When I walk over, he extends his hand. “Dennis Beckham, at your service. And yes, he is a close relative.”
“I heard. He’s quite the soccer star.”
“Football!” Peter yells from behind the bar. “The proper name for it is football.”
“Don’t mind him, he gets a little testy about his precious football game,” Nettie says.
“Well, you should use the proper name for a sport,” he answers, filling a glass from the tap. “Not just steal the name for some senseless game, then rename the right one with a word that means nothing.”
“Oh, come on, Peter,” Dennis says, swiping one hand in the air. “Don’t start that again. You’ll insult our new American friend here.”
All eyes turn to me, and I feel my face and neck growing uncomfortably hot. “No, you won’t. I don’t have an opinion on the matter. Sports, that is. Word usage, though, I do care about. And in that case, I think Peter’s right. We should have come up with another name for our version of football.”
Apparently, I’m on the losing side of the debate because my comments lead to jeers and muttering.
Peter glances around the room with a satisfied smile. “There you have it, folks. A professional in the ways of the English language has settled the debate, once and for all.” He gestures for me to come to the bar. “Here’s a free Guinness for you, love.”
Beer in hand, I search for an empty chair, accidentally making eye contact with Gus, who waves to me. “Come and meet the ball and chain.”
His wife sits next to him, looking all kinds of weary, and I’m pretty sure I can guess why. She has short blond hair with sprinkles of white throughout and, although she gives me a warm smile, her eyes make her look dead inside. “Hello, Abby. Thanks for hiring Colton to do your yard. It’s been good for him to get out of the house.”
Gus speaks up over the din of the crowd. “Did you hear that, folks? Colton’s starting his own lawn services business. If you want to check out his work, stop by next door at the McMasters’ place.”
My head snaps back at the idea, and June, who is clearly less oblivious than her husband, says, “Gus, don’t be inviting people to someone else’s house. That’s rude.”
He gives her a pointed look. “Do you want him out of the house or not, woman?”
“Not enough to be obnoxious about it,” she says.
You tell him, June.
They start to bicker, giving me an opportunity to search out a spot on the opposite side of the pub from Gus. Turning, I see Liam smiling at me, looking like he’s had a few drinks already. He pats the vacant spot next to his. “Hey Miss Duckie Pants,” he calls. “I saved you a seat.”
This starts a buzz of gossip, and I glare at him as I take in bits of conversation about how we’d make such a nice couple and it’s about time Liam found someone. I am really going to have to stock my fridge with beer because I’m not doing this again.
Nettie must be able to read my mind, because she speaks up, “Now shush, all of you. Abby here is not looking for a man, so just leave her well enough alone, or she’ll never come back.”
Exactly. I start across the room, raising my voice. “Thank you, Nettie. I appreciate your help, but I assure you, idle gossip has little effect on how I live my life.”
And to prove it, I sit down next to Liam. This turns out to be big news because it sets off more laughter and knowing smiles from around the room.
“Well done,” he says under his breath. Leaning in a bit, he says, “You look lovely tonight, by the way.”
“Thanks, friend,” I answer, trying not to enjoy being called lovely.
Nettie carries a tray of drinks to the table. “Now then, Abby, good that you came because Liam’s had us all preparing a song for you.”
What? Oh, for God’s sake. My heart jumps to my throat and I turn to Liam with pleading eyes. Under my breath, I say, “What are you doing?”
He leans in with a confident smile. “Don’t worry. You’ll love it.” Raising his voice, he says, “Shall we?”
One of the women lifts her flute to her mouth and starts up a few melancholy notes, then Nettie starts singing as she hands out the drink orders. I can’t understand the lyrics, but my nerves tingle as they all join in, Liam with his violin, James with some sort of Celtic pipes, and more of the women singing. I pick up my drink and suck half of it down, glancing around occasionally. This is quite possibly the most awkward moment of my life, especially when I accidentally make eye contact with anyone. Everyone in the place is simultaneously smiling at me while they play their instruments and/or sing. Do they not know how fucking creepy this is?
I lean toward Liam and whisper, “This better not be a love song.”
He just grins and continues to play.
“Seriously,” I mutter. “I will kill you if this is something even remotely romantic.”
When the song finally ends, silence fills the room. All eyes are on me, waiting for a response. “Thank you all … that was lovely.” Turning to Liam, I lower my voice a little. “What is it called?”
“Yes, Liam,” Nettie says. “You never did tell us the name of it.”
Liam is wearing an expression that is far too amused to be apologetic, although I have a distinct feeling the second emotion is the proper one. “Now, I hope you won’t be offended. I thought you could use a theme song. You know, something to help get the word out that you like your privacy.”
My nostrils flare and I purse my lips together. “Just spit it out already.”
“Okay, but remember, I meant it in the kindest of ways,” he says. “Also, for a bit of a laugh.”
I fold my arms across my chest and glare.
“It’s a Welsh tune called The Hermit of the Sea Rock.”
Gasps and titters come from around the room. Then it grows deadly quiet as they wait for my reaction. I shake my head and start to laugh, slapping him on the chest with the back of my hand. Looking up at Peter, I say, “You were right about him. He is an asshole.”
