“She’s pregnant,” I say blandly, but I blink back tears that are threatening to fall.
“I heard,” she spits out. “That backstabbing bitch. If she wasn’t pregnant, I’d kick her right in the cooch.” She mimes a karate kick, her shoe flying through air. “Whoops,” she says as she goes and retrieves it. She looks toward my box. “Wait… What are you doing?” She looks from the box to my empty locker and back. “Why do you have your things?” She points toward the locker. “Put your things back. Don’t you dare let her run you off!”
“They terminated my contract.”
She jerks her thumb toward the reception area down the hall. “They terminated your contract because that backstabbing acquaintance of yours fucked your husband?” She shudders dramatically. “I can’t figure out why either of you wanted to ever fuck Charles, but to each his own.”
“They said they wanted to avoid problems,” I explain.
“Then they should have fired her lying, cheating ass,” she rails on.
I shake my head. “It’s okay, really. I can find another job.”
She huffs. “I’ll go give them a piece of my mind.”
One good thing about Camille is that she’s loyal. One bad thing about Camille is that she’s loyal. To a fault. I catch her arm as she spins to leave, presumably to go give the boss a piece of her mind. “Don’t,” I say. “Don’t mess anything up for yourself.” I force myself to smile. “I’m going to be okay. This is all going to work out.” I don’t know if I’m trying to convince her or to convince myself. Either way, I’m failing, because I’m not at all sure everything is going to work out.
“So what are you going to do?” She stares at me.
I have no idea what I’m going to do. “I’ll start looking for a job. No big deal.”
“You know most of the hospitals in this area have a hiring freeze right now.” Which is why I have been a temporary, floating nurse for so long.
“It’s all going to be okay,” I say again, but I have a feeling deep inside that it’s not. “It’ll all work out. I don’t want to stay where I’m not wanted.”
“I want you,” she says, and her eyes fill up with tears.
I point my finger at her as mine fill up too. “If you make me cry, I’m going to kill you.”
She waves her hand in front of her face. “Sorry! Whew!” She breathes out. “That was close.” She continues to wave air into her face until she pulls herself together. “For what it’s worth, you’re a better nurse than she is.”
“That’s not hard to be,” I toss back snidely. Sandra is lazy and thinks she’s entitled. But she’s also well-liked by most of the nurses, who overlook her flaws because she ingratiates herself to them in other ways, like covering their shifts and bringing surprise lunches on hard days. “I thought we were friends.” I’d taken Sandra home with me for a backyard brunch, and after that initial bonding, we’d spent many evenings in large groups sitting around the backyard fire pit. “I guess we weren’t as close as I thought.”
The door to the lounge opens and I find two security guards standing there. Mrs. House sent security guards? “Hi, John,” I say. “Michael.” I recognize them both from the front desk and I know them by name. “Are you here for me?”
“I’m afraid so,” Michael says. He winks at me. “We’re going to give you the royal treatment and walk with you all the way to your car.”
“So much for letting the air out of her tires,” Camille murmurs with an exaggerated frown.
Michael cups a hand around his mouth and tells Camille as an aside, “You can do that later, when it’ll be more of a surprise. If you did it now, it would be expected. Catch her when she’s let her guard down.”
Even I wouldn’t strand a pregnant woman in the parking garage. Even if she did pretend to be my good friend while she fucked my husband. Even if I hated her guts.
Well, I might, but I’d be damn sure no one knew I did it. I shift the box higher under my arm and try to hold my hands out like I’m surrendering to the cops. “You ready to give me the royal treatment? I’m looking forward to that walk.”
Michael inclines his head toward the door, so I step around him and out into the hallway. They both follow me all the way down the hall.
“I’ll call you later!” Camille says from behind us. I give her a thumbs-up without even looking back.
The reception desk goes eerily quiet as I walk by. I look directly into Sandra’s eyes. She startles and takes a step back. “Congratulations on the baby,” I say. I smile at her, and I try to make it as nice as I can. “I know you’ve always wanted to be a mother.”
