The After Wife Page 7
We move to the front yard so Liam can get the ladder from his truck and inspect the roof. On his way back toward the house, he says, “I see you’ve got a U-Haul to unload. If you like, I can round up a couple of fellas. We’ll get it done in no time.”
“No, thanks though,” I say, holding up one hand. “I’ve already hired movers from Sydney. They should be here in two hours.”
“Are you sure you want to pay for that when you could get it for free?”
“Yes, I am. Nothing’s free in this world.”
He gives me a conciliatory nod. “No, you’re probably right. We’d have charged you a round of beers the next time we’d see you at the pub.”
“As tempting as that is, I have a few old, expensive pieces of furniture that need to be treated quite delicately.”
“Oh, well, in that case, it’s best to leave it to the professionals,” he says, extending the ladder and setting it against the house.
I stand, fiddling with Isaac’s ring while Liam disappears over the peak. I tell myself everything will be okay. It seems like it won’t be, but what’s the worst that could happen? I sink every penny into it and end up broke. Oh yeah, that.
A few minutes later, he comes back into view, standing casually on the steep slope with one hand on his hip. My heart jumps to my throat at the thought of him falling, but it appears to be the furthest thing from his mind.
“What do you do for a living, Abby?”
“I’m a writer. Mainly novels.”
“Well, you better get writing. You need a new roof.”
My heart drops from my throat to my knees at his words, and tears prick my eyes but I force them back in.
He climbs down and surveys the yard. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says as he rubs his chin. “Great spot here. Shame the McMasters kids let it get all overgrown after their ma went into the home. She was a real meticulous gardener. Will you want help to get the yard cleaned up?”
Yes, but there’s no way I can afford it. “I need to do as much as possible myself. We may be about to stretch my budget so far it’ll snap.” I try to sound casual, but those damn tears appear again. I clear my throat and turn toward the house to hide my fear. But the sight of the paint peeling off the window boxes brings with it a sense of doom.
“Listen, Abby, I imagine this is probably overwhelming for you. It would be for me, if I were in your shoes.”
“No, I can handle it,” I say with a scoff. “Believe me.”
“Sure, you’re a tough New Yorker and all that. I know you can handle it, but it’s okay to admit if you’re upset.”
“I’m not upset,” I say, taking on a business-like tone. “I’m just … surprised at how many things need to be replaced, and I’m wondering if I stupidly bought a total money pit that will suck every dollar out of my bank account until I’m forced to sell it and move back home with my parents like some thirty-nine-year-old loser. Because I really can’t have that, Liam.” My voice goes up by two octaves and my face screws up in what is about to become an ugly cry. “I already lost my husband; I can’t end up back in Portland where all my relatives will stare at me and shake their heads at how I couldn’t make it in the world without a man. I can’t do that. I simply can’t.”
“But you’re not upset,” Liam says lightly, making me laugh while he digs a tissue out of his pocket. He unfolds it and hands it to me.
“Not at all,” I answer, managing a grin while I wipe my tears. “Sort of terrified maybe, but otherwise fine.”
When I finally make eye contact with him, he doesn’t seem at all put off by my show of emotion. He nods and says, “Tell you what? Let’s make this a lot less terrifying. How about I teach you how to do anything you can do yourself? You can save a lot of money, so long as you’re not afraid of some hard work.”
“I’m not.”
“Well, then you and this house will get along just fine.”
Chapter Eight
If you don’t learn how to be scared, you'll never really learn how to be brave.
~ Simon Holt, The Devouring
Liam was wrong. This house and I are not going to get along just fine. Somehow the kitchen that looked so small tripled in size the second I started scrubbing out the cupboards. Suddenly, a windowless bachelor suite next to the subway tracks is extremely appealing to me. If I hadn’t made such a fuss about getting out of the B&B as soon as possible, I'd be heading back there right now to have a long bath and hide under the covers instead of preparing for my first night in this hellhole. I still have at least another hour's work in the kitchen before I can move on, and my body is already going into shock. I finish the last drawer in the fridge, then open a warm can of Coke and take a long swig. Leaning against the counter, I give the oven a good hard glare, dreading the thought of tackling whatever's in there. Maybe I could just not open it. Ever. That would save me a lot of work.
Yes, I'll ignore the oven, at least for this week. I have another overwhelming and more pressing task ahead of me in the form of a U-Haul that has to be unpacked and returned to the depot in Sydney. Checking my watch, I see that the movers should be here in a few minutes.
At exactly three o’clock, there’s a loud knock on the door. I wipe my hands on the sides of my jeans while I hurry to answer it. When I swing the door open, I’m met by Liam and another man, both wearing green golf shirts and matching baseball caps.
Liam gives me a broad grin. “Hello, ma’am. I understand you booked a couple of movers for this afternoon,” he says in a very formal voice. “I’m Liam Wright, and this here is James Campbell. We’re here to professionally move all your delicate and expensive pieces of furniture.”
“We’ll move the cheap stuff, too,” James says with a shrug.
I start out shaking my head and trying to look annoyed but laugh instead. “Is this the thing you do a little of or a lot of?”
