Summer Shadows (28 page)

Abby jumped when Mom leaned across the table and touched her hand.

“Come on, Abby.” Mom smiled her wise, slightly superior smile. “Tell me what’s troubling you. Is it that man downstairs? Don’t you like your job? What?”

It took all Abby’s forbearance not to blurt, “It’s you, Mom!” Instead she said, “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine. Are you going to the grocery store? If you are, I’ll do the dishes so you don’t lose any more time.” She smiled and looked over her shoulder into the living room. “My car keys are in the dish on the end table by the door.”

Without meeting her mother’s eyes, she stood and carried dishes to the sink. She rinsed everything, placing it in the dishwasher. When she returned to the table for the rest of the dishes, Mom was just rising.

“Abby,” she said, her expression troubled.

“Don’t forget to get pulpless orange juice,” Abby cut her off. “Pulpless. No pulp. I hate pulp.”

Mom looked bewildered. “But we always get pulp. You’ve always liked it and it’s good for you.”

“It may be good for me, but I’ve always hated it.”
As I’ve been
telling you for years and years
. “Dad’s the one who likes it. Since this is my house, please get no pulp. Here, let me give you the money.”

She walked to the end table where the keys were and picked up her purse. She pulled out what she thought would be a sufficient amount of money and held it out to her mother.

“Abby!” Mom looked shocked. “I can’t take your money.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I can’t take your money. I’ll buy the food.”

“Mom, it’s my house and my food. Take the money.”

“Abby, you’re my daughter. How can I let my child buy my food?”

First the letter, then Lane, and then that nerve-wracking dinner. Now money. Abby felt her temper rising, her control slipping. “Mom, you’re the guest. The host buys the food.” She grabbed her mother’s hand and stuffed the money in it, closing her fingers over it. “If you weren’t here,” she paused, reminding her mother that she should not be here, “I’d be going to the store, shopping with my own money, not yours. I am far from destitute. Use my money.” She gritted the last out slowly, word by word, through her clenched teeth.

Then she stalked out of the room. As she closed her bedroom door and leaned back on it, her anger still churned in her gut. She wasn’t used to being so full of ire, so undisciplined in her speech. Flopping onto her bed, she stared without seeing at the ceiling.

She was amazed at how draining it was to be a powder keg.

She replayed the conversation about the money, planning to warm herself with righteous indignation. Trouble was, in the replay she heard her tone of voice.
I’m a harpy!
In no time, she was flushed with embarrassment at her bad behavior.

“And you want to be treated as an adult,” she scoffed. “You have to act like one first.”

She heard Mom leave, heard her walk down the stairs, heard the car pull out. Maybe when she came back, they could talk about sharing the expenses. That way Mom would feel included, and Abby wouldn’t feel like the child. She rubbed her hand wearily over her forehead. Why hadn’t she thought of that simple yet practical compromise before she blew up?

I’m as bad as Locusta, the professional poisoner
, she thought.
She used poisoned mushrooms to kill the Emperor Claudius to make way for
Nero to ascend the throne. At Nero’s orders, she then poisoned Brittanicus, the new emperor’s half brother and potential rival. I, on the other hand, might not annihilate Mom with a literal poison, but I am in the process of killing our relationship with venomous words
.

It was a very sobering thought.

“Be kind and compassionate to one another.”

The padding of little cat feet on the door reminded Abby that Puppy liked to be in the bedroom with her. She opened the door and found Puppy sitting, staring up at her.

“Hello, baby.” Falling to her knees, she picked up the huge furry beast. Puppy promptly went noodle-limp in her arms, purring with abandon. Abby sank all the way to the floor, sitting with her back against the doorjamb. She raised Puppy to her face, rubbing her cheek in the soft fur. There was something so soothing in the silky feel, the tactile sensation.

“We’ll make it somehow, won’t we, baby? If we’ve come this far, we’ll figure out how to go farther, right?”

The night Sam had brought Puppy home was one of the good memories Abby had of that far-distant place called her marriage. Not that the other memories were bad; they weren’t. They were just fuzzy, insubstantial, fading. But recall of the night Puppy came was as clear and sharp as the sky in crisp midwinter.

