Abigail Always

by Linda Poitevin

  “Ah. Somewhere in the front closet, I'm guessing?”

  Kiana nodded. “Daddy got mad when he couldn't find it. Then the smoke alarm yelled.”

  Abby's gaze strayed to the almost-buried frying pan outside. “I'll bet it did.” She frowned. “Hey, have you had breakfast yet?”

  “Daddy was making pancakes. I think he burned them again.”

  “Again? Does he do that regularly?”

  Another nod. “He's not very good at cooking. He keeps forgetting things.”

  “I see.” And Abby did see. Between the disaster in the front hall, the condition of the kitchen, the forlorn frying pan, and the fact that Mitchell Abrams hadn't checked his voicemail in the last week, she was beginning to get a good idea of why her eleven predecessors hadn't been able to stick it out for more than a few weeks each. This family didn't need a nanny; it needed a small army to keep it in line. Or a mother. Abby's heart squeezed so hard at the thought that the air left her lungs in a tiny whimper and, in a blinding flash of panic, she saw her mistake. Understood it. And watched it loom over her as if it would devour her whole.

  She couldn't do this. She'd been insane to consider it. Olivia and William were too fresh, too new. They would always be too fresh and new. Always be with her. And she could no more fit in with another family than she could bring back her own. That was why she’d had such a hard time fitting in at Gwyn’s. Her hand shaking, she set the tea towel on the counter by the sink. “You keep washing,” she told Kiana in a voice as brittle as she felt. “I just need to—”

  “Sorry I took so long. I needed to—” The deep male voice behind them broke off, and Abigail whirled to find her new employer—correction, her about-to-be-former new employer—staring at his kitchen in shock.

  “Mr. Abrams—”

  “Mitch,” he said absently. “Please.” He stuck the fingers of one hand into his front jeans pocket and rubbed the other hand over his hair. “Wow. I don't think I've seen the place this clean in months. You've worked a minor miracle, Miss Jamieson.”

  Mrs., she thought. I'm still Mrs. “I—” she said.

  Mitch Abrams swooped past her, scooping his daughter off the chair and swinging her around in a bear hug. “You! Did you help do all this?”

  Giggling, Kiana wrapped her wet arms around her father's neck as they twirled around again. The knife that had sliced through Abby's heart laid open her soul, too. She pressed the backs of her knuckles to her lips and forced herself to look away. I can't stay, she coached herself. I can't stay because I—

  “Are you all right?”

  She jolted back to the moment and found father and daughter both watching her in concern. Mitch Abrams's gaze narrowed, seeing far more than she wanted him to see. She made her hand drop to her side. “Mr. Ab—”

  “Mitch.”

  “M—M—” She gave up. “This was a mistake,” she said instead. “I don't think I'm right for the position after all.”

  He stared. The pale green eyes turned cold. “You can't be serious.”

  “I—”

  He set Kiana on the ground, untied her apron, and handed her a tea towel. “Dry your hands,” he said, “and then you can go watch cartoons for a while.”

  “But it's not a weekend.”

  “We'll pretend for today.”

  The little girl nodded and retrieved her stuffed rabbit from the island.

  “Wait—” The word left Abby's lips unbidden, and Mitch fixed another cold look on her. She swallowed hard. “She hasn't had breakfast yet,” she said, pointing toward the sliding doors and the now-invisible frying pan beyond.

  Wordlessly, Mitch took down a bowl and a box of cereal.

  “Umm,” said Abby, “you're out of milk.”

  Mitch opened another cupboard and took out a carton of almond milk. “Milk allergies,” he growled by way of explanation. “Gluten sensitivity, too.” He poured cereal into the bowl, added milk and a spoon, and handed the meal to the waiting child. “No running.”

  “No, Daddy.” Kiana cradled the bowl in her hands as she might a fragile treasure and headed toward the kitchen door. As soon as she was out of the room, Mitch folded his arms across his chest and scowled at Abby.

  “Now,” he said, “exactly what the hell are you playing at?”

