Abigail Always

by Linda Poitevin

  Rachel stared at her, seeming nonplussed by the response, ready for a battle and not quite sure how to respond to an olive branch.

  Abby returned to stirring the soup. “Kiana and I made muffins today.” She switched off the stove and moved the pot to a trivet on the counter. “They're on the island if you're hungry. And she helped me make up a grocery list, but maybe you can go over it to make sure I have everything you need on there. It's on the fridge.”

  “I'm not hungry,” Rachel growled, “and I already gave my father a list. I just have to remind him to get the stuff.”

  Abby decided no further response was required. She took the tray of perfectly golden biscuits from the oven, set them on a wire rack to cool, then rummaged in a cupboard for a storage container for the soup. The silence between her and Rachel stretched, and she was pretty sure there were invisible daggers being sent in her direction. But she was well used to cold silences—

  Not going there, Abby.

  And she was an expert at playing the waiting game—

  Really, Abigail?

  Rachel huffed from the doorway. “This is stupid,” she muttered. “I have homework. I'll be in my room.”

  Eyes closed and arms crossed, Abby leaned back against the counter and waited for her stomach to unknot itself and her breathing to even out. As far as distractions went, Rachel Abrams was going to be a doozy.

  “Don't worry about her. She's like that with everyone,” a new voice said, and Abby opened her eyes to find Brittany on the other side of the island, stripped of her winter garments and eying the plate of muffins. “Are these for us?” she asked hopefully.

  “They are. Your dad said you'd be hungry after school.”

  “I'm starving.” Brittany swung her backpack onto the island, hitched herself up onto a stool, and took a muffin from the plate. She peeled back the paper liner, bit into the treat, and closed her eyes in ecstasy. “Mm... they're still warm. And I love raisins.”

  Abby smiled. At least someone appreciated her efforts. “Kiana told me.”

  “They're gluten-free for her, right? She can't have wheat. Mommy used to say it messes up her brain.”

  “I found gluten-free flour in the cupboard and used that for the muffins and the biscuits.”

  “The biscuits smell good, too.” Brittany offered, words muffled around another bite. “And so does the soup. We can skip pizza tonight, if you'd like.”

  And wouldn't that go over like the proverbial lead balloon? Abby shook her head. “It's okay. They'll keep until tomorrow, and pizza sounds good.”

  “Yeah. You're right. Rachel wouldn't be happy.” Brittany's hand hovered over the muffins. Abby nodded, and she snatched up a second one. “Is it okay if I do my homework in here?”

  “Of course. I'm going to go shovel the driveway, now that it's stopped snowing, but you can call me if you need help. If Rachel orders pizza before I come back in, tell her I like anything except anchovies.”

  ***

  Unseasonable as it was for Ottawa in early November, it had snowed a lot since Abby's arrival that morning, and the double-width driveway sat well hidden beneath mounds of white stuff, with a ridge two feet high piled at the end where the plow had been by. She found a snowblower in the garage but had zero inkling how to use it, and so she settled for the wide aluminum shovel beside it. Kiana accompanied her, taking a child-sized shovel down from a hook on the wall, but she lost interest in helping after a few minutes and opted for building a snowman instead. The snow was perfect for the purpose—which made it less than perfect for shoveling. Twenty minutes into the task, an overheated Abby abandoned scarf and hat, grinning when Kiana pounced on them for use on her creation in progress. Five minutes more, and her gloves followed suit.

  Grunting as she shoved and lifted, twisted and swung, Abby wondered whether she would even be able to move in the morning. This was way more exercise than she—

  The shovel caught on something beneath the snow, driving the handle into her belly with enough force to make her wheeze. She stopped to catch her breath, leaning on the shovel and watching a snow-suited Kiana roll a lumpy ball of snow across the front lawn toward another, bigger one. The off-key strains of Do You Want to Build a Snowman drifted through the muffled, late afternoon silence, punctuated by the little girl's grunts every time she heaved the growing lump another few inches. Abby smiled at the picture-perfect winter moment.

  Olivia had loved playing in the snow.

  The thought blindsided her, the injustice of it twisting through her. But before she could recover enough to push it away as she was learning to do, a second thought followed on its heels.

