CHAPTER 7
ABI
The House Across the Cove
I wake with a start, sweat beading on my upper lip. It’s light outside, but just barely. I can see the cooler colors of dawn creeping around the edges of the red toile curtains that cover the window. My head is still fuzzy with my sleeping pill.
I can’t remember what I was dreaming. I never do. This morning, I’m just left with a sense that I’d been falling, falling, falling, out of control, and that I shattered when I hit bottom. My body, my heart, my soul, everything just broke apart on impact.
My throat is tight with unshed tears when I sit up and slip out from under the warmth of the blanket. My foot burns like I’ve stepped on a firecracker when it touches the ground. I gasp, pulling it up enough that no part of it comes into contact with anything. The skin is so sensitive, even the cool morning air seems to hurt it. It’s getting ready to flare because of my dream, because of my anxiety, so I sit back down on the bed and turn, propping my legs on a pillow, and I close my eyes and begin deep breathing.
In through my nose, out through my nose. Inhale, 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8. Exhale, 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8. I listen to the sound of my own breathing, a muffled roar like ocean waves rushing up over shore, and I count, blocking all other thought from my mind. Eventually, I set adrift, adrift in a place of deepest relaxation, a place where I lose all track of time. But I also lose all track of worry and fear and pain. When I open my eyes next, the bright yellow glow of the risen sun is lighting the room.
Gingerly, I try again, swinging my legs around and gently letting my toes touch the ground. There’s an uncomfortable tingle, but nothing like the fire of before. Blood is flowing more freely. My tissues are being fed oxygen and life. Even so, I still can’t bear all my weight, so I hobble my way to the bathroom. Dreams, pain, and a limp—even if I could manage to put away thoughts of the past, my body would never let me forget. At some point every day, it reminds me of who I am.
Who I am and what I’ve done.
An hour later, I’m parked on the front porch in an Adirondack chair, soaking up the view and the sunshine while I sip hot coffee made from a French press I found in the cupboard. This place…it’s so beautiful, so tranquil. So utterly peaceful. Yet I don’t have peace.
But I will. I’m working on it.
I take out my phone and open up the Internet app so I can search for the food pantry that one of the churches used to run when I was younger. I’m surprised to learn that there is more than one source now, as well as a community café that offers free meals once a day to the elderly and the hungry. I know Molly’s Knob isn’t big enough to need all that on its own. But I also know that its rural location means that much of the rest of the county comes for the generosity of the people here. And I want to be a part of that.
My finger is hovering over the button to call and speak with someone at the café when the giggle of a gleeful child splits the quiet of the morning. I scan the houses to the right, but the only signs of life are a gaggle of geese waddling along the shoreline. I turn my head left and my eyes fall immediately on a little girl running along a beachy area, chubby arms flailing, blonde curls bouncing. I smile at the sound of her laughter. I can’t imagine how anyone’s heart, no matter how scarred or wounded, could not be warmed by the laugh of a child.
My gaze follows the invisible trail she’s leaving, stopping on what’s chasing her. Or rather who.
My heart stutters when my eyes click to a stop on the familiar figure. Even at this distance, I know who it is. I’d know him anywhere. After all this time, I’ve never forgotten.
It’s Sam.
My Sam.
At our lake.
He’s chasing a little girl across the sand in front of the water on a peacefully sunny Saturday morning, and something in my chest tells me she’s his. I know it for sure when he catches her and swings her high into the air, then cradles her in his arms, and she squeals a delighted, “Daddyyyy!”
She squirms and giggles, just loud enough for me to hear a few notes of it, until he takes her under her arms and holds her up high again so that he can press his lips to her exposed belly. Her response is a shrill peal of her laughter, making me think he’s giving her a raspberry. And that she’s loving it.
At once, both their heads turn toward the house, nestled back in the tree line, barely visible from where I’m sitting, and I wonder if Mrs. Sam Forrester is calling for them. Maybe telling them breakfast is ready, or that they need to leave to go do whatever wonderful family thing they’re going to do today. I picture her standing in the opening of a French door, leaning against the jamb, head tilted as she smiles lovingly at her husband and child while they play at the lake’s edge.
My heart aches with envy, so much so that hot, bitter tears spill down my cheeks and drip, unchecked, into my coffee. That should’ve been me. I should’ve had that life. This lake was ours. This life was ours. But I didn’t get it with Sam. I didn’t get Sam. I got Greg.
I should’ve had a good life with him. I should’ve had that happy existence, not the disaster my world has become. But Sasha happened. And Greta happened. There was a time when I thought life could be good again after I left Molly’s Knob. I had hope for a little while, but that brief flash was dashed almost as quickly as it appeared, like a shooting star that streaks brightly across the sky, only to vanish without a trace.
