Love Like the Dickens: A Heartswell Harbour Romance

by Mavis Williams

  Paul shrugged and lurched up off the sofa. Oscar was surprised by the softness of his belly as he stood and stretched. Paul had always been big, but not big and soft. What was once muscle was rapidly turning to flab. He shuffled off to the kitchen in his bare feet, scratching the back of his head as he went. Oscar followed, taking in the unwashed dishes in the sink, and the sticky spots on the kitchen table. He pulled out a chair and sat down as Paul turned around from the fridge with a beer in his hand.

  “Nora says you haven’t been working much,” he began, needing to fill the silence around the glug and swallow of beer.

  “Next week. Got some shifts at the factory over in Weymouth. Tough to find forklift jobs these days. Thinking about going for my linesman course, you know? Work for the power corporation, make the big bucks.”

  “The linesman course.” Oscar thought for a moment. He knew the community college offered a linesman course in Amherst, a five-hour drive away from Heartswell. “That would take you a fair distance from home.”

  “Yup. Cost’s about ten grand too, but it’d be worth it.” Paul glugged more beer. “You know they sends linesmen down to hurricane places, eh?”

  “Hurricane places?” Oscar wondered if he should have said yes to the beer.

  “Florida, and them islands down south that get all torn up after the hurricanes.” Paul gestured north with his beer. Oscar refrained from correcting him. “Linesmen go down there and make a killing. Big bucks.”

  Oscar nodded. He understood big bucks. And Paul didn’t seem to be making any bucks at the moment, with an eight month’s pregnant wife working full time to pay the bills.

  “Nora’s having a baby, Paul,” he began. “Now probably isn’t the best time to be planning an expensive and dramatic change to your lifestyle. She’s going to need you here.”

  Paul sat down, cradling his beer on the table in front of him. “She been talking to you?”

  “Of course,” Oscar nodded. “I see her almost every day. She’s exhausted, Paul. She needs some support. Having a baby is no joke.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that,” Paul snorted. “Life ain’t no joke around here no more, I can tell ya that much. Everything’s a big deal with the baby-this and the baby-that, and why aren’t you working today? And how are we gonna pay for this? It’s like having a baby has made her a crazy person, you know?”

  Oscar blinked at his son-in-law. He had never much cared for Paul, but Nora chose him, and the wedding had happened, and he had quietly let Nora make her own decisions. Nora was usually incredibly good at making decisions.

  She had probably made a poor one in choosing this man as a partner.

  “Paul.” He weighed his words carefully, steepling his fingers on the table. “Grow up.”

  Paul looked at him, frowning like he’d just been told his fly was down in front of a thousand people.

  “You can’t come in here and talk to me like that,” he blustered. “This is my house. Who do you think you are?”

  Oscar stood up. “I am Nora’s father. And this is, actually, her house.”

  “I’m her husband.” He sounded like a petulant child. “My wife. My house.”

  “Your name isn’t on the deed, Paul,” Oscar said calmly. “You will remember, of course, that this was Nora’s childhood home. The deed is in both Nora and Paisley’s names, since I deeded the house to both of them after my divorce.”

  “That don’t mean nothin’,” Paul sputtered.

  “It means quite a lot actually. Nora can ask you to leave whenever she wants to, and you will. Leave. Unless—”

  The door behind Oscar closed with a loud click.

  “Unless what, Dad?” Nora stood by the door. “Are you threatening my husband? What is going on here?”

  “Yeah!” Paul stood up. “Your old man here thinks I’m not supportive. Comes over here all high and mighty and interfering—”

  “Shut up, Paul.” Nora settled a bag of groceries on the counter and put her hand wearily on the small of her back. Her stomach strained against the fabric of her sweater, her winter coat flapping open. Oscar realized she didn’t have a maternity coat. She was wearing her normal coat which couldn’t close over the mound of her belly.

  He felt a dark rush of shame. Paul wasn’t the only man in her life who let her down.

  “What are you doing, Dad?”

  “I came to talk to Paul about —” He gestured at her stomach. “I realize you do not welcome my interference, but I’m worried about you, Nora. I want to help.”

