by Laura Abbot
In that moment, he was seized by an intense aversion to the place. What the hell was he doing here? From the Edgewater Inn until tonight, had he been living in a fantasy world? Damn, it was as if he had no grip on who he was anymore.
He flicked on the desk lamp and pushed the Play button on the answering machine.
“Hey, buddy, it’s Carl. You should be back in Arkansas by now. Since you’ve been home to California, maybe Fayetteville won’t look so good. I know you. You can’t stay away. Lemme know when you’re comin’ back. Bring your Nell if you want to. She’ll love it here.”
Your Nell. He couldn’t blame Carl. That’s how he himself used to think of her, dream of her.
The machine played the second message. “Brady, Buzz Valentine. Good news. The option on the land went through fine, but beyond that, I had a call from one of the company executives you spoke with about the conference center. He not only thinks it’s a great idea, but his firm wants to consider investing in it. Looks like you’re on your way.”
Brady hit Rewind and listened to the chuckling of the tape feeding through the mechanism.
Malicious or not, God had a great sense of humor. Now Brady had two choices for his future.
Neither held any appeal.
In the core of his heart, he knew why.
Neither involved Nell.
OBLIVIOUS TO the late afternoon sun filtering through the giant oak and maple trees, Abby pedaled as hard as she could down the hill, through the park and up Tonya’s street. She hadn’t risked talking to Tonya at school. Someone might have overheard. But she had to tell somebody. The lump in her throat just kept growing. In algebra, when the teacher called on her, she’d been afraid she’d burst into tears and make a complete fool of herself.
This morning her mother had tried to act like everything was normal. Abby didn’t have to be a genius to know it wasn’t. Red-rimmed eyes, pale skin, a fake laugh, trembling fingers. In a shaky voice Mom had explained that Brady hadn’t known about AA until she’d shouted it down the hall. Well, how was she supposed to know it was still a big, dark secret? Even so, she had tried to apologize, but her mother had waved her hands and said in a broken voice, “Let’s not talk about last night. Or about Brady. It wasn’t your fault.” Then Mom had hugged her and whispered, “It was my responsibility, not yours.” But that hadn’t made her feel any better.
Abby drew in deep lungfuls of air as she skidded to a stop in the Larkins’ driveway. She could kill that Brady Logan!
It took five minutes of chitchat with Tonya’s mother before the girls could escape to Tonya’s bedroom. Mrs. Larkin had forced a sugar cookie on Abby, but she could hardly choke it down. Now she sat curled up in Tonya’s beanbag chair, while her friend settled on the floor, leaning against the foot-board of her bed, her legs stretched out in front of her.
“Okay, Abby. What’s up?”
Abby hugged her knees to her chest. “Oh, God, Tonya, I’m so scared.”
“Scared?”
Abby could feel the soft denim of her jeans beneath her fingers, smell the faint scent of fabric softener. “It’s Mom.”
“What happened?”
All day she’d been waiting to tell Tonya, but now that the time had come, she had trouble beginning. “It’s all my fault.”
“What is?”
“Mom and Mr. Logan.”
Not unkindly, Tonya said, “Earth to Abby. Come in, please. You’re not making any sense.”
Abby told Tonya about the phone call from Ben Hadley and how she’d mentioned AA in front of Mr. Logan. About how her mom hadn’t told him she was an alcoholic.
“What happened then?”
Abby shrugged. “I don’t know exactly.”
“So what do you think?”
“They must’ve talked a while, ’cuz I heard him leave later. I waited for Mom to come to bed, but she never did. At least not before I fell asleep. You shoulda seen her this morning. She looked like somebody with a bad case of the flu.”
Tonya scooted forward and crossed her legs. “So whaddya think happened?”
“Nothing good. I think maybe he broke up with her.”
“Jeez.”
“What if she was in love with him?”
“Do you think she was?”
Abby laid her chin on her knees and considered the question before saying, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure. And I messed it up. Totally.”
