Abigail Always

by Linda Poitevin

  “Never, ever use a brush on her hair!” Rachel added. “We don’t even own one. You have to use a wide-toothed comb, and only when it’s wet, and only if you need to.”

  “No brush. Noted.” Abby leaned down to retrieve the elastic, wishing she had access to a computer and the internet to do some research. Failing that, however, she’d just have to do the best she could—and tolerate being condescended to. Joy. “All right, sweet pea,” she said to Kiana. “Here goes.”

  By the time the unflaggingly cheerful Jessica Perkins (Abby had begun thinking of her rather uncharitably as Perky Perkins) stopped by to pick up the two older girls at 8:30, breakfast had been had, coats were on, and Kiana’s single large ponytail had been successfully stuffed into the borrowed hat. Abby returned Perky’s enthusiastic wave as she and Kiana passed the car on their way to walk the dozen or so blocks to the kindergarten class at the local primary school. After that, as she had on all the other days that week, she returned to the house to sift through another corner that had become buried under more than a year's worth of a family life in crisis.

  Mitch had been as good as his word with regard to the SUV, and just after 10:00 on Friday morning, the doorbell heralded the vehicle's return. A thrill of excitement ran through Abby as she accepted the keys from the young man standing on the porch and signed the form he held out to her. Wheels. She had wheels for the first time since the sheriff had taken away William's Mercedes along with the house, leaving her stranded and homeless in one of L.A.'s most exclusive neighborhoods.

  She stared at the vehicle sitting in the driveway, debating where to go first. She had a list as long as her arm, there were so many things she needed to do. A proper grocery order would be a good start. Mitch had given her a bank card with access to the household budget account the night before, and she really needed to get the kids eating vegetables other than carrots. She also needed a new driver's license to replace her American one. And decent winter boots to replace the ridiculous fuzzy things William had given her when they'd gone skiing last—no, Christmas before last.

  Abby's shoulders curled forward protectively as she realized she faced her second Christmas alone. Except she wouldn't be alone, and she wouldn't be able to fold up under the tree and weep her way through this one. She'd be here, well into her second month with Mitch and the kids, who would expect at least a modicum of participation from her leading up to the season. Dear Lord, she hadn't thought that one through very well, had she? She drew a shaky breath. Time enough to worry about it closer to the date. For now, she'd—

  A sudden desire to see her sister seized her. She hadn't spoken to Gwyn since the day she'd left to move in here. Her sister had no landline, and Abby hadn’t thought to get her cell number from her so she could call to let Gwyn know she was safe. Yes, Gwyn's house would be an excellent first foray, with a stop for groceries on her return.

  Her idea seemed even better when she pulled into the space in her sister's driveway where Gareth's vehicle usually sat beside Gwyn's minivan. As decent as her brother-in-law had been to her on the surface, there had been an undeniable coolness underlying his demeanor, and Abby couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief at finding him gone. So when the front door opened to reveal him rather than Gwyn after all, sheer surprise made her blurt, “Oh. It's you.”

  A muscle flexed in the jaw of her ridiculously good-looking, movie star brother-in-law. “Nice to see you, too.”

  Heat scorched Abby's cheeks. “Sorry, I just—Gwyn's vehicle—”

  “She and Julianne went to a friend's for lunch. They didn't need the minivan for just the two of them.”

  “Oh. I didn't think—I guess I should have called—except I have no phone, and—” For heaven's sake, stop yammering, Abby. She took a steadying breath. “I just wanted to let her know that I'm okay. I thought she might be worried. Will you tell her I was here?”

  Gareth studied her for a moment, then held the door wide. “I've just made coffee.”

  As far as invitations went, it wasn't much of one, but Abby found herself caving to impulse and stepping across the threshold. If she wanted to mend bridges with Gwyn, she'd have to find a way to get along with Gareth, too. Even if he didn't seem inclined to make it easy, she thought, following his broad back down the hallway. In the kitchen, Gareth pointed toward the table and then went to pour coffee.

  “Cream or sugar?” he asked.