  Mitch's wife would have loved to watch her daughter.

  Halfway across the yard, Kiana looked over and waved, grinning at her in the fading afternoon light. Abby forced a return smile and wave around the pain holding her immobile. She made herself inhale slowly, carefully, a part of her surprised that her lungs didn't shatter, so fragile did they feel. She'd never imagined she was alone in her grief, but neither had she been this aware of another's. Mrs. Abrams's, Mitch's, their daughters'. It felt as if a curtain between Abby and the world had been ripped aside, blinding her with an illumination she'd tried to hide from.

  “Abby, can you help me?” Kiana called.

  So much grief. So much loss. For all of us.

  Abby took another breath and forced her muscles to life. There was a lot to unpack from behind the curtain, but not now. Now, she needed distraction again. Time to let the unexpected realization settle into her. “Coming,” she called back.

  By the time she was done shoveling and assisting with snowman building—Kiana had assembled a small army of them at the base of the one wearing Abby's hat and scarf—darkness had fallen over the neighborhood, and she was alone outside. One of the neighbors had come by with his snowblower and offered to do the last bit of the driveway just as the pizza delivery had arrived and Kiana had gone inside, but Abby had declined. The physical labor made her feel more alive than she had in months, and she found herself enjoying it.

  Plus, she reflected wryly as she put the shovels back in the garage, she could pretty much guarantee she would sleep better than she had in those same months, too. She reached to turn off the light, and her gaze lingered on an SUV parked on the far side of the garage. Coated in a fine film of dust, it didn't look as though it had moved in a long time, but if it still ran, maybe she could ask her new employer for the keys tomorrow.

  That assumed he wouldn't suspect her of wanting to run away with it, after her moment of panic this morning. She grimaced as she pressed the button to close the garage door. Between Mitch not wanting her here, then changing his mind, then her not wanting to be here... well, suffice it to say neither one of them had gotten off to a good start. However, they were both adults, and once they'd hammered out a firm agreement, things were bound to improve.

  The giant door rumbled down and settled into place with a thud.

  Abby stamped her feet on the mat in front of the door leading from the garage into the laundry/mudroom, then twisted the door knob. It didn't move so much as a fraction.

  Locked. Of course it was locked, undoubtedly by the oh-so-friendly Rachel. Abby leaned her forehead against the window in the door. At least now she knew why the girl had been so helpful in her offer to get Kiana out of her wet snow gear while Abby finished shoveling. With a sigh, she straightened again and knocked on the window insert. Seconds ticked past. The room on the other side of the glass remained dark. Abby’s lips drew tight. Using her side of her fist this time, she banged again. And again. And again.

  At last the inside light went on, and she saw Rachel pick her way through the puddles and wet clothing to the door—moving, of course, with excruciating slowness. Their gazes met and held, then Rachel unlocked the door but didn't open it, turned, and left again. Sudden exhaustion settled over Abby, and the chill of sweat-drenched clothing seeped into her bones. She pushed open the door and stepped inside. Things with Mitch
Abrams might improve with their agreement, but she suspected it would be a whole other matter with his eldest daughter.

  She stripped off her coat and hung it on a hook beside a bench, then stooped to pick up Kiana's wet things and hang them, too, because of course Rachel had left them for—what had she called her? Oh yes. The hired help. Abby rolled her eyes and stepped across the puddles before taking off her boots, making a mental note to ask Mitch whether there was a carpet to go on the floor for the winter weather. Then, too tired to do more, she turned off the mudroom light, closed the door behind her, and went into the kitchen.

  The three girls were seated at the table, each with a small pizza box in front of her, their contents half gone. A delicious aroma permeated the room, and Abby's stomach rumbled. Unfortunately, no other boxes appeared to exist. She sent Rachel a pointed look, one eyebrow raised. “None for me?”

  Darned if the girl didn't look uncomfortable in the slightest.

  “I'm sorry,” Rachel said in a tone that begged to differ. “I'm not used to having someone else here. I didn't think to get you one.”

  Abby stared at her, hoping her silence communicated the “horse pucky” she didn't want to utter. Rachel didn't so much as blink.

  “You can have some of mine,” Brittany offered. “It has pineapple and green peppers.”

