“… Drew thinks I should fire him, but I don’t know. I’d feel so bad.”
“I don’t know how you do what you do. Most writers are slightly to moderately insane.”
She sighs. “Some more than others. Speaking of crazy authors, how’s your big comeback novel coming along?”
Urgh. I was hoping to avoid this. “Good. Slow. I mean, it’s hard with the renos going on around me and the massive amount of yard work to get done before winter, but it’s starting to come.”
“Really? That’s great!” She sounds excited. Shit.
“Mmm-hmm, it feels great.”
Walt, who’s been sleeping for the last hour, sits up on the bed and stares at me, then shakes his head, almost as if he’s disgusted by the lies coming out of his food source’s mouth.
“What are you working on?”
“It’s really in the first stages, so I’m not ready to talk about it just yet.” Oh, the guilt. Tell her the truth, Abby. She’s your best friend. But she’s also your agent.
“Well, that’s just excellent.” Her voice brightens. “I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to hear that.”
“Yup. The words have been pouring out.” How far can I stretch the truth? Quite far it seems …
“Great! Just great. When you’re ready, I’m always around to talk plots or give feedback, or whatever you need.”
“I know. I’ll definitely take you up on that when I get stuck.” I wince at the hollow sound in my voice and pray she doesn’t notice.
“Listen, Abby, I just wanted to say that I was wrong about your move. It was clearly the right choice for you. Every time we talk, you sound better. More like yourself.”
“I feel better.” That part, at least, is true.
“It’s such a relief, honestly. You’ve given yourself a fresh start. You’re gardening and writing and exploring.” She sighs happily. “I mean, I still wish you were doing all those things about fifteen hours closer to me. I miss you every day, but I’m just so happy you’re doing any of those things at all. I’m proud of you.”
“Aww, thanks, Mom.”
“Take the compliment, Abby. I’m serious. You should be proud of what you’ve done.”
Ugh, that makes me feel so much worse. “Okay, Lauren. Thank you.”
She yawns loudly. “Okay, that’s it for me tonight. I need to get my beauty sleep.”
“Me too. Good night, my friend.”
“Good night.”
I hang up and glance over at Walt, whose eyes follow me as I get up to go brush my teeth. “All right, quit judging me. I wasn’t lying. I was just talking about what I am going to do. In the future. Starting tomorrow. Possibly.”
* * *
The next day, we get an unexpected rainstorm which annoys Liam to no end because he and Colton only have about two more hours of work up on the roof. Colton stayed home and is likely in front of his computer at the moment. Liam’s working on the main floor bathroom, which shares a wall with the den. I can tell it’s not going well because every few minutes I hear a thump, followed by a loud curse word. I’m actually sitting at my desk, but since the thought of writing an actual book makes me want to throw up, I’ve undertaken the monumental task of answering the over three-thousand emails that have been patiently waiting for several months now.
I have just written a long reply to a fan who has sent me a very terse note admonishing me for not writing a book about the Duchess of Wiltshire yet. Apparently, I’m ruining her life and letting down readers everywhere, who are all going to lose faith in historical romance writers around the globe. My lengthy, rather nasty reply—designed to make her feel roughly the height of an ant—outlined in cruel detail Isaac’s illness and last few days, followed by my numb and grief-filled existence since his death.
As soon as I signed it off, I promptly deleted it and started the second draft—a much shorter reply, including a quick acknowledgment of the pain of waiting for something you truly enjoy, a brief overview of what has happened in my life, and a thank you for reading my work and taking the time to reach out. I ended by stating my sincere wish to get back to work soon.
The moment I hit send, I see Liam carrying the old toilet out to the front door. I get up and hurry to open it for him, but he’s somehow managed it with one hand by the time I get there. I watch as he lifts it into the bin, then turns to the house, his hair and shirt already drenched.
“Finally got it?”
“Yup. That was one stubborn old bastard of a toilet.” He wipes his face with his forearm. “Just like me, I suppose.”
“Stubborn bastard, maybe, but you’re not old.”
He chuckles. “Tell that to Olive. She thinks I’m ancient.”
“Yeah, but for kids, anyone over seventeen is basically the same age.”
“True.”
I return to my desk and look up to find Liam leaning on the doorframe. “How’s the writing going?”
“To be honest, I’m not off to a great start.”
“Too much racket?”
“No, just my own stuff. I write historical romance. I used to anyway. Now that I know every happily ever after ends in the agonizing pain of losing your will to live, I may have to switch genres.”
Liam nods and breathes in a “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“Which is problematic, because as you pointed out when we first met, I better figure it out soon, or this house will leave me homeless.”
He walks over to the bookshelf and pulls one of my novels down. “What’s it like to be a writer?”
“I’m not sure anymore. It’s been so long since I’ve done it.”
He looks at me from under his eyebrows and takes a more serious tone. “What’s it like to be a writer?”
I let out a long sigh. “Oh, it’s so many things—terrifying, gratifying, exciting, boring, tedious, and lonely.”
“All that in one job, eh?”
“All that in one day.”
