of books interrupted by framed photos and the odd candle. Isaac’s large mahogany desk sits in the center of the room, facing the window. My notebooks and laptop are in place, waiting for me to get started. Taking a deep breath, I inhale fresh stain. Hmm. I better let it air out for a few days before I spend too much time in here. Paint fumes aren’t exactly healthy. Plus, I should do the outside work while the weather is good. I can spend the entire long, Canadian winter holed up in here writing.
* * *
Gus and Colton arrive just as I start scraping the peeling paint off the window boxes. They get out of the truck, and Gus takes a long, skinny tool out of the back, then hands it to Colton, who looks none too pleased. His headphones are resting around his neck and he offers me a quick wave.
Gus inhales. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You can’t use weed killer so close to the water like this.”
“Oh really?” I ask.
“Yup.” He gives me a sideways grin. "So, Colton’ll have his work cut out for him to pull all them dandelions. It’ll be several days’ work, maybe even a couple of weeks.”
I turn to Colton and smile. “You’re back for more, are you?”
“Apparently.” He shrugs.
Gus eyes my handiwork on yesterday’s flowerbed. “Not bad for a city girl.”
“Thanks. Where are you off to today?” I ask, hoping he’ll realize he should probably go now.
“Not far—Baddeck, then Iona, if I can manage it.”
Although I have no clue where either of those places are, I’d feel confident betting against him getting to both places in one day. “Okay, well, happy trails.”
Instead of leaving, he glances around some more. “You coming to the kitchen party tonight?”
“Not likely. I have so much to do around here.”
I smile over at Colton, trying to include him in the conversation. “Are you going?”
“Nah, that’s for old people,” he says, then his eyes grow wide. “Not that you’re old.”
Laughing, I say, “Oh, I’m old. We don’t have to pretend.”
Gus shakes his head. “He never goes out. Just plays Fortnite every waking hour.”
Colton turns a little red and looks down. “I’m trying to qualify for the big tournament in July. I could win a million dollars.”
“But you won’t,” Gus says.
My mouth drops open and I wish I could say something to smooth things over, but then I realize it might be kinder to pretend I didn’t hear that.
Gus points to the tool. “Do you remember how to use that?”
Colton glares instead of answering.
“Your ma will be here at four to pick you up.”
“’Kay.”
Colton slides his headphones on and trudges over to the far corner of the yard to get started while I turn and pick up my spade, hoping Gus will take the hint and leave.
Thankfully, he does. As soon as his truck pulls away, I say, “Thank Christ,” under my breath.
Colton laughs, and I spin my head toward him, shocked that he heard me. “Sorry, I thought you had your music on.”
“I was changing playlists.”
“I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t very nice of me.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad, too.”
* * *
It’s almost six o’clock when my muscles decide it’s quitting time. I’ve scraped and painted the two large window boxes under the front windows. They’re now a soft white and I can already picture them spilling over with wave petunias. Liam is still working upstairs, but thankfully the smashing and thumping have stopped. I peek my head through the plastic sheet that has been hung over the entrance to my bedroom. The wall is gone already. “Wow! This looks incredible! I can’t believe how big it’ll be.”
He looks up from his sweeping and nods. “Yup, I’d say you made the right choice.”
“Obviously,” I answer with a playful shrug.
“Say, Abby, I was thinking of hiring Colton to help me with the roof. But since it is your roof, I figured I better check with you first.”
"I don't know. Is it safe?"
"Well, not as safe as being on the ground, but not as dangerous as you might think. I’ll harness him up so if he falls, he won’t hit the ground. His manbits’ll be sore for a few days, but he won’t break his neck or anything."
“What a lovely image, thanks for that.”
"Anytime,” he says. “It'll save my back and save you a fair bit of money if he does even a halfway decent job."
“I suppose I should pay him myself for this. And it’s probably worth more than ten bucks an hour.”
Liam nods. “Fifteen at least, but that’s still less than half of my rate.”
"Good point,” I say. “Why not? What’s the worst that could happen?"
Liam winces. “Ooh, famous last words.”
“Let’s hope not,” I say, glancing out the window at the setting sun. “Hey, do you know how late it is?”
“I do. My in-laws take Olive on Thursday nights. She sleeps over there and I go to the pub. You stopping by tonight?” He continues quickly, “And before you say no, it would mean a lot to Nettie and Peter to see you there.”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“It would, actually. Things have been a little slow for them, and if a certain famous writer showed up once in a while, it would drum up a lot of business.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’m not even the teeniest bit famous. I wasn’t even the biggest writer in my apartment building.”
“But here, you’re a big deal.”
“Nope. Forget it. Not falling for it.”
“Abby, how many authors do you think live in South Haven? And of those, how many have books on the shelves at the library?” He asks. Holding up one finger, he says, “That’s right. One. And I have it on good authority there’s a wait-list on all your titles.”
I shake my head. “That knowledge actually makes me want to barricade the door and never go outside again.”
“What’s the point of writing if you refuse to meet your public?”
“First of all, I don’t have a ‘public,’” I say doing air quotes. “Second, I write because it allows me to earn a living while avoiding real people. So, showing up at the pub every week would literally be the opposite of that.”
“You don’t have to go often. In fact, it’s better if you only make the occasional appearance—just enough to keep everyone guessing. That way, they’ll all show up every week for fear of missing out on the chance to see you.”
I start to protest but Liam holds up one hand. “Trust me. You’re the biggest celebrity to come to South Haven.”
“What about the Beckhams?”
Liam barks out a laugh. “So, you’re the newest celebrity, then.” Before I can dispute this, he says, “Just come tonight—for your kindly neighbors that gave you a big discount on your stay.”
I let out a long groan and drop my shoulders. “Really? You’re going to guilt me into going?”
“Whatever works.”
“Well, that is plain evil.” I cross my hands across my chest.
“Oh, come on. It won’t be all bad. They’ve got beer and pie. Plus, you can say you’ve done your good deed for the day.”
“What?” I ask, wrinkling up my face in d
isgust. “You’re supposed to do one every day?”
“In theory,” he says with a wink. “Now, I better go home and get cleaned up. I’ll see you later, then?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Fine. But I’m not happy about it.”
“You’re a good woman, Abigail Carson. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
Chapter Twelve
The nice thing about living in a small town is that when you don’t know what you’re doing, someone else does.
~Immanuel Kant
I can hear the music as soon as I walk out my front door, and I find myself hurrying along the road to the B&B. Not that I’m excited about going or anything. I’m only rushing so I can get this over with and go home to watch Scandal. In fact, I’m not even going to sit down. I’ll just have one beer, maybe some pie, then leave.
I walk up the steps, then take a deep breath as I open the door. I give myself the once-over in the lobby mirror. Not awful. I’m in some cropped jeans, leather sandals, and a cute flowy V-neck blouse that hides a lot of flaws. My hair is down and I took the time to run the straightener through it. The overall look says, ‘hasn’t quite given up on life.’
The song ends just as I walk in, and I join in the applause while I look for somewhere to sit in the crowded room. This is one of those moments that’s so much nicer when you’re part of a twosome. I play with Isaac’s ring, trying not to think about how much he would have loved this or how much more comfortable I’d be with him holding my hand right now.
The tables are set in a large U-shape with both musicians and their fans sharing the space. I spot Eunice, who is dressed in a glittery black sweater and pleather pants. She waves at me. “Abby, come meet the mayor!”
She puts her hand on the shoulder of a man in a sky-blue button-up shirt that needs more of the buttons done up. He has a comb-over that is three shades too dark for his eyebrows and an ‘it’s nice to meet the little people’ smile.
The After Wife Page 9