I’m not delusional enough to think that will ever be me, whoever the lucky Sara who snagged Sam’s heart is. Happiness like that is not in my future. The best I can hope for is relief from the pain I live with. That’s why I’ve got to make the most of things the way they are now, before it’s too late. I’ve got a plan, a mission, and wishing for someone else’s life isn’t part of it.
But, today, the community café is.
Without looking down, I press the call button, wiping my cheeks and swallowing the lump lodged behind my tonsils. Finally, as it starts to ring, I turn my face away from the house across the cove, and away from all the pain it represents.
********
“Abi Simmons. You haven’t changed a bit.”
I smile as Tim Griffin embraces me. His hug is much more robust than I would expect from someone like him. He’s a few inches taller than me, still lean and muscular with dark blond hair. I’ve known him since high school, back when he was the wild child on the baseball team, but he’s a preacher now, the leader of not only the church I used to attend, but the community café as well. For that reason, I suppose I expected his hug to be gentle rather than strong. Not so. But it’s a friendly kind of strong, I notice, as he claps me on the back a couple of times.
When he releases me, I give a meaningful glance around. “But apparently you have. When did this happen?”
“Two days after graduation.”
“Ah. Interrupted your fun, huh?”
“Not in the least.” His smile never falters. “So, what brings you back?”
The question alone pierces my conscience, and for a few seconds, the guilt and condemnation is almost more than I can bear, more than I can breathe through. But then I remember why I’m here in Molly’s Knob in a broader sense, and I lean on that.
“Came for some peace and quiet. You offering any of that around here?”
As if on cue, two boys, each probably around eight, come tearing through the open area where an older man is starting to set up tables. “That’s a negative on the quiet, but I’m kind of an authority on where you can find the peace.”
I can all but hear the chorus of angels singing above his head as he watches me. Tim is the type of man who doesn’t have to explain that he has peace, or that he’s a minister. His spirit fairly oozes both.
“I can see that.”
He continues to smile, and I wonder absently if anything ever ruffles his feathers.
“This is a great first step, by the way,” he says, touching my arm so that I’ll follow him as he starts off slowly toward a door that appears to lead to the kitchen.
“What is?”
“Helping. Giving. Focusing on others. It’s a great first step to finding peace. You’ll never be fuller than when you empty something of yourself for another.”
“Did you steal that from the Bible?”
He seesaws his head. “More or less.”
We both laugh, and he leads me into the kitchen, toward a rotund woman with a solid white beehive and cheeks the color of rubies. Tim taps her plump shoulder, interrupting something she was telling a deliveryman in a surprisingly stern manner. But when she turns to face Tim, all that is forgotten and a beatific smile spreads across her face, setting her rosy cheeks aglow. “You making trouble again, young fella?”
Tim rolls his eyes and tilts his head the way a father might when one of his kids is being a little too spunky. “Gladyyyys.”
“What?” She feigns innocence for a few seconds before adopting a spot-on British accent that transforms her into a chubby, older Mary Poppins. “I meant to say, ‘Dear Pastor Tim, what can I do for you on this glorious day the Lord has made?’”
Tim shakes his head and the woman turns a mischievous wink my way. “This handful-of-a-lady is Gladys Tremaine. She runs the café.”
“And keeps this spitfire in line when he needs it.” Her grin deepens as her head bobs in a silent laugh.
“Yes, yes. She keeps me in line when I need it,” he agrees begrudgingly. It’s obvious that these two adore each other. If I remember correctly, Tim lost his mother when he was just a boy. Maybe this woman has been filling that role for the last couple of decades. “Gladys, this is Abigail Simmons. She’s—”
“Abigail! That means joy. Did you know that? I bet Tim here didn’t.” She ribs him mercilessly and Tim just smiles, clearly comfortable her teasing.
“No, actually I didn’t know that,” I confess.
Tim chimes in. “Well, Abi is a joy, so don’t run her off. She’s here to help with whatever needs to get done, so put her to work.”
“I’ll take good are of her, Timmy. Don’t you worry. Now go on and do what needs doing before service tomorrow. The good Lord knows a man’s place is nowhere near a kitchen. Y’all just get in the way.” She laughs a raspy, hearty laugh that makes my lips curve. Tim, unperturbed, gives her a lopsided grin and strolls off like he has not a care in the world.
What I wouldn’t give for a little bit of that.
Another voice, a familiar voice, intrudes upon my thoughts.
“What’s this I hear about a man’s place being nowhere near the kitchen?”
I turn to see Sam Forrester coming through the side door. He’s got a little blonde angel I’d guess to be around three or four years old propped on his hip. I assume she’s the same one I watched him chase and tickle earlier. It isn’t the child that’s captured my attention, though.