She nods and makes a tight swallow. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I turn to walk away. But at the last moment, I turn back. “One question for you, though,” I say. “Why him?” I stare at her, and she straightens her spine. I’m actually quite impressed by that.
“You know that your marriage has been failing for a long time.”
I nod at her. “So that’s the reason?”
“He was so unhappy. You had to have known that.” She gives me a pitying look, her eyes soft.
Oh, I knew it. “Well, I’m glad you solved that for him.” I tap the desk in front of her with the flat of my palm. “Best of luck to you.”
“Thank you,” she says quietly. Her gaze darts from one person around us to another, like she’s looking for backup. I turn to walk away.
But then I turn back.
“Fuck,” I hear Michael whisper on a sigh.
“When did it start?” I ask Sandra.
“You’ll have to talk to Charles about that,” she says, and then she bites her lips together. I stare at her long enough that she adds, “You guys haven’t even had sex in months!” One of the other nurses lets out a startled gasp but covers it with a cough.
I smile. “Is that what he told you?”
She squares her shoulders even more. “Yes.”
I lean close to her and whisper loudly, “We had sex yesterday. In the morning. And the night before. I remember because I was on top for the nighttime encounter.” I crook my finger and scratch my cheek, pretending to think. “And we did the lazy-dazy side booty kind of sex the next morning. You know, when you want it, but you don’t want to put a lot of work into it. That kind of sex.”
Her crestfallen face is worth the price my ego has paid today. “You’re lying,” she says.
“Well, one liar should be able to ferret out another.” I slap my hand on the counter again. “I wish nothing but the best for both of you.” I glance toward her stomach. “The three of you, actually.” That part makes my gut churn, but I ignore it.
Then I turn and march out of there for good, holding my spine as straight as if I had an iron rod stuck up it. When the elevator doors close, John and Michael finally let out the laughter they were holding in during that encounter. John laughs so hard that he has to wipe his eyes.
“Dude, I thought she was going to shit herself when you said you did the side booty action.” He chuckles again, unable to contain it.
“Well, she deserved to know the truth.” I brush a lock of hair from my face and stare at the closed doors.
He freezes. “Wait,” he says. “You were serious?”
What did it matter if I was serious? “Yes. Completely.”
“So she did wreck your marriage?” All the laughter was gone from his tone. “I’m sorry I laughed. It’s not funny.”
“She kind of spread the word that your marriage was over months ago,” Michael explains.
“It wasn’t.” Not really. “But now it is.” I force myself to smile at them.
“I’m sorry, Abigail,” John says. “I really am.”
They walk with me in silence all the way to my car, and John kindly puts my box into the trunk. I shake hands with both of them, and they both stare at me until I’m out of the lot.
I’m determined that I will not shed a single tear, not where anyone can see me at least.
But then I get home and I walk into my house to find my clothes and belongings in boxes in the living room. They have been labeled and sorted. I walk into my bedroom and find a strange woman packing my things.
“Excuse me? Who are you?” I ask her.
“I’m with the moving company,” she tells me. She hands me a requisition form, which has been signed by Charles. It says they are to remove all personal clothing and accessories of mine from the home, package them neatly, and deliver them to my grandmother’s address.
I pick up my phone to call Charles, but it rolls to voicemail.
Suddenly, the front door opens and Charles rushes in. “How could you!” he shouts.
“How could I what?” I ask.
“How could you tell her that?” He runs a hand through his hair, which makes it stand on end.
Was he referring to what I said to Sandra? “I don’t know what you mean. Can you be more specific?”
“She’s not like you, Abs,” he says, and I cringe when he shortens my name. “She’s…delicate.”
“Delicate?” I cross my arms in front of me, mainly so I can avoid grabbing his goddamn neck and choking the life out of him.
