Love Like the Dickens: A Heartswell Harbour Romance

by Mavis Williams

  “Going to bed with Aggie sounds pretty good to me.” Nick raised his hands in surrender as Oscar rounded on him, scowling. “Ain’t that the whole idea?” He looked quizzically from face to face. Belinda blushed crimson.

  “Good heavens, young man.” Irenia crossed her arms on her chest and turned her back on Nick. “Are you a Neanderthal?”

  “Naw,” Nick looked confused. “I voted Liberal.”

  “I was wrong, Dad.” Nora spoke up, having silently watched the ongoing conversation, her daughter snuggled in her arms. “I was wrong about you and Agnes.”

  Paisley’s eyebrows shot up. “Someone, write this down,” she said. “Nora Lake admits to being wrong. It’s an historical moment.”

  Nora rolled her eyes at her sister and smiled.

  “If I understand the purpose behind Agnes being here, it’s because she’s fulfilling the Bucket List her sister left for her. Her sister who died too young.”

  Oscar nodded.

  “Dad,” she spoke slowly, like she was explaining climate change to a six-year-old. “You have one life. Do you think I should stay with Paul because we made this baby together and we’re the right age to be together?”

  Oscar moved to the side of the bed as tears spilled over her cheeks.

  “If you love him, sweetheart, yes.”

  “I don’t, Dad. I don’t love him. So, all those right reasons to stay together are meaningless, because I have one life. One life to make choices and make mistakes and try to do the right thing.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I don’t get it,” Nick interrupted. Belinda quickly shushed him.

  “So, you have all these right reasons why you and Agnes shouldn’t be together, right?”

  “You said yourself, I’m too—”

  “Do you love her?”

  Oscar stared at Nora, the baby curled in her arms, tears shining on her young cheeks. He looked at Paisley, her eyes eager and bright. He looked at Nick who squinted at him as if he were a bug under a microscope.

  “I do,” he said quietly. “I love her.”

  “Then you should know what to do about it.” Nora sniffed, the familiar no-nonsense look coming back into her eyes.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so, Oz?” Nick bellowed, slapping him on the back like he’d just won the lottery. “I’m not one to get in the way of true love. I shall graciously stand aside and let you take your best shot at getting the chick.”

  The chicks all groaned.

  “I know the next item on her list,” Paisley offered. Oscar looked at her, his heart racing with new possibility. “I think that might be a good place to start.”

  Twenty-Two

  Paisley offered to book the ticket for her. She was leaving Heartswell by train, and she had no idea where she was going.

  #9 Take a trip without knowing the destination.

  She wished she was excited. She’d even go for the sinking feeling of terror she’d felt when she stood in front of the theatre doors, all those weeks ago, when she didn’t know what to expect but was doing it anyway. Now, all she felt was alone.

  She was leaving Heartswell the same way she’d arrived. Alone, sad and wishing she could hide behind a stack of books and worn out excuses.

  In the four days since Christmas morning Agnes had eaten two turkey dinners, one with the Crawley’s and one with the Portly Gentlemen who insisted on bringing her a plate of their leftovers since they worried she was too thin. She went running twice, quite proud of herself that she could manage a solid 5k without stopping to walk, even though she panted like a bellows at the end of it. She packed her bags, said her goodbyes to the Heartswell crowd and steadfastly avoided Oscar at every turn.

  Not that he had come around much.

  He seemed to be avoiding her as much as she was trying to avoid him. Avoiding him in every place but her mind. That was another story.

  She had heard him shuffling around below her in the Nook one evening, and she had stood, frozen between longing and leaving until he quietly exited out the back door. She had peeked through the curtains to watch his tall from gracefully walk away in the snow. She ducked out of sight when he had stopped and looked over his shoulder.

  She would not give in to her baser desires and run wailing out into the night begging him to turn around and love her. She would not.

  Nowhere on Savannah’s Bucket List did it say: ‘Become a sniveling idiot over a man who does not want you.’

  She wished it did, since she was doing it very well.