  “Mine, too,” said Kiana. “It's gluten-free and vegetable-arian, and it has fake cheese.”

  “You need the leftovers for lunch tomorrow,” Rachel said. “There's nothing for sandwiches until our father does the shopping.”

  “Thank you, girls,” Abby replied, her steady gaze still holding their sister's, who undoubtedly thought using “our father” instead of “Daddy” made her sound more grown up. “But I'll just have some of the soup and a biscuit tonight, and tomorrow I will do the shopping.”

  Rachel stood, closed the pizza boxes, and stalked past Abby to put them in the fridge. At the doorway to the hall, she looked over her shoulder at her sisters. “Make sure you brush your teeth when you're done,” she ordered. “Dad will be late tonight, so I'll tuck you in. Be ready at eight.”

  Chapter 6

  Mitch turned off the ignition and pressed the button on the remote control attached to the visor. The garage door ground to a close behind him. Wearily, he gathered up gloves, coat, and a roll of blueprints from the passenger seat. He felt guilty as hell for coming home this late, but he just hadn't been able to face dealing with Rachel. Or, for that matter, the Abigail Jamieson problem.

  He still couldn't believe he'd walked out on her like that, demanding that she stay and care for Kiana. And then he’d told her he wouldn't be home for dinner and essentially ordered her to feed his children? Groaning, he let his head fall back against the headrest. He was lucky the woman hadn't called Child Services on him. He had no doubt she was waiting for him in the front hall, dressed to go, suitcases at her feet, ready to make her escape the second she heard him come into the house. Because there was no way she'd want to take the position now. Hell, he wouldn't want to take the position after the way he'd behaved to her. Which meant—

  He rubbed his free hand over his eyes. It meant he was back to square one, trying—and failing miserably—to keep his daughters semi-clean and healthy while trying—and failing equally miserably—not to lose the livelihood that made the rest of it possible. Freaking hell. What was he going to tell Derek? His partner had made it clear he wouldn't stick around if Mitch didn't start pulling his own weight in the company. Derek would walk before Mitch even got to the explanation, and there was no way any bank would consider him an acceptable risk on his own. Not with the company having had to scale back the way it had since Eve died. He'd gone over it and over it in his head all day, and he hadn't been able to come up with a solution because there was none. He had three young daughters depending on him, and he was screwed.

  Sitting in a dark garage, however, wouldn't make it better. Time to face the music, Abrams. With a heavy sigh mingled with another groan, he pushed open the truck door, slid out, and headed into the mudroom. There, he paused to listen for a moment, mostly for the closing of the front door now that Abigail knew he was home, but the house stayed silent. Mitch slipped his feet out of their steel-toed boots, set his gloves on the bench, and reached to hang his coat on a hook. He blinked.

  A bright red jacket hung beside Kiana's snowsuit, both still showing patches of damp. Two thoughts, equally monumental, crowded into his mind. First, if Abigail Jamieson's coat was here, it wasn't on her. Which meant she was also here, and maybe—just maybe—he stood a chance of apologizing and convincing her to stay. Second, she had somehow, impossibly, managed to talk Kiana not only into the hated snowsuit and winter boots, but also into going outside. Which meant the woman was a bloody miracle worker and he had to convince her to stay. Setting his jaw, he draped his coat over the hook beside the red jacket and headed into the hallway.

  A light glowed in the kitchen to his right, so he headed there first but found the room empty of anything except what belonged in it. Clean counters, gleaming appliances, bare table with chairs pushed in, and a tidy stack of books on the island beside a bowl that had been empty of its intended fruit for two weeks or more, which reminded Mitch that he'd forgotten to stop for groceries. Again. About to turn and leave, he paused as a paper propped against the books caught his eye. He picked it up and read,

  Mr. Abrams,

  I'm assuming you've eaten dinner, but if not, there's

  soup in the fridge and biscuits on the counter by the

  stove. I've made a bed for myself on the loveseat in the

  living room and set the coffee machine for 6:30 a.m.

  I would appreciate a meeting with you at that time.

  Abigail Jamieson

  This time, a dozen different thoughts crowded in. She'd stayed. She'd made a decent dinner for his kids, with leftovers for him despite his earlier behavior. She could cook. And bake. And the idea of a meeting sounded positive, didn't it?