“A little. We don’t get many clients up here.”
I rest a fist on my hip. “Why didn’t you just tell me you were the mover?”
“You seemed pretty set on only letting a professional near your stuff, and who am I to argue with the client?”
James extends his hand to me and we shake. “I’m James. I live four blocks that way,” he says, pointing to his left.
And I need to know that, why, exactly? Giving him a polite smile, I say, “Nice to meet you.”
“I hear you’re not interested in Liam, as far as dating goes.”
Pursing my lips together, I glare at him, then turn to Liam, who puts his hands up in surrender. “He didn’t hear that from me.”
“I ran into Gus when he was on his way up to Crocus Bay.”
Two hours later, the U-Haul is empty. Liam finds me standing in the middle of several boxes in the kitchen. “We’re all done, Ms. Carson,” he says, gesturing with a clipboard in his left hand. “I’ll just need you to sign these forms saying everything was unloaded carefully and that neither James nor I damaged any of your priceless things.”
I roll my eyes as I take the clipboard and sign my name. Liam rips off the top sheet and hands it to me. “There’s an online survey you can fill out if you like. It’ll get you ten dollars off at Weagle’s Greenhouse.”
“Good to know, thanks.”
“All right, enjoy your new home, Miss,” Liam says. “And please remember to call W.S. Movers again for all your storage, packing, and moving needs.”
James walks into the kitchen and says, “Well, that’s that then.” He snaps his fingers. “Oh, I almost forgot, I’m heading to Sydney first thing in the morning. I can return your U-Haul for you if you like. Save you a couple hours.”
I shake my head. “No, I couldn’t ask you to do that. Thank you, though. It’s a kind offer.”
“You sure? I’ll be literally a block from the rental place. I gotta go to Canadian Tire.” Looking at Liam, he says, “They’ve got Timberline work boots on clearance. Seventy percent off.”
You don’t say? “I’m good, thanks. I have to head into t
he city for a bunch of supplies anyway.”
“All right,” James says. “We’ll leave you to it, then.”
I stand, holding Walt in my arms, feeling oddly emotional as I watch them leave. I’m about to spend my first night in my dilapidated old cottage, which suddenly feels like the last thing I want to do.
* * *
It’s nearing seven o’clock as I hurry up the road to Nettie and Peter’s. It was either that or dig through the boxes for some Pop-Tarts. To be honest, I’m also going in search of some liquid backbone for my first night alone in my creepy cottage. When I was turning the water off after my shower, I heard a thumping sound, which led to a quick bathrobe-clad examination of the house. It ended with me standing at the bottom step to the basement with my heart pounding wildly. Although I found no explanation of the loud thump, I did have the awful thought that the dirt floor would be the perfect place to hide a body. Maybe the body of a certain old, single lady who used to live here.
I sprint up the steps to the B&B, only exhaling when I’m safely inside with the door closed behind me. When I walk into the restaurant, I almost want to kiss the wood floor. Never have I been so happy to see a bunch of senior citizens eating pie and drinking coffee.
“Back already?” Peter asks, as I take my usual stool at the bar and set my book down.
“I didn’t have time to get groceries today.”
“Oh, sure. Beer?”
“Please, and some of that lobster bisque if you’ve got it.”
“Coming right up,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the bar.
One hour, two pints, one bowl of bisque, and six homemade biscuits later, Peter walks me home. The moon and the streetlamps (which are far too spread out for my liking) light our way.
“This is really unnecessary,” I say for the third time.
“Well, I wouldn’t feel right letting you walk home alone at this hour.”
“Eight p.m.?”
“Exactly.”
I walk up the front steps to my house, key in hand. Turning to Peter, I say, “Well, thank you. I should be good from here.”
“Are you feeling a little nervous about your first night alone here?”
Narrowing my eyes, I say, “Why? Should I be?”
“Nope, but I couldn’t help but wonder, based on all your questions about Violet’s true whereabouts.”
“I just wanted to make sure she’s okay. Single woman, living alone in a house surrounded by trees. Anything could have happened to her.”
“Other than living well until a ripe old age, nothing else happened to her here.” Peter gives me a reassuring smile. “You know what? Why don’t you collect Walt and come on back to your room at our place? You could spend your days here and your nights with us until you get to know all the noises and such.”
I shake my head and make a ppfffttt sound, spitting all over my fleece coat for good measure. “That would be ridiculous. I’m not scared of my house.”
“Of course not. Would you feel better if I did a quick walk-through to make sure everything’s okay?”
“No, but if that would make you feel better, have at it.”
“Yes, I’ll sleep a lot sounder knowing you’re safe,” he says with a wry grin.
I unlock the door, and when we step inside, I say, “I’ll wait here while you check things out.”
Peter slides off his shoes, then starts for the stairs to the basement, patting Walt on the head when they cross in the hall.
While he’s down there, I shout, “You okay? You don’t see any evidence of freshly dug graves, do you?”
He pops his head around the corner a moment later. “All fine, as you knew it would be.”