  Nora glanced around the wreckage of the kitchen, her eyes resting on the beer leaving a wet ring on the table.

  “You want to help?” she asked. “How about you do the dishes, or vacuum? Or take a twelve-hour shift at the hospital on a day when we’re short three doctors? Or hey, why don’t you come over and yell at my husband and see if that helps anything?”

  There were tears in her voice and it was that more than anything else that broke his heart. His strong, lion-hearted daughter who never cried. Why had he waited so long to offer her help?

  “And you—” She turned to Paul. “Dad’s right. This is my house, and you know what else? This is my baby. So, it’s time you packed up and found someplace else to live because this—” she waved her arm at the mess surrounding them, encompassing the kitchen, the beer, and the soft belly. “This isn’t happening anymore. I’m done.”

  The kitchen faucet dripped repetitively in the silence.

  Oscar looked at Paul. Paul looked at Nora. Nora stood like an argonaut with both hands on her hips and a look that was too much like relief for Oscar to believe she was actually mad.

  “I’m going out,” she said. “I’m giving you some time to pack your things, and when I come home this evening you will not be here.”

  Paul opened his mouth to protest but she held up her hand.

  “I’ll let you know when the baby’s born, Paul,” she said. “But between now and then, I don’t want to see you.”

  She left the room and they listened to her heavy footsteps down the hall, followed by the quiet closing of the front door.

  Paul chugged the remains of his beer. “See, man? I told you. She’s gone mental!”

  Oscar began to fill the sink with warm water. He would at least clean the kitchen before he left.

  “I think you’d better pack your bags,” he said over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to be you if you’re still here when she comes home.”

  Eleven

  Belinda stormed into the Book Nook bringing a drift of snow and a chill like she was Scrooge entering his counting-house.

  “Bah, humbug?” Agnes offered helpfully from behind the counter. She was refilling pens and sticky note displays, totally engrossed in office supplies and order. It was bliss, truly. Her script for A Christmas Carol lay open on the counter, her lines highlighted in yellow. Agnes loved a good yellow highlighter. It gave her a sense of control over her fear of forgetting her lines.

  “Agnes, I simply must divest myself of my angst!”

  “What kind of angst are you divesting, Belinda? Wuthering Heights kind of angst?” Agnes asked. “Or the Twilight Series kind of angst?”

  “I think MacBeth would fit the bill nicely.” Belinda ripped off her gloves, sending a shower of melted snowdrops over the counter. Agnes deftly moved the sticky notes out of the way.

  “I’d be one of the weird sisters with you, Belinda.” Agnes grinned. She couldn’t believe it, but she actually thought she could audition for the role of one of the three witches in Shakespeare’s MacBeth. She’d do it just for the costumes, never mind the cackling.

  “That is possibly the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time.” Belinda sniffed.

  Agnes hastily pushed a box of tissues over the counter toward the suddenly teary-eyed elder. Oscar had asked her to mind the store while he went out, so she was on her own.

  “Tell me everything.” She came out from behind the counter and led Belinda over to the comfy
chairs by the fire. That had been Savannah’s trademark phrase whenever they had been apart and things had happened with work, or boys, or their absent parents.

  Tell me everything.

  It was their code, their password to share the deepest moments of their lives without judgement or interruption. It usually involved ice cream and caramel sauce.

  “I know just what we need.” Agnes pushed Belinda into a comfy chair, grabbed her purse and her coat and dashed toward the front door. “Hold the fort, Belinda, I’ll be right back!”

  Agnes tugged her coat close to her body as she braved the icy wind off the harbour. She dashed down the sidewalk, her sneakers slipping on the ice. Where could she get ice cream on a frosty afternoon in December? She looked at the Lighthouse. Twinkle lights illuminated the entry like the portal to Christmas itself. She slipped and slid across the road, puffing billows of cold breath as she pulled herself up the stairs and into the cosy café that graced the main floor of the renovated Lighthouse.

  She welcomed the embracing warmth of the café, her gaze taking in the driftwood art and lovely framed paintings on the walls. It smelled of saltwater taffy and childhood. She hesitated, wondering if she should just go drag Belinda from the Book Nook to this cosy island of warmth instead.

