The After Wife Page 4

  “Umm, I’m staying here tonight.” I point to the house with one thumb. “Thanks anyway.”

  “Didn’t Eunice tell you? None of your services are hooked up, so you could stay here, but you’d have no power, water, or electricity.”

  I purse my lips together, holding in the string of curse words on the tip of my tongue. “She didn’t mention that, no.”

  “Oh, dear, yes. It usually takes Gus about a week.”

  “A week?” Are you freaking kidding me? “Is there no one else who can do it?”

  Shaking her head, she says, “Nope, just Gus Nickerson. He’s the only one in the area who has the permits.”

  “But, that’s ridiculous. Isn’t it just a quick flip of some switch or something?”

  “I suspect so, but Gus isn’t one to rush anything. He doesn’t believe in being in a hurry,” she says. “If you ask me, a lot of people should take a page out of his book.”

  But I didn’t ask, and I really don’t care about Gus the gas guy’s beliefs, so … “Right, sure,” I answer, wanting to return to the real issue. “So, is there any way I can get a hold of Gus to ask him to hurry just this once?”

  Instead of answering, Nettie chuckles softly. “We’ve got a lovely corner room with a big soaker tub reserved for you and Walt here. Fifty percent off your stay since you’re a neighbor,” Nettie says, turning to leave.

  Fifty percent off? When I shouldn’t have to pay for anything because I should be staying in the house I just paid for? “I’m assuming the utility company will pay since they’re failing to provide timely service.”

  “That’s considered timely here.” She calls over her shoulder, “Dinner’s served from five ’til seven. Tonight is lobster bisque, Caesar salad, and biscuits, followed by roast chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy.”

  I fume silently as she disappears down a path through the trees that separates my lot from hers. I am clearly in need of a tall fence around the property to keep Nosy Nettie out. But first, I’m going to call up the gas company and give them a piece of my mind. “Gus doesn’t believe in rushing,” I mutter. “This is insane. I’m the customer and I believe in rushing so he better damn-well rush.”

  I try to put Walt down, but he resists, digging his claws into my shoulder. “Ouch, all right,” I say, straightening up.

  First, go inside. Then put the cat down. Then call the utility company. Or fight the spider-rats, then call them.

  My skin feels prickly as I make my way over to my front door, trying to convince myself there’s no such thing as a cross between a rat and a giant spider, but only managing to invent spider-riding rodents instead. “Oh, Abby, what were you thinking?”

  Walt makes opening the ancient screen door a sweaty affair, but there’s no point in trying to put him down, not unless I want him to take long strips of skin with him. I prop open the screen door with one foot while I fiddle with the lock. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “There’s nothing to be afraid of … except whatever’s living in there.”

  Turning the handle, I draw a deep breath and open the wooden door. It feels stiff and creaks loudly, and I can’t decide if it’s welcoming or warning me. When I step inside, I’m greeted by beams of light that shine through the cracks in the boards on the windows. Thick layers of dust hide the true colors of the home, and when I move, tiny particles dance and swirl in the light. Standing perfectly still, I hold my breath, listening for scurrying or scratching sounds, but there’s only silence.

  “Do you smell or see any tiny poops?” I ask Walt as I scan the floor of the small foyer. He doesn’t seem like a cat who’s just picked up the scent of something delicious to chase, so I continue on.

  Once inside, I’m given three choices—up the stairs in front of me, through the wide opening to my right, or through the door to my left. Deciding to go right, I find myself standing in the living room with a high, sloped ceiling held up by dark wooden beams. There is a stone fireplace with a thick, wooden slab for a mantle. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line one wall, and if they aren’t rotten, they’ll be filled soon. Other than that, the room is bare. A cheap green carpet covers the floor, and I wonder if it’s too much to hope for beautiful wood plank floors under it. Of course it is.

  I lean forward and Walt hops out of my arms onto the floor. “Seriously? You’re terrified of grass, but you’ll happily wander around on a filthy, stained carpet? What does that say about my housekeeping skills?” I say. "Don't answer that."

