“The papers?” he asked.
Mrs. Truman jerked a thumb at Abby and said, “Our girl here out on a date with an international playboy.”
Abby didn’t know when she became Mrs. Truman’s girl and for a moment she considered it more terrifying than what her life had become.
“Is that so?” Pete asked, already knowing about her date because he had, indeed, seen the papers.
“They look good together,” Mrs. Truman grumbled, dropping a teabag in the teacup and sounding like she didn’t believe her own words. “Though he’s way too tall,” she said this last as if Cash could and should do something about his height.
“I’ve got to take these to the boys, if you’ll excuse me,” Pete said and started to head out, giving Abby an apologetic look.
“Yes, Abigail’s having work done again,” Mrs. Truman poured water into her tea, “banging, knocking, banging, blah, blah, blah. It’s enough to kill an old woman.”
Because it made her a very bad person, Abby tried to stop herself from thinking that might be a wish come true but she couldn’t quite do it.
“I’ll just be heading up,” Pete said.
Mrs. Truman waved him on his way at the same time she spooned three sugars (a fact Abby found unbelievable, there was nothing sweet about Mrs. Truman) into her tea. “Go, go, go. Abigail’s got some talking to do and it’s not for men’s ears.”
Abby rolled her eyes to the ceiling. As she did this Pete disappeared.
When she mentally came back into the room, Mrs. Truman was helping herself to some biscuits.
“I’ve just made a decision,” she proclaimed and Abby braced.
“What’s that?” Abby asked, not wanting to know and going to the kettle to make herself another cup of coffee.
“I’m having you and your new man over for dinner with those two friends of yours. The Australians,” Mrs. Truman told her as she teetered to the table balancing her cup and saucer which held four biscuits and Abby sucked in breath in horror at the very idea of Cash, Jenny and Kieran sitting down at any table much less Mrs. Truman’s table.
“That’s very nice of you but it isn’t necessary, Mrs. Truman,” Abby replied.
“I know it isn’t necessary. If it was necessary I wouldn’t do it.” Then she contradicted herself. “But someone has to size this fellow up and with your grandmother out of the picture that someone is me.”
Abby desperately tried a different tactic. “Cash is a pretty busy guy, he’s –”
“Pah!” Mrs. Truman burst out and Abby waited for her to say more but apparently she felt that summed up her argument.
In another demonstration of just how bad her luck could get, at that very moment Abby’s mobile, lying on the table in front of Mrs. Truman, sounded.
Abby, all the way across the kitchen and with her hands full, couldn’t get to it as fast as the heretofore-unknown agile Mrs. Truman could.
She snatched it off the table, studied it briefly and then slid it open as Abby dropped the spoon and coffee and hurried across the room.
“Mrs. Truman –” she said as the older woman put the phone to her ear.
“Abigail Butler’s phone, Edith Truman speaking,” she announced grandly.
Abby halted and hoped to all that was holy that there was a salesman or someone else she didn’t care about on the other end.
“Yes, Abigail’s here and I’m glad you called,” she said tartly, sounding as if she was not glad and furthermore the last time she was glad was 1943. “Abigail and I were just talking about you and we’ve decided you’re both coming to dinner at my house tomorrow. Seven o’clock.”
Abby’s heart sank as she realised Mrs. Truman was speaking to Cash.
What was next? Would the sky fall? The oceans boil? Tidal waves on the Bristol Channel?
The lady sat and listened and then snapped, “Well, change them! I’m an old woman. I don’t know how many dinner parties I have left in me.”
Abby watched as Mrs. Truman paused and listened some more then went on. “The stories say you’re a clever boy, they even made a movie about you, you’ll think of something. Now bring a bottle. White. Chilled. And some flowers. I like roses. And some chocolates. None of that stuff from the grocery stores, decent chocolates,” then she finished, “Abigail’s right here.”
With that she held out the phone to Abby.
Abby stifled the urge to strangle her to death and took the phone, mumbling, “Excuse me,” and with all due haste she left the room, walked down the hall and shut herself in the living room.
Then she put the phone to her ear and with no further ado said, “I told you she could be worse.”
She heard Cash’s rich laughter through the phone and at the sound her belly dipped.
When he’d stopped, she asked, “How much do the English authorities frown on homicide of blue-haired ladies?”
Cash didn’t answer, instead he told her, “I’m considering hiring her. She’d strike fear in the hearts of half the bastards I have to deal with every day. How old is she? My pension people will want to know.”
“Nine hundred and ninety-two,” Abby answered and heard his lush laughter again and knew she’d tried to make him laugh on purpose, again.
When his laughter died, she asked, “Why are you calling? Is something up?”
There was still amusement in his voice when he responded, “I’m calling because that’s what women expect men to do. You expect us to call at least once a day, proving we’re capable of thinking of nothing but you when we’re not. We’re thinking of work.”
Abby smiled to herself, walking to the window where she saw Jenny parking her new Mini outside. “So you’re calling me to tell me you’re not thinking about me?”
His voice changed when he replied. It got that deeper, throatier, sexier that she was beginning to like way too much.
“You? No. Your ass, your smile, your hair and that fucking kiss this morning? Yes.”
She was inordinately thrilled he was thinking about the kiss. When she wasn’t thinking about her screwed up life, her troubles, her house and crazy Mrs. Truman, that was all she could think about.
“Mostly,” he went on, “I wanted to make sure you got my note.”