  Chapter 4

  Mitch didn't wait for his new nanny's response. He was too angry. “I just spent half an hour on the phone apologizing to my partner and a client for being late and promising I'd get there as soon as I got you settled in. And then I called Kiana's school to tell them she'd be staying home today. And now you tell me you've changed your mind? Are you freaking kidding me? What happened to needing a job?”

  Abigail flinched from his words—or from his anger—or maybe from both, but he didn't care. Not when his life was unraveling at its seams. His partner, Derek Simmons, had never been a particularly patient person to begin with, and these last few months had exhausted any goodwill that had remained after Eve's long illness and death. If Mitch didn't start to pull his weight in their construction firm soon, Derek had warned this morning, they'd have to start talking about Mitch buying him out, or alternatively, finding someone else to take over Derek’s half of the company.

  “I'm getting too old to be working sixteen-hour days, my man,” Derek's voice echoed in Mitch's memory, fresh from their conversation. “Paul is making noises about me not being around enough, and the hunting cabin is starting to look awfully good right now. On a permanent basis.”

  “I hear you, Derek, and I swear I can make this work. Just give me a week to get this new nanny settled in, and then I can put my full focus on the company again.”

  Derek snorted. “I've heard that before, remember? I’ve lost count of how many times.”

  “I know,” Mitch said. “And I'm asking for one last chance here. You know I can't afford to buy you out right now, man. And the last thing I need is some new guy throwing his weight around.”

  “One month,” Derek replied after a long silence, his voice heavy. “If you aren't fully up to speed—and I mean fully, Mitch, as in pre-Eve-getting-sick up to speed—I'm done.”

  “One month,” Mitch agreed, because he had no choice. “You have my word.”

  It was a promise that had him scowling some more at Abigail Jamieson. “Well?”

  “I'm not playing at anything,” Abigail said quietly. “I just think I might not be the best fit for you after all.”

  Hands on hips, Mitch tipped his head back and closed his eyes while he weighed his options. He saw only two immediate ones. Leave Kiana—who was obviously not going to make it to school today—in the care of a stranger who didn't want to be here? Or call Derek to say he wasn't going to make it in after all and risk losing the company by the end of the week?

  Bottom line, he needed to put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads. And the agency, one of the most reputable in Ottawa, would have done a thorough background check, he assured himself, so at least he knew this particular stranger was a safe one.

  He shook his head. “I'm sorry,” he said. And given the haunted shadow that overlaid the blue eyes and the fragile, porcelain-doll air about her, he really was—at least a little. Just not enough to risk his livelihood and the security of his children. “I need you to stay. I made commitments to my business partner based on the agreement you and I made in the hallway just minutes ago. If it makes you happy, I'll keep my file open at the agency, but if no one else turns up, I need you to stay for the three-month trial period.”

  “But—”

  “Miss Jamieson, I don’t have time to discuss this. I need to be at a meeting in”—he glanced at the impact-resistant watch on his wrist—“twenty minutes. Kiana will need to stay home with you today. I'll get your room cleared out tonight when I get home. We can talk more then.”

  “M-Mitch—”

  “Mr. Abrams might be best after all.”

  His reluctant new nanny flushed brick red to the roots of her severely pulled-back
hair and swallowed hard. “You don't understand,” she whispered.

  “Save it,” he said. “My decision is made. And, Miss Jamieson, if you walk out on the job, I'll will do my level best to make sure you never find work with an agency in this city again. Now, Rachel and Brittany will be home at three. They'll need a snack. My cell phone number is on the fridge for emergencies. Don't hold dinner for me.”

  ***

  Abby didn't know how long she stared at the space vacated by Mitch—Mr. Abrams—before the sound of the front door roused her from her shocked stupor. Even then, she wasn't capable of doing more than letting her gaze travel an empty kitchen that suddenly felt more like a prison than a workplace. Dear Lord, what had she gotten herself into? And how was she going to get out of it again? Maybe she could call Estelle Gagnon and—but wait, the head of the agency had made it clear that if Abby didn't work out for the Abrams family, they would drop him as a client. There had been a hint of desperation underlining Mitch's anger that made Abby wonder whether that might be the final straw for him. Her shoulders sagged. Truth be told, as bad a shape as she was in, Mitch and his family seemed to be in equally dire straits. Could she really, in all good conscience, turn her back on them?