  Number nine was the last item on the list. Except for the mysterious #10, but she chose to ignore that one. One final item, and she could call it done.

  She sat in the quiet apartment. Her small suitcase sat by the door and her coat hung over a kitchen chair. She was leaving. She didn’t know where she was going, and she didn’t really care.

  “I don’t care,” she said aloud, convincing herself of her independence.

  This is what Savannah had wanted for her. A life full of adventure and independence. She looked around the empty apartment. She would get on a train and end up… somewhere. Somewhere that wasn’t here.

  She pondered cancelling the ticket and just going back to her empty apartment in Halifax. She could contact the library and tell them she was back, that she didn’t need the rest of her year off. She had done what her sister wanted and she was right back where she started. She’d had what she called her Heartswell Adventure, and here she was at a destination she did not choose. Isn’t that life was? A voyage with an unknown destination? It sounded so romantic, but alone was alone no matter which way you sliced it.

  She would never have the baby that Savannah hinted at in #8.

  #8 Name your firstborn after me.

  Maybe she should just get a goldfish and call it done.

  Paisley knocked lightly on the door and walked in. Agnes immediately started to cry, sniffling to hide her tears as Paisley plonked down on the sofa beside her, throwing her arm around Agnes’ shoulder and squeezing her.

  “You don’t have to go, you know,” she said. “We can extend your rental, and we’re already planning our spring production. Irenia wants us to do The Importance of Being Earnest. You’d make an excellent Cecily.”

  “And I suppose Mrs. Crawley will be Algernon?” She giggled wetly.

  Paisley laughed and reached into her bag, bringing out a small envelope.

  “This came in the mail this morning,” she said, offering the envelope to Agnes. She took it uncertainly.

  “Proxly and Son.” She read the return address and frowned. “Lawyers?”

  “Bernard Proxly.” Paisley went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. “He sat in the front row on opening night. Bald guy, with round glasses?”

  “Like I remember anything from opening night, Paise,” she said. “It was all I could do to not vomit backstage, remember?”

  “True. Proxly’s a good guy. Open it.”

  Agnes turned the letter over in her hand, suddenly anxious. What could a lawyer in Heartswell possibly want with her?

  The envelope contained a single sheet of paper on Proxly letterhead.

  Agnes’ fingers went numb as she read the short message. She swallowed the knot in her throat and wrapped her cold hand around her pendant, hoping to find the warmth that always resided there.

  “You’ve gone white as a sheet.” Paisley gently removed the letter from her and shoved a steaming cup of tea into her hand. “What’s it say?”

  “Mr. Proxly would like to have a meeting with me,” she whispered. “He says he has important correspondence for me.”

  “Correspondence? From who?”

  Agnes stared at the steam rising from her cup.

  “From my sister.”

  ∞∞∞

  “I must say, my dear, you did give us a bit of chase, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t realize I was running, Mr. Proxly. I felt I was standing quite still, actually.” Agnes tried to smile at the very kind m
an sitting on the opposite side of a giant mahogany desk. The top of the desk gleamed, reflecting the shiny bald head of its owner, who smiled at her from behind round spectacles perched on the end of his nose. Bernard Proxly, legal adviser and theatre enthusiast, seemed in no rush to get to the point of their unexpected meeting.

  “You were splendid on stage, Ms. Evans,” he said. “Mrs. Davies and I had an excellent evening watching the performance. You met Mrs. Davies on your way in, my administrative assistant? She was quite excited to meet you, almost like meeting a movie star.”

  Agnes laughed. “I don’t think my performance warrants any kind of praise, Mr. Proxly, but I appreciate your kindness. It was my first time on stage.” She looked at her lap, feeling that momentary flash of nervous energy she had come to expect as she waited backstage. She realized, strangely, that she would miss that sense of anticipation.

  “All the more reason to be impressed,” he said. He looked at her over the top of his glasses. “I’m sure you had an enthusiastic mentor in Irenia Crawley.”

  He blinked innocently at her and she couldn’t help but smile.

  “She was… quite something.”

