Abigail Always

by Linda Poitevin

  The second-floor hall light went out, plunging the stairs beside the living room into complete darkness. A second later, one last door closed softly. Abby rolled onto her side, pulled the duvet up to her chin, and dropped into a deep, exhausted sleep.

  Chapter 7

  Abby was already in the kitchen, sitting at the table in the nook and sipping her second cup of coffee, when Mitch entered. With his fingertips tucked into the front pockets of blue jeans and a gray long-sleeved t-shirt hugging his well-muscled arms and chest, he looked every inch the hunky suburban dad. No wonder Jessica Perkins wanted to clean his closets.

  The rogue thought came out of left field, jolting through her and through her coffee mug, and making hot liquid slosh onto her lap. She yelped and grabbed for the tea towel on the table beside her, dabbing at the spreading stain on her own jeans.

  “You okay?” Mitch asked.

  She thought she heard a note of concern in his deep tones, but she didn't dare look up to confirm it. She settled for a nod, discovering that mortification had stolen her voice. Where in heaven's name had that sprung from? She had no business thinking that way about her employer, especially when they were going to be sharing a house.

  Mitch set a steaming mug of coffee on the table and settled into the chair opposite her. Abby put aside the tea towel. An awkward silence stretched. Then he stretched a hand across to her.

  “Mitch Abrams,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Abby raised her gaze to the wry amusement in his green eyes. She gave a small half smile and accepted the gesture of peace. “Abigail Jamieson,” she replied. “You can call me Abby.”

  Mitch released her hand from his warm grip. “And you really can call me Mitch,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “I'm sorry about yesterday. What I said—my behavior was unacceptable. If we can, I'd like to start over.”

  “So would I.”

  His expression turned to one of guarded hope. “Then you'll stay? You'll give us a try for the three months?”

  She had the distinct impression the man held his breath while she formulated her reply. “I will,” she agreed, holding up a hand when sheer relief flashed across his face. “But only for the three months.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “I'm willing to stay for three months as the full term of my employment, not as a trial.”

  Mitch's eyebrows twitched together. “You sound pretty definite about that. May I ask why?”

  “I am. And no.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Is this about yesterday?”

  Yes, but not in the way he thought. She shook her head. “No. It's personal.”

  “Did you know you only intended to stay that long when you took the job?”

  “No. I thought—I wanted—it just—” Abby gave up and fell silent.

  He scowled when she didn't continue. “So, what? At the end of the three months, I'm just supposed to start all over again with someone new? Hell, I've been through every agency in town, Ms. Jamieson. I'm not sure I can get anyone.”

  She winced at the return to formality. One step forward, two back.

  “I've been thinking about that. I want to get you and the girls organized enough to run things on your own, so that you don't need a full-time nanny. Maybe a housekeeper once or twice a week for the cleaning, and someone for the girls after school until you get home, but that's it. And I think your girls might actually prefer it that way.”

  The lines between Mitch Abrams's brows deepened to furrows. “You've been here exactly one day. How in hell would you know better than me what my daughters want?”

  “How many nannies have you been through in the last year?”

  Mitch's mouth opened, then snapped shut. After a long, drawn-out silence, he sighed, visibly deflating as he hunched over his coffee mug. “Point taken,” he muttered. “But that doesn't mean you're right.”

  “It doesn't mean I'm wrong, either, and it doesn't change your situation. If Ms. Gagnon is to be believed, you've worn out your welcome at all the agencies in town, at least for the moment. Your only option is to get your act together. I can stay for three months to help you do that, and I can give you a reference that might help you get back into the agencies' good books.”

  He stared at her, his gaze both haunted and hunted in the way of someone who'd been hovering on the brink of disaster for too long. Abby recognized the look from the reflection she saw in the mirror every day. Sympathy stirred in her.

  “That's really as long as you'll stay?” he asked, defeat edging out hope in his voice. “There's no way I can convince you otherwise? If it's a matter of money...”

  “It's not about money,” she said, thinking back to her realization yesterday that being a nanny for this family meant slipping into the role of pseudo wife and mother. Her chest tightened again at the idea, and she swallowed a bubble of hysteria. She'd be lucky to survive three months, and if she didn't consider Mitch's family straits even more dire than her own, she would walk away now. “Three months, Mr. Abrams. That's all I can do.”

  He sighed again. “Then you'd better tell me what you have in mind.”

  Abby's shoulders sagged in relief. She'd been so afraid her proposal would meet with more resistance than that. Or that Mitch would turf her out on her butt and she'd have to go crawling back to Gwyn and Gareth. She curled her fingers around her mug, clinging to it as she might a life preserver as she chose her words. He was willing to listen, and she needed to make sure he stayed that way.

  “Your wife—I'm guessing she took care of running the household?”

  Across the table, Mitch's lips tightened briefly. He nodded. “Evelyn—Eve—wanted to stay home with the kids. I was—am—running my own business, and my hours can be erratic, so it kind of just happened that she handled cleaning, cooking, organizing, kids' appointments, the works. And she made it look so easy. I used to tell people she was the family CEO. By the time we realized she wasn't going to get better, she was too weak to show me how to do things myself. My mother came to stay for a while, but she needed to go home to my stepfather.” He grimaced. “I've just been trying to keep us afloat ever since. I'm pretty sure we're drowning at this point. You've seen the laundry room?”

