Abigail Always

by Linda Poitevin

  Footsteps headed for the kitchen.

  Abby took a steadying breath and blinked back the tears blurring her vision. If she wanted Mitch to seriously consider her proposal, it might help to at least look like she was a semi-capable adult in control of herself. She grabbed the girls' empty plates and turned to the sink as he and Kiana came into the room.

  “Daddy brought food!” Kiana announced, bouncing up and down on her stool, and Mitch chuckled.

  “That may have been said with more enthusiasm than is healthy,” he observed in a wry voice. “Things were that dire around here, were they?”

  Her memories safely locked up again, Abby turned to find him setting two grocery bags on the island counter, Kiana dancing beside him. “Pickings were getting pretty slim,” she agreed. “But there's still soup and biscuits for dinner, at least.”

  Still wearing his winter coat, Mitch dropped a kiss on the top of each daughter's head, then took a variety of packaged items from the bags and stacked them on the counter. Granola bars, crackers-and-cheese snack packs, boxed macaroni and cheese, cookies, frozen pot pies and pasta dishes, the works. Abby couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.

  “No vegetables?” she inquired, trying to keep her tone neutral.

  Mitch held up a bag of carrots in one hand and apples in the other. “And fruit,” he said, but his look of triumph wavered. “Not what you had in mind, I'm guessing.”

  “It depends, I suppose.”

  “I suppose it does.” He turned to his daughters. “Girls, how about you go upstairs and give Abby and me a few minutes to talk? Britt, you can finish that in a little while.”

  Wide-eyed and reluctant, the two girls shuffled from the room, casting not-so-furtive glances over their shoulders as they went. Mitch followed them into the hallway, unzipping his coat on the way. He returned a few seconds later, shrugged out of the garment, and draped it over a stool. Without preamble, he asked, “Does your offer still hold?”

  Refusing to second-guess herself any further, Abby nodded and cleared her throat. “It does.”

  “And three months is the best you can do?”

  She nodded again.

  Mitch scrubbed a hand over his graying hair. Then, hands on hips, he paced the floor on the other side of the island, first one way, then the other, then back again. Finally, he stopped and faced her. “Fine,” he said. “But you have to know I'm not happy about the arrangement. When I hired you, I intended the position to be permanent.”

  With remarkable self-control, Abby refrained from pointing out that he'd tried to send her away, not hire her. She also didn't mention that unlike him, his eldest daughter would be elated. Instead, she murmured, “I understand that, yes.”

  He glowered at her. “I suppose we'd better discuss details, then. Hours and such.”

  “And ground rules,” she agreed.

  The glower deepened. “Ground rules?”

  Abby nibbled on her lower lip. How to put this diplomatically? Could it be put diplomatically? “Your previous employees had some... issues, especially with Rachel, and they didn't feel supported by you. I'm going to need a certain amount of authority, and I need to know I can count on you to back me up.”

  “You're talking about discipline.”

  “Yes.”

  Mitch crossed his arms over his chest. “My daughters have been through a hard time, Ms. Jamieson. They lost their mother. They need time to—”

  “Your daughters,” she interrupted, “need to be part of a family, no matter how much the definition of that has changed. And they need you to be the head of that family.” Mitch's expression turned thunderous, but she plowed on, following his switch back to formality. “It's the only way this will work, Mr. Abrams. And it's the only way I will work.”

  “Then I guess we don't have an agreement after all,” he growled.

  She sighed. “Do you know why I didn't have pizza last night?”

  “Why—” He scowled. “What the hell does pizza have to do with anything?”

  “Rachel placed the order.”

  Mitch opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again. His lips pressed together, and she knew the significance of her words had sunk in. “I see,” he said finally. “And you think...”

  “I know, Mr. Abrams. She made it clear when she informed me that I was the hired help, not her mother. Her words.”

  Her employer braced both hands against the counter and hunched his shoulders. “I'm sorry,” he said. “She knows better. I'll speak to her.”