Pleasure pours through me at the sight of Sam, but seconds later, guilt follows closely on its heels. I shouldn’t feel so happy to see him. It’s wrong on so many levels, so much so that I actually feel the need to go and confess because of it. Not only do I not need any more sins in my life, but I also don’t need the complications of nursing feelings for a guy I used to know who is now very married. And in the church annex, no less.
Good Lord have mercy! It’s a thousand wonders a lightning bolt doesn’t come right through the ceiling and strike me dead. Of course, that would take care of several problems for me, so that might not be such a bad thing. However, that’s hardly the point.
I smile tightly when Sam’s eyes find me and pause. It’s a short pause. More like a stutter. Probably because he’s as surprised to see me here, as I am to see him here.
“You know good and well you’re the exception to that rule,” Gladys tells him jovially.
Sam bends down to peck her on the cheek, his scent wafting past me as he does. It’s such a nice smell, like the best parts of man and the great outdoors collided and the fallout landed on Sam Forrester’s head.
“Abi.” Sam voice is soft as he glances at me and then quickly away.
For the second time, I get an odd feeling when he looks at me. I sense heaviness and burden, the kind only a kindred spirit would recognize. I find that I’m growing more and more curious about his life.
“Sam,” I mutter.
Gladys reminds us of her presence. “You two know each other?”
Sam is quick to supply an explanation. “We went to school together. High school. Long time ago.”
“High school? Were you just friends?” Neither Sam nor I reply, which seems to further goad Gladys. “Or were you friendly friends?” She waggles her eyebrows comically, knowingly.
Sam’s response is stilted. “We…dated.”
With a satisfied cluck of her tongue, Gladys slaps Sam playfully on the arm. “Well, well. You’re just a magnet for all the good ones, aren’t you?”
One side of his mouth lifts up. “That I am. Speaking of good ones, Sara asked me to bring a few bags of potatoes. Said she talked to Minnie and—”
“That girl is a godsend, I tell you,” she says to me with a heavenward roll of her eyes. “Purest heart of any woman I’ve ever met. You can see it in her eyes.” Gladys pauses, narrowing her own eyes on me. “As a matter of fact, I believe I see some of that in yours, too. Are you married, Abigail-that-means-joy?”
“I’m…uh…I’m…it’s complicated.”
“But you’re in town alone?”
I nod, resisting the urge to drop my head. Or run and hide.
Gladys glances from me to Sam and back again, then again. And again. A slow, deliberate smile starts to form across her lips, like she can read my mind. Or maybe just my emotions, emotions that are evidently far from neutral when it comes to Sam.
Still.
Always, it seems.
I can’t help wondering if I’ve done something to warrant her suspicion, something like looked at him in a way that makes it clear we have history. If so, that’ll give me one more thing to feel like shit about later, as if my list weren’t long enough already.
I feel the urge to shrink back when Gladys begins to nod. “Yes, I bet you’re a good one, too.” I think I see her wink at Sam when she looks back to him. “Bet she’s a real good one, Sam.”
Sam says nothing. I say nothing. I just wait for the moment I’ll be able to bolt and escape the increasingly awkward situation. At present, however, the best I can do is hope my face isn’t as red as it feels.
Finally, thankfully, Gladys turns her attention to the little girl in Sam’s arms, asking, “Have you met Miss Abigail yet, Noelle?”
Big green eyes turn to me and the child shakes her head, pulling a fist up to her mouth. It’s an adorably bashful gesture that makes me want to take her in my arms and squeeze her. I can see the edges of her mouth around her fingers and they’re curved up into a smile.
My heart melts. “Hi, Noelle. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I love your blonde curls. They’re very pretty.”
“Thank you,” she mumbles around her little knuckles. After a short pause, she moves her hand away and says clearly, “Your eyes are the color of my favorite dolly’s dress.” She uses the tip of one finger to point to her own eye.
Gladys lovingly taps the little girl’s nose. “Miss Abigail is beautiful, just like you.”
Although I don’t know the woman, it’s plain to see she’s up to some kind of mischief. I just have no idea what on earth it could be, what with Sam being married and all. And to a saint, no less.
Noelle nods enthusiastically, once again hiding her smile behind her hand. Gladys pats Sam’s arm, then mine, and leans in to offer her cheek to Noelle. “Did you bring me some sugar?”
The little girl grins and puckers up to give Gladys a sweet kiss on her red cheek.
“That’s a girl. Bringing me the good stuff.” Gladys straightens and Noelle presses her head into the curve of her father’s neck, another indication that she’s shy. “Want to help me stir the big pot of soup?”
I watch as Sam’s daughter’s bright eyes flicker to the stove where an enormous stainless pot sits, simmering on the front eye.
“We can’t stay,” interjects Sam.
“Daddy, I—”
“We need to get back home, punkin’.”