Maddie had just turned two, and she was thrilled with the rambunctious black-and-white kitten tumbling about her floor. Her little face was alight with joy, her big dark eyes, so much like her mother’s, dancing with delight.

“Puppy!” she screamed as she launched herself at the kitten, grabbed it about the neck, and squeezed.

Sam and Abby dove to save the cat, only to find the animal purring, eyes at half-mast, as the little girl hugged it.

“Kitty,” Abby said as she stroked a finger down the kitten’s back.

“Puppy,” Maddie said.

“Kitty,” Sam said, a bemused smile on his face as he watched his daughter.

“Puppy,” pronounced Maddie, face set, voice uncompromising. She climbed to her feet, picked the animal up around its middle, and walked across the room with it draped over her arms like a furry throw. She turned to stare at her parents, totally unimpressed
by their size and supposed authority, her little feet planted as far apart as she could manage, her chubby toddler’s jaw set at a very firm angle. “Puppy.”

Thus Puppy the kitty had become.

Abby picked herself up from the floor, not an easy feat with Puppy still draped over one arm, and walked to the kitchen. She set Puppy on the counter where the cat collapsed, promptly falling asleep.

“Don’t tell Mom I let you get up here,” she instructed. “Somehow I don’t think she’d approve.”

In answer Puppy sighed out a huge puff of air.

“Yeah, I can see you’re scared of her,” Abby said. “Me too.”

When the dishes were finished, Abby went to the porch. Puppy jumped from the counter and followed. There Abby laid newspapers all over the top of the glass table as well as the floor surrounding and under it, while Puppy jumped into her favorite chair and curled in a ball, falling back to sleep.

Abby set her white wicker wall shelf on the table on its back with her paint can beside it. She pried the lid off, stirring the paint like the man at Kmart had told her. She picked up her brush and dipped it into the can. With quick brush strokes, she turned the top of the unit deep green. She grinned. Next came one side, then the bottom.

When she began the second side, she kept bumping her elbow against the paint can. There wasn’t enough room on the table to paint this side with the can staying where she had originally placed it. She picked it up, then set it on the wide porch rail. She adjusted some of the newspapers so that they covered the small stretch of floor between the rail and the table. The last thing she wanted was to get green paint on Marsh’s soft gray floor.

Finishing the side, she went on to the inside of the shelf, moving around the table for best access to all the corners. Getting the green between all those intertwined strips of whatever—she very much doubted it was real rattan—was no easy chore, and the wicker drank the paint like a thirsty man in the desert drank water.

The can was almost empty, but she was almost finished. She should have enough and a bit to spare. She hummed as she worked, happy to be doing something that was working out so
well. She straightened from her position on the side of the table farthest from the rail and froze.

Puppy was on the railing, walking purposefully toward the paint can. When had she awakened and left her comfy bed in the chair across the porch?

“No, Puppy!” Abby called, hurrying around the table, but she was too late. The cat butted her black-and-white head against the can of forest green paint, lifting to rub her cheek against the smooth surface. She came up under the handle as it lay against the can’s side, and the almost empty can lifted, tilted.

Abby squeezed her eyes shut and heard the dull thud as it tipped over, smacking the rail. She cracked open her eyes and saw green paint spreading like an oil slick on a pond. Why hadn’t she put newspaper on the rail? She’d never even thought to. Now forest green would discolor the pristine white of the railing. She stared at the spreading green blob and sighed. It was a fitting end to a terrible day.

It got worse quickly. Puppy butted the bottom of the leaking can. Abby gave a tiny scream as it clattered over the rail and crashed to the porch below.

She rushed to the rail and peered over. She moaned. A green stain was spreading across the seat of Marsh’s red Adirondack chair, the one he pulled up to the railing so he could rest his feet as he pecked at his laptop and took periodic glances at the ocean. The can itself lay in the deep V of the seat, and more paint was dripping through the slats of the chair onto the gray floor.

She slapped her hand over her mouth in horror though she wasn’t certain whether it was a fit of hysterical giggles or sobs that threatened to escape. How had an almost empty can produced so much paint? She knew she had to clean it up before he saw what she’d done.

Maybe he’s out to dinner with his father and Lane. Lord, let him be out so I can clean up the mess before he gets home
.