  The small bit of humor surprised a smile from Abby. “I started a load this morning.”

  “You're a brave woman.” Mitch took a swig from his mug, watching her over the rim. “So what's your grand plan to get us on track to independence?”

  “The first month, I'll clean and organize and figure out everyone's schedules. The second month, I'll start getting all of you involved in deciding who can do what once I'm gone, and I'll set up systems for you to keep track of everything. The third month, I'll hand things off to you a little bit more each week, so that by the end of it, you're running things yourself.”

  “You've given this quite a bit of thought, haven't you?”

  All evening, right up until she heard the garage door open. “I have.”

  “What happens if your plan doesn't work?”

  “We need to make it work, Mr. Abrams. You need to make it work because I'm not staying.”

  He stared down into his coffee, and his dark jawline flexed. Then he met her gaze again. “Can I think about it and let you know tonight?”

  “Of course.”

  He pushed back from the table and stood. “I'll go wake the girls for school. Are you making breakfast, or am I?”

  “I made muffins yesterday, and I found some cans of peaches at the back of the cupboard. Will that do?”

  He scrubbed a hand over his cropped hair. “Right. Groceries. I'll stop after—”

  “If the vehicle in the garage runs and I can use it, I can get groceries today while the girls are at school.”

  “You were in the garage?”

  “For the snow shovel. To clear the driveway. I didn't know how to use the snowblower, so...” Abby trailed off at his incredulity. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “You cleared the driveway?
I thought my neighbor—you did it by hand, by yourself?”

  “Well, a shovel is pretty straightforward,” she said dryly. “Even for a nanny. And the plow had come by, and I didn't want you to have to do it when you got home, especially since you were so late.”

  “I didn't mean it that way. And as far as last night...” Mitch had the grace to look somewhat ashamed. He cleared his throat. “I... uh...”

  She waved away his words. “It's fine. Really. Fresh start, remember?”

  “Yes, but still, thank you,” he said. “And not just for the driveway. Thank you for feeding my kids and cleaning up around here and getting everyone into bed—and especially for not walking out on me when I was such an ass.”

  “You're welcome.”

  He hesitated as if he might say more, then crossed to the counter and set his mug by the coffee machine before heading for the hall. He paused in the doorway. “You should have asked Rachel and Britt to help with shoveling,” he said. “And you should have ordered a pizza for yourself, too.”

  The snort escaped before Abby could stop it. A furrow appeared between Mitch’s brows.

  “Something funny?”

  “No. It's all good. We'll talk after you've made your decision.”

  Not until he’d left did she realize he hadn’t answered her question about the vehicle. Oh, well. At least they had the soup she’d cobbled together yesterday if he didn’t bring groceries home with him tonight. With a sigh, she stood and went to pour more coffee.

  This was definitely going to be a two-cup day.

  ***

  Three months. Three. Mitch climbed the stairs toward his daughters' bedrooms with heavy steps and a heavier gut. How in hell was he supposed to get himself, his house, his kids, and his business all back on track in just three months? Derek would cut him zero slack, and he couldn't blame the guy. At almost sixty-seven years old, his partner had his own set of issues, chief of which involved high blood pressure and instructions from the doctor to start slowing down and taking it easy. The guy had been the epitome of patience up until now, and he deserved a break. Besides which, Mitch would never forgive himself if Derek keeled over because of him.

  But still... three months?

  It would take a freaking miracle. Plus a small army. Maybe even two armies.

  And this woman—this pale, fragile-looking stranger—thought she could manage it on her own? Mitch pushed open the door of Kiana's room and walked across to the bed. He should tell Abigail Jamieson where to put her offer, because there was no way she could pull it off. And he didn't need to be taking care of everything on his own; he needed someone to do it for him. Yes, he should definitely call the agency and demand they send...

  Who, exactly? Mary Poppins?

  He smiled down at his daughter's dark eyes peeking at him over the covers. Kiana would like that. Mary Poppins was her favorite movie of all time, and every night when she said her prayers, she asked to have the magical nanny come to their house and—he paused mid-thought as the hairs on the back of his neck prickled to life. Huh. Come to think of it, Mary Poppins didn't stick around, either. She taught some valuable lessons, danced with a few penguins and a chimney sweep, and then left the same way she'd come.

  “Morning, Daddy.” The rest of Kiana's head popped into view.

  “Morning, pumpkin.” Mitch leaned down to give her a gentle whisker rub along her cheek, and she squealed and disappeared again.

  “Da-deeeeee!”

  He chuckled and ruffled the ponytails that were still in place, albeit somewhat more crookedly than they'd been the day before. Then he poked at the t-shirt his daughter wore. “What's this? I thought we had a rule about wearing pajamas to bed.”

  “Abby said I could wear it. She said she didn't need to beat me over it.”

  “She what?” Mitch blinked.