“But you said—”
“We’ll stay longer next time, okay?”
A tiny pink lower lip pokes out in a pout, but the little girl nods her head in agreement. I get the distinct impression he’s cutting his trip short because of me, which makes me feel both guilty and flummoxed. Why would he feel the need to avoid me?
“Tell Miss Gladys and Miss Abi ‘bye.” She waves at Gladys and me as Sam starts to back away. As he pushes through the door, he gives us a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Gladys and I stand side by side and watch him go. I hear her sigh, and I have so many questions, but I know this is neither the time nor the place to ask them. And she might not be the right person to ask either. If I’m to get answers, if I decide it would be a good idea to even seek answers, I’ll probably have to ask the man himself. But that will have to wait. I’ve got some good to do before I go poking around in an old flame’s life.
********
I’m pleasantly exhausted after a morning of helping to set up the café and an afternoon of breaking it down again. The “café” is really nothing more than some tables and chairs and a lunch line in the old fellowship hall of the church.
After Sam left, I helped arrange the chairs that Bobby Jones, the town’s main insurance salesman, brought in to go with the tables the other guy had set up. I helped bring out aluminum trays of food to place on racks over Sterno cans. I helped keep the bread baskets full as men, women and children came in to eat, and then I helped clean up evidence of the café so that a teen group could meet in that very room later this evening. A good day’s work. A hard day’s work, though, for someone with a bum leg. But a gratifying day’s work for anyone.
The sun is setting over the water and I’m snuggled into an Adirondack chair. The one I chose tonight is nestled in the sand on the beach. Well, “beach” might be an exaggeration. It’s more like a low-lying crescent of shore that someone repurposed into a beach by covering it with a few truckloads of playground sand.
I’m staring out at the placid water, going back over the details of the day, when I hear the distant thunk of a car door shutting. I sit up, craning my neck around a tree in the yard to see if I have a visitor. A few seconds later, I see Anna Sturgill topping the little knoll in front of the cabin, heading for the front door. I stand up and call to her, waving my arm so she’ll see me down here.
She turns her head at the sound of her name and searches the area until her eyes fall on me. When she sees me, her face breaks into a pleased smile. It warms my heart. She was like a mother to me for a lot of years, and it’s been a long time since I’ve felt any kind of maternal attention.
My mother would do it if she were capable of it, if she even knew who I was, but she won’t because she doesn’t. If anything, our roles are reversed. I am the one tasked with taking care of her, of making sure that her insurance is up to date, that the nursing home gets its money, that her disability is renewed and that her taxes are filed. There’s a laundry list of details that must be seen to.
Not that I mind. I don’t mind at all. I’d do anything to take care of my mother. But I’m human. I have moments where I can’t help thinking it would be nice to have someone to take care of me. Just for a little while.
Mrs. Sturgill isn’t that person, of course. I wouldn’t want her to be. I wouldn’t want that for her. She’s raised her baby already and all her love is needed for her grandchildren. But it’s still nice to see that someone cares. And with her, it’s easy and familiar and comforting. Like an old shoe or a favorite blanket.
“What are you doing here?” I smile as she comes down the small hill and hugs me with one arm.
“I don’t have your phone number, which we need to remedy by the way.” She takes out her cell phone and begins to play with the screen, preparing for me to give her my number. “I wanted to ask if you’d be interested in volunteering at the town health fair. I’m in charge of making sure we have all the ancillary staff. You know, the ones who check people in and get them to the right area. There will be three nurses and a doctor there. People can get their blood pressure taken, their blood sugar checked, get advice on changes they need to make to get healthier. Basic stuff, you know the drill. There will be someone there all day to look after the children so parents can get their business taken care of. That’s what I’m needing. A glorified babysitter.” She laughs in a wheezy way that makes her sound like a long time smoker even though she never has been as far as I know. “You busy Wednesday?”
I don’t hesitate. “Nope. Count me in.”
I assumed I’d have to really look for things to do, for ways to help people, so far be it for me to decline an opportunity when it falls into my lap.
She winks. “I thought you might say that. Good girl. Give me your phone number and I’ll send you all the details when it’s nailed down. I’ve still got to get in touch with a couple more people.”
I give her my number and she puts it into her phone. When she realizes I don’t have mine with me, something she gives me an odd look over, she offers to text me her number. I accept with a polite thank you.
“Okay, well, I’d better get on home. Laundry won’t do itself, far as I’ve ever known.”
I nod and she turns to leave. “Mrs. Sturgill?”
She looks back at me. “Anna. You’re old enough to call me by my first name now.”
“Anna,” I amend. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
“You’re welcome. Something told me you’d be happy to help.”
I nod and smile. I don’t ask what made her think that. I’m just thankful she did. I need all the help I can get.