She was ready to grab her rags and rush downstairs when she heard Fargo begin to bark in that obnoxious whoof of his. She peered over the rail again, and there sat the beast, front feet planted in the green pool where it had leaked through the chair. He was looking back over his shoulder, calling, “Come here, Marsh. See what she’s done now,” as clearly as if he could speak.

Marsh came, peering up at her, his face a mask of I-don’t-believe-it! She smiled wanly and waved. He didn’t snort with disgust or yell at her. He said with quiet resignation, “Abby. Why am I not surprised?”

“It was Puppy.”

He spread his hands to the sky and nodded. “Of course. The cat.” He turned his face to his dog. “Fargo, are you hungry? Furry takeout is being served upstairs.” The rottweiler’s hind end began to vibrate.

“Hey!” Abby called, belatedly grabbing Puppy and dumping her on the floor. “There’s no need to get hostile.”

Marsh looked at her once again. “Right.” He looked down at his chair, and Abby saw his shoulders slump.

“Try and think of it this way,” she offered. “Your laptop wasn’t hurt.”

“That’s a real comfort.” Again he wasn’t sarcastic or unkind. In fact, it would have helped if he had been. Then she could have gotten defensive.

“I’m sorry, Marsh,” she whispered, blinking against sudden tears. “I’m so sorry.”

He looked back at her with a wry smile. “It’s only a chair. And a floor.” He studied her. “You’re not going to cry, are you? Don’t cry. My tenants aren’t allowed to cry. Don’t you know? There’s no crying in Seaside.”

She couldn’t help it; she smiled. “Tom Hanks.
A League of Their Own.”

“Marshall, what’s wrong?” The senator’s voice boomed from the house. Abby flinched.

“Nothing, Dad,” Marsh called over his shoulder. “I’ll be right there.”

But of course the senator couldn’t stand not knowing all that was happening. Abby heard the door open and his intake of breath. “What happened here?”

The next thing she knew, she was staring down not only at Marsh but his father.

“Senator,” she said in a shaky voice. “How nice to see you again.”

Then she was looking into the mocking eyes of the beauteous Lane. “Well, had a little accident, did we, ah, Mandy, isn’t it?”

“Abby,” Marsh and Abby said at the same time.

Lane smirked. “How sweet. A duet.”

Marsh grabbed the handle of the paint can and picked it up. “Lane.” There was warning in his voice.

“Whatever.” Lane raised her eyes to Abby again, mockery more than evident. “Whoever.”

As she looked up, a pool of paint that had gathered at the slightly downward outer edge of Abby’s railing lost its surface tension. A deep green stream dropped with a precision worthy of a smart bomb right onto Lane’s head, mingling the viscous green with her oh-so-carefully and professionally spun silver-gold.

Lane’s look of outrage as she jumped back was wonderful. Abby gave a bark of laughter. She couldn’t help it. Lane’s snarl as the paint ran down her face onto her blue silk shirt and white linen trousers sent Abby into more nervous laughter.

Horrified at herself, she backed away from the rail, hand clasped over her mouth, until she was pressed against the wall of the house under the shade of the great awning. She fought to control the laughter, gulping, gasping, trying to get enough air to calm her pounding heart, to ease her throbbing head.

She sank to the floor, overwhelmed.
It’s just too much, Lord. Too much
.

She began sobbing with exhaustion, embarrassment, and distress.

Lord, this was supposed to be a summer of sunlight and new beginnings. How did it become one of so many Summer Shadows: Seaside Seasons Book Two?

S
NIFFING BACK HER
tears, Abby cleaned the paint off the railing as well as she could. It would have to be repainted. She would visit the paint man at Kmart again for the needed supplies. She thought that at this rate, he and she were going to become fast friends.

As she cleaned, she looked over the railing once and saw Marsh mopping up the mess she’d made in his chair. She felt guilty about him doing what was her responsibility, but there was no way on earth that she could bring herself to go downstairs while Lane and Senator Winslow were still present. She simply didn’t have the courage to face them. She’d never have the courage to face them.

She heard their driver say, “It’s nine o’clock, Senator. Are you ready to leave?”

“Thank you, Morris. Let me get my wife.”

“Uh, Mrs. Winslow! What happened?” Abby could hear the surprise in Morris’s voice.