  “Indeed she is, indeed she is. As are all the kind members of the HAWC.” He grinned, then shuffled the various papers on his desk.

  “Mr. Proxly,” she said. As enjoyable as their conversation was, she didn’t understand why she was sitting in a lawyer’s office on her last day in Heartswell. She swallowed. Her last day in Heartswell. It shouldn’t make her sad, she didn’t belong in this town, living above a cosy bookshop waiting for the tall bookshop owner with the gentle kisses. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m not sure what I’m doing here.”

  True, in more ways than one.

  “Yes, well, as I was saying.” Mr Proxly squared his shoulders. “It was a strange series of coincidences, actually.”

  He waited expectantly. Apparently, Mr. Proxly was a bit of a performer himself, requiring audience involvement to get to the point.

  “Such as?”

  “Just before Christmas, my son, Hudson, happened to be in Halifax attending a conference with other legal professionals, when one thing led to another…”

  How much prompting he would require before he got to the facts?

  “Go on.”

  “And it came up in conversation that there are occasions when deceased relatives leave correspondence in the hands of their lawyers, with instructions to deliver said correspondence at a previously agreed upon time—”

  “My sister left a letter with our lawyer?” She felt a shiver of anticipation. “Why didn’t Martin simply contact me himself?”

  “Yes, well, as I was about to explain—” Bernard Proxly seemed to be more comfortable when in charge of the conversation. He dragged her back from the edge of her seat to explain. “Your lawyer, Martin Dexter, is known to my son, you see. And, as I said, one thing let to another and—”

  “But why would Martin approach your son instead of—”

  “He could not locate you, Ms. Evans.” Mr. Proxly steepled his fingers, waiting quietly for her to let him continue.

  “Oh. I didn’t leave a forwarding address,” she said. She had simply packed, closed her apartment and left for Heartswell. It had been… impulsive. As Savannah had hoped.

  “Exactly. As it happened, your lawyer Martin and my son Hudson, having a long-standing acquaintance, were discussing their interests when the matter of posthumous correspondence came up, as it does.”

  “As it does? Dead people leave lots of letters, do they?” She didn’t mean to sound trite, but she was getting anxious waiting for the letter she knew he had somewhere in the folder under his hands.

  “You would be surprised. Why, I myself had a case just recently where a deceased grandfather—”

  “Mr. Proxly, please?”

  “Of course, dear. Of course.” He tapped the folder. “Mrs. Davies has cautioned me that I tend to go on rather more than I should.”

  She blinked at him. Waiting.

  “Martin mentioned to Hudson that you, and he mentioned you by name, were proving most difficult to locate and he was concerned about fulfilling the promise he had made to your sister. She was, apparently, quite an insistent young woman, and he felt strongly about meeting her wishes.”

  “Savannah was, yes, quite insistent about most things.” Agnes smiled, feeling the gentle weight of the pendant against her chest.

  “In any case, and to make a long story short…”

  “It’s rather too late for that Mr. Proxly, but please continue.” She couldn’t help herself, and she smiled to ease the barb. She was pleased to see him blush slightly.

  “Hudson saw your name in the programme for A Christmas Carol, and it struck him that you might be the exact person his friend Martin was searching for. He made some inquiries, determined that you were indeed visiting our fair town from the big city, and voila—” He pulled out an envelope from the file in front of him “—a letter from your deceased sister has indeed made its way to you.”

  Agnes went cold. She recognized her sister’s handwriting on the envelope, and her heart made one giant leap of joy before it remembered that Savannah would never write to her again.

  She reached out and shakily took the envelope.

  Twenty-Three

  Oscar felt ridiculous.

  "You asked for help, so I’m helping,” Nick grumbled, dusting the brim of the top hand he held in his hand. “You know how the ladies fall all over me—”

  Paisley snorted. Nick looked down his nose at her and planted the top hat on Oscar’s head.

  “—they can’t keep their hands off me—”

  Paisley guffawed in a very un-ladylike way.

  “All right. All right.” Nick glared at Paisley. “Let’s just say… I’m single by choice.”