“Tell me about this book.” He holds up The Duchess and the Doctor. The cover has a woman in a pale pink silk Mantua gown. “What’s it about?”
I hate it when men ask me about my romance novels. They either find the whole genre silly or assume I’m totally oversexed. “That was my third novel. It’s about a duchess and a doctor.”
“I got that from the title.” He comes around to the front of my desk and props himself up on the corner, still holding the book. “What happens with them?”
An uncomfortably warm feeling comes over me, like I’m doing something wrong, even though I haven’t done anything. I look down at my laptop to make it go away. “You’re welcome to take it home and read it if you’re absolutely dying to know.”
“Come on, Abigail. You let millions of strangers read your books—”
“Thousands.”
“So thousands then. But you know me. I’d think you could at least tell me a little about your work.” He flips it over and looks at the back. “Is it steamy?”
“Not Fifty Shades-steamy, but I did once get a review from Publisher’s Monthly that said I was ‘particularly adept at writing love scenes that work.’” Why did I say that? Stupid, Abby!
His mouth curves up in an impressed smile. “Particularly adept, eh?”
I purse my lips together. “You see? This is why I don’t like talking about my books.”
“You’re the one who brought up how adept you are. A man can’t help but have some follow-up questions on that.”
“Yeah, well, trust me, the answers aren’t going to be as thrilling as you may think.”
His face drops. “No?”
“No.” I set my attention to the terrifyingly blank word document labeled ‘Write a Book, Stupid.’ “I will tell you one thing, though. Romance writers are forever being asked about their sex lives, whereas I doubt anyone ever asks Stephen King how many people he murders when he’s not at his desk.”
Liam chuckles at the comparison. “It’s probably because sex is more fun to talk about.”
&n
bsp; “I wouldn’t know. It’s another thing I only have vague memories of.”
When I risk a glance at him, his expression is unreadable, but those ridiculously blue eyes of his are intense in their gaze. I clear my throat. “Anyway, I should get back at it.”
“I’m going to take you up on your offer, you know.”
Dear Lord, what offer does he think I just made?
“I’m going to read your books. All of them.”
“Knock yourself out.”
* * *
The next morning, Liam arrives with The Duchess and the Doctor in one hand and his toolbox in the other. He holds up the book, looking defeated.
"Let me guess, too much lace and not enough action. Couldn't get through it?"
"Couldn't put it down. I was up 'til two this morning, reading. I needed to know if they'd end up together."
I fold my lips in between my teeth, trying not to laugh.
"That damned Tabitha. What a wench she turned out to be."
He walks into my den and returns the book to its spot. "This the next one?" He pulls out The Duke and the Dressmaker and flips it over.
"It is."
"Oh! It's about her brother?"
"William, yes."
"Good. He needs a happy ending after everything he's been through."
He leaves the room, then pops his head back in and says, “You know, Abby, maybe you should read them again. You might be surprised at how good they are.”
With that, he disappears, leaving me to think about what he just said. I stare at the shelf of books, realizing I appreciate what he didn’t say so much more. He didn’t tell me he knows I have another book in me, or that it would be a shame if I gave it up. He must know that’s too much for me to face. But reading one of my books would be like dipping my toe in the shallow end of the pool. Safe and informative. I’ll know the temperature before I’m all the way in to my nether regions.
I shut my laptop, walk over to the shelf, take down The Duchess and the Doctor, and then sit back down at my desk to read.
Chapter Eighteen
You can’t blame gravity for falling in love.
~ Albert Einstein
School let out yesterday, which means today is the official start of my first full-time job since I was waiting tables at Gino’s on the Lower East Side. Not that I didn't work full-time as a writer, but this job has set hours and real people to whom I'll be accountable. When I was on my second glass of wine the other night, this all seemed like it would be so easy, but now I’m a little worried.
What if Olive’s been lulling me into a false sense of security, and she’s actually an evil genius who will make my life a living hell? Or what if it turns out too much time together will make us despise each other? Is that even possible? Can you hate a child? Or what if I run out of ideas for fun stuff to do by the end of the day, then we just sit and stare at each other for eight long weeks?
Isaac was wonderful in this type of situation. Not with children— he was actually quite awkward around them—but he was terrific at helping me rein in the runaway horses of anxiety that pound away in my brain from time to time. If he were here, he’d tell me to take it one day at a time. He’d also say I really only have to worry about the next eight hours because tomorrow is the start of a long weekend. This means I’ll have three days to scour the Internet for fun activities. Actually four, now that I think about it. Liam and Olive are going to New Brunswick to see his family, so I won’t see them until Wednesday morning.
I take a deep breath. Okay, that’s fine. I can handle one day, then a four-day break.
My cell phone pings just as I’m hurrying down the stairs to make coffee. It's an email from Lauren titled, I don’t want to rush you, but …
My heart sinks as I open it.
Erica and I had a breakfast meeting. She’s absolutely thrilled to hear you’re writing again! Any idea when you may be ready to share?
The horses in my stomach instantly morph into a guilt bowling ball. I’ve sat at my computer several times since our call. One evening, I wrote a few paragraphs about a woman who was trapped in a grocery store overnight. But then I promptly realized I had forgotten to eat supper and deleted them. That’s it. This weekend is do or die time. Or in my case, write or upset my dearest friend when I admit to being a total liar.