  “Black, thank you,” she said, because she didn’t want him doing anything more for her than the bare minimum.

  He joined her at the table, setting down two brimming mugs and taking a seat across from her. “How's the new job?”

  At least he was polite.

  “It's good,” Abby replied. She still wore the coat he hadn't offered to take for her, and she huddled into its warmth. “The kids are nice. Mitch—Mr. Abrams—is, too.”

  Gareth nodded. Silence fell again.

  Abby wrapped her hands around the mug, welcoming the burn against her palms as a distraction from the real pain in her life. “You don't like me much, do you?” she asked, surprising herself as much as Gareth.

  Her brother-in-law's level gaze met hers. Like her, he didn't mince words. And each of the ones he chose felt like a blow to her gut. “When Jack left her with the twins and she asked for your help, you refused. And then, years later, without a word of apology, you waltz back into her life and expect her to be there for you. I don't know you well enough to like or dislike you, Abigail, but I do know I don't like how you've treated my wife. And as sorry as I am for what's happened to you, Gwyn is my priority. Not you.”

  Hot tears flooded Abby's eyes. She stared down at the table between her and the mug of coffee in her grasp, but no amount of blinking helped. A tear trickled down her cheek. Another followed. Gareth swore under his breath and stood. A second later, a box of tissues appeared under her nose. She sniffled and plucked one out. Gareth sat again.

  “Gwyn would have my head for making you cry,” he said. “And rightfully so. This is between the two of you, and I should mind my own—”

  “William wouldn't let me come,” Abby blurted, cutting him off. There. She'd said it aloud. For the first time ever. And instead of the usual guilt that swamped her when she though ill of the dead, a weight lifted from her shoulders. She took an unsteady breath and looked up from shredding the tissue to meet Gareth's narrowed gray eyes. “William wouldn't let me come,” she said again. “I wanted to, but he said he and Olivia needed me more.”

  “And you accepted that?”

  Gareth's tone was neutral rather than accusatory, for which Abby felt supremely grateful, because it allowed her to continue rather than bolting out the door. “I didn't have a lot of choice,” she said. “My husband was... old-fashioned in his thinking. All the accounts were in his name only, and I was entirely reliant on him. I had no means of getting here without him, and I was too ashamed to tell Gwyn.”

  “Bloody hell,” Gareth said. “Was it always like that?”

  Abby nodded.

  “He wasn't old-fashioned. He was a controlling ass.”

  “I know that now. But when I was young—” She paused, remembering the charming businessman who had swept her off her feet and into his palatial Los Angeles home, where he treated her like something rare and fragile—until the honeymoon, quite literally, was over. She shrugged. “I was nineteen when we met. William was twenty-six years my senior. He was rich and handsome, and he gave me everything I could possibly want and then some. He said he wanted to look after me. I thought it was romantic.”

  “And when you realized otherwise, you didn't leave?”

  “And go where? I had no money, no job, no friends that weren't his friends. And then I had Olivia.”

  Understanding flashed in her brother-in-law's eyes, along with a dark anger that made Abby think he would make an unpleasant enemy.

  “You should have told Gwyn. She would have—”

  “What, offered to take in me and Olivia? Gwyn had her own problems, r
emember? Besides, William made it clear he would never let me take Olivia from him, and I had no money to fight him. I didn't stand a chance. And it wasn't like he was abusive, really. I was well provided for. Big house, nice clothes, fancy parties, exotic holidays. Our relationship was... complicated, but he was good to me in his own way, and he was a wonderful father.”

  His mouth tightened. “What about now? You said William was well off.”

  “Most of the money came from his family, I think. I kept the books for his company and I know it was profitable, but that was it. I didn't have access to any of the accounts, he had no life insurance, the house was in his name and his sister's, and he didn't leave a will.”

  “Probate?” Gareth winced.

  “And a nasty fight with his family, if I want it. I don't. His sister kept house for him for more than twenty years before he married me. She feels she's owed for that.”

  “But California probate law—”

  “I don't want the money. I—” Abby squeezed the mug until it should have shattered. She was vaguely disappointed that it didn't. She gave Gareth a smile that felt more like a grimace. “What I want, I can't have. All the money in the world won't change that.”