  “Dad, are you sure you want romantic advice from a man who wears a football jersey tucked into a pair of sweatpants he’s owned since 1986?”

  “I find jeans too… restricting.” Nick sniffed. He tugged up the waist of the sweatpants in question and turned his back on Paisley.

  Oscar looked at both of them, wishing he’d turned to google for advice. Surely there was a youtube video on how to woo back a girl you’ve disappointed. He felt he might need a twelve-step program, complete with conversation starters and motivational quotes.

  “I doubt “dress up like Scrooge” would be considered good dating advice, Nick.” He removed the top hat and looked at it like it held the answers to the Mars and Venus question. He shrugged his long arms out of the long Victorian winter coat Nick had insisted he try on. “This makes me look like a funeral director.”

  “We’re going for young and fun, Nick. Not dark and geriatric.” Paisley took the top hat and put it back in the hat box. They were in a stuffy room backstage, putting away the costumes from the play. Long racks of old costumes made the space smell like mothballs and old dreams. Oscar sniffed. He pulled out Robin Hood’s jerkin.

  “I think I would be quite attractive in tights, what do you think?” He looked at Paisley, momentarily terrified to see her actually considering it. He shoved the costume back onto the rack. “I don’t see the need for dressing up at all, actually.”

  “Jeeze Ozzie,” Nick groaned. “Ya don’t expect to be able to nail her as yourself, do ya?”

  “I expect to convince her to give me a second chance, Nick. Like grownups. No nailing involved.” He sighed. Nick was right about one thing. Being himself wasn’t likely to get him very far. He fingered the silken lapels of the great-coat pensively.

  “Ya dress up like Scrooge, ya show her you’re a changed man, and it’s like that gimped kid said at the end there…”

  “Tiny Tim?” Paisley said, looking at Nick like he was a new breed of mould. “God bless us, every one? Only one of the most iconic final lines in literature?”

  “That’s it, that blessing bit.” Nick grinned at her. “It ain’t ironic though. Ain’t that a song?”


  Paisley shook her head and Oscar couldn’t help but smile. Nick was nothing if not entertaining. “Scrooge is old, Nick. Like, mostly-dead old. That’s not the message we’re sending, ok? Dad’s all freaked out about being older than her already.”

  “So, he dresses up like the gimped kid instead. Chicks love kids.”

  “We’re done here.” Oscar stood up and tucked the final few costumes into the rack. He would have to figure it out for himself, without relying on either Nick or Dickens for direction. Paisley hooked her arm in his as they walked out through the theatre, Nick following, muttering about not being appreciated for his wealth of dating advice.

  “Dad, she already likes you. This isn’t rocket science.”

  “You’re right. I just need to show up. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “I just need to be myself.”

  “Right.”

  Nick grumbled from three feet behind them. “Go big or stay home, man. Chicks dig surprises.”

  Oscar stopped walking.

  Paisley rounded on Nick. “Will you please stop calling women ‘chicks’, Nick? It’s degrading and misogynistic. No wonder you’re single.”

  “Can we stop with the big words, already?”

  Oscar let their voices recede into the background. He stared out over the empty theatre. Agnes had said exactly that, so many times. It was like a mantra for her when she was faced with the things that frightened her the most. Stepping out of her comfort zone. Braving an audience. Allowing herself to be bold and daring.

  Go big or stay home.

  He took a deep breath and smiled.

  “Thank you, Nick,” he muttered as he strode up the theatre aisle. “You have been surprisingly helpful.”

  ∞∞∞

  Agnes ran her fingers over her sister’s handwriting for the umpteenth time. She couldn’t bring herself to open the envelope. As long as she didn’t open it, she could maintain the illusion that Savannah was just somewhere on vacation. Somewhere that wasn’t here, but still alive, writing letters and having adventures. She knew it was foolish, but she had already cried over leaving Heartswell Harbour and she didn’t feel like bursting into fresh waterworks now that she was safely on the train, having successfully stopped herself from running back to the Nook and begging Oscar to kiss her.