Carolina Mist (11 page)

13

“
I
simply cannot get over how old Sarah Williamson looks.” Belle shook her head as she raised her teacup to her lips.

“How old is she?” Abby asked.

“Well, Sarah must be…
let’s see now, she was the youngest of the Baldwin girls. Eloise, the oldest, was two years behind me in school, that’d make Sarah maybe seventy-five or so.”

Abby suppressed a giggle. Sarah was roughly fifteen years younger than Belle.

“No excuse for letting yourself go like that.” Belle touched a hand to the back of her head, as if checking to make certain the pins holding her hair in the fat bun were secure. “But it was a lovely service. How wonderful to see so many familiar faces again, Abigail. People who were just children when Josie was a child, now parents, grandparents, some of them. And how lovely to have been remembered by so many. It was the nicest gift I’ve had in a very long time, Abigail, and I thank you.”

“You are most welcome.” Abby stood and stretched. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t afford to buy you a present.”

“There is nothing you could have bought for me that would have meant more. However, while we are on the subject of gifts
…
” Belle reached down next to her chair and retrieved a small white box which she extended to a startled Abby.

“Belle, you didn’t
have to…”

“Now, child, it’s just a token. A little something I thought you might like.” Belle folded her hands in her lap and waited expectantly while Abby opened the box.

“Oh, it’s beautiful, Belle.” Abby lifted the gold filigree butterfly from its cotton perch. “Belle, are you sure you want to give this to me? I mean, it’s obviously not a costume piece.”

“If it was a costume piece, I wouldn’t have kept it all these years.” Belle sniffed at the mere suggestion.

“Thank you, Belle, for giving it to me. I absolutely love it.” Abby smiled inwardly at Belle’s indignation as she pinned the butterfly to her green sweater, then picked up the plate holding the few remaining scones and began to clear the table.

“I only meant,” Abby said as she started toward the kitchen, “that I would have expected that you’d want to keep a piece like this in your family.”

“And that’s exactly what I aim to do, my dear,” Belle said softly as she heard Abby push open the kitchen door.

A
bby leaned back against the kitchen counter, trying to decide how to spend the rest of the day. The dinner preparations were, for the most part, well in hand, and Belle’s menu requests carried out to the letter, right down to the sweet potato soup Abby made from Leila’s old handprinted recipe. The only compromise had been on the green beans, which Abby had refused to cook for hours in pork, the way Belle liked them. They would be lightly steamed and crisp, all their vitamins intact.

The turkey Belle had craved was ready to go into the oven at the appointed time. The large bird was an extravagance for just the two of them, but Abby could stretch leftover turkey thirty different ways. The savory co
rn
bread and
sausage stuffing—also Leila’s recipe—was resting in a bowl in the refrigerator.

Dinner wouldn’t be until six. It was only eleven o’clock. She had hours to kill.

She tapped a foot impatiently. Belle would be watching television for the next few hours. The earlier holiday glow from the Christmas service had worn off. Now, it was just another day.

She poked her head into the morning room. “Belle, I think I’ll go up and scrape paper in that back room for a few hours.”

“On Christmas?” Belle appeared horrified.

“I hate to waste the day.” Abby shrugged. “And I already have everything lined up for dinner.”

“You’ll get that flaky stuff all over you,” Belle protested. “You’ll be a mess.”

“It washes off.” Abby laughed and headed toward the steps. “I promise to be cleaned up by dinner.”

“Oh, dear,” Belle whispered to the empty room, through which the faintest scent of lavender began to flow. “I’m afraid that may not be quite soon enough.”

I
n spite of Abby’s best efforts, the paper stuck to the wall like a two-year-old clinging to his mother’s leg. Reluctantly, she climbed down from the ladder and hunted around the room for her spray bottle. Once located under a sheet she’d draped over a chair, the bottle of water accompanied her to the top of the ladder, where she sprayed its contents onto the wall. She hated this technique of loosening the old glue, knowing that the wet paper, once its glue had been reactivated by the water, would stick to everything. The hair on her head, as well as the hair on her arms, her shirt, the drop cloths, all would soon be covered with the sticky confetti.

