The After Wife Page 6

  I open my eyes, and the unfamiliar ceiling causes my stomach to drop. My bliss evaporates abruptly as the last twenty months of my life come rushing back at me. I don’t want to get up. I want to go back to sleep, in case he’s still there. Rolling over, I close my eyes, praying for sleep to come, but after a few minutes, I give up. He’s lost to me again. At least until tonight. Maybe if I go to bed early, I’ll find him waiting.

  It’s a touch before nine o’clock when I hurry downstairs for breakfast, book in hand. I’m in flannel duckie pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, and I haven’t brushed my hair. As I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror that hangs on the lobby wall, I realize I might be making myself far too at home here at the Sea Winds B&B. I second guess the pants, then decide to go for it, for fear of missing breakfast altogether. Relief fills me when I find the restaurant empty because being fed and being alone are my two main goals, and it looks like, for once in my life, I’m getting what I want.

  I walk in, spot Peter, and wave.

  "Good morning, Abigail," he says, holding up a coffee mug. “You never came back last night for the music.”

  Nodding at the mug, I say, “I had some things to take care of, but I heard it from my room.”

  I’m about to pick a table by the far window when Peter pats the top of the bar. “I saved your seat for you.”

  Great, there's really no way to turn that down without offending the man who feeds me. No matter, I can eat fast and go back to my room. “Is there any oatmeal left?”

  “If there’s not, there soon will be.” He winks, then disappears into the kitchen, only to return less than a minute later with a plate holding a bowl of oatmeal with all the trimmings, along with a side of ham and bacon. “Here you go, love. Eat up.”

  I sprinkle brown sugar on the oatmeal and add milk from the tiny white jug. I'm about to take my first bite when I sense someone behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man settling himself on the stool beside mine. "Seriously? You take the spot right next to me when the entire place is emp—"

  I stop talking as soon as I make eye contact with him, and I realize it's Mr. Too Good for Me.

  He looks taken aback for a second, then slides off his stool and walks all the way to the far end of the bar. Giving me a small grin, he says, "How's this?"

  "Better." I wrinkle up my nose at him in a way that says, 'I find you as repulsive as you find me.'

  “So, Abby," Peter says, rubbing the back of his neck. "This here’s Liam Wright, the fellow we were telling you about last night. I asked him to come by this morning about your house.”

  Oh, so he already knows I wasn’t on the prowl for a taste of man-candy last night. And I've now bitten the head off the only person in the vicinity who can fix my house. Super. Turning, I give Liam a polite but restrained smile. “Oh, yes, hello. Pleasure to meet you.”

  "Is it?" he asks, narrowing his eyes, even though they're sparkling with amusement.

  "Sorry, I just thought ..." What?

  Peter rescues me from myself. "Abby prefers to be alone."

  Nodding, Liam says, "Okay, well, that's good to know. I'll stay here then." He raises his voice deliberately loud. "I hear you’re in the market for some repair work.”

  “Yes. I bought the place next door, and it needs some TLC. What do you do?”

  He answers with one hand cupped next to his mouth. "Oh, a little of this and a lot of that. Whatever needs doing."

  “Uh-huh, sure,” I answer, nodding and raising my voice as well. “That’s kind of a vague answer to give someone interviewing you for a job.”

  He gives me a sideways grin and hollers, “I didn’t realize this was a formal interview on account of the ducks on your pajama pants.”

  My face burns and I roll my eyes, then give a conciliatory nod. "Okay, what if we start again? You could maybe sit ..." I reach over and point at the stool next to the one beside mine, "... here."

  Liam stands and comes over. After he sits down, he extends his hand. "Liam Wright, jack of all trades."

  Taking his hand, I give it a firm shake. "Abby Carson. Person in need of house repairs."

  "Nice to know you, Abby."

  I chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all, then say, "You, too."

  "What kind of repairs are you looking for?"

  "Basically, I need help with the yard, the exterior, and interior.”

  Liam grins. “Now who’s being vague?”

  I take on a slightly haughty tone. “I’m only being vague because I don’t actually know what needs to be done.”

