“Hugs and shit.”
“Hugs and shit back.”
* * *
I stand at the entrance to the inn's lively pub/dining room with the latest Liane Moriarty tucked under my arm, scanning the room for a quiet spot at the back. Seaside views, dark woods, and cheerful lace tablecloths make it look like a scene out of Murder She Wrote. I half expect to see Angela Lansbury typing away in the corner.
The ten or so tables are packed with tourists eating while they remember the day they’ve just had. A well-shined mahogany bar sits on the opposite side of the room, and a man with a shock of thick white hair and rosy cheeks is behind it, filling a glass with red wine. My only option is the empty stool at the bar. God, I hope this guy doesn’t serve up a side order of chitchat with my meal.
Seating myself, I hardly have time to read the chalkboard menu on the wall before I am greeted by the man. “Start you off with some wine, love?”
“I’m thinking of a beer, actually.”
“Guinness?”
“Sounds delightful.” I open my book and look for my spot on the page.
“Oh, so you’re our new Yank.” He’s obviously Nettie’s husband, based on his Irish accent. Well, and the fact that he’s working here. He takes a mug from under the counter and pulls on the tap. “Nettie told me you’d checked in.”
Swirls of amber liquid fill the glass, making my mouth water. “Abby Carson.”
“We were hoping you might pop down for dinner, but Nettie thought you’d be too tired.” He gestures with his head to the woman I met earlier today, who is returning to the bar with an empty tray.
She has cleaned up from her afternoon of gardening and is now dressed in a smart white shirt and gray slacks. “Welcome, Abby! Glad you could join us.”
"Just for a quick bite while I read my book, then off to bed."
Nettie smiles at me but talks to her husband. "Abby here likes to be alone."
"We'll have to change that, then won't we?" he says, sliding the glass to me.
"No, you won't," I say, matching his cheerful tone.
He laughs and points at me. "Oh, she's a quick one."
"Quick and dangerous," I mutter, looking down at my book again as a clear sign I'm not joking.
Instead of taking the hint, he says, "We’re transplants like you. Moved here from Dublin thirty years ago. Never looked back. This here’s God’s country.”
Nettie steps behind the bar and starts loading the tray with cutlery and napkins. “So, what brings you to our little corner of the world, Abby? We were speculating last night after Eunice dropped off your key. This mug head thought you were running from the law, but I said it’s more likely you’re running from a bad man.” She leans in and gives me a conspiratorial look.
“Now, is that any way to talk about your loving husband?” He holds out his hand to me. “I’m Peter, by the way. Just think of me as the poor bloke who fell in love with the cruel-but-beautiful Nettie when he was still wearing short pants.”
I laugh in spite of myself and shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“So?” they both say at the same time.
“What?” I’m momentarily confused, then remember they want to know why I’m here. I give them a serious look, glancing around the room, then lean in toward them and lower my voice. “Peter’s right. I’m on the run.”
“I knew it!” He slaps his hand on the bar. “Ha! Took forty-two years, woman, but by God, I’m finally right about something!”
His wife gives him a disgusted look. “She’s not serious, you big dope!”
His face falls, and he turns back to me, utterly dejected.
I give him an apologetic little shrug. “I’m not, but it’s a much better story than the truth.”
A man’s voice cuts across the room. “Miss! Excuse me, can we get some more water?”
Nettie smiles at him. “Of course, love. On my way.”
Peter passes off a jug to her and she’s gone, smoothly making her way through the maze of tables and diners.
A bell dings from behind a door next to the bar. Peter disappears, then, before the door stops swinging, he’s back, arms loaded with four plates of food. The restaurant is a swirl of activity, my hosts getting so busy they have no time to continue peppering me with personal questions. Thank God. I can be left alone for a few minutes. Although, now that I’m not talking with anyone, I feel like the girl at the homecoming dance wearing glasses, braces, and headgear. Being alone is so much more comfortable when you’re by yourself.