“She’s not strong like you are. She’s fragile.” He runs a hand through his hair again. “I’d hoped to save you the trouble of packing,” he explains, as he motions toward the woman who is still boxing up my belongings, pretending like I’m not here.
“Why am I packing, exactly?” I ask him.
“I’m not leaving, Abs,” he explains. “I don’t have anywhere to go.” He looks around our house. “And Sandra lives with a roommate. She doesn’t have enough space. We’ll need this place for the baby.”
My eyebrows are probably up in my hairline by now. “You think you’re moving her into my house?” I point toward the floor beneath my feet like he might be confused about which house we’re talking about.
“I assumed you could move in with your gran,” he counters.
“I can move in with Gran,” I reply with no emotion in my voice whatsoever. I feel like the weight of the world is suddenly on my shoulders.
“Oh, good,” he says with a tenuous smile. “Glad we got that settled.”
“Settled,” I repeat with a nod.
He waves a hand through the air. “She’ll forgive me for sleeping with you. Probably take a day or two.” It’s obvious he’s still working this out in his head.
“She’ll forgive you,” I repeat. I can’t even think. “For sleeping with me.” She’ll forgive him for sleeping with his wife. That makes a lot of sense.
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “She’s great. Very forgiving.”
Not like me. I tend to hold a grudge.
“So do you want me to have your boxes delivered to your grandmother’s house?” he asks. He scrubs the end of his nose with a finger.
I tilt my head. “Yeah, Gran’s house will be fine.”
He nods. “I can take care of that.” He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. “I’m sorry, Abs,” he says.
I jerk my hand free. “My name is Abigail, and if you’d ever listened to me the million times I’ve told you that, you would have stopped calling me Abs by now.”
He takes a step away.
I walk into the bedroom and get my keepsake box from where it rests on the end of the dresser. My grandfather made it and gave it to me when I was five. It has my name engraved in the top. He’d engraved it by hand. I prop it under my arm and walk toward the front door.
“Goodbye, Abs,” Charles says softly.
I don’t even correct him as I walk out the door. Instead, I slam it so hard that the walls rattle and the windows shake. Then I walk out to my car, get in, and gently set the keepsake box next to me on the seat.
I call Gran. “Hey, Gran.”
“Abigail,” she replies. I can hear the smile in her voice, the one she always gives me.
“Do you think it would be okay if I went up to Lake Fisher for a week or two?”
“To the cabin?” she asks.
“If you don’t mind.”
“It’s almost winter,” she reminds me. In late fall, she always closes the cabin at the lake, has it winterized, and lets it sit until spring.
“Gran,” I say, the weight of the day suddenly pressing down on me, “is it okay with you?”
“If you need the cabin, Abigail,” she says, “you can have the cabin. Use it as long as you like. I’ll call the Jacobsons and let them know they should be on the lookout for you.” The Jacobsons own the complex where the cabin is located.
“Just for a week or two.”
“Abigail,” she says softly, “take all the time you need.”
So I start the car and head toward Lake Fisher, which is almost an hour from here. When I get close, I stop at a local tackle shop and buy a few t-shirts branded with Lake Fisher logos, some underwear, and some flannel pajama bottoms. I don’t need much. It’s not like I’m going to be at the cabin for very long. I just need a place to lick my wounds.
3
Ethan
As I cut through the last piece of wood from the fallen tree that had been blocking the dirt road, Jake, the man who owns the campground where I’m employed, motions with a slice of his hand across his neck for me to turn off my saw. I immediately turn it off and lift my foot from atop the tree, where I had been propping for balance. I pull my noise-cancelling ear protection off and let it hang around my neck. I arch my brows at him, without saying anything, as the silence of the day falls like a curtain around us.
One of the many things that I like about Jake is that he doesn’t ask me a lot of questions. He gives me work to do, and then he lets me go and do it. I’ve been here for almost a month, ever since the campground closed down after Labor Day. I’d run into Jake at the tackle shop. He’d heard about the bad turn my life had taken and he’d offered me a job I couldn’t refuse.