“It wasn’t your fault he didn’t know she’s an alcoholic. A recovering one,” Tonya hastily added.
“She was prob’ly going to tell him.”
“Sure.”
“She was really unhappy this morning. I’m so afraid, Tonya. What if she starts to drink again?”
“You gotta do something.”
Abby felt like she might be sick. “What?”
Tonya raised her hands helplessly. “I dunno. Something to fix it.”
Like the answer to a prayer, an idea began to take shape in Abby’s head. “Maybe she wouldn’t drink if—”
“If what?”
Abby continued, thinking aloud. “If she loves Brady, she needs to get him back. Then she’ll be happy. When she’s happy, she doesn’t drink.”
“Yeah, but—”
Abby leaped to her feet and began prowling around the room. “I could, like, find out where he lives and go visit him. Tell him how miserable Mom is. How it was all my fault. How she would’ve told him herself if only I hadn’t opened my big mouth.”
“It could work.”
She stopped in the middle of the room. “How’ll I find out where he lives?”
“I guess you’ll have to ask your mom.”
Abby felt deflated. She didn’t want to watch her mother’s reaction when she mentioned Brady Logan to her. “Crap. I guess it’s not such a good idea after all.”
All the way home on her bike, she felt queasy. She ought to be able, somehow, to make things come out right. She arrived home before her mother and went straight to the trash can to see if there were any empty bottles. None.
She should be relieved. Instead, she felt this tightness like the whole situation was about to get worse.
She went to her room and lay down on her bed. She unbuttoned her jeans, wishing the full feeling would go away, but knowing it wouldn’t until she did something.
Okay, what would it hurt? She’d ask her mother about Brady Logan.
NELL CHASTISED HERSELF on the way home from work. She’d been barely functional, and it hadn’t escaped Reggie’s watchful eye. He’d seemed more concerned than upset, but she couldn’t risk disappointing her boss. She loved her job. She’d need it now more than ever. To keep her sane. To keep her from jeopardizing her sobriety.
More than anything, she’d longed to lose herself in an alcoholic blur. To have a few blessed hours when she could forget the anguish and judgment written on Brady’s face. To block out the awful knowledge that his family had been killed by a drunk driver. By association, she was as guilty in his mind as if she’d been in the cab of that rig.
As she turned in her driveway, she sucked in a sob. She’d lost Brady, and it was a pain even deeper than Rick’s defection, which, if she was honest, had contained an element of relief.
She sat for a moment summoning her acting skills. No way did she want to inflict her disappointment and pain on Abby. But this morning that’s exactly what she’d done. Bless the girl’s heart. It hadn’t been her fault. Ben often called. Abby knew him. It had been a natural thing for Abby to say. Besides, in her heart Nell knew she should have told Brady long ago.
She’d been living in violation of the Twelve Steps. She was back to Step Four—“Make a searching and fearless moral inventory.” Bottom line, she’d been both self-indulgent and dishonest. She’d call Ben later tonight, talk about the situation—and about her temptation to drink.
Now, though, she had to face Abby. Reassure her.
She found her daughter in the kitchen in the throes of trying to make spaghetti, her efforts clearly a peacemak
ing gesture. Boiling water had splattered over the stove top and Nell noted the red trail from the empty can of tomatoes to the pot of simmering sauce. “Hi, honey, have a good day?”
“Not really.” Like the countertop, Abby’s gray Razorbacks sweatshirt sported splotches of red.
Nell tried a joke. “Was Alan absent?”
Abby threw her a get-real look. “No. He was fine.” She ducked her head, stirring the pasta with a vengeance. “I was worried about you. You know, about what I said. I just figured Mr. Logan knew.”
Nell moved to the stove and put her arm around Abby’s waist. “No, honey, he didn’t. But that was a natural assumption. I should have told him long before last night.”
“Was he mad?”
“Disappointed.” Nell sighed internally. Above all, she didn’t want Abby assuming ill-placed guilt. “There was something I didn’t know about the accident that killed his wife and daughter. Something that explains why Brady couldn’t accept that I am a recovering alcoholic.”
