Carolina Mist (25 page)

For the first time in ten years, Abby felt at home. That it all felt so comfortable, so right, filled her with the greatest sense of peace and the most bittersweet sense of belonging. How, she wondered, would she say good-bye, once the time came, to those who had come to mean so much?

29

T
he sound of the car door drew Abby’s attention from the thin line of ivory paint she had just traced around the ceiling in the alcove. She poked her head out the window just as Drew rounded the back of the dark blue sedan parked in front of the house. In spite of the fact that
company was the last thing she wanted, she did her best to put a trace of cheer in her voice as she called down a greeting.

He stood on the grassy strip between the street and the sidewalk, shaded his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun with his right hand, and looked up to follow her voice and locate which of the many windows she occupied.

“I’ll be right down,” she told him.

After lining her tools up across the shelf at the top of the ladder, Abby wiped her hands on a paint rag and rested her brush carefully across the top of the can. She bounced down the steps and out the front door.

“This is a nice surprise,” she said with a smile, realizing she did, in fact mean it.

“Surprise?” he asked. “Does that mean that Belle forgot to tell you I called?”

“You spoke with Belle?”

“Yes. Last evening. She said yo
u were outside with Naomi, and I
told her not to bother to call you in but to let you know that I wanted to stop by and take you to dinner tonight. I left a number at my hotel room for you to call if you were unable to make it. When I didn’t hear from you, I assumed that it was a go.” He was clearly embarrassed. “I guess she just forgot to tell you.”

“If Belle forgot, it was by choice.”

Drew laughed good-naturedly. “Well, some people do become a bit absentminded when they get to a certain age.”

“Belle’s absentmindedness appears to be strictly at her convenience,” Abby grumbled, “but it’s kind of you to stick up for her. Particularly when you’ve driven all the way out here and I’m a mess.”

“Well, how long could it take to clean up? Would an hour be enough?”

“That would be perfect. Are you sure?”

“Positive. It’s not a problem. As a matter of fact, I’ll use the time to take a drive around and see if I can find a likely spot for dinner. Unless, of course, you have a favorite place.”

“Please.” She laughed. “The only ‘dining out’ spot I’ve
seen since I moved here is the Primrose Cafe. But Naomi mentioned a restaurant out on the Point—I could call her and get the name of it if you like.”

“I’ve some time to kill.” He shrugged. “I’ll just drive out and see if we need reservations.”

“Sounds great.” Abby smiled. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

She took the steps two at a time and hurried into the house. First, she called Naomi and told her she’d be out that evening and Belle would be home alone for a few hours. Then Abby went into the kitchen, prepared dinner for Belle, and proceeded to serve her in the morning room.

“Aren’t you joining me, Abigail?” Belle asked.

“Now, Belle,” Abby said sweetly as she plumped the pillow behind the tiny woman’s back, “you know I’m having dinner with Drew tonight. Don’t you remember, we talked about it last night?”

“Why, no, I don’t recall
…”
Soft
tinges of pink spread slowly across Belle’s cheeks as she realized she had been caught.

“Belle Matthews, you should thank your lucky stars that your memory is as good as it is,” Abby reproved the older woman.

“Whatever do you mean, Abigail?” Belle sniffed indignantly, rapidly recovering, Abby noted with a tiny smile, from her momentary embarrassment.

“You know perfectly well what I mean. Your mind is as sharp as a tack, and you should be grateful, instead of slipping into your dotty old lady routine whenever it suits you.”

“I am a dotty old lady.” Belle’s chin notched a tad higher. “I’ll be ninety year
s old in August. I’m entitled…”

“Belle, I am closer to being dotty than you are.” Abby leaned down to gaze into Belle’s clear blue eyes. “I would appreciate getting my phone messages. However, in the event that your mind is faltering, as you sometimes claim it to be, I’ll leave a pen and pad of paper by the phone, so you can write down who called and their number. And in the meantime, I’m going up to take a shower.”

“Abigail
…”
Belle
hesitated, as if debating with herself, then simply added, “Have a nice dinner.”

“Why, thank you, Belle. I’m sure I will.” Abby smiled and, realizing she was now down to half an hour before Drew returned for her, sprinted up the steps.

“Oh, dear.” Belle exhaled soundly. “This isn’t at all what we’d planned. Mercy me, Leila, things would appear to be drifting
a bit off course…”

I
t took Abby the full thirty minutes and a few more to get the paint off her skin and out of her hair, but she managed to be dressed and ready to go at six-thirty, when she heard Drew’s car pull up and park on the quiet street. She ran down the steps, kissed Belle good-bye, laughing as Belle’s eyebrows raised when she surveyed the short skirt Abby had chosen to wear, and met Drew on the porch just as he was about to ring the doorbell.

“Wow, don’t you look great!” he exclaimed as she stepped out onto the porch.

“Amazing what a little soap and water will do, isn’t it?” She laughed as she locked the front door behind her.

Drew fell in step with her on the sidewalk. “Abby, I never realized you had legs. You shouldn’t keep them hidden in those baggy jeans all the time.”

Abby laughed, blushing in spite of herself, trying to recall the last time anyone had complimented her on her appearance. Alex, it occurred to her, had called her beautiful not so very long ago, but, of course, that had been part of his chastisement regarding Drew, so she was certain it didn’t count. Sti
ll, he had said “beautiful”…

“…
and the view is beautiful,” Drew was saying.

“What?”

“I said, I stopped at the Point—that’s the name of the restaurant—and reserved a table with a beautiful view of the Sound,” Drew repeated.