  He blinks a few times before answering. “You probably shouldn’t admit that when you’re interviewing contractors. If you hire the wrong guy, he’ll try to take advantage of you.”

  Shit. He’s got me there. I narrow my eyes. “Are you the wrong guy?”

  “Nope, I’m honest to a fault,” he replies, then his eyes fill with laughter. “But then again, if I were the type to take advantage, I’d have lied to you just then anyway.”

  I purse my lips together and look at Peter. “So my options truly are limited to Mr. Mind Games here or the Millhouse boys who have gone fishin’? There’s literally no one else?”

  “Afraid so, love,” Peter answers. “He may be a bit of an arse, but at least he’s an honest one, and he does good work.”

  “I should have that printed on a business card,” Liam says, holding his mug out for a refill of coffee. "Liam Wright, Honest Arse. Does Good Work."

  “And how long is lobster season?” I ask Peter.

  “Until mid-July, but the Millhouse boys head up to P.E.I. to keep going until October,” he answers as he tops up both our coffees.

  Liam takes a sip, then smacks his lips together. “Guess you’re stuck with me, then.”

  “It would appear so.” I give him a long stare. “Listen, I’m not some rube. If you try to screw me, you won’t like what happens next.”

  A wide grin spreads across Liam’s face. “Nicely played. An ambiguous threat intended to create fear of the unknown.”

  I laugh again, even though it undermines my attempts at being scary. “Oh, I’ll follow through, believe me.”

  “I believe you would, but you won’t have to.”

  “Good,” I say, lifting my chin. “We can't get started until the utilities are turned on, but I need to get everything going as soon as possible."

  “Oh sure,” Liam says, throwing a grin in Peter’s direction. “I can see why you’d be in a hurry to get out of this place.”

  Peter pretends he’s offended. “You believe this guy? Here he is, fueling his insults on my coffee.”

  Liam laughs, and it’s a hearty, full sound. He turns to me. “Don’t mind him. He’s sort of a delicate flower.”

  Peter fixes him with a glare. “No more anything on the house for you.”

  Liam winks at me. “Fear not, he’ll forgive me. He’s not only delicate, he’s also kind.”

  Ignoring the wink, I say, “I wouldn’t forgive him.”

  “I won’t,” Peter says with a mock-scowl.

  Liam taps his hand on the bar. “In that case, I best be off to the Harveys’ to earn a few dollars for coffee. I’m finishing up their new deck today.” He pulls his wallet out from the back pocket of his jeans, retrieves a card, and sets it on the counter. “There’s my number. Call me when Gus shows up, and I’ll swing by and have a look. Once I have an idea of what needs doing, I’ll get you an estimate.”

  He slides off the stool, then holds out his hand. I take it, and we shake once more, his rough palm against mine. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Duckie Pants.”

  My mouth drops open, and he says, "It's only fair. You called me Mr. Mind Games."

  And with that, he’s gone.

  When I turn back to my oatmeal, I can’t help but notice Peter standing in front of me with his arms folded. “He’s a good fellow. The best father I think I’ve seen.”

  Father? “How many kids?”

  “One little girl. Car accident took h
is wife and their baby boy. The little tyke was only three months old at the time.” Peter picks up a rag and wipes the counter. It’s spotless, but he does it anyway. “Lovely woman, Sarah was. And that baby. The cheeks on him. A real tragedy if ever there was one.”

  “Oh, God, that’s awful. How long ago?” A lump fills my throat.

  “Coming up to six years. His daughter was in the car when it happened. She was two. People think she was so young that there’s no way she can remember, but I’ll tell you, she’s never been the same since. She used to be full of giggles and squeals, but now, she seems lost in her own world.”

  “Wow, that’s just … shitty,” I mutter as the melancholy of Liam’s story sinks in.

  Peter and I are quiet for a few minutes. I’m sure his mind is on Liam’s family, judging by the shift in his demeanor. The corners of his mouth have turned down and his eyebrows furrow together. My mind races as I digest the information. It feels strange to know something so intimate about a stranger—one who seemed utterly carefree just now. I suppose this is how people react when they find out I’m a widow. Sad. A little shocked, maybe. It also occurs to me that there are people who have it much worse than I do. I’ve just met one, and he seems to be surviving.