  “She means win,” Brittany's voice said behind him, and he looked over his shoulder to find her leaning against the doorframe, yawning. “Abby said she didn't need to win the war. Or the battle. Or something. I like her. She's nice.”

  “Me too!” Kiana sat up in the bed, hands fluttering in her lap. “She helped me build a snowman and let me use her scarf and her hat for it. And then I made a bunch more snowmen, and she read me two stories.”

  “Did she, now? And did she also put you to bed on time? And make you brush your teeth?”

  The crooked poofs bobbed up and down. “And she helped me say my thankfuls, too. I was thankful for you and Britt and Rachel, and for Abby. Is she going to live with us?”

  “God,” Rachel said, drawing out the word as she wedged herself between Britt and the doorframe, claiming the leaning post as her own and ignoring her sister's attempts to push her away. “I hope not.”

  Mitch regarded his daughter, decided it was way too early to get into it with her, and chose to respond to Kiana's question instead. “I'm not sure,” he said. “I haven't decided yet.”

  “Well, if you ask me—” Rachel began.

  “I didn't,” Mitch told her. “Because it's my decision, not yours.”

  His eldest crossed her arms. “You do know that we're the ones who have to put up with her, and not you, right? If you'd just let Jessica come over and help, we'd be fine. And it wouldn't cost you anything. Jessica says she's happy to lend a hand.”

  It was also way too early for Jessica Perkins to be part of the conversation, too. And since when had Mandy's mom become Jessica in the first place?

  “It's Ms. Perkins to you,” Mitch said. “And it's time to get ready for school.”

  “Jessica said—”

  “Now, Rach.”

  Rachel gave him one of her best eye rolls—did she practice those things in the mirror for his benefit?—and her huffiest huff before flouncing away with a muttered, “Whatever.”

  It was another stellar start to a day.

  Just stellar.

  Chapter 8

  Abby’s second post-school afternoon went pretty much as the first one had. Rachel refused a snack and stomped upstairs, muttering under her breath. Brittany and Kiana settled in at the kitchen island with the last of the muffins. Brittany worked on math homework while Kiana rocked sideways in her seat as she chattered happily to Abigail about her day at kindergarten. Nursing a cup of tea and the sore muscles that hadn't eased despite several hours of cleaning and tidying, Abby nodded and tried to ask appropriate questions when the child took a breath. Truth be told, however, only half her attention was on the girls. The other half waited with bated breath for the sound of the garage door heralding Mitch's return—even though it was hours before he was due home—and his decision about her proposal that morning.

  A part of her wished he'd turn it down, because contrary to her hopes, staying wasn't getting any easier. In fact, every toy and book and discarded piece of clothing she'd picked up today, every surface she'd dusted and floor she'd mopped, every task she'd performed had been like a tiny blade nicking her soul, reopening her wounds. It was the little things that did the most damage. Finding a book she'd once read to Olivia; lingering over the movie titles on the television shelf, so many of which had been their own family favorites; picking up the menagerie of stuffed animals rom Kiana's floor and discovering she had the same hippopotamus that Olivia had been given as a baby.

  But another part—the part that kept her here, despite the pain of listening to another woman's daughters the way she would never again listen to her own—that part hoped Mitch would agree. Because the woman she'd seen in the photos on the living room mantel deserved to know her husband and girls could be a family, even if that family couldn't include Eve herself. And if the roles were reversed, if Abby had been the one to die instead of Olivia, she would have wanted someone to help her little girl, too.

  “Abbyyyyyy, are you listening?” Kiana regarded her with mixed accusation and impatience.

  “Sorry, sweet pea. My head was in the clouds. What did you say?”

  “Your head wasn't in the clouds.” Kiana frowned
in puzzlement. “It was right here. I could see it.”

  Abby laughed. “It's an expression. It means my mind was elsewhere.”

  “I thought minds had to stay inside their heads.” Kiana's eyes grew round. “Yours can leave? All by itself? Where does it go? How does it get out?” She leaned over and lifted Abby's hair away from one ear. “Does it come out your ears?”

  “She meant she was daydreaming,” Brittany told her sister, looking up from her homework. She shook her head at Abby. “You need to be specific with this one. Very specific.”

  “I'll remember that. Thank you.”

  The anticipated—dreaded?—sound of the garage door filtered into the kitchen. Abby's heart hit the floor, then bounced back up to lodge in her throat. He was early. And she was so not ready. Kiana, on the other hand, was pure unbridled enthusiasm.

  “Daddy!” she shouted, scooting off her stool and running to the mudroom. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

  Abby took a deep breath. She'd tried hard to stay busy today to keep from dwelling on what she'd do if her idea failed. The busy part had been easy with so much needing to be done in the house, but the other? Oh, she'd dwelled all right. Dwelled and stewed and worried... and come up with absolutely no idea. Because if Mitch turned her down—

  The slam of a door came from the mudroom, followed by Mitch's muffled voice greeting his youngest. For an instant, Abby was thrown back into the past, when William had come home from the office and Olivia had run out to meet him, and Abby had stood in the kitchen, listening to her daughter's happy chatter and her husband's measured responses. Whatever issues she and William might have had between them, he had loved their daughter fiercely, and—