“Oh. It sounds wonderful.”

They rode in the silence that accompanies new relationships until the car turned onto Point Road, which followed
the curve of the water’s edge from the outskirts of Primrose to the place where the river met the Albemarle Sound. The boaters, drawn by the clear skies and warm breezes of an early spring day, sailed or sped past them on their left, their lights blinking like so many fireflies over the darkening carpet of water upon which they floated.

Before long, Abby and Drew were being led to their table overlooking the cove, from which they admired many of the same boats, some of which were tying up at the dock provided outside the restaurant and unloading their small crews to dine at the casual tables under the pavilion next to the dock. The outside area was defined by strings of multicolored lights that led from the waterfront to the tables, much the way balloons would decorate a children’s party. The tables themselves wore jaunty red cloths in keeping with the informality of the outdoor dining room. Abby noticed that many of the boaters seemed to know one another, and a large group had gathered around the outside bar, where they ordered drinks in tall plastic tumblers, munched salsa and tortilla chips, and swayed in time with the reggae band that was just warming up.

Inside, in the more formal dining room, Drew and Abby scanned the menu, eyeing the many seafood specialties. At the recommendation of the friendly waitress, they ordered soft-shell crabs (“Just in about two hours ago,” she assured them) and sat watching as the last elongated fingers of the sun’s glow painted the orange of the horizon with thick purple swirls.

“What a treat this is,” Abby said brightly as their food was served by the perky waitress. “To have a night out. Eating lovely food and wearing something other than my painting clothes.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” Drew smiled.

“I am,” she told him, and meant it. It
did
feel good to put on pretty clothes and go someplace in the company of a good-looking, pleasant man who was obviously happy to share her company.

“Well, I was hoping to have some time to just sit and talk
with you, Abby,” he said. “I wanted to get to know you better.”

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” Abby poked at her salad with her fork in search of the mushrooms she suspected lurked beneath the curly lettuce.

“Well, I don’t know that that’s a very interesting story.” He looked slightly uncomfortable and shifted in his seat.

“Where did you grow up?”

“I grew up in New Jersey. Center of the state. Plainsboro,” he told her. “It used to be all farms, for as far as you could see, when I was a boy. Now it’s all housing developments and office complexes and shopping malls.”

“That’s progress for you.”

“Much more progress in that area, and they’ll have to think up a new state nickname,” he told her, “because it won’t be the Garden State anymore.”

“Did you go to school in the area?” Abby asked, as much out of curiosity as to keep the conversation moving.

“For a while.” He paused briefly, his eyes flickering as if distracted by something on the opposite side of the room. “Before my mother remarried and moved to Boston.”

“Did you move with her?”

“No. Her new husband had no interest in raising someone else’s son. I went into foster care. The first of several go-arounds with the social service system.” He tried to smile, but his mouth seemed to tighten into a straight line.

“That must have made a difficult first few years for you. Especially since you were an only child. Having a brother or sister might have made it easier.” She looked across the table, and he wore the look of one who was about to speak. When he did not, she asked, “Were you going to say something?”

“Ah…
no. I mean, yes
…
here’s the waitress with our dinners.”

Abby leaned back in her chair, wondering what he was really going to say.

“In any event”—she shrugged it off and continued on her own line of thought—“I often wish that I had had
someone—a sister, a brother. I think it would have helped me so much to have had someone when my parents died.”

“It is tough to be alone when your world is falling apart.” He nodded grimly.

“How old were you when you lost your father?” Abby asked.

“Three. That was when we came to Primrose. After my father died. I guess my mother felt there was nowhere else for her to turn. She said that my father used to talk about how his grandfather was a wealthy man who lived in a big house near the water.
I
guess she figured she’d try to track him down and see what she could get out of him.”

He paused for a moment as if collecting his thoughts. “I remember walking in through that grand front door. The house looked like a palace to me. My mother sat me down on a wooden seat with mirrors all around it. We didn’t stay real long
…
” He appeared to struggle with some thought or other he wasn’t sure he could share. Whatever it was, it flickered across his face and disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“Not too long after that, my mother remarried for the first time. That didn’t work out so well, so she divorced him and married someone else. My momma was a bit of a rolling stone,” he said pointedly, as if apologizing for his background. “She seemed to specialize in fast-talking men and haphazard parenting.”

“It must have been hard for you to deal with so many changes at so young an age,” she said thoughtfully.

“It would have been easier if she had been a little more stable, and a little less indifferent.” Drew’s voice bore a thinly disguised trace of sadness. “My mother was the sort who bored very easily. Mostly, she was bored with me. One minute I’d be talking to her, telling her about something that happened at school that day, she’d even look like she was listening. Then she’d turn me off like she’d just turned off the TV. She’d pick up the phone and make a call or just walk out of the room, leave me in the middle of a sentence to find something more interesting to do. So one minute. I’d
think
I
had her attention, then the next,
I’d
know it was all an act, that she was only pretending to listen because
she
thought she had to. Growing up,
I
never had
her
attention for one entire conversation, not one time
in my life. The
rest of it
I
could deal with—the moving around,
her
changing her men the way some women change
their shoes,
even being shipped in and out of foster
homes. But I never
got used to her indifference toward me.”

“But she must have loved you, Drew. Otherwise, she’d have given you up for adoption, or tried to pass you off to
a
relative.” Abby tried to rationalize. How could any woman not love her child, regardless of what else was going on in her life?

“I think that’s why she brought me to Primrose after my father died.”

“What do you mean?”