I like it here, and I don’t want to do anything to mess it up.
Jake laughs when my little duck runs up and quacks in his direction. “That thing is like an attack dog,” he says.
“Oh, he’s friendly enough,” I reply.
He’s actually a lot of company. If anyone had told me I’d one day be raising a duck, of all things, I’d have called them crazy. The day after I arrived at Lake Fisher and pitched my tent, I’d woken up when the sun rose and walked down to the water. Out of the corner of my eye, I’d seen a red fox streak by me with a dead duck in its mouth. Or at least I’d assumed it was dead. The duck hung limply from between the fox’s jaws.
The fox had run into the woods, and I’d looked around, trying to figure out where it had come from. I’d walked around the water’s edge, in the tall weeds where the ducks like to roost. I’d found the nest and taken a deep breath. It had been filled with eggs, but by the time I’d arrived, they were all mashed and broken and empty, and the parent duck was obviously going to be breakfast.
I’ve always loved nature, but I really hate it when nature doesn’t love me back. I don’t care who you are—it’s hard to look into a nest of broken eggs and know that the ducklings are dead. But I’d seen that one egg was resting off to the side of the nest. It had been pushed to the side and was just lying abandoned in the weeds.
I picked it up and lifted it to my ear. It made a little cheeping sound, and I’d held it gently in my hand to stare at it. There was a tiny little pinprick where the shell had been broken, but it was otherwise intact. Something had obviously been moving and was still alive in there, so I’d stuck the egg in my shirt pocket and walked back toward camp.
The next day, the duck had hatched. For a couple of days, I’d carried the duckling around in my shirt pocket to keep it warm, but then it had started to want to walk around and toddle all over the place, chasing after me.
The little fella is pretty protective, too. Hence the honking he does in Jake’s direction. I very gently bump him with the toe of my work boot so he’ll move along, and he walks around behind me to sit in the grass.
“When you finish up here,” Jake tells me, “I want you to go over to cabin number twenty-four and turn the water and the electricity back on.”
I think back, counting the cabins in the second row in my head. “The old Marshall cabin?” The fourth one on the left, on the second row, the Marshall place is a cabin I know really well, or at least I used to. I walk over and get a drink of water from a plastic jug that Katie, Jake’s wife, brought me a few hours ago when she saw me standing in the hot sun cutting up the fallen tree.
He nods. “Maimi Marshall called Pop and said she needed someone to open it up.”
I’d just closed it a couple of weeks ago, draining the water from the pipes and winterizing everything.
“Are they going to be using it?”
Jake shrugs. “Apparently. Pop was being really cryptic about it.”
Pop, Jake’s dad, is a cantankerous old man on a good day. If you catch him on a bad day, he’s even worse. If he’s being cryptic, there’s probably a reason.
“You remember the Marshalls?” Jake asks. He goes and starts to stand the logs I’ve already cut up on their ends, because I’m still going to have to split them. The duck watches him warily.
I nod. “I do.”
“Didn’t you have a thing with her granddaughter?” Jake chuckles to himself.
That’s the problem with going back to a place where you grew up. You know everyone, every story, and every scandal that ever graced or disgraced the place. “I wouldn’t call it a thing,” I mutter more to myself than to him. “We were, what? Twelve? Thirteen?”
“She was always so quiet,” Jake says. “I never could get her to say a word to me.”
I glare at him. “That’s because Abigail had good sense. Not like the rest of them.”
He laughs. “It all worked out in the end.”
Jake has led a charmed life for the past few years. He left his job with the New York City police department after a scandal, when his partner got his wife pregnant, and he came home with his tail between his legs, claiming that he was only there to take care of his aging father, Mr. Jacobson. But he’d never left. He’d never left because Katie, his own blast from the past, had shown up that summer, too.
Feels like Rain (Lake Fisher Book 3) Page 2