  But Abby shook her head. “I'd rather you didn't, except to tell her that I'm in charge in your absence, and that you support my decisions. And if you have an issue with something I've done or said, you discuss it with me, not her, and you do so in private.”

  The green eyes closed. “Fine. Anything else?”

  “You said you run your own business. Construction.”

  Mitch opened one eye and regarded her. “Again, what does that have to do with anything?”

  “I suspect it will take extra time to get it running the way you need to before you start taking over more here. So, for the first month, I'd like to propose that I not take time off except on Sundays. I'll run the house and look after the kids as much as you need me to.”

  The other eye opened, and he stared at her. “You'd do that for me—for us? But why?”

  “Because you need the help. Because I can give it.” And because I'd want someone to do the same for my family if the roles were reversed. She swallowed the bitter tang of sadness that was her constant companion and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “There aren't many things I'm qualified to do, Mr. Abrams, but I can run a household. And I can teach you to do it, too.”

  Silence reigned for a long moment, and then Mitch cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said gruffly. “I—thank you. And please, let's make it Mitch.”

  Abby tried—and failed—to hide a smile. “You sure this time?”

  He smiled back, a brief flash of white teeth against dark skin. “I'm sure.” He straightened up from leaning on the counter. “I'll take your suitcases up to your room and find you some clean sheets—”

  “They're in the dryer,” she said. “I'll take them up later.”

  “Second door on the left,” he said. “You share a bathroom with Rachel's room, but she’ll use the main one with her sisters like she did when we had the other nannies here. I'll talk to them now and let them know what the plan is, and tomorrow I'll arrange for the snow tires to be put on Eve's—the SUV. You should have it by the next day.” He turned to go but stopped again in the doorway. “For the record, I have no idea whether this plan of yours will really work, Abigail Jamieson, but for the first time in a long time, I actually feel hopeful about my family's future. Thank you for that.”

  This time, as she listened to his footsteps receding, Abby let her tears fall for the future her own little family had been denied.

  Oh, Olivia...

  Chapter 9

  Mitch tapped on Rachel's door and poked his head inside. “Hey, kiddo. Family meeting in my room.”

  Rachel didn't look up from the homework spread across the bed where she sprawled. “I'm busy,” she muttered.

  “It wasn't a request.”

  Yup. There was the eye roll, right on cue.

  “Fine,” she huffed. “But if I fail my history test tomorrow, it's your fault, not mine.”

  “If you fail your history test tomorrow, it will be because of a far bigger problem than a fifteen-minute family meeting,” he replied, nudging her shoulder with his as they walked down the hall together. “But nice try.”

  He was rewarded with another eye roll.

  Kiana and Brittany waited for them in the chaos that had become Mitch's bedroom, lying on the unmade bed with their feet up against the wall. Mitch cleared his throat; the feet came down. He sat down on the edge of the bed nearest Kiana, and she crawled into his lap and leaned against his chest, her long legs dangling halfway down his. Brittany sprawled beside him
on her stomach. Rachel stood with arms crossed, leaning back against the wall beside the door.

  “Abigail is going to stay,” he began.

  “Yay!” Kiana clapped her hands and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Daddy!”

  “Is that why all the stuff from the spare room is in here now?” Britt asked. “Cool.”

  “Seriously?” Rachel threw her arms wide. “Why? We don't need some stranger telling us what to do. We're fine on our own.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Britt mumbled into the hands supporting her chin. “I like her.”

  “Everyone hold on,” said Mitch. “There's more to it. Abigail is only going to stay with us for three months, just to help us get organized and on our feet. Then she'll be leaving.”

  “Aww, man!” Britt, with her usual flair for the dramatic, flopped onto her back and groaned. “But whyyy?”

  “Because that's what we've agreed on.”

  “Doesn't she like us?” Kiana asked in a small voice.

  “Of course she likes us, pumpkin. She just has other things to do.”

  “More important things than looking after us?”