  She rested her elbows on the newly cleaned island, buried her face in her hands, and groaned. How had her life taken such a dark, awful path? She'd lost so much—had so much taken away from her—why was she even bothering to continue standing? It would be so much easier to give up. To curl into a ball in a corner somewhere and hide. Quit. Just... stop. Her mouth twisted.

  She'd already tried that, she reminded herself, and life had found her anyway, in the form of a sheriff with a court order requiring her to vacate her home eight months after the accident. “Probate... estate being contested... need to leave...” The sheriff's words had all run together, making little to no sense to a woman who hadn't left the house or spoken to another soul for more than a month. A woman who had subsisted on cans of tomato soup and stale crackers for two weeks because she'd run out of everything else and hadn't been able to summon the energy to get groceries. A woman whose friends—all of them William's friends, really—had stopped inviting her out after the first few weeks and stopped calling altogether after a few months.

  In numbed silence and under the sheriff's grim supervision, she had packed her things into two pull-along suitcases, an overnight bag, and a single cardboard box. Personal items only. Clothing, a few pictures, Olivia's baby album. No jewelry, no books, nothing deemed of value to an estate locked in probate because William had died without a will, his sister had hired a fancy law firm to contest the estate, and the courts had been too bogged down to even look at the case.

  And because William’s sister’s name had been on the house deed—God, how that woman had resented William marrying her—Abby had found herself standing on the sidewalk on a glorious, unrepentantly sunny day, homeless and waiting for a taxi to take her to a cheap motel on the outskirts of the city, with her neighbors studiously avoiding her gaze. Or maybe she'd avoided theirs. She couldn't remember, and it didn't seem to matter. All she knew was that she'd had enough in her meager private savings account for an economy-class ticket to the only person who might take her in—Gwyn.

  But life had followed her to Gwyn's house, too, and now it had given her this—a family almost as broken as she was.

  Another groan escaped her because, dear Lord, what in heaven's name was she supposed to do with it?

  “Did you hurt yourself?” a voice inquired.

  Abby lifted her head to find Kiana beside her, watching with her head tipped to one side like a bird, making her ponytails seem even more lopsided.

  “You're making the same noise Brittany did when she broke her arm. Should I call an ambulance?”

  A smile tugged at the corner of Abby's mouth. “No, I don't need an ambulance, thank you. I'm just...”

  “Hurting inside?” Kiana offered when she trailed off. The little girl nodded at her own suggestion. “Daddy used to sound like that when Mommy was sick. He didn't know I heard. She died, you know.”

  Abby blinked back tears and swallowed hard, not sure if she was more taken aback by the way the words seemed to scrape her skin, by the image of tall, strong Mitch Abrams brought low by that same pain, or by Kiana’s simple matter-of-factness. She cleared her throat. “I do know, yes. You must miss her.”

  “I miss the way she smelled. Daddy gave me one of her t-shirts, but her smell is gone now. She's been dead for a long time. Did you have someone die, too? Is that why you're hurting inside?”

  Abby's insides felt like they might unravel altogether. This child was going to be the death of her. On her first day of the job. She took a deep breath to try to still her quiver. It didn't work. “I did, yes,” she said. “But it was a long time ago, too.”

  “Do you miss their smell?”

  “I do. Very much.”

  Kiana thought about this and then said, “We should probably change the subject. Grandma makes Daddy do that when he gets too sad.”

  “Your grandma sounds like a very wise lady.”

  The little girl nodded. “She came to live with us for a while after Mommy died, but she's old. She said she can't keep up with us youngsters. And she had to go home because Grandpa was all alone. Daddy told her we could manage on our own, but I don't think we're doing a very good job. Are you going to help manage us? You could be like Mary Poppins, but without the penguins and the umbrella and the flying and stuff. I like Mary Poppins, but I don't think those are very real, do you?”