  Chapter Seven

  It is far better to be alone than to wish you were.

  ~ Ann Landers

  Well, I have solved the mystery of why it took Gus so damn long to show up. It’s because he feels compelled to regale everyone he meets with his entire life story. Gus is the third of the seven Nickerson boys, of the famous Nickerson clan who settled here on Cape Breton over one-hundred-fifty years ago. He’s been married for twenty-eight years, and it only feels like a century—hardy har har. He and his wife, June, have three children, two of which were accidents—the first attended their wedding as a fetus, and the last one was the cause of him getting the old ‘snip snip,’ which is not necessarily something I need to know about the utilities guy. Oh, and he’ll bare-knuckle fight anyone who says Sidney Crosby isn’t the greatest hockey player who ever lived.

  After close to an hour of inane chatter, he finally wanders to the basement to turn whatever dial or switch is required for me to have running water and natural gas. He tests the kitchen sink first and we both stare until it sputters to life.

  “Oh perfect. Thanks so much, Gus,” I say, shutting off the tap.

  I’m about to say how lovely it was to meet him when he settles himself against the kitchen counter, clearly with no intention to leave just yet. “So, Eunice says you’re from New York City, but you don’t have that accent.”

  Shoo. Get out. “I grew up in Portland actually,” I say as I take a few steps toward the front door.

  He doesn’t take the hint. “Oh, so you’re a long way from home.”

  “Uh-huh.” Please leave now.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He does a sucking-in-air thing while he says yeah. It’s a thing I’ve noticed the people here do when they run out of things to say. Does it mean the conversation is ending? Dear Lord, I hope so.

  “This here place has been empty for quite some time. It’s been about three years since I shut everything off. After Violet McMasters had to go into the old folks’ home.” Gus gives me a nod as though we both remember that day well. “She was hoping one of her kids’d take over the house, but you know the young folks. They all move out west to find work.”

  The young folks? How old does he think I am?

  “Violet’s in a home in Halifax now. Must be going on ninety. Tough old bird. Seen some hard times but always managed to come out okay,” he says. “Actually, you remind me of her in a way.”

  “I remind you of a tough old bird?” I ask, raising one eyebrow.

  He laughs, pointing one finger at me and nodding. “You’re a feisty one. Liam’s going to have his hands full with you.”

  Oh, sweet Jesus, Gus the water guy is getting in on the matchmaking? Time to nip this in the bud. “I’m not sure what you heard … or where, frankly … but I’m really not interested in any sort of romantic entanglement, so whoever is doing the talking, please tell them to stop.”

  He tilts his head in confusion. “I meant when he’s doing your house. Didn’t you hire him?”

  “Oh, right,” I say, as my cheeks heat up. “That.”

  He gives me a thoughtful expression. “Are you a fan of Shakespeare?”

  Okay, where is he going with this? “I’m familiar with his work.”

  “Me thinks thou doth protest too much,” he says with a chuckle, and the smug air about him irritates the shit out of me.

  “Actually, the line is ‘the lady doth protest too much, methinks,’ and trust me on this one, I’m not secretly pining for a boyfriend.”

  “I think you’ll change your mind about Liam when you hear he lives on a yacht during the warm months.” Gus lowers and raises his eyebrows. “Eh? He’ll take you on lots of romantic adventures on the sea. What woman wouldn’t want that?”

  “This one.”

  The sound of a vehicle approaching saves me from whatever Gus was about to say in response, and I’m filled with relief that he’s finally following me to the front door. We step outside in time to see Liam getting out of an ancient red pickup.

  I make my way down the three steps leading to the sidewalk and start toward him as he shuts the creaky door.

  He nods in our direction. “Hello, Abby. Gus.”

  “How’s Olive these days?” Gus asks.

  “Growing like a weed,” Liam says, lifting a large toolbox out of the truck bed. “And yours? Keeping out of trouble?”