A few minutes later, he walks down the stairs. “All clear. Thanks for letting me look around.”
“No problem. I would hate to make you worry.”
Five minutes later, Peter’s gone, the doors are locked, and I’m upstairs in my bedroom with the covers pulled up to my neck as I listen for murderers. My cell phone rings and I jump, startling Walt, who zips off the mattress, then turns to stare at me from across the room.
I pick up my phone off the box I’m using as a night table. It’s Lauren. Thank God. “Hey lady, what’s up?”
“Just checking on you to see how the first night in your new house is going.”
“Couldn’t be better,” I say, trying very hard not to slur but failing miserably.
“Are you drunk?”
“A little.”
“Let me guess, your imagination ran away on you, so you had a few drinks to help you relax.”
“Maybe. How did you know?”
“I’m your best friend and you’re a writer with a gigantic imagination. You don’t always use it for good.”
“Right,” I say, feeling slightly sheepish. “I would have been fine if it weren’t for the dirt floor in the basement.”
“Did you convince yourself there’s a bunch of bodies buried down there?”
“No, just one. But you think there could be several?”
Laughing, Lauren says, “No, I do not.”
“Okay, good. You had me worried for a second.”
“Do you want to talk on the phone until you fall asleep?”
Relief sweeps over me. “Could we?”
“Of course.”
Chapter Nine
Drowning people sometimes die fighting their rescuers
~ Octavia Butler
I wake to a text from Liam. I can swing by after I drop my daughter at school to go over the quote. Will you be home in an hour?
Sounds great. See you then.
Actually, it doesn't sound great at all. As much as I have to face the reality of the renovations, I've been enjoying the last few hours of blissful ignorance. But that time is swiftly drawing to a close, just like all happy moments. Whoa, that was dark. It’s just some repair work, Abby, take it down a notch.
I text Lauren to thank her for putting me to sleep last night and promise her I’ll be fine from now on. As I look around the bright room, I feel almost sure it’s true. In the light of day, there is nothing foreboding about this place.
I dress, feed Walt, then brew a pot of coffee, becoming increasingly anxious as the minutes slide by. I toast two slices of bread, but when they pop up, I suddenly realize I’m too nervous to eat. I spread butter on them anyway, then sit down on the office chair that has found a temporary purpose at the kitchen table. Taking a bite, I chew, only to find it feels like sand in my mouth. Why the hell am I so nervous? I have almost a hundred and fifty thousand left in my account. Even if the repairs cost me one hundred of that, I’ll still have a nice big chunk left over while I write my next book.
My chest squeezes at the thought of writing again. That’s it. This feels like a very final decision. If I go ahead with the work, it’s really me saying I will write again, because I won’t have a choice. I can’t live off the money forever. The housing market is sloth-level slow here, so pouring more cash into this place will dramatically move up the timeline on the necessity for me to work again. Letting out a big sigh, I stare out the window into my mess of a backyard, then realize the choice was made when I signed the official offer on the house. I committed to starting over here and I’m not the type to turn back when I’ve made a decision. I stick to my guns. It’s one of my best traits. Or worst, depending on who you ask.
Liam arrives right on time. When I open the door, I'm greeted by a freshly shaved version of him. He’s dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt today. We exchange hellos and I step aside to let him in. As he walks past me, I catch just a hint of aftershave which draws out the memory of what it's like to touch the smooth, strong jawline of a man. I sweep the image away, trying to brush the accompanying guilt into the dustpan of my mind. “Hey, you arrived exactly when you said you would. I thought contractors were supposed to keep you waiting."
Liam turns and smiles. "I'm not a real contractor. Just a guy who does a little of this and a lot of that.”
“It’s one of the many advantages of hiring us.”
“One of many?” I ask as I start toward the kitchen.
“Yes, we also don’t charge an arm and a leg. You’ll see in my estimate that the customary fifteen percent for materials is missing.”
“Oh, well that is a big advantage.”
He follows me to the kitchen, and I can't help but feel self-conscious, wondering if he's giving my enormous behind the once over. I’m suddenly aware of how I'm walking, so I straighten up my back and suck in my gut, which is pointless because he has a view of my ass, which cannot be sucked in, no matter how hard I try. And also, I already know he finds me grotesque. And I really don't care either way. I let it out again, slightly satisfied at this tiny act of defiance.
"Can I get you a coffee before you ruin my dream of living in an affordable little seaside cottage?"
"Sure, thanks. I like cream in my coffee. It makes the dream crushing taste sweeter."
Liam leans up against the counter while I prepare his coffee. I hand it to him, then gesture to the table. “Office chair or stool?”
“I’ll go stool,” he says, settling himself on it. He sips the coffee, then opens a black zip-up padfolio and hands me the two-page estimate. “You’ll see I’ve broken it down into two sections—the must-do repair work, then the nice-to-do stuff. I’ve priced out mid-range fixtures and materials, so that bit really depends on your taste. It could go lower, although I wouldn’t suggest going too much lower because you’ll only end up having to replace everything a lot sooner. You could also go as high as the clouds, if you want top of the line. Some people do that too.”