Abby moved to the spice rack, as if to avoid proximity to her mother. “What?” she asked, reaching for the oregano.
“The accident that killed his wife and daughter was caused by a drunk driver.”
Abby clutched the spice jar, her face draining of color. “How?”
“The man was driving a loaded gasoline tanker. He ran a stop sign at a highway intersection and he broadsided them.” Nell swallowed several times, the words assuming even more horrible proportions when she uttered them herself.
“That’s awful!” Abby’s eyes were wide. “His daughter, how old was she?”
“About your age.”
Nell watched Abby process the information, the enormity of it sinking in. Finally, Abby returned to the stove and sprinkled oregano over the sauce.
Nell struggled onward. “Brady wasn’t prepared for me to be an alcoholic. Neither of us would have been as hurt if I’d been honest from the beginning. So, in a way, you did me a favor last night.” She paused, then tilted her daughter’s chin so she could look into her eyes. “Never for one minute should you blame yourself. This is my fault, mine alone.”
“I guess.” Abby tested the pasta, then nudged Nell aside as she carried the steamer pot to the sink. Carefully she poured off the water and slid the spaghetti into a bowl. Neither of them said anything until after Abby had added the sauce. Then Abby turned to face Nell. “I haven’t treated Mr. Logan very well. I didn’t know about how it happened. I think I’d like to write him, like, a sympathy note or something.”
Overcome with relief and pride in her daughter, Nell smiled. “I think that would be very thoughtful.”
“Okay. Could you give me his address, then?”
“Sure.” Nell pulled a sheet off the grocery list pad and wrote down the information. Maybe writing Brady would give Abby a sense of closure.
As for herself? She didn’t believe anything could ever do that.
SHORTLY AFTER SCHOOL the next afternoon Abby and Tonya met at the picnic pavilion in the park. Abby straddled her bike while Tonya sat on the top of a picnic table. “I can’t believe you got his address so easily.”
“Me neither. The idea just came to me.” Abby couldn’t admit to her friend how low she felt about saying she’d write a sympathy note. Her mother had made out like she was some sort of junior saint.
“What are you going to say to him?”
“I dunno. What if he isn’t even there?”
“I guess you’ll have to keep trying.”
The pain in Abby’s stomach gripped her. Trying this once was bad enough. She couldn’t imagine having to do it again. “Maybe he won’t even talk to me.”
Tonya tossed her head. “He will. Adults always try harder with kids. Makes ’em feel good.”
“You won’t tell?”
“Of course not.” Abby started to interrupt, but Tonya kept right on. “I know, if your mom calls, I’m supposed to say you’re in the bathroom or something, right?”
“Right. She’d kill me if she knew I was going to his apartment.”
“But you gotta try.”
Abby hunched over the handlebars. “Yeah.”
Tonya stood up and put a hand on Abby’s shoulder. “Well, go on then. You haven’t got all day.”
Abby straightened and blew out a breath, wishing the panicky ache would go away. She was afraid. What if she failed? “Okay.” Bracing herself on one foot, she put the other on the pedal.
“Call me the minute you get home.”
“I will.” Then Abby shoved off, hoping she could get this whole ordeal over with in a hurry.
Ten minutes later, she sailed down a hill and coasted into the parking lot of the Devonshire Village condominiums. The third building displayed the number she was looking for. She slid off the bike, set the kickstand and looked around. Her heart sank. His SUV was there. In the parking lot. In a way she’d hoped it wouldn’t be. Hoped she wouldn’t have to face him.
But then she thought about her mother. She needed to be happy. And if Brady Logan was what it took for that to happen, Abby was prepared to help things along. No matter what had happened since, she couldn’t forget the way her mother and Mr. Logan had looked at each other when they thought no one was watching.
Wiping her hands along the sides of her jeans, she tried to ignore the scared feeling she had. Just do it, she said under her breath, the slogan providing her with the motivation she needed.