  A willowy red-head approached her, smiling in welcome.

  “I’m not staying,” Agnes began, hoping she could just get some ice cream and dash back to the Book Nook before Belinda dried her tears. “I need ice cream.”

  The woman blinked at her, and then seemed to decide that this was a perfectly reasonable request despite the scattered flurries drifting against the porthole windows of the café.

  “Chocolate, cookie dough or candy cane?”

  “Ohhh, decisions…” Agnes groaned. “All three?”

  “Come with me.”

  The redhead took her by the hand and lead her toward the bar in the back of the café. She showed her to a stool, smiled, and disappeared behind a swinging door promising to return momentarily with a trio of delight.

  Agnes sighed happily. She swivelled around on her stool, surveying the room and the small crowd enjoying coffee and pastries and the warm ambiance of the circular room. Nora sat alone at a table against the wall.

  Very pregnant Nora, looking very alone.

  Agnes watched the younger woman curiously. She seemed so confident, so sure of herself as she navigated the organization of the theatre, the rental of the AirBNB, the fact that she was imminently to give birth to her first child. Agnes was totally intimidated. She spun around on her stool, facing the wall, hoping Nora wouldn’t see her.

  #7: Say yes to challenging moments.

  Bucket List number seven reared its ugly head once again, forcing Agnes to turn back toward Nora. She should go over and say hello. It was a normal thing to do, to say hello to someone when you ran into them in a public place.

  Totally normal.

  And totally not within Agnes’ comfort zone.

  Go big or stay home.

  Agnes cursed her dead sister’s echo as she drove herself up from her stool and walked across the room.

  Nora’s face was tired and sad before she had the time to rearrange her features into the no-nonsense expression Agnes expected. But that split-second of raw emotion was real. Nora was lonely.

  “How are you, Nora?”

  “Pregnant,” Nora said, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. “What are you doing here?”

  Agnes decided to accept Nora’s question as a friendly inquiry rather than a forceful demand.

  “Belinda is sad, and she needs ice cream.” Agnes pulled out a chair and sat down. She imagined she could hear her dead sister’s applause in her mind. “I’m running interference between two estranged cousins and frozen dairy products seems like the best way to mend the rift.”

  Nora blinked at her.

  “My sister and I always used to eat a ton of ice cream when we were sad.” She spoke into the awkward silence. “Chocolate chip cookie dough was the best for a break-up.”

  Nora continued to stare at her.

  “Peppermint chip for a bad moment with a boss.” Agnes refused to give up. She would list off all the flavors until she got a response, dammit!

  “Pistachio for a fat day.”

  Nora looked at the table. Her eyes filled with tears, which she brushed away abruptly.

  “What flavor would you recommend for divorce?” she asked quietly, her eyes glued to the table.

  Agnes gently put her hand on Nora’s arm. She had no experience with divorce, very little experience with men at all, but she understood grief. She understood grief like she understood breathing. And Nora was grieving.

  “Definitely Raspberry Cheesecake,” she said quietly. “With whipped cream.”

  Nora sniffed, a tear dripped onto the table like a secret whispered in a dark room.

  ∞∞∞

  Ten minutes later, Agnes dashed upstairs to the apartment above the Book Nook to gather three bowls and spoons and napkins. She grabbed a soft blanket off the sofa, and a pillow off her bed. Juggling her armful of supplies, she returned to the comfy chairs by the fire wondering what on earth she would get these two women to talk about.

  She passed Nora the pillow, and Belinda the blanket. She scooped them all out a serving of each flavour of ice cream, and she curled herself onto the rug in front of the fire.

  The Book Nook settled comfortably around them like a warm old sweater while the cold wind off the harbour rattled the windows. The fire crackled with the mirth of forgotten childhoods.

  “I want to kill my cousin.” Belinda scooped ice cream into her mouth as if to stopper her unkind thoughts from spilling forth.

  “I want to kill my husband.” Nora rested her bowl on the bulge of her enormous belly.

  They both looked at Agnes, waiting expectantly for her contribution.