  “Probably not.”

  “So are you?”

  “Am I what? Like Mary Poppins?”

  Dark eyes rolled. “Going to help manage us.”

  “I... I don't know.” Abby mentally scanned her innards and found them behaving much like innards were supposed to, for a change. In fact, she felt... not normal, but less fragile than she had in a very long time. Huh. Perhaps Kiana and her grandma were onto something with this distraction idea. Perhaps living here for a few weeks wouldn't be as bad as she'd imagined. She could do a lot in three months, and if she focused on getting Mitch and his daughters organized enough to look after themselves, and they all understood the arrangement wasn't permanent...

  She regarded the little girl. “Maybe,” she replied to the question. “But just for a little while, until your daddy is better at it.”

  Kiana looked skeptical. “You're going to have your hands full with that one,” she said, shaking her head.

  Abby swallowed a snort. “How old are you, exactly?”

  “Five,” Kiana confirmed what the agency had told Abby. “But Grandma says I'm going on eighty.”

  Another smile. “Grandma might be right,” she agreed. “So. Any ideas about what to manage first?”

  “My Wonder Woman shoe?”

  “An excellent start. Lead the way, young lady.”

  White teeth flashed in a grin that somehow managed to warm Abby's heart even as it twisted the familiar knife in it at the same time, and for the first time in what felt like a very dark eternity, a tiny bit of color sparkled again in the world. She could do this, she told herself as she followed the bobbing puffs down the hallway. It was only for a little while, and it would give her time to come up with another plan, so she didn't have to go crawling back to Gwyn again.

  She could totally do this.

  Right?

  Chapter 5

  “You're still here.”

  Abigail looked up from stirring a pot of soup on the stove that she'd cobbled together from the odds and ends she'd found in the fridge and cupboards. The eldest girl, Rachel, stood in the kitchen doorway, still wearing her winter wear, including—Abigail winced—snow-covered boots. And her scowl matched her words.

  Abigail decided to ignore both tone and boots. “Of course,” she said cheerfully. “Where else would I be?” Not giving the girl a chance for a snarky comeback, she opened the oven door to peek at the biscuits browning inside and conti
nued, “How was school today?”

  “None of your business,” Rachel retorted. “You're the hired help, not my mother. And what is that god-awful smell?”

  Abigail counted to three. She really didn't want to get into an argument with the girl on her first day—and certainly not before she found out what her parameters were as far as setting and enforcing rules. She closed the oven door. “Soup,” she said. “And biscuits. For dinner. And if you're hungry now—”

  Rachel tsked an interruption, rolling her eyes. “It's Wednesday,” she said, emphasizing the words as if speaking to someone having difficulty understanding. “That means it's pizza night.”

  Stirring the pot (unnecessary for the soup, but necessary for her temper), Abby counted to five this time. “Wonderful. I love pizza. I'll just put this in the fridge for tomorrow. What time should I order, and what does everyone like?” Wow, but it was hard to sound pleasant through clenched teeth.

  “It's my job to order. That's why Dad—my father—trusted me with his credit card. I take care of a lot of things around here, just so you know.” A straightening of Rachel's spine accompanied the words as she drew herself as tall as possible. Abby's heart contracted in response, but her understanding blossomed.

  A territory dispute. That's what this was. A thirteen-year-old girl who'd found herself playing mother to two sisters for a year—probably more, given how ill Mrs. Abrams had been—having to deal with the intrusion of a total stranger in her home who seemed intent on taking control. No wonder this family had gone through eleven nannies in the last year. It was unlikely that a young woman, fresh out of childcare training, would see this as anything more than outright obnoxious rebellion on Rachel's part. But Abby had weathered a territory dispute of her own when she'd married a man whose sister had cared for him until her arrival—and she still bore the scars from it.

  “Excellent,” she said. “Then I'll leave that in your capable hands with thanks. But your dad said he'd be late tonight, so I imagine he'll eat out.”