  Mitch sidestepped the knife in his heart, searching for the right words. “Nothing is more important than looking after you, Kiana, but that's supposed to be my job. Abigail is going to teach me how.”

  “In three months?” Rachel snorted, and Mitch turned a weary gaze on her.

  “Gee. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Rach.”

  His eldest daughter looked down at her feet and scuffed at the floor with the bedraggled toe of a unicorn slipper, one of the last Christmas gifts she'd received from her mother. Mitch took a deep breath, reminding himself he wasn't the only one struggling here. He turned the conversation back to the issue at hand.

  “Abigail and I have worked out a plan. For the first month, she'll do most of the stuff around here for me, so I can get caught up at work. That means I'm going to be out a lot, but I'll try to be home for bedtime, and we'll have Sundays together because that will be her day off. The second month, she's going to help us set up systems so we can make sure everything gets done, and the third month, we'll start doing things more for ourselves, with her help.”

  “And then she'll be gone?” Kiana asked sadly.

  “And then she'll be gone,” Mitch agreed.

  “Can she still visit?”

  “I'm sure we can ask her to.”

  “Or not,” Rachel muttered.

  Mitch ruffled Kiana's hair and set her on the floor, then poked Brittany in the ribs, making her squeak. “Right. I need a word with your sister,” he said, standing up to open the door. “Why don't you two go down and see if Abigail needs any help?”

  “You're in trou-ble!” Brittany sang to Rachel on her way out the door, ducking her sister's arm with the ease of long practice and sticking out her tongue for good measure.

  “Britt.”

  “Sorry, Daddy!” she called over her shoulder as she raced Kiana for the stairs.

  “Yeah, right,” Rachel muttered. “Sorry-not-sorry is more like it.”

  Mitch closed the door and eyed his daughter, noting with surprise that she came up almost to his shoulder. When had she gotten so tall? He sighed and wordlessly looped an arm around her, pulling her in for a hug. For a moment, she resisted, and then she sagged into him, her arms stealing around his waist. “What's going on, kiddo?” he asked. “All this hostility—it's not like you.”

  Slender shoulders shrugged against his chest. “I don't know,” she said. “I just—why her, Daddy? Why Abigail and not Jessica? We don't even know her, and I don't want another stranger telling me what to do. I'm thirteen—I don't need a nanny!”

  “You're right,” Mitch said, resting his chin on the top of her head. “You are too old for a nanny. But we need some help right now, Rach—I need some help, and it's too much to ask of a friend.” Especially a self-proclaimed friend who made it clear every time she saw him that she was interested in more. A lot more. And, as attractive and available as Jessica Perkins might be, Mitch did not need another complication in his life right now. He could barely manage the ones he already had. Correction: He couldn't manage them.

  “I'm more comfortable paying someone,” he continued, “and that someone is going to be Abigail. Besides, it's only temporary, remember? Three months and she's gone, and we can run things ourselves around here. Doesn't that sound good?”

  “Maybe.”

  Mitch smiled into the soft cloud of hair tickling his nose. “You're very much like your mother, you know that? Never give an inch unless you have to.” He drew back to look down at his daughter. “Look, I know this isn't ideal. None of this is ideal. But we can't keep up the way we have, Rachel. It's not working for any of us. You don't have to like the situation, but you do have to accept it. And I need to know I can count on your cooperation. Please?”

  Another shrug. Then a muttered, “I guess.”

  “Thank you.” Mitch braced himself. Now came the hard part. “There are going to be some ground rules.”

  Rachel's eyes, the same pale green as his own, narrowed. “What kind of ground rules?”

  “Abigail is in charge when I'm not here. She may want to do things differently than what you're used to, but what she says goes.”

  Incredulity warred with horror in Rachel's expression, and she pulled away from his embrace. “Are you kidding me? She doesn't even know us, and she gets to tell us what to do?”

  “In a word, yes. And you have to listen.”

  “What if she beats us? Or locks us in our rooms? Are we just supposed to let her?”