Abby turned up the radio, which was tuned to the country music station she recently discovered. At first, she’d listened only because it was the only station without static. Soon, however, she grew accustomed to the flavor of the songs and the voices that sung them and found herself turning it on every day as she worked. She developed a true fondness for

Patsy Cline, learning every word to every song, which Abby sang aloud at the top of her lungs.

Good-bye, Motown. Hello, Memphis.

She and Patsy were wailing “Walking After Midnight” when she sensed his presence without having heard his footfall on the worn oak steps. She turned on the ladder in disbelief just as he crossed the threshold.

“Little Abby McKenna.” He grinned with true delight as he crossed the room in three strides and reached up to pluck her from her perch. “All grown up.”

“Alex?” She blinked her doubting eyes.

Ohmigod, it’s true. Listening to country music nonstop for two days does cause hallucinations.

The strong arms of her hallucination spun her around the room.

“Alex?” she repeated again, somewhat dumbly.

“Abby, you look wonderful. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.” The spinning stopped, but he did not release her. “You look just like you did the last time I saw you. You haven’t changed a bit.”

Her head was buzzing loudly, swirling as if some giant whirlpool within her threatened to pull her under. She pushed her hands against his chest to distance herself from him while she sought to compose herself and hush the roar between her ears. After so long, he was suddenly too close too soon.

“Abby, you always were just a wisp of a girl.” He reached down to touch her hair. “Now you’re a wisp of a woman.”

Flakes of wallpaper fluttered around her like a dusty halo.

“Ah
…
I’m afraid I’m a bit of a mess.” She flushed, knowing what she must look like. “You’ve caught me completely off guard. I
f I’d known you were coming…
”

“Gran didn’t tell you?”

“You mean Belle knew?” Abby’s eyes widened. How could Belle have neglected to tell her?

“Alexander?” A woman’s voice—not Belle’s—called from the top of the steps.

“Oh.” Alex looked momentarily over his shoulder. “In here, Melissa.”

Melissa?

Abby’s hands dropped to her sides as the young woman strode into the room, one eyebrow rising in frank curiosity as she viewed the scene before her.

“Melissa Pendleton, this is Abby McKenna.” Alex turned Abby around with his right arm still around her. “Abby was my very best buddy for many years.”

“How very nice for both of you.” Melissa extended a patrician hand in Abby’s direction as her eyes tried to size up both Abby and her importance—past and present—in Alex’s life.

Abby smiled woodenly as she in turn sized up Melissa, whose red silk shirt and black crepe slacks were distinctly out of place in the wreck of the partially stripped room. Abby slid one sneakered foot self-consciously toward the other, painfully comparing her rumpled and dirty self to the carefully made-up, beautifully manicured, and perfectly coifed Melissa. Stubby-nailed fingers sought solace in the pocket of ripped jeans. There was no way to hide the hair, short of draping a drop cloth over her head.

“Abby’s aunt owns this house,” Alex explained, oblivious to the two women’s mutual albeit silent assessment of each other. “She and my grandmother have been best friends forever.”

“Really.” Melissa was relaxing. She had scanned Abby’s appearance and had clearly labeled her no competition.

Abby’s cheeks burned, and her ire began to rise as she sensed Melissa’s blatant dismissal.

“Where is Leila, anyway, Abby?” Alex asked.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Abby groaned. How long did Belle intend to carry on this silly charade?

“Abigail?” Belle called from the bottom of the steps. “Meredy and her little friends are here to sing carols for us. Please do come down for a moment.”

Abby tossed her hands up in exasperation. What was the point in beating around the bush?

“Leila is dead,” she announced flatly as she headed for the door, “and has been for months.”

She left Alex standing in the middle of the room, his jaw hanging open halfway to his knees.

