She narrows her eyes and tilts her head up at us. "What were you showing her?" she asks, obviously suspicious of us.
"None of your beeswax, young lady. Some things are for kids and other things are for grown-ups." His tone, although not harsh, clearly signals the end of the discussion. He clears his throat and turns to me. "Before I forget, I thought I’d let you know all the shops close on Canada Day. So if you need groceries, you may want to go today.”
He’s gazing again and I find myself doing it right back. “Good tip, thanks.”
“You know who’s a good shopper?” He asks, blinking and seeming to transform back into my good buddy, Liam. He points over his shoulder with his thumb at his daughter. “This one here.”
“It’s true,” Olive says, her back straightening. “I like to push the cart and I’m excellent at spotting sale stickers.”
Liam cups the side of his mouth with one hand. “And anything with enough sugar to rot all your teeth at once.”
He stares at me an instant too long, then sighs and says, “Well, I better get at it.”
With that, he makes his way outside, leaving me with a little brunette Elsa while I try to process what the hell just happened. I smile down at her. “So, tell me more about these sugary treats.”
* * *
It turns out there was no need to worry about how to fill the time while babysitting. In my entire life, I never would have guessed how long it takes to get out the door with an unmotivated child. And I know it’s my fault for saying, “No rush, my dear. We’ve got all day,” but dear lord, that girl found a million things to distract herself from getting ready to leave. First, she was sure Walt had lost his favorite catnip toy under the couch, and she didn’t want to leave him alone without having it for comfort. This led to a search for a flashlight, followed by hunting down some batteries, then finally, looking for the toy itself—which, it turns out, was on the couch the whole time, under a decorative pillow. Then, she wanted to draw a picture of Walt because the light was just right.
Next, it seriously took us over twenty minutes to brush the knots out of her hair. I ended up digging around in my medicine cabinet to find some detangler spray (and I’m definitely not leaving the grocery store without getting her some to take home). By the time she was dressed in her pineapple tank top and cropped jeggings, she was hungry for lunch, which then led to a trip to the bathroom that lasted nearly half an hour. I could hear her telling herself what sounded like a very exciting epic saga while I waited in the kitchen. I’m so desperate for plotlines, I almost put a glass against the door so I could rip off her ideas.
Finally, after two hours, we’re about to get in the car. Except now, I hear Nettie's voice. "Hello, ladies," she says, walking up the driveway. (Over the past month, instead of popping by through the trees, she has taken to going the long way, and I'm assuming it's because this is her version of being neighborly without being intrusive.)
When she gets closer, Nettie grins down at Olive. "I baked you some ‘happy first day of summer’ scones. I thought you and your dad could use them on your big road trip."
Olive rushes over and gives her a big hug. "Thanks so much." She takes the container and tries to peer through the opaque plastic. "Is it the raspberry white chocolate chip ones?"
“What else would I make but my favorite girl’s favorite scones?” Nettie answers before shifting her focus to me. "No pressure, but we’re having our annual Canada Day barbecue for our guests, friends, and neighbors tomorrow night. After dinner, we’ll have a few drinks and watch the fireworks from our back deck."
"That’s so kind of you to invite me. I wish I could come,” I say, surprised to discover I actually mean it. “But you’ll be pleased to know I'm going to spend the entire weekend writing."
"Are you now? Good for you, Abby.” Nettie reaches out and gives my elbow a light squeeze. “I knew you could do it."
I smile, even though on the inside, the bowling ball is spinning again.
* * *
I sit down at my desk as soon as Liam and Olive go home. Well, not right after—more like after spending way too long thinking about the look on his face when he said goodbye to me. It was that same look he had in the kitchen this morning—like he wanted to throw me over his shoulder and take me upstairs, not that this sort of behavior is acceptable these days (or ever was, for that matter). But just as a way of describing his expression.
I pour myself a glass of wine, get straight to work, and this time, the words come flying out as fast as I can type. I don’t notice the sun setting outside, or remember to eat dinner, or see the moon passing the window. I only see what’s happening in my mind’s eye as a new story comes pouring out of me.
It’s not part of my world of duchesses and dukes, but instead, comes forward in time a hundred years in London, England, during the Industrial Revolution. I know I’ll need to go back and do a lot of research later, but for now, there’s a strong, but secretly lonely, heroine named Beatrice Tisdale, who has fallen from grace. And now, considered unmarriageable, she runs an orphanage on the edge of the city. Our hero is Ian McIntyre, a carpenter who has a shop near the orphanage, who comes to her aid when a fire ravages the old building.
I don’t think, don’t worry, don’t second-guess. Only type one word, quickly followed by another. At some point, long after bedtime, Walt walks across my desk and stops in front of me, flicking his tail and staring at me.
I crane my neck to see the screen over him. “Just a few more minutes, okay?”
A few more minutes turn into hours. Walt’s long given up on me by the time I look up from the screen again. I stretch my hands, roll my neck, and then get right back to work, euphoric in my pursuit. The sky is light by the time I stop. I let out a long, satisfied sigh. I’m beyond exhausted as I drag myself up the stairs, but I am happy in a way that I haven’t been in a long time. When I get to my bedroom, I see Walt curled up on a pillow.