  “Sometimes—” She looked from one woman to the next. From the youthful glow of Nora’s rosy cheeks to the pale wrinkles around Belinda’s mouth and eyes. “Sometimes I want to kill my sister, but she’s already dead.”

  The fire crackled. The wind howled. The Book Nook settled. They chatted companionably, Agnes feeling useful and confident for the first time in weeks. This was what she was good at. This was when she felt most alive. Nora smiled at her. Savannah thought Agnes needed to take big risks in order to really live, but maybe all she needed to do was be herself; taking care of people was her most vital role.

  The bell on the door chimed and all three women jumped and looked up as a cold gust of wind blew through the room.

  “I’m lookin’ for Agnes. Anyone here seen Agnes Evans?” A man entered, wrapped in a voluminous parka with snowmobile mittens like giant oven mitts on his hands. He yanked off his fur-trimmed hood to reveal a balding head and a—a chiselled jaw.

  Agnes choked on a spoonful of candy cane ice cream.

  “Nick?” she croaked. “Sexy Nick?”

  Twelve

  “Nick, what on earth are you doing here?”

  “I googled ya, eh?”

  “You googled— but—”

  “Destiny, Agnes. That’s what this is. Desti-damn-ny.”

  “Desti—”

  “—ny.”

  Nick peeled off his gigantic parka, revealing a stout belly snuggly restrained by an old football jersey tucked into a pair of sweatpants. Tufts of black hair sprouted above the open neck of his shirt, with a thick gold chain winking between the clustered curls. Nick was easily twice the man he had been at sixteen.

  “I don’t think this is destiny, Nick. I actually think this is a bit weird.”

  “Yer in that play, ain’t ya?” He beamed at her. “That there Dick somethin’ play, right? With the ghosts? Google told me you was, and then I did some investigatin’—”

  “This is my worst nightmare.” Agnes goggled at him, thunderstruck.

  “—and here y’are!”

  “Google told you I was in the Book Nook?”

  “W
ell, no.” Sexy Nick rolled his eyes at her. “I asked at the Lighthouse, eh? They know everything at the Lighthouse. I asked if anyone knew where the hot chick from the play was staying, and… here I am!” He stretched out his arms to encompass the room.

  “Someone shoot me,” Agnes whispered.

  Belinda made a small huffing sound, reminding Agnes of her manners. She rose to her feet, carefully putting down her melting bowl of ice cream.

  Could she pretend she didn’t know him?

  “Ya look the same, ya know? Except… wasn’t you blonde in high school?”

  Nope.

  “No. That was my sister.”

  “No, no. That was you. You was blonde, and you used to wear that little red sweater with poofy bits on it.” Nick nodded, wagging his finger at her. Agnes had never owned anything with poofy bits. Nora coughed quietly.

  “Belinda, Nora—” Agnes waved her hand at the two women as she looked at the floor. “This is Nick. I know him from—”

  “I distinctly heard you call him ‘Sexy Nick’ a moment ago,” Nora said under her breath. “It would appear you know him quite well.”

  Nick preened, running his hands over his own belly with a little wiggle of his hips. Agnes cringed.

  “Ladies.” Nick bowed. He actually bowed in front of Belinda, took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Lovely to make your acquaintance.”

  Belinda’s cheeks turned bright red as she smiled up at him.

  “Christmas baby,” he said, turning to Nora and nodding. “I knew a kid once born on Christmas. Luckiest little asshole I ever met.”

  Nora blinked. Agnes raised her hands toward Nick as if to push him gently back into the past where he belonged.

  “Christmas babies are lucky, Nora,” Belinda said, her eyes glued to Nick. “Sexy Nick is absolutely right.” Belinda gasped as her hand flew to her mouth. “I can’t believe I said that. Please excuse me! It must be the ice cream.”

  “Ya calls it like ya sees it, little lady.” Nick strutted over to Agnes and draped a meaty arm over her shoulder. He winked at Belinda. “I like your attitude.”

  “Oh my God,” Agnes groaned, shrugging herself out from under his embrace. Savannah was so, so wrong about this one. “Nick, it’s really great to see you, but—”