14

“
I
think we had better talk about this.” He leaned against the counter as Abby prepared to chop carrots. She could have bounced the entire bag off the top of Belle’s head for inviting Alex—and therefore Melissa—to join them for Christmas dinner without telling Abby she had done so. “Just what is going on here? What happened to Leila?”

“Leila died in September. She left the house to me.” Abby was clipped and to the point.

“So you’ve been here since September?”

“No. Only for the past month.”

“The past month?” He leaned closer. “Who was taking care of Gran between the time Leila died and the time you got here?”

“Naomi looked in on her every day. And brought food over for her, and ran
her errands, did her laundry…”

“Are you saying that my grandmother lived alone in this big house for two months by herself?” he asked incredulously. “Abby, how could you have let her stay here alone?”

“How could
I
have let her stay here?” She slapped the carrots lou
dly on the counter. “How could
I
have let her stay here? Where the hell were
you?
How could
you
have let her stay here?”

“Up until four weeks ago, I was in Boston. I didn’t know.” He was wide-eyed that she would assume that he would permit his elderly grandmother to live alone in this huge old house.

“Well, neither did I.”

“How could you
not
know? It’s your house.”

“How could
you
not know? She’s your grandmother.” She spat the accusation back at him.

“Nobody told me Leila was dead.” His brown eyes crackled with angry sparks, his voice rising defensively.

“Nobody told
me
Belle was living here.” Abby went him one octave higher.

They stood almost toe to toe, in the same stance, hands on hips. Only their difference in height prevented them from being nose to nose.

“Abby, Miz Matthews asked me to tell you that she’d like you to serve tea soon.” Melissa peered into the kitchen, making no effort to conceal her small pleasure at having found the two of them in obvious disagreement.

“Oh, did she now,” Abby snapped.

“Yes, she did.” Melissa clearly enjoyed the opportunity to pass along the orders. “Oh, and she said for you to make a
fresh
batch of scones.
Buttermilk
scones, she said specifically. My momma had a cook that made the best buttermilk scones in Georgia. Now, you
do
put raisins in yours, don’t you, Abby?”

“Yes,” Abby hissed.

“Well, I was just checking, no need to get huffy,” she purred sweetly as she turned her baby blues on Alex, who was still glaring at the back of Abby’s neck. “Alexander, I’d sure like that little walking tour of this quaint little town right about now.” Melissa looped a hand through his arm possessively and tugged seductively at his shirt sleeve. “Unless, of course, Abby’d like some help with tea.”

“I do not need help.” Abby turned her back abruptly and made a pretense of searching in the cupboard for the bag of flour.

“How much time before tea?” Melissa asked sweetly.

“Forty-five minutes to an hour,” Abby said flatly, refusing to turn around.

“That should be plenty of time. Come on, then, Alex. I want to walk down to that cute little town square we passed on the way in.” She guided him toward the door.

“Abby.” He spoke her name crisply, as if being forced to. “We will finish this conversation later.”

“Count on it.” She tossed the words over her shoulder like a well-aimed fastball.

“Come along now,
Alex,
”
Abby mimicked Melissa’s drawl when she had heard the front door close. “I’m just dying for you to show me around this cute little ole town,
Alex.
”

She measured flour, baking powder, and baking soda into the bowl, muttering in exaggerated imitation, “Now, Abby, Miz Matthews would like her tea soon. And
fresh
scones, Abby.
Buttermilk
scones, Abby, which couldn’t
possibly
be near as good as my momma’s cook’s were. Now, you do
know
enough to put raisins in, don’t you, Abigail?”

Unsalted butter was cut with her fingers and dumped into the flour mixture.

“What the hell do I look like, the downstairs maid?” Abby snarled.

Actually, she knew, that was exactly what she did look like. Her hair was a tangle, and her sweatshirt bore streaks of paint and strips of gummy paper. The knees were out of her jeans. She recognized the painful contrast to Melissa’s impeccable clothes, her carefully groomed hair, each blond strand of which lined up perfectly with the one next to it. Abby hadn’t had a good haircut in six months. Melissa’s nails were perfectly manicured. Abby’s were blunt little stubs worn down by weeks of scraping and painting and cleaning. Melissa’s bearing and self-confident demeanor announced that she was a woman who knew her way around a boardroom. She had “Serious Suit” stamped all over her.