  “I wish they’d get in trouble. At least they’d have a spark of life in ’em,” he says with a disgusted shake of his head. “June has spoiled them rotten. I doubt any of them’ll ever get off my couch.”

  Turning to me, Gus says, “The youngest is twenty-one and they’re all still at home.”

  Liam grins. “Well, there’s always hope.”

  “Speaking of hope,” Gus says, pointing at me with one thumb, “if you’ve got any designs on this one, you might as well forget it because she’s not in the market for a fella, especially not you.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “Nope, that is not what I said. It’s not you, Liam. I’m simply not looking.”

  Liam gives me a serious nod, but his eyes are dancing with amusement. “Good to know. We’ll keep it strictly professional, then.”

  “Yes, we will. Shall we get started?” I ask, hoping Gus will take the hint.

  Thankfully, he does. “I best be going. There’s a new couple up by Crocus Bay who’ve been hounding me to get out to their place. I can still make it if I hurry.”

  “Well, since it’s only an hour’s drive, and it’s eleven in the morning, I’d guess you might have a shot at making it before supper,” Liam says. “Unless you spot someone you know on the way.”

  Gus ignores the not-so-subtle dig and holds out his right hand to me. “It’s a pleasure to know you, Abigail.”

  Shaking his hand, I lie, “You too.”

  He lowers his voice, but I’m sure Liam can hear him since he’s basically standing right beside Gus. “Nice job, by the way.”

  Against my better judgment, I ask, “With what?”

  “Playing it cool. There’s nothing men like more than somethin’ they can’t have,” he says with a wink.

  Liam politely ignores the exchange and busies himself putting on his toolbelt. When Gus has finally climbed inside his van and shut the door, Liam looks up at me.

  “Listen, about all that …” I say.

  Liam holds up one hand. “No need to explain. It’s a small town full of people with not enough to do. They’ve been trying to find me a wife for years and they’re not about to stop now.”

  “Okay, good. Well … not good. They should leave you alone. If you’re not interested in a relationship, no one should push you into one.” I’m rambling now. Dammit. “What I mean is, I’m glad you’re aware that I’m not the one trying to …
I’m not in the market for a …” I gesture in the air with both index fingers making little circles that apparently mean relationship. Is it hot out here? It feels hot out here. My entire body is suddenly clammy.

  “Relax, Abby,” Liam says with a low chuckle. “I get it. Why don’t we start by getting those boards off the windows so we can have a good look at everything?"

  I let out a sigh of relief, my shoulders dropping. “Perfect.”

  It takes us close to thirty minutes to take the boards off the windows. But now that they’re off, I kind of wish they were back on because this place is so much dirtier than I thought. My muscles grow sore at the mere thought of cleaning every inch of the house. I really am going to have to stock up on Bengay.

  While Liam is upstairs examining the bathroom and windows and whatever else contractors look at, I clean out the kitchen sink, then fill it with water and some lemon-scented discount cleaner so I can get started on the cupboards. The sounds of Liam moving around upstairs above the kitchen bring a tense vigor to my scrubbing. I’m filled with dread about what he’ll find up there. And down here, for that matter. And outside …

  Finally, I hear Liam’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. He finds me with my head in the corner cupboard.

  “Well, it’s not as bad as I thought, but you’d be smart to replace the insulation in the attic before winter.”

  “Okay.” I don’t even want to think about what that’ll cost. “How about the plumbing?”

  “So far, I can’t see any sign of leaks, but you’re going to need a new toilet up there. New taps for the sink and tub. I’ll keep going through the house, then let’s have a chat about what needs doing and what you’re wanting to change just for the look of it.”

  By the time he’s done, the phrase, ‘you’re going to need a new ...’ brings a fresh wave of nausea. I knew it might be bad, but the truth is, when I woke this morning, a part of me was clinging to the hope that the house would just need a little elbow grease and some WD-40. Now, that hope has sailed off into the sunset, and reality is setting in. The gorgeous hardwood hiding under the carpets hasn’t come to fruition. Instead, it’s a slightly rotted subfloor, which of course means I’ll ‘need a new one.’