The doorbell rings and when I open it, Olive is there in an Elsa nightgown and flip-flops. Her brown curls are jutting out at all sorts of odd angles and she’s sporting a huge grin. The overall effect would be what Lauren and I would call mental-hospital chic, if she were an adult. I almost want to grab my phone so I can send a pic to her, but then I remember. Oh, Lauren, I’m sorry to be the shittiest friend of all time.
Liam stands behind Olive, holding her backpack. "I hope you don't mind me bringing her over in her jammies. I let her stay up late last night, so I had some trouble getting her out of bed. She’s got a change of clothes and her brush in her backpack."
"It's all good. We take it pretty casual here at Abby's Babysitting Service." I say, stepping aside to let them in. "Happy first day of summer break.”
Olive enters the house like a bunny rabbit with three giant hops. "Thanks, Abby!"
"You look excited."
"Yup, I am. Especially because I'm not stuck at Mrs. No Brien's all summer.” She kicks off her flip-flops and drops to all fours, crawling across the rug in the living room to Walt, who immediately switches from fast asleep into play mode.
Looking over at Olive, Liam says, "Mrs. O’Brien. Now, Olive, I want you to run that brush through your hair. And I’ll know if you just smooth it down with your hands, so you really have to do it this time. There’s a change of clothes for you in your bag, as well as a couple of books and your sketching stuff. At some point today, Abby’s going to be busy writing or doing whatever else she needs to do, and I expect you to entertain yourself."
“I’ll just play with Walt.”
Liam follows me into the kitchen, and I pour us each a coffee, trying to keep my distance. The last few days, I’ve noticed a subtle shift—nothing I can name, but an energy of some sort between us. I’m not sure if it’s because we’ve both been reading my saucy books, or if it’s just what happens when two single people of the opposite sex spend too much time together, but something is different, and I want it to go back to the way it was. I think.
And that’s the problem.
"Sweet Jesus," Liam says quietly. "You won't believe this."
“What?” I ask, turning to see him looking at his cell phone.
"Remember when I suggested hiring Colton to help with the roof and you said—”
"—What's the worst that could happen?"
Liam nods and comes to stand beside me at the counter, holding his phone so we can both look at it. Thanks for the e-transfer. I just used it for a one-way ticket to California. I leave tomorrow. Please don’t mention it to anyone. I don’t want my parents to know yet.
"Urgh, that’s not good,” I say.
“Do you think this is my fault?” he asks.
“God, you’re Canadian. You gave him a job. You’re not responsible for how he spent the money.”
He gives me a slightly irritated look, then glances back down at his phone. “Why a one-way ticket?"
“I think because he wants to be a pro gamer. Apparently, there's some mansion down in LA where a bunch of gamers live.”
“June is not going to like this,” he says, shaking his head.
"Well, at least he didn't fall off the roof and bag himself." The two of us snicker quietly.
We’re standing so close together that my shoulder is brushing against his chest. I could move away from him, but I don't. Instead, I tilt my head to get a very close-up look at his eyes. His irises have bright blue rings around them that resemble the calm, warm waters of the Caribbean. They fade to a blue so light, it reminds me of the spot where the water meets the sand in St. Lucia. And the look they are giving me right now is one I haven’t seen in a
man’s eyes in so long, I’d forgotten how it can turn you to butter.
I’m dumbstruck for a moment, and it’s almost as though we’ve both stepped over the line in unison for absolutely no reason at all, and there’s a shift in the mood that has taken us both off-guard. I want to ask him if this is because he’s been reading my books, but I also don’t want either of us to notice what’s happening, for fear one of us will come to our senses. Instead, I try to think of something to say, then remember what we were talking about. "Don't tell my parents," I murmur, sounding exactly like a total idiot.
But Liam doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, from this proximity, I’m able to watch as his pupils swallow up most of the sea. A slow smile crosses his face and his eyes flick down to my lips and then back up. "What don't you want your parents to know?"
Warmth spreads through me, starting at my chest and working its way up and down, around and out until I’m sure every inch of my skin is flushed. "I meant it like a question. About the guy with the roof and the plane ticket."
Grinning, Liam moves his face closer to mine. "You mean Colton Nickerson?"
I nod slowly. "Yes, him. It can’t be all bad, can it? I mean, he's an adult, so it just seems a little pathetic that he's running away from home, instead of just being upfront about it."
"You only think that because you've never seen June when she's mad,” he says in a low tone.
I lean toward him, a fraction of an inch closer, so the length of my arm presses up against his hard chest. There are two conversations going on between us now—one using words and one using our bodies. I swallow, then say, “Does she have a really bad temper or something?”
"What are you doing?" Olive asks. Her voice shocks us both out of whatever insane, lusty trance we were in. Liam backs off and I take a giant side-step, hitting my hip on the counter.
"Just having a coffee," Liam says at the same time I say, "Your dad was showing me something on his phone."
The After Wife Page 15