  The silence between them lasted longer this time, but it didn't have its earlier edge. Instead, it was... sad. The kind of sad that came from resignation mixed with helplessness. The kind of sad that made Abby search for a way to break it. She looked at her watch. “Goodness, is it already that late? I still have to get groceries before the girls get home from school, and—”

  “You haven't touched your coffee.”

  “I—no. Maybe another time.” She pushed the mug into the center of the table, then looked across at Gareth again. “Please don't think I'm looking for sympathy here, because I'm not. I'll figure things out. Besides, I have a job. That's a good start, right?” She didn't tell him it would end by her own choice—her own need—in three short months. Instead, she smiled and stood, and Gareth followed suit.

  “That, plus telling Gwyn what you've told me,” he said.

  Her stomach dropped at the idea. Gwyn would have so many questions, and there was so much to unpack in their relationship, and...

  “I don't think—”

  “Well, I do think,” Gareth said, his voice discouraging argument. “She deserves to know, and each of you deserves to have your sister back.”

  “Maybe. One day.” Abby swallowed the lump in her throat, desperate now to leave. She'd shared more with Gareth—of all people—than she had with anyone in her life. Ever. And now she wanted to retreat into a corner and decide how she felt about that. About telling anyone at all. She led the way down the hall to the front door and stooped to pull on her fuzzy boots. “Tell Gwyn I said hi, and Gareth—thank you for listening. I don't usually dump on people like that.”

  Gray eyes assessed her. “No. I don't imagine you do. And yes, I'll tell her. Do you have a number she can reach you at? She might want to call.”

  “Sorry, no. I didn’t think to take down the number of Mitch’s landline, and I don't have a cell phone.”

  “Hang on.” Gareth opened the closet and reached into a basket on the top shelf. “Here. It's the one we give Katie when she's going to a friend's after school. It's nothing fancy and there’s no data, but it calls and texts. Gwyn's number is programmed in already. So is mine.”

  “But Katie—”

  “I'll pick up another tonight.”

  “You won't...”

  “Tell Gwyn about our talk?” Gareth shook his head. “No. It's your story to share, not mine.” He opened the door for her. “But, Abby?”

  She stopped on the top step to look back.

  “I know a good law firm in L.A. If you change your mind, call me. The money might not buy what you can't have, but it's yours, it would help, and you should have it. At least think about it?”

  Without replying, she walked down the stairs to the SUV.

  Chapter 11

  The next day, on Abby’s first Saturday in the Abrams household, a persistent tapping on her shoulder pulled her from the warm, comfortable cocoon of sleep. She reluctantly pried open her eyes to find morning light flooding the room—and Kiana standing by her bed. Her gaze flew to the digital clock on the nightstand. Ten past nine? But she never slept in. How—?

  “I’m hungry,” Kiana announced, pushing her hair back from her eyes. The ponytail holder seemed to have disappeared overnight, and her hair had again achieved the volume it had on Thursday. She looked adorable.

  “And Daddy’s gone, and Rachel won’t make breakfast for me,” she continued. “She said I should wake you up instead because it’s your job.”

  Abby held back a sigh. Of course Rachel said that. Whatever Mitch might have told his eldest in their family meeting seemed to have made zero impact on her hostile attitude toward Abby. It was exhausting. Abby raised herself onto an elbow, propping her head in her hand. “I should think you’re starving,” she responded, poking a finger into the girl’s belly. “I’m surprised you can even walk, you must be so weak from hunger.”

  Kiana giggled. “It’s not that bad.” She pointed to Abby’s bedside table and the photo propped there. “Who’s that?”

  Abby looked over into William’s dark, smiling eyes and Olivia’s suntanned, laughing face. It was her favorite photo of them, taken on a beach vacation. She couldn’t remember where, anymore. William had whisked them away to so many destinations that they’d all blurred together, losing their glow. But Olivia had loved it, and Abby had loved seeing her daughter’s happiness.

  “Just someone I knew once,” she answered Kiana.