  I follow the carpet through a wide opening in the far wall where a long, wooden table fills up most of the space. There are no chairs, but the table appears to be handcrafted and is what the host of Antiques Roadshow would call ‘a find.’ Upon closer examination, I realize the table is not only dusty, but is also sprinkled with dead flies. Yuck. Turning, I see the kitchen on the other side of the dining area. It’s a modest galley-style setup, but it’s more than enough room for me to toast Pop-Tarts.

  Once I’m standing in front of the sink, I peer through the crack in the boarded-up window that overlooks the backyard. I glance at Walt, who has followed me. “What a pleasant view we’ll have when I don’t do the dishes.”

  A few minutes later, I've ventured as far down into the basement as I dare without electricity. Using the flashlight on my cell phone, I stop on the bottom step where I scan the room for wildlife or dead bodies, my heart in my throat the entire time. But instead of anything rabid or rotting, I find a furnace, a hot water tank, and an ancient washer and dryer sitting on a disappointing dirt floor. The cement walls are broken up only by one small window so covered in grime it barely allows in any light. I used to hate my tiny laundry/storage room back in Manhattan, but compared to this dungeon, that seems like a positively luxurious place to hang my unmentionables.

  The top floor is much less spooky and by the time I've walked through the three small carpeted bedrooms and one bathroom, I'm almost confident that the house isn't overrun with things that leave trails while they scurry about. Having set that fear aside, I return to my original goal, which is to call the utility company and give them a piece of my mind. We'll see if a little New York attitude can light a fire under Gus the Zen Gasman's ass because there is no way in hell I'm staying at that B&B tonight.

  Chapter Five

  I don't know if you've ever noticed this, but first impressions are often entirely wrong.

  ~Lemony Snicket

  So, apparently, I am staying at the Sea Winds tonight. It's either that or in my car because there is no way I'll be getting my services hooked up today. In fact, I was robbed of the pleasure of yelling at someone because when I called the gas company, instead of a real person, I received a voicemail informing me they are ‘closed for a family celebration, but they’d be back bright and early Monday morning to take my call—unless the party gets out of hand in which case, it’ll be closer to noon.’

  A family celebration? Since when is family a reason to close the gas company? I left a long, terse message, then looked up the number for the water company, which as it turns out, is the same place. Ditto for the electrical company. So, there’s that.

  I'm now hunting around in the trunk of my car to find a box of full-sized Snickers bars to take the edge off my hunger. It won't fix the problem, but it will soothe me for a good minute or two. The sound of a vehicle coming up the driveway interrupts my search for sustenance. When I look up, my retinas are assaulted by a brilliant white Ford Fiesta sporting a huge image of Eunice Beckham’s grinning face on the side. A word bubble covers the side window that says, ‘If I can’t sell it, no one can!’

  Makes sense. She’s the only realtor in town, so ...

  She offers me an open-mouthed Barbara Walters smile as she unfolds her lanky body from the car. “Abby, welcome to South Haven! I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to greet you when you first pulled in.”

  Eunice is wearing a cotton candy pink pantsuit and is coming toward me at an alarming speed. She claps her hands together and then holds her arms out wide, mo
ving in for a—oh dear God, no—she wants a hug?

  A second later, I’m being choked by a pink cloud of White Diamonds perfume. Every muscle in my body tenses up and I stand perfectly still, trying not to breathe until it’s over.

  When she finally releases me, she takes my cheeks in both hands. “Oh, how fun to have our very own New Yorker in the village! You’ll bring such a sassy spice to the place.” She is beaming at me. Literally beaming. Or is that the makeup? Are those sparkles? Yes, yes they are.

  “Thank you?” I say, allowing my tone to rise in that way that says I’m not at all sure about being the new resident New Yorker in the village.