Peter holds up one finger. “I believe I said a bit of an arsehole.”
“In America, it’s the same thing.”
Liam does his best to seem hurt even though he can’t seem to stop laughing. When he finally manages to get himself under control, he says, “Now, why would you say that? I was just trying to help you set boundaries with the rest of the village.”
“I’m starting to dislike you very much.”
“That’s odd. Most people love me,” he answers before taking a swig of his drink. “Especially women.”
* * *
The party ends just after eleven, and I'm still here for reasons I don't wish to explore. The mood is jovial but more subdued now as latches on instrument cases click shut, and chair legs scrape against the floor. A few of us carry empty glasses to the bar while the others put the room back in order for tomorrow’s breakfast service. When everything seems to be done, I smile as I tell the remaining few people that it’s time for the hermit to crawl back under her sea rock. Then, I walk out into the late evening air.
I’m slightly too warm from all the Guinness and laughter, so the cool breeze feels delightful on my cheeks. When I’m almost to the road, I hear the front door shut and Liam call my name. I turn and wait while he hurries down the steps toward me. "I'll walk you home."
"You think that's a good idea? We’ll get everybody in town talking."
"That's odd. I seem to recall you saying that you're not the type to let idle gossip inform your decisions."
We fall into step with each other. "Yeah, well, that's fine for me, but I don't know if you can handle that kind of heat. A nice Canadian boy like yourself."
"I think I can take it. I’ve faced worse and I will again,” he answers, and something about his tone bothers me, although I can’t think why.
He looks down at me under the dim light of the streetlamp and grins. "Besides, Peter figured you might need someone to look around for intruders."
I wince, then let my embarr
assment give way to irritation. "Good Lord, is there anyone in this town who doesn’t have a gigantic mouth?”
He taps his chin a couple of times as though pondering, then says, “Umm, no.”
I chuckle a little, then remember I’m mad. “No wonder houses are so cheap around here.”
“Aww, it’s not all bad, is it? After all, if he hadn’t said anything, you’d be walking home on this dark, lonely road without an escort who’d gladly battle Norman Bates for you.”
“Are you making fun of my overactive imagination?"
“Just teasing you a little. That’s how we show new people we like them.”
“I see. So everyone in town takes the eight-year-old boy approach—pull on the new girl’s pigtails to show her you think she’s cute, or in this case, mocking the new town hermit.”
He stops in his tracks, gently placing his hand on my arm. I turn to see a very earnest expression on his face. “Hey, I hope I didn't upset you with that. It was sort of my way of bringing you into the group—kidding around with you so everyone would know you’ve got a good sense of humor—which you do."
“Oh, I’m aware of that. I’m freaking hilarious, but I don’t need other people to know that,” I say, continuing along the road.
“Right, on account of wanting to isolate yourself for the rest of your life.”
“Precisely.”
“But did I hurt your feelings? Because I’d be really sorry if I did.”
“No, it would take a lot more than that to upset me. But I do have to say, don’t ever do that again. I despise being the center of attention.”
“Duly noted.”
“Good,” I say, turning onto my driveway. "To be honest, I'm more troubled that you lied to me than about the song."
"Lied to you?" he asks, then a look of recognition crosses his face. "Oh, you mean about Peter and Nettie needing a big celebrity to help bring in customers?”
“You can lay off the flattery now. The game is up and I know what you did.”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, maybe in Canada an apology magically erases the past, but where I’m from, I still get to be mad,” I say, walking up the steps to the front door. Liam holds open the screen while I dig my keys out of my handbag. “They’re doing fine, aren’t they?”
“Probably. I’d never ask them about their financial situation.” He shakes his head with a mock condescending expression. “You know, it really isn’t polite to ask someone how much they make.”
I give him a light punch on the arm and growl. “You’re impossible.”
“Never said I wasn’t.”
“You’re also a liar, Liam Wright.” I raise an eyebrow at him. "What happened to ‘I’m honest to a fault?’ Or is that just a line you use when you need a job?"
"No, of course not,” he says, sounding slightly offended. “But sometimes there’s good reason to bend the truth. Like, say, to protect someone's feelings or maybe give a somewhat stubborn, yet deserving friend an evening out.”
“Ah, I see. Well, the friends I keep know I don’t like being lied to, and they certainly know I like making my own decisions based on facts. And they’re smart enough to know not to guilt me into attending parties under false pretenses.”
“So, I really blew it in the friend department, didn’t I?”
“I’m afraid so. You’re on notice.”
“Won’t happen again, I swear on my father’s grave.”
“Is your father really …?”
Nodding, he says, “He passed twenty-four years ago. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Me too. He was a hell of a guy. I’d never swear on his grave unless I meant it.”
“No more lies?”
“I promise. Only the truth from here on out.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” I say, unlocking the door.
“I’d expect you to,” he says. “You want me to do a quick security check?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“See you tomorrow morning then?”
“Umm-hmm.”