She lifted her fist and knocked on his door, convinced he would be able to hear her heart thudding as well.
When the door opened, he seemed taller than she remembered, wearing a navy T-shirt, gray sweatpants and running shoes. His eyes, like her mother’s, were bloodshot and his hair was all rumpled. “Abby?” He stepped back. “What can I do for you?”
“We need to talk,” she said, sounding even to herself like a character in some dumb soap opera.
He tried to smile, but she could tell he wasn’t quite succeeding. “Okay. Come on in.”
He ushered her into a living room with all this weird grandma furniture and these crazy framed drawings all over the wall. It wasn’t what she’d pictured at all.
He’d apparently observed her reaction because he said, “Looks like a room straight out of Harry Potter, doesn’t it?”
She ran a hand across a sofa upholstered in this scratchy fabric that felt like a buzz cut. “Did you pick it out?” That was as polite as she could think to be.
He chuckled then, a sound that filled her with relief. He wasn’t going to be mad. “No way. I’m leasing the apartment from one of the professors at the university.”
“It smells funny in here.”
“Hard not to notice, isn’t it?” He gestured to a chair, and she sat down, perching on the edge of the seat. “Could I get you a soda?”
She needed time to think. “Uh, yes. Thank you. That would be good.”
“Root beer okay?”
“Sure.”
While he was in the kitchen, she studied the creepy condo, noticing all kinds of blueprints and plans spread out on a big table. Should she talk about his family’s accident first? About her mother? She rubbed her stomach, worry sitting there like a barbell.
He was smiling when he came back into the room. “Here,” he said, handing her a can of root beer. For himself, he had a mug of coffee. He sat across from her in an ugly recliner. “Does your mother know you’re here?”
Abby shook her head. “No.”
“Shouldn’t she?”
“She might not like why I came.”
He cradled his mug between his fingers. “Why is that?”
She stared at the steam rising from his coffee. “Because she says it’s not my fault, but it was.” This wasn’t coming out the way she’d intended. She’d meant to start with how sorry she was about his family, but now they were already into the hard part.
“Spilling the beans, you mean?”
“Yeah.” Abby squirmed. “I mean, she was going to tell you. She would
have. I know she would. But—” She felt an uncomfortable shift in her abdomen.
“She didn’t. I hope you understand how that news hit me.”
“Mom told me about the accident.” She hurried the next part. “I’m so sorry about your wife and daughter. I guess you have a reason to hate alcoholics, but Mom isn’t like that.” She slurped some root beer, trying to moisten her dry, gritty mouth.
He looked up over the lip of his mug, raised his eyebrows and simply said, “Really?”
Abby fidgeted, feeling all gooshy inside. “No, she’s not. She’s worked so hard to stay sober. She’s a wonderful mother and people like her and she’s trying so hard never to drink again. And you make her happy. If you’re not there, I don’t know what’ll happen and—” Abby stopped, her face flushing. Something damp was between her legs. Had she spilled the root beer? Slowly she looked down. Nothing. “I wanna fix things. Please don’t hold AA against her. Please don’t leave her. She really, really likes you. A lot.”
She ran out of breath and only then did she fully focus on the realization that she might have wet her pants. How embarrassing!
“Abby, I appreciate your defense of your mother and the courage it took to come see me, but—”
Abby jumped to her feet. “’Scuze me, Mr. Logan. Where’s the bathroom?”
He stood. “Are you all right?”
She crossed her legs in anguish. “I don’t know.”
“There. Down the hall on the right.”
“Sorry, I’ll be right back,” she said, scuttling to the bathroom.
She closed the door quickly, then unbuttoned her jeans and started to sit on the commode. What she saw on her panties majorly grossed her out—and humiliated her. Slowly she sank down. She wouldn’t be coming right back. She couldn’t. She would be spending the rest of her life right here in this bathroom.
Angry tears coursed down her cheeks. No way! Not here. Not now. What was she supposed to do?