I collapse into bed without bothering to take my clothes off. “I did it. I finally did it.”
* * *
The next day, I have eggs sunny side up, toast, and an entire pint of raspberries to fill my ravenous appetite, then go straight back to my desk. I’m there all day and late into the evening, with passing thoughts of where those astronauts buy space diapers. Finally, when my fingers are too sore to continue, I quit. I make myself some macaroni from a box, crack open a beer, then go sit on my deck to eat my dinner directly from the pot.
I can hear people laughing and chatting in Peter and Nettie’s backyard. I can imagine they’ve got trays of sweet and savory food set out for their guests, and plenty of chairs in case anyone else stops by. I can hear the crackle of a fire and can see a hint of the flames through the trees.
Part of me wants to wander over to join in the fun and see if they’ve got some lemon tarts left, but I won’t. I don’t need people the way some do. I’m happy here at my table with Walt asleep under my chair. I’m reveling in eating macaroni straight from the pot. I can open a second beer, or even a third, with no one here to judge me but myself.
I’m exhausted but feel better than I have in years. I finally believe I’m a writer again. I wish I could phone Lauren and share my exciting news, but I obviously can’t do that without admitting the truth. And today is too happy a day to disappoint my best friend. I will do it, but not right now.
I consider calling Liam to tell him he’ll have another book to read soon, but he’s on holiday and I don’t want to disturb him. Besides, it would be a little odd to call my contractor because I have exciting news. What sort of signal would that send to him? Or to me, for that matter …
I’ve been doing my best to forget what happened yesterday morning in the kitchen—the gazing and the chemistry and the wanting to kiss him. Those thoughts and feelings do not belong in my brain, or in any other part of me. I do not gaze longingly at men. I do not speak in a breathy tone or bat my eyelashes or wonder what it would feel like to … do anything I’m not going to d
o.
I avoid all of that because I’m one of the few enlightened people who know the truth. Hormones and ancient biological urges ruin your life. I know this by heart, and because I do, I’ll distract myself from all of it until a certain rugged, handsome guy finishes doing a little of this and a lot of that around here. Then, the worst will be over, and I can sit by and let time turn us into little more than acquaintances. And when that happens, I’ll be safe again.
For now, though, I’ll use my work to keep my mind occupied. Beatrice can be the one with the lusty longings. She can wander through the meadow, letting her fingertips touch the tall grasses while she imagines what it would feel like if Ian finally kissed her. Yes, that is the smartest way I can handle this whole mess.
A bang thunders across the water and through the air, then the sky is lit up as the first of the fireworks go off. In the distance, I hear ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs,’ and they make me wish Isaac was sitting here next to me, taking it all in. A chill runs through me and I wrap my arms across my chest, not wanting to go inside for my sweater. This is one of those moments when I’d ask him to go, and he’d pretend to be annoyed (or maybe he really would be) but he’d go anyway, returning with my sweater and another drink for each of us.
I’m suddenly bored of the fireworks, so I get up, gather my things, and go inside. Some things just aren’t the same when you’re alone. And those things must be avoided.
Chapter Nineteen
You cannot find peace by avoiding life.
~ Virginia Woolfe
Liam and Olive come by first thing on Wednesday morning. She’s in a narwhal short-and-tee sleep set, and looks like she’s just been on the seven-year-old’s equivalent of a bender, sunglasses and all. She walks in the door, slips her bare feet out of her flip-flops, then makes a beeline for the couch. “Hey Abby, I am wiped. Those boys are insane. I’m so glad they don’t live closer.”
Liam rolls his eyes at me. “She means her cousins. They’re good kids. There’s just a lot of them.”
Walt springs up onto the cushion beside Olive, then bats at her hand with his paw. Olive pets him while she also lifts her head and looks at me. “Believe me, four boys is about four too many.”
I do my best to stifle a laugh while Liam grimaces. “She got that line from my mother.” Raising his voice so it reaches his intended target, he adds, “It wasn’t very nice when Gran said it, and it’s still not nice now.”
Olive holds up one hand. “Can you lower your voice, Liam? I have a splitting headache.”
I laugh silently, my entire body shaking.
Liam, however, is not amused. “It’s Dad to you, young lady. And that’ll be enough sass for one lifetime, thank you very much. And get those sunglasses off. You’re not Angelina Jolie.”
“Who’s that? Is she on Insta?” Olive asks, flipping her sunglass clips up.
Liam sighs and shakes his head. “My sister’s eldest is a thirteen-year-old girl. You can see she’s had quite an impact on her cousin.”
“Yes, I can.”
He looks at me with dead eyes and mutters, “Is it September yet?”
“Not quite.”
“All right, I better get to work. Good luck,” he says, before disappearing out to the garage.
As soon as he’s gone, I walk over to the couch. “Did you eat breakfast already or should I make you something?”
“No breakfast for me. I’m intermediate fasting,” she says. “Thanks though, hon.”
“Do you mean intermittent fasting?”
“Right. That’s the one,” she says, looking a little sheepish.
“Hmph. Too bad you’re fasting because I was going to make some special Independence Day pancakes.”