  A bed on the loveseat.

  Freaking hell. He'd walked out in such a temper this morning that he'd forgotten she would have nowhere to sleep tonight. Forgotten he had to come home early enough to clear the disaster area that had taken over the spare room. Forgotten, in his blind panic, to be a decent human being to the stranger he so needed in his daughters' lives right now, and so she was sleeping on a loveseat that wasn't nearly long enough to accommodate her.

  Never mind apologizing. He had some serious groveling to do at that meeting.

  Mitch read the note again, and his stomach rumbled at the thought of food. As it happened, he hadn't had time for dinner and had forgotten about it until now. His gaze strayed to the glowing blue 12:20 displayed on the stove clock. After the day he'd had, 6:30 was going to come awfully early, but he would most likely sleep better on a full stomach. He set the paper on the counter again and pulled open the fridge.

  Stripped of all the spoiled food he'd been intending to clear out, the interior glowed bright enough to make him squint. His mouth pulled tight as he stared at the emptiness facing him. Damn. He really did need to get those groceries, didn't he? He reached for the single storage container on the top shelf, pausing when he noticed the three pizza boxes stacked below it. Right. Wednesday was pizza night. He should have mentioned that to Abigail this morning—along with a whole lot of other things—and told her to order one for herself, too.

  God, the poor woman must really wonder what kind of a monster he was at this point.

  He took the container from the fridge and five minutes later, tiptoed past the dark, silent living room, steaming mug of soup in one hand and biscuit in the other as he headed up the stairs. At the top, he set his meal down on the table in the hallway and made his ritual rounds of his daughters' rooms, putting Kiana's plush rabbit back into the bed with her, tucking Brittany's covers over her shoulders, lifting Rachel's book from her chest and turning out her light, kissing each of them gently on the forehead. Eve's presence followed him,
sad and accusatory, and he slumped against the wall when he was done.

  “I know, I know,” he muttered. “I told you I'd look after them, and I will. I'll figure it out, sweetheart. I promise.”

  And he would, somehow. His gaze strayed to the spare room door at the opposite end of the hall. He'd start there, first thing in the morning. Set the alarm for five, work quietly enough not to wake the kids, and have a proper room with a bed to offer Abigail at their meeting. With a plan—of sorts—in place, he gave a satisfied nod, picked up his dinner, and went into his room. Oddly, it felt even emptier than it usually did, and he paused in the doorway. Then he grinned. Then he chuckled. Then he shook his head at the bed, devoid of its cozy, flannel-wrapped duvet, which was without doubt now wrapped around the nanny on the living room loveseat.

  “Touché, Abigail Jamieson,” he said to the room. “Touché.”

  ***

  Wide awake in her makeshift bed, Abby tracked Mitch Abrams's movements from the time the garage door opened and the vehicle pulled in. Footsteps from mudroom to kitchen. The sound of the fridge opening. The beep of the microwave finishing its heating cycle. More footsteps from kitchen to second floor. Movement overhead from room to room, with doors softly opening and closing. A pause. And then a soft chuckle followed by words she couldn't make out.

  Had he discovered the missing duvet? Was that what made him laugh? She hadn't meant it to be funny, but she supposed it might be. She'd embarked on a fruitless search for bedding, but when closet after closet had yielded nothing and she'd seen the warm cover on the only remaining bed in the house, she hadn't even hesitated—partly because she’d been too tired to keep searching, but mostly because she'd been royally ticked. Him missing dinner on her first day here was one thing, but staying out so late that she had to sleep on a loveseat she couldn’t even fully stretch out on? The jerk deserved to freeze his butt off tonight.

  Of course, she'd regretted her spiteful theft the instant the duvet's soft, heavy weight had settled over her and a foreign male scent had wrapped around her. She'd even tried getting up to change the cover on it, but her limbs had turned to lead the second she’d lain down, and the effort had simply been beyond her. Besides, she couldn't remember seeing spare covers in the all-but-empty linen closet, and she suspected that most everything the family owned was a part of the mountain of laundry she'd edged past in the mudroom. And she certainly didn't have the energy to tackle that tonight.