Abby sighed with misery.

I used to look like her,
she wanted to shout.

I used to be her.

Tears stung her eyes as she furiously slapped the dough for the scones onto the baking sheet.
After all these years, why did he have to show up here today? And why did he have to bring Melissa, who, six months ago, could have been my clone? Of course, thes
e days, I look more like “Hazel”
meets “This Old House.
”
He, of course, has to look like a Gap ad.
Abby had not failed to notice how great he looked in

perfectly casual wool tweed slacks. A yummy soft sweater of misty
brown that set off his eyes…

Get a grip, Abigail,
she sternly chastised herself.
This is the same man who had the utter gall to yell at you because
his
grandmother was left alone here for months.

Her temper continued its steady rise until it forced its way from between her clenched teeth in a semi-growl.

“You
betcha
we’ve got things to talk about, buddy boy.” She slammed the oven door. “You bet your sweet ass we do.”

A
bby set up the tea table so that Belle could serve her guests when Alex and Melissa returned from their walk, allowing Abby time to check on the turkey before running upstairs to shower and change. Grumbling as she washed the sticky paper from her hair and arms, cursing aloud as she picked through her clothes, the early morning’s sense of peace on earth, goodwill toward man had definitely made a hasty departure. Blinded with anger, she tripped over the sneakers that sat where she’d dropped them in the middle of the floor, then stumbled, stubbing a toe on the iron bedpost.

“Damn!” she yelled, hopping to the bed, where she sat on the mattress and rubbed her throbbing toe.

Taking a minute to calm down, she forced herself to take deep, slow breaths as she assessed the situation. She thought back to her days at White-Edwards.

What had been her strong suit as an up-and-coming executive?

The ability to define a problem, evaluate the possible solutions, and formulate an aggressive and rational game plan once the most expedient resolution had been identified. She pulled one leg up under her on the bed, leaned forward slightly, and focused on the present situation.

The problem is that I am virtually stuck in this house with no money and no job. I cannot sell this house or otherwise get on with my life as long as Belle is here. I need Alex’s help if I want to be free to leave Primrose at any time in the near future. Alex has to take responsibility for his grandmother. Therefore, Alex must become my ally.

The solution was really quite simple, she reasoned. First, she would calmly and rationally make Alex aware of her dilemma. Surely, he would be sympathetic to her plight, once he knew. It followed that he would then recognize his own part in the eventual resolution of the situation. All she had to do was get his attention and keep it long enough to explain the facts of her life.

Of course, she would have to neutralize Melissa.

Abby flushed, recalling how Melissa had seemed to effortlessly and obviously stamp “No Competition” across Abby’s forehead.

What had she done at White-Edwards when she had vied with one of her peers for a particular account? Had she rolled over and played dead? Adopted the role of shrinking violet?

Hell, no.

She’d looked to her strengths and always—but
always
—
was better prepared than her opposition.

Abby rose and studied herself in the mirror. She pulled her hair back and caught it with a wide gold barrette, allowing wisps to fall in curls around her face. She applied makeup with the concentration of a soldier readying for battle. She slipped into a dusty-green silk shirt and matching short skirt, then hunted through her shoes, which had been confined to a suitcase since she arrived in Primrose. The taupe suede heels would be perfect. She hunted in another suitcase and found the green and gold leather belt she always wore with the outfit. As a finishing touch, she pinned Belle’s gold butterfly slightly below the left shoulder and accented her ears with big gold button earrings before stepping back to assess herself.

Take that, Ms. Melissa.

Abby smiled confidently at her reflection and plotted her strategy.

A superb dinner—Alex has always loved to eat—served with charm, here in the bosom of his childhood.

And if that doesn’t work
—she grinned as she unfastened the top two buttons of her shirt—
there’s always cleavage.