  “Oh, silly me. I haven’t introduced myself! It’s me! Eunice Beckham. And if you’re wondering if we’re related to a certain rock-hard soccer player who doubles as a Calvin Klein underwear model, yes, he’s a distant cousin of my husband, Dennis Beckham, mayor of Cape Breton County.” Her voice goes up when she says mayor as though she’s announcing a prize at the ham bingo. “It’s easy to remember. Eunice and Dennis. Dennis and Eunice. Beckham. But now I don’t want you to feel at all intimidated by us, love. We’re just like everyone else here. I still put my pantsuit on one leg at a time.” She laughs gaily at her down-to-earthiness.

  Before I can respond, she slides the strap of her briefcase off her shoulder and holds the case up with one hand so she can open it. It’s pink and matches her suit perfectly.

  “I have never seen a pink briefcase before,” I remark.

  “Isn’t it fun? I have every color of the rainbow. When you’re in my business, appearance is everything. People need to know you have an eye for detail.”

  You can’t argue with that logic. “I never would have thought of that.”

  She pulls out a pink clipboard bearing a stack of forms and a pen neatly inserted in the slot at the top. “So, I need you to sign these, and I’ll take care of the rest. How do you like the house so far?” She’s talking and moving so fast I’m having trouble keeping up.

  The pen is thrust into my hand, and she holds up the clipboard. I take it and begin signing next to each of the Post-it arrows. “Well, to be honest, it’s in a lot worse shape than I thought. You said it was ‘a little worse for wear’ but this looks really bad.”

  Shaking her head, she says, “That’s just because the yard’s overgrown and the boards are on the windows. Trust me, this house is solid as a rock. It’s survived four hurricanes over the past ninety years and hasn’t moved a centimeter.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so. You’re going to love it here.”

  “There’s also another pretty major problem. I expected to have services hooked up today and when I called about it, no one is there.”

  “Yes, it’s Clara McTavish’s ninetieth birthday today.”

  Well, that explains it. “And everyone who works there has to attend?”

  Eunice looks at me like I’ve sprouted gills. “Of course. Both her daughters run the utilities office. But truth be told, even if they were working today, they wouldn’t be able to get you hooked up. Gus is up in Dingwall.”

  Oh, Dingwall. Wherever the hell that is.

  “Did Nettie come by and tell you I’ve arranged a room for you next door?”

  “Yes, she—” I stop because, apparently, Eunice was only pausing for a breath.

  “You’ll love it there. They have the best bisque in all of Cape Breton—but don’t tell my mother-in-law I said that. And every Thursday night, they have a big kitchen party.” As she talks, her hands move swiftly, taking the documents and tucking them into her briefcase. “Such a fun time. The mayor and I are there as often as our schedules allow, but not tonight,” she says, shaking her head. “Tonight, we’re at a fundraiser for the Breton Abilities Center. Which reminds me, I must run so I can stop at the office in time to process your land title before my updo appointment.”

  And she’s off, teetering down the gravel driveway in her pink heels. “Tootles! Call me if you need anything!”

  Dear God, please don’t let me need anything.

  * * *

  I squeeze out my wet hair with a towel while I stare out at the view from my third story corner room at the Sea Winds B&B. Bras d’Or Lake—an enormous body of water in its own right—meets up with the ocean directly in front of the property. The late-day sun shimmers off the water while a sailboat drifts lazily along with a few passengers sunning themselves on the deck. A curious seal bobs his head out of the water, then, seeming to decide the boat is of no concern, lies on his back, exposing his sleek, black tummy to the sky. The sight of it calms my irritation, but just the tiniest bit.

  I’m really here. I have actually done this.

  I just moved to Canada on a whim.

  Oh shit. I just moved to Canada, and it’s too late to change my mind.

  At this very moment, a couple is moving into my apartment back in New York, and I doubt very much that they’d allow me to move back in with them. “Son of a bitch.”

  Grabbing my cell off the nightstand, I dial Lauren’s number.

  She picks up on the fourth ring, her breathing loud and jagged. “You made it?”