  Mitch regarded her. “Really, Rach?”

  His daughter scowled. “Well, she might.”

  “Fine. If she beats you or locks you in your room, you have my permission to treat it as an emergency and call me on my cell phone. Otherwise, you listen to her and do as she says. And if you don't, she has my permission to punish you”—God, he hated that word—”as she sees fit.”

  “But—”

  “That's final, Rachel.”

  “Fine,” she snapped. “But if we all need therapy after this, it's your fault.” And with that dramatic declaration, she whirled away, pulled open the door, and stormed down the hallway.

  Mitch rested one hand on a hip and pinched the bridge of his nose with the other. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Well. That had gone about as well as expected. And it seemed Abigail had been right about the girls—or at least Rachel—resenting the whole nanny idea. Another thing he'd missed in the mayhem that had become his life. He looked for the flicker of hope that had sparked in him when Abigail outlined her proposal. It had dimmed considerably in the wake of the confrontation with Rachel, but it had survived. Just.

  He sighed. Man, he hoped Abigail could pull this off. He hoped they could pull this off, because he didn't know what they would do otherwise.

  He dropped his hands, turned his back on the pile of boxes he'd removed from Abigail's room, and headed back downstairs.

  Chapter 10

  During her first week in the household, Abby's days settled into a rhythm. Mitch left in the mornings before she went downstairs—no easy feat, considering she got up at 5:30 herself—leaving her to feed the girls breakfast and get them ready for school. Her biggest morning challenge turned out to be Kiana’s hair.

  Over the little girl’s objections, she decided on Thursday that the omnipresent and ever more crooked ponytails atop the child’s head needed to be redone. When she removed the elastics, however, the puffs exploded into a mass of coils that made her blink in surprise.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “That is a lot of hair.”

  Kiana giggled, using her fingers to tease the mass even larger. “I told you not to do this.”

  “You did,” Abby agreed, wishing she’d listened to the objection. “But the big question is how do I undo it?”

  “Good luck with that,” Britt said. She stood in front of the bathroom sink, regarding her
reflection as she patted her own short-cropped tight coils. “This is why I keep mine like this.”

  “Any suggestions?” Abby asked, eyeing Kiana’s head.

  “Not while it’s dry. Daddy always puts the ponytails in on Saturdays, when her hair is still wet from wash-day.”

  And you couldn’t have mentioned that before I removed the elastics? Abby thought. “Wash day?” she asked.

  “We only wash our hair once a week,” said Rachel from the doorway, her arms crossed and her voice disdainful. “Natural black hair gets damaged if you wash it more often, and it needs special care. Don’t you know anything?”

  Abby gritted her teeth and mustered as pleasant a smile as she could manage. “Not ever having possessed it myself, I haven’t needed to know before now. And if you have any suggestions for what I can do for your sister between now and Saturday, I would appreciate hearing them. Should I just leave it down?”

  Kiana shook her head at the suggestion. “It gets in my eyes.”

  Abby pursed her lips. “Rachel?”

  Rachel stared at her narrowly for so long that Abby thought she would refuse to help, but finally she heaved an exaggerated sigh—more out of pity for her sister than for her, Abby suspected—and dropped her arms to her sides. She pulled open the drawer nearest her and extracted an oversized, covered ponytail elastic. “Here.” She tossed it to Abby. “You’ll never get it into two ponytails when it’s dry. She’ll have to have just one.”

  “But I don’t like having just one,” Kiana objected. “My hat doesn’t fit right.”

  “You can use my slouchy hat,” Britt offered. “It will go over your hair and still keep your ears warm.”

  “The purple one?” Kiana asked. “I like purple.”

  “Excellent. That’s settled,” Abby said, with more than a little relief. “Thank you for your help, ladies. You can start breakfast while I do Kiana’s hair. There’s French toast keeping warm in the oven for you. Britt, can you pass me a brush before you go?”

  “No brush!” Britt and Rachel shrieked in horrified unison, startling Abby into dropping the elastic.