  “Are they why you’re sad?”

  Abby gulped, thrown again by the child’s astuteness. Her grandmother was right about the five-going-on-eighty thing. But remembering Kiana’s own loss, she forced a light cheerfulness into her voice as she tucked the framed photo into the nightstand drawer. “Sad? How can I be sad with you to keep me company?” she asked. “Inconceivable!”

  “You know Princess Bride!” Kiana clapped her hands together. “That’s my almost-most favorite movie. ‘My name is Inigo Montoya. Prepare to die!’”

  “Nice catch, kid.”

  “I didn’t catch anything.”

  “I meant that your brain caught my reference to the movie.” Kiana still looked perplexed, and Abby tried again. “You knew I was quoting from Princess Bride.”

  The mass of hair bobbed up and down, and Kiana grinned. Abby pushed aside the duvet and swung her feet to the floor. “So, if that’s your almost-most favorite movie, what’s your most-most favorite?”

  “Mary Poppins.” Kiana cleared her throat, then launched into the chorus from the chimney sweep song, her pitch perfect.

  “Wow, that’s pretty good,” Abby said. “I’m impressed. Do you know all the words?”

  Kiana nodded. “And all the songs, too. I’m good at ’membering. Wanna hear Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?”

  “I would love to hear it. Want pancakes? You can sing to me while I make them.” It had taken her a while, but she’d managed to salvage the frying pan Mitch had discarded on the back terrace. Thank goodness for virtually indestructible cast iron. “Give me two minutes to get dressed, and then I’ll meet you in the kitchen, okay?”

  “Okay. I’ll get the eggs out for you. And the blueberries.” Kiana danced from the room, singing the chorus from Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious at the top of her lungs, so that even when the door slammed behind her and her voice grew muffled, the words still came through clearly.

  “Kia!” Rachel’s bellow filtered through the door. “I’m trying to sleep!”

  Kiana’s volume increased to a return bellow. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!”

  Abby sighed as the girl um-diddle-diddled her way downstairs to the accompaniment of Rachel’s continued outrage. A whole day with all three of them at home. This ought to be interesting.

  ***

  While Abby would have liked to tak
e the kids somewhere for the day, Rachel—when she finally rolled out of bed at 11:00 and scorned the leftover pancakes in favor of cold cereal—refused all suggestions. Museums were deemed boring, the art gallery idea received an eye roll, and an indoor amusement park was ‘for kids.’

  “Besides,” Rachel mumbled around a mouthful of cereal, “I have homework.”

  “All weekend?” Abby asked, trying to keep her voice mild.

  “No. But I’d rather spend my free time with Dad, not you.”

  A valid point, though it could have been more politely phrased. Abby gave up the argument. “Fair enough. I’ll take the others outside for a while and give you some peace.” Heading out of the kitchen, she paused in the doorway. “Oh, and can you please put your dishes in the dishwasher when you’re done, this time? I may be the hired help, but I’m not your personal maid.”

  A mutter followed her from the room, but in the best interests of everyone concerned, Abby didn’t bother returning to ask Rachel to repeat the words she hadn’t quite made out. She’d told Mitch the girl would come around in her own time, but with zero easing of hostility after four days, she was beginning to wonder. With a sigh, she went to inform the others that they’d have to settle for playing outside rather than going out anywhere. She threw in an offer of hot cocoa and a movie afterward, however—they settled on Mulan—and everyone was happy.

  It had snowed again the night before, so Abby divided her time between shoveling and fort construction, making sure most of the snow from the driveway ended up on the lawn as building material. By the time they’d finished, the fort had taken on impressive dimensions, easily dwarfing the two girls. It boasted window openings, Kiana’s army of snowmen at its center, snow benches, and a path to a second, smaller walled creation that housed an armory of snowballs and hopes of a snowball fight with their father the next day.

  Abby had just gone to put away the shovel so they could head inside for the promised cocoa when Jessica Perkins’s car pulled into the drive. Abby hung the shovel from its hook and stuck her hands into her jacket pockets as Perky herself emerged from the vehicle, along with her daughter.