  The sound of her voice makes me emotional. I try to stuff in how much I miss her and how scared I am. “I did. You at the gym?”

  “Yes. Just finishing up on the treadmill.” I can picture her there, her long legs working at a furious pace. We used to go together three times a week back when I cared about that type of thing. “How’s Nova Scotia? You bored yet?”

  Terrified is more like it. “Ha ha. Nova Scotia is exactly how I remembered. So far, I’ve arrived, signed the final papers, and done a walk-through of my new old house.”

  “And? Tell me everything.”

  “It’s … old, which I obviously knew. And … rustic.” I say, not wanting to admit the shape of it. “Oh, and I found out I won’t have water, lights, or gas for a few days, so the realtor booked me at the B&B next door.”

  “A B&B? Your favorite place to stay—in someone’s home where you get to share a bathroom with a bunch of strangers,” she says.

  “I have my own bathroom actually, and according to the sign at the front desk, there’s no such thing as strangers. Only friends you haven’t met yet.”

  Lauren bursts out laughing. “Oh my God, I wish I was there.”

  “Trust me, you don’t.”

  “Okay, that’s probably true, but let’s back up because I’m interested in the word rustic that you tried to bury earlier.”

  “You caught that?”

  “Obviously. Abby, it’s me. You can be honest, even if you’ve made a gargantuan mistake, and right now all you can think of is getting back in the car and driving home at record speed.” Lauren spent the last two months trying to talk me out of leaving New York. I guess she’s not done.

  “No way, I love it here.”

  “Oh, so we’re doing that thing where you pretend everything’s fine even though you’re ready to burst into tears?”

  “Yes, and I’d appreciate if you’d go along with it.”

  “Fair enough,” she says, “So long as you know that I know the truth.”

  “Deal. Crying won’t change anything. I’m here and I have to make the best of it.” I flop onto the bed and scratch Walt’s tummy. “Besides, it’ll be fine. The house just needs a good scrubbing and maybe some minor repairs,” I say, trying to sound confident.

  “Is this the part where I say I’m sure it’ll be amazing and you’re going to be so happy there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t we just skip my half of the conversation all together and you hold up both sides?”

  “Perfect,” I say. “Truthfully though, there could be some other things wrong, but I won’t know until the services are hooked up.”

  “Hmm, and how long will that take?”

  “Depends on when Gus, the utility guy, makes his way to the village.”

  Lauren laughs so hard she snorts. When she’s done, she says,
“Oh, you were serious.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “What year is it there? I mean comparatively speaking? Like 1940ish?”

  “All right, just because you’re still in the center of the universe doesn’t mean this isn’t also … a place to live.”

  Hope fills her voice. “You can always change your mind.”

  “Tell that to my bank account." What starts out as a smartass remark rings all too true when my voice cracks.

  “Oh, hon, you’re not okay.”

  “I am. I’m just tired from the drive,” I say. “This will be good for me. Really, it will.”

  “And if it isn’t, you can come back here. I’m more than happy to help you find a dilapidated place here in the city to hide out in. We can pretend you’re doing it for me because I miss you so much.”

  Taking a deep breath, I say, “I know you’re trying to help, but to be honest, I’m all filled up on people doubting my decisions and making me feel guilty for one day.”

  “I take it your mom called?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry,” Lauren says, her voice all but getting lost in the background music. “But I am proud of you, Abby. You’re doing something genuinely brave.”

  “Thanks. That’s more like it,” I say, glancing at the clock. “I should go. I'm starving and dinner service ends at seven p.m.”

  Lauren bursts out laughing again, and this time, I find myself joining in. “Don’t forget to slap on some Bengay so you’ll fit in with the other seniors,” she says.

  “Already slathered in it. It really does ease my muscle pain. Now, I just need to slide on my orthopedic loafers and I’m all set.”

  “Enjoy your first night.”

  “That’s unlikely. I may have moved, but I’m still actively anti-enjoyment.”

  “That’s my girl.”