He walks down the steps, then turns back. “Say, Abby? I hope you had a good time tonight, in spite of me being an ass.”
Holding the door open, I say, “I did.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “So, are you maybe a little glad I talked you into it?”
“Don’t push it, Wright.”
“Gotcha.”
I go inside, feeling sleepy and relaxed after a long day. I find myself chuckling about Liam and his stupid song while I brush my teeth. When I look in the mirror, I see a woman who looks happy and the reason for her smile shocks me a little, as does the knowledge that I haven’t thought about Isaac since I walked into the pub. I wipe the smile off her face as a small act of contrition.
Chapter Thirteen
The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.
~ Gloria Steinem
Today I turn forty. Yuck. Shit. Fuck. Who wants to be forty? If Isaac were alive, he would have thrown me a lavish dinner party. He’d have invited all our friends, spent the last two days in the kitchen, and sent Lauren and me to the spa for the day while he executed the preparations to a T. I would have spent the entire day philosophizing about age and the beauty myth and gratitude and a whole bunch of other bullshit with Lauren, until I felt much better about this unwanted milestone.
But instead, other than accepting a few phone calls, I’m going to pretend it’s not happening. The calls will come in this order: Lauren, who is also on Eastern Standard Time. She’ll likely have sent a card in the mail, which will be a few days late. Then my parents will call so I can hear how they can’t believe their daughter is the big 4-0. Yeah, because it’s about them. My mother will lather on some ‘time flies by and you should really come see your family’ guilt. Yay. Happy day. My brother Chad’s ‘over the hill’ jokes will come in around midnight via text, after his wife, Tammy reminds him it’s my birthday.
Instead of a spa day, a beautiful evening with friends, followed by some fabulous birthday sex, I’m going to do some yard work, then binge-watch Scandal until I fall asleep.
I suppose I should be grateful that the minutes don’t tick away here like they did at the apartment. Instead, they disappear like clams into the sand. I’ll be spending my big day with Colton, who will have no idea I’ve just turned ‘ancient.’ He’ll arrive on his bike around eleven in the morning and continue with the tedious job of ridding this entire property of weeds. After three weeks, he’s still pulling weeds and his parents are still paying for it, which I have to say, I’m starting to feel a bit guilty about. (Just not guilty enough to put a stop to our arrangement because … weeds).
Liam has made good progress inside, giving me hopes of having my little corner of the world all to myself sooner than I originally thought. This is a good thing because I’m starting to enjoy hanging out with him more than might be advisable. There’s something about his easygoing nature and the way he makes me laugh, that causes me to completely forget how much I don’t like other humans. I find myself getting sucked into ridiculously enjoyable conversations that leave me looking forward to the next one, which is one-hundred percent against my beliefs.
He’s almost finished the master bedroom and en suite, which means the new flooring can finally be installed. I’ve decided on a light taupe carpet to replace the scruffy old green one that currently fills all the bedrooms, the staircase, the living room and dining area. The dining area and kitchen will have hardwood that matches the finish of the floor in the office, and the bathrooms will have ivory porcelain tiles. Once those are all in, this will feel a lot more like a home and less like a flophouse. I won’t be sleeping on a double mattress on the floor, but will have my new queen bed to snuggle up in at night. For my fortieth, I’ve splurged on a cabin-chic bedding set with a light gray and ivory plaid pattern, and a throw pillow with a moose silhouette for a touch of fun. I’m going to have a pillow-top mattress to
sink into for the first time in my life, now that I don’t live with a man who insists the firmer the better. I found a reclaimed wood headboard at the same store where I bought the chairs. It’s sitting in the garage waiting to be unpacked and set up.
The paint fumes are gone from my office, and every time I walk past it, my gut clenches. I need to start making money instead of spending it. Each morning starts with the best of intentions. I promise myself I’ll sit down and write after breakfast, but inevitably, something more urgent pops up, like a flowerbed I really should tackle while it’s nice out or a wall I could paint myself instead of paying Liam to do it. I’ll write after lunch. Then after supper, but I can’t very well leave a sink full of dirty dishes, now can I? By the time I turn out the light above the sink, I’m so tired from another day of working in the sunshine and fresh air, I walk right past my little office without looking, on my way upstairs. Then I read until I’m sleepy, which takes all of about four minutes.
Isaac doesn’t appear in my dreams, or if he does, I sleep too soundly to know he was there. When I woke this morning, the realization slapped me over the head. I can’t remember the last conversation we had. The thought has tortured me since I got out of bed even though I try to convince myself it’s only because I’m sleeping so soundly. I haven’t lost him. He’s still here.
But what if he isn’t?
My mood grows worse when I receive an email from Lauren which includes a link to a Publisher’s Weekly article titled: Barrington Publishing Announces New Historical Romance Division. The subject line is “Just Sayin’ ...” and in the body, she wishes me a happy b-day and says she’ll call later when she gets a chance. Abby three years ago would have been super excited to talk to her about the possibility of working with Barrington. Abby today deletes the email and promptly tries to erase it, along with the accompanying sense of nausea, from her mind.
The After Wife Page 10