I glance around and spot an elderly couple at a table by the window smiling at me. They’re wearing matching blue sweater vests. The woman raises her wineglass to me and says, “You must be Abby. Welcome to South Haven!”
What the …?
The man, who I assume is her husband, adds, “We’re excited to have a real New Yorker among us.”
I give them a flash of teeth and a quick nod, then return my gaze to my book in a way that says no small talk for this lady. But instead of reading, I try to decide how much to reveal about myself to my nosy neighbors. It’s kind of nice not to be getting the ‘pity face’ for once. Maybe I could pretend I’m just a single woman—a novelist who travels the world for her art, breaking hearts wherever she goes. Or I could tell them the truth—that my dead husband came to me in a dream and told me I should move here. That actually might be the most effective way to go, since people tend to shy away from crazy. Or I could just be a woman of mystery who never gives a direct answer.
A lull brings Nettie and Peter both back to the bar at the same time. She sets her tray on the counter. “Well now, back to what brought you here. Let’s have it.”
I stare at her for a second, then hear myself say, “I lost my husband last year, and it was time to make a fresh start.” So much for being mysterious.
They both look at me for a moment, but surprisingly neither of them gives me the pity face. There are no awkward glances at their feet. No pauses while they try to think of what to say. They both simply nod.
Nettie’s words come out in a very matter-of-fact tone. “Well, this is a most excellent place to start over. You’ll love it here.”
Peter wipes a bit of liquid off the bar top. “Yup, you’re in for a real treat tonight. We’re havin’ a kitchen party, which is a Cape Breton tradition. A bunch of locals come in every Thursday to play music and sing. Mostly Celtic tunes. I’ll be getting out my accordion.”
Nettie, who is making her way across the room again, calls over her shoulder, “And I’ve been warming up my vocal cords.”
Peter covers his mouth with one hand and lowers his voice. “And by ‘warming them up,’ she means screeching at her loving husband all day.”
Nettie shouts back. “I heard that!”
I look at him with wide eyes and stifle a laugh.
“I’ve no idea how she does that, but it’s fecking scary, isn’t it?” Peter says while he pulls another pint. “Do you play an instrument?”
“I used to play the oboe in high school band class, but I honestly don’t know if I could even read a simple song anymore.”
“Well, stay and listen, then. It’s good for the soul,” Peter says definitively.
“That it is,” Nettie adds as she swings back around to the bar. “Another round for table five,” she says to Peter. Glancing at me, she asks, “So, how’s the house? Have you had a chance to go through it?”
“Yes, but it’s hard to tell what shape it’s in with an inch of dust covering everything.” I have a sip of beer, then dab my top lip with a napkin.
“The electrical’s in need of work.” Peter nods. “And as far as I can remember, the plumbing was starting to go before Violet moved out. Isn’t that right, Nettie? The toilet or something?”
“Yes, and it’s been a long while since the roof was done. We had ours done at the same time, so that’s going on, what, eighteen years? Maybe twenty?”
My heart drops to my shoes. My little nest egg is about to get cracked wide open.<
br />
Peter wraps his knuckles on the bar. “You’ll want to call the Millhouse boys. They’ll have a look and tell you what you need done.”
Nettie’s back at the counter, looking over his shoulder. “Not the Millhouse boys. They’ll be on the water by now for lobster season. She should be asking Liam Wright.” She gives him a pointed look.
Peter’s face lights up. “Well, of course! Why didn’t I think of Liam?”
“Because you’re a little slow on the uptake.” Nettie grins at Peter, and he gives her a mock scowl.
“Liam’s just the bloke for the job. He should be by in a bit. Comes every Thursday. A hell of a fiddle player, that one.”
Great. Because that’s what I need in a contractor—a hell of a fiddle player and the guy you get when the Millhouse boys have gone fishing.
“He’s not too hard on the eyes either,” Nettie says, with a wink.