She perks up, but then quickly recovers, remembering she’s too cool for pancakes.
“You probably already know about Independence Day,” I say.
“I think so, but why don’t you tell me, anyway.”
“It’s like Canada Day but for the United States.”
“Oh, lovely!” she says.
“I’m kind of missing home today and was hoping you’d help me celebrate.”
“Okay,” she answers, suddenly seeming very much like the Olive that left here on Friday. “What kind of pancakes?”
“Buttermilk with blueberries and cream.” I hold out my hand and she takes it, then I help pull her up.
“I suppose I can fast another day.”
As we make our way to the kitchen, I say, “Yeah, or not, because you’re basically perfect the way you are.”
* * *
By late morning, Olive is Olive again. Gone is the tiny teenager, and in her place is the little artist I’ve come to know and like. She’s dressed now in some bright blue shorts and a unicorn T-shirt, and is currently sitting on a blanket under the oak tree, drawing in her sketchbook. I am outside, trimming a hedge (and by trimming, I mean doing a total hatchet job because I have no idea what I’m doing). I pause to adjust the Velcro closure of my glove and see Walt, who is sitting alone, meowing at her and looking forlorn.
Olive looks up at him and her face crumples. “Poor boy. Maybe I should go sit with him.”
“Your dad said he wanted you to stay in the shade for a while. Besides, maybe Walt will finally get sick of sitting there alone and he’ll come to you.”
“I hope so because he’s breaking my freaking heart.”
Oh, I see there are still remnants of her cousin left. “What are you drawing?"
She smiles, then quickly stands and hurries over to me with her sketchbook. "These are the mermaids that live in the lake. See?"
I tug my gardening gloves off my hands and take the pad from her. "Oh, wow. This is excellent. Incredibly detailed."
"Thanks. This one is Arietta. She's a princess, and these are her sisters. There are seven of them. This little one is my baby brother, Malcolm, and that's my mom holding him.”
I look at the largest mermaid on the page. She has the floppy ponytail that Olive told me about. "She reminds me of you, very beautiful."
She smiles, looking slightly embarrassed. “Thanks, Abby.”
“And this is Isaac,” she says pointing to a merman with glasses and short, gray hair. “I hope you don’t mind, I copied that from the photo in your office.”
I swallow my emotions. “I don’t mind a bit. It looks just like him.”
She points to three people standing on the shore on the far right of the picture. “That’s you, me, and my dad. We’re saying hello to the merfolk.”
I stare at her version of me. One of my arms is much longer than the other one, but otherwise, she’s managed to capture me. She’s in between Liam and me, and we’re each holding one of her hands. I look closer at Liam. He has blue eyes but his head is perfectly round and white. “Did you forget to add your dad’s hair?”
Shaking her head, she says, “That was when he was bald. I drew him that way because I like the feel of his smooth head.”
“Bald? Really? You mean he shaved his head?”
She shrugs. “I guess so.”
“But why? He has such nice thick hair.”
Olive looks up at me, blinking quickly in a surprisingly astute way. “Do you like my dad, like a boyfriend?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head while my face heats up. “I … we’re … no. He’s my good friend. You know what? You should get out of the sun now.”
She giggles, then takes off back over to the tree and settles herself so she’s lying on her stomach. Walt meows at her and Olive glances up from her book. “Well, come on, you silly boy. I promise nothing bad will happen.”
Walt stops his complaining and stares at her as though trying to decide. I put down the hedge trimmer and watch him as he touches the grass with one paw, then retracts it.
“Come on, Walt. It’s all right.” Olive sits up and pats the blanket with her hand. “When you want something, you can’t just sit there and cry about it. You have to be brave.”
Hmm, I wonder where sh
e’s heard that before?
Walt presses his paw to the grass again. When nothing bad happens, he takes one step forward.
“You can do this.” She smiles at him.
Walt takes three more steps. Now all four feet are firmly in the grass. He freezes in place, then decides to make a break for it and darts toward her. When he reaches the blanket, he launches himself onto the refuge of her lap.
I cheer and so does Olive, and for some dumb reason, I have tears in my eyes.
“He did it!” She grins at me.
I nod and find my voice. “He did, and on Independence Day, too. What a perfect day for an American cat to do something brave.”
I walk over and give him a scratch on his head. “Well done, Mr. Whitman. And well done, Ms. Wright. I don’t think he would have tried if he didn’t have you cheering him on.”
Olive beams.
And somehow the sight of my cat making a leap like that gives me the courage to do the same. I’m not sure what I’ll do, but I feel ready to take the next risk that comes my way.
Chapter Twenty
Courage doesn’t happen when you have all the answers. It happens when you are ready to face the questions you have been avoiding your whole life.
~ Shannon L. Alder
I’ve been having such a busy and emotionally draining day, I completely forgot it’s Pride and Prejudice Wednesday. At a quarter to eight, I get a text from Lauren. Ready?
I stare at the word ‘ready’ for a moment. For a small word, it can be the cause of irreversible change. In this case, I know it means I have to fess up and tell Lauren that I’ve been a very bad friend lately.
I pick up my phone and text back: Yes.
The After Wife Page 16