And … there it is. He’s obviously single, therefore the two of us are destined to fall in love. You know, because we’re probably the only two single people in the village, so we must be compatible. I take another swig of my beer to stop myself from going full New-York-stay-out-of-my-business bitch on this nice unsuspecting Irish couple.
* * *
Why do I not drink more often? I'm almost through my second pint and I honestly can't remember feeling so good. I don't even care how out of place I am. Instead, I happily devour a slice of homemade lemon meringue pie. Dinner service has ended, and most of the guests have filed out, replaced by several locals bearing instruments. A new feeling takes over the restaurant. It’s an easy, relaxed vibe full of inside jokes and laughter as they rearrange the tables into a large horseshoe. I rush to finish my dessert, hoping to make my exit before I attract the attention of every snoopy musician in the village.
Peter gives me a nod. “Liam’s just come in now.”
I turn and see a man standing at the entrance. He looks to be in his early forties. Medium height, with the sturdy build of a fisherman or maybe a miner in days gone by. He has shaggy sandy-brown hair and thick stubble that’s somewhere between needing a shave and needing another couple of months to grow. His eyes, though. There’s something about them that makes me stare a moment too long. They’re the shade of ice blue usually reserved for wolves.
He looks straight at Nettie and Peter, and my gaze follows his. They are standing side by side with matching hopeful grins. They look at me, then back at him, and when I glance in his direction again, I’m met with a look of dread. It doesn’t take me more than a second to figure out he thinks he’s about to be set up and he’s absolutely horrified at the thought of having any of his parts touch any of my parts.
And here I am gawking at him like a moron.
Blue sweater vest woman walks by and touches my arm. “You’ve got a bit of a mustache, love.”
She hurries off in the direction of the ladies’ room while I dab my upper lip with a napkin, confirming that I did, in fact, have a frothy white beer mustache.
Well, that’s that, then. The Millhouse boys it is.
“Liam! Come over and meet Abby!” Peter calls.
No. Please don’t. I swivel my stool to face the bar, and in my overly enthusiastic effort, I swing it too far and bang my left knee on the wood bracket. The force of it causes my body to jar and jerk back to my right and I plant my left hand in what’s left of my pie. I’m a regular Princess Di this evening, all elegance and grace.
Check, please.
Nettie gives me a concerned look. “You all right, love?”
“I’m fine. I just remembered I have to make a phone call. Can you put this on my room?” I smile too brightly as I slide off the stool and start for the side door as fast as my legs can carry me.
“Well, come back when you’re done so you don’t miss the music!” Nettie calls.
“And you still need to meet Liam!” Peter yells.
“I most certainly will!” Not.
Chapter Six
Seize the moment. Remember all those women on the Titanic who waved off the dessert cart.
~ Erma Bombeck
Ten minutes later, I’m lying in the tub with steam rising up around me. Mr. Whitman sits on the ledge, dipping his paw in the water, consumed by his own reflection. Poor guy. No matter how many baths I take, I don’t think he’ll ever figure out he’s the cat who appears. “It’s just you, Walt.”
My mind wanders back to Liam walking into the pub, and my cheeks burn at the memory of the horrified look on his face. Why I care, I have no idea. It's not like I was looking to be the next Mrs. Wright. Or Mrs. Anything for that matter. I’ve got Walt, and when I sleep, I’ve still got Isaac to stare at me lovingly. He didn’t recoil when he first saw me. Mind you, I was twenty-two and didn't have a frothy white mustache.
I try to imagine what I looked like all those years ago, sitting in the faculty lounge, a young teacher’s assistant, shamelessly gazing at Professor Isaac Carson as he and my mentor, Professor Juanita Rodriguez, debated the rightful winner of the Booker Prize. I soaked in his words, not understanding the nuances of their discussion, but loving the sound of his deep voice.
He finally glanced at me, and when his eyes met mine, I knew love at first sight was not just a myth. It never bothered me that he was nearing forty, the sprinkle of gray hair and the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled making me sigh like a fool. I didn’t understand those were signs that much of his time on this earth had passed by already. I was too young to think about any of that. Too naïve to understand what it would mean to be left behind.
Instead, I looked forward to Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays when Juanita and I would go to the faculty lounge after her office hours. I’d wake early to shower and blow out my hair, then stand in front of my tiny closet, searching in vain for something sophisticated to wear.
It took a year for Isaac to resign himself to the fact that he would actually date from within the pool of graduate students. It was my writing that did it—a short story Juanita had asked him to read that I wrote about a birdcage. Before that, he was convincingly disinterested in my fluttering eyelids. Although, after we were solidly a couple, he admitted otherwise. He confessed he had done his best not to notice me or to inhale my perfume whenever I sat next to him. It turned out Isaac had also anticipated seeing me at lunch and got up early to shave and put on something that might make him look more hip.
I smile, thinking of that time in our lives—the thrill of it all. Sneaking around so we didn’t get found out. Going on dates far off campus. Making love until the early morning hours at his apartment. He would drop me off at the train station nearest the university, and we would kiss like a couple of fools before I would reluctantly peel myself from his embrace and the warmth of his car, only to see him in the hallway of the English Literature building twenty minutes later.
The passionate first few years turned into a very real and beautiful partnership. Something rich and easy and supportive. Isaac was the first to encourage me to write a novel. As soon as I finished my graduate degree, he told me to take a year and write. I didn’t have to work. We could get married, and I could live off him until I made it big, then he could quit teaching and live off me. That was how he proposed. He made it sound casual, like I could take it or leave it depending on how I felt at that moment.
I took it, of course, jumping into his arms in Central Park and kissing him wildly. We were married a month later in that same spot, tucked away at the back of the Shakespeare Garden. A small ceremony under an old maple tree that stretched its arms out to shelter us from the heat of the June sun. We had two dozen guests, including my parents, who accessorized their Sunday finest with sour expressions. They expected me to come home to Portland when I finished school. Instead, I married a man nearly twice my age, intending to stay two thousand miles away from them for the rest of my life. They certainly couldn’t wrap their heads around my plan to ‘sit around daydreaming and expect to earn a living.'
But even
worse than my career choice—'a long shot at best,’ as my dad called it—they were horrified to find out Isaac and I didn’t want children. He was not the man they would have chosen for me. But he’s the one I chose for myself. He’s the one I miss with every cell in my body.
Through the open window in my room, I hear a guitar being tuned while people chat and laugh. Soon, the talking stops and the sound of a lone, low voice wafts up from the pub. The words aren’t in English, but both the voice and the tune are hauntingly beautiful and I know it’s about love lost. More voices join in, then a flute. Next is a violin, and I can't help but wonder if it's Liam. Apparently, he's a hell of a fiddle player. The thought of him brings another flash of embarrassment, and I long for a third pint to distance me from it. This is why I prefer cats. They don’t make you feel things you don't want to feel. Humiliation. Rejection. Longing.
This song is making me miss Isaac so much it hurts.
That's it. I'm shutting the window.
I step out of the water, wrap my hair in a towel, and slide on my robe. Hurrying to the window, I start to shut it but don't. Instead, I listen as the song builds to a crescendo, torturing myself a little longer for reasons I don't understand. I sigh and lean on the window ledge as the torment continues. The sun sinks into the sea as the first stars appear. Walt rubs against my leg, and I pick him up so I can stroke his soft head. "You're my people, Walt. Everyone else can just suck it."
* * *
The next morning, I wake having dreamed about Isaac. For a moment, I’m blissfully unaware that he’s gone, because we’ve just been strolling hand in hand down 7th Avenue, and he’s been patiently listening as I try to decide on furniture for our new house. I love the caramel leather chair, but I think the dark brown one might fit better in the room. In the end, he suggests waiting until the carpet is ripped up to see what’s under it. Better to have no chair for a few extra weeks than the wrong one for a decade. I tell him he’s so sensible.
The After Wife Page 5