She’d got it. It was sitting on the kitchen counter by his espresso maker with a set of keys beside it. The black ink was a manly scrawl on the sheet telling her to take the keys, leave a grocery list for his housekeeper and that he’d be home at seven.
She’d made a grocery list but she’d also met Aileen, his housekeeper, by bumping into her while going out the front door.
To Abby’s surprise, Aileen acted like she didn’t run into a woman every time she came to see to Cash’s house.
They’d chatted for a bit and Abby decided she liked her. Then again, there were few people Abby didn’t like, she could count only one and at that very moment that particular person was sitting in Abby’s kitchen.
“I got your note,” she told Cash as she walked toward the door.
Jenny was about to come in and Jenny was Abby’s best friend in the whole world. She didn’t want her to meet Mrs. Truman without warning. No true friend would let that happen.
“Good, what are you making me for dinner?” Cash asked in her ear as Abby opened the door to find Mrs. Truman outside it eating a Bourbon biscuit and unabashedly listening.
“Mrs. Truman!” she cried instead of answering Cash.
“You need to speak up when I’m eavesdropping,” Mrs. Truman told her. “I’m not as young as I once was and that includes my ears.”
At that moment, Jenny walked in stomping her feet and slamming the door, shouting, “It’s fucking cold out there!”
“Language!” Mrs. Truman snapped and Jenny swung around, her face getting pale.
Jennifer Kane was the kind of woman who didn’t let anything faze her. Kieran had a great job that paid really well but he also had to move from country to country. Without a peep, Jenny went with him. She said good-bye to friends. S
he bought and sold homes and cars and shipped belongings. She found new friends and renewed acquaintances. She travelled to far lands with her husband on business and pleasure.
She could even change her own oil.
What she couldn’t do was live without fear of nosy, maddening Mrs. Truman.
Jennifer Kane was a strong woman but she wasn’t Superwoman.
“Cash,” Abby whispered, “I think I have to –” she was going to say “go” but Mrs. Truman was speaking.
“You and your Australian husband are coming with her,” she pointed a bony finger at Abby, “and her new man, to my place for dinner. Tomorrow night. Seven.”
Jenny’s pale face swung to Abby and she asked, “I am?”
“You are,” Mrs. Truman declared, moving forward, toward her coat, “Bring a bottle. White. Chilled. And some dog treats. They’re having company too.” Then she let out a piercing whistle, Abby winced at the shrill sound nearly dropping the phone and she could hear little spaniel feet thundering through the house. Mrs. Truman turned her attention to Abby. “Tell your man I won’t take any last minute excuses. I don’t care if he’s got fancy schmancy friends. If Marlon Brando himself asks him to dinner, he’s going to say no. Understood?”
“I think Marlon Brando is dead, Mrs. Truman,” Jenny, now standing (or, more accurately, huddling, protection in numbers as it were) beside Abby, informed the old woman.
“Is not,” Mrs. Truman shot back.
“I think he is,” Jenny, unwisely, pressed.
“He is not!” Mrs. Truman snapped loudly and Abby could hear Cash chuckling in her ear so she knew he could hear every word. “I would have heard,” Mrs. Truman went on.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” Jenny mumbled toward Abby (and Abby’s phone), and Cash’s chuckle became laughter.
The dogs had arrived and Mrs. Truman was clipping their leads on them. “Tomorrow, seven. Don’t be late,” she said and then she was out the door.
Abby rushed forward to close (and lock) it behind her.
“I’m sorry, Cash, that was –”
“Stop saying sorry, darling,” his burr sounded softly in her ear, her body experienced a top-to-toe shiver and he finished, “see you tonight.”
Then he disconnected.
Abby slid her phone shut and saw Jenny was staring at her.
“What just happened?” she asked and Abby had a fleeting feeling of fear that Jenny knew about the top-to-toe shiver.
“What?” Abby asked, trying to look innocent.
“Are Kieran and I really having dinner with you, Cash Fraser and Mrs. Truman?” Jenny queried as if she wanted above all else in the world for Abby to say “no”.
Abby was forced to disappoint her friend. “I’m afraid so.”
“My God,” Abby breathed, “we’re going to have to pretend he’s your new boyfriend. He doesn’t know about us.”
This was true.
“Oh my God,” Abby whispered, a new feeling of fear gripping her.
“Don’t worry,” Jenny rallied first, “I’ll talk to Kieran. Everything will be fine. Right?”
Abby nodded, as ever sucking courage from her friend in a time of need.
Abby and Jenny walked to the kitchen together.
“Was it okay?” Jenny asked, “Last night?”
Abby nodded, went to the kettle and took it to the sink to refill it.
She was going to lie.
If there was ever a time to lie, this was it.
Jenny already felt responsible enough. She didn’t need to know what happened this morning.
“He was really late,” Abby explained to her friend. “We just talked and then went to bed. He didn’t try anything.”
“How weird,” Jenny mumbled to herself then her eyes focused on Abby. “What’d you talk about?”
“Music,” that wasn’t a lie, really, “food,” that also wasn’t a lie, as such. “Not much, he was really late,” that was a total lie (well, not the last part).
Jenny looked at Abby closely and Abby figured her friend knew she was telling tall tales, or short, uninformative ones, but Jenny’s face cleared and her eyes got soft.
“He’s being okay with you?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah,” Abby replied, setting the kettle on its charge and flipping it on. She turned back to her friend and rested her hips against the counter. “He’s a…” she hesitated and then went on, sharing just a little bit, “Jenny, I think he’s a good guy. He thinks I’m funny and…” she stopped.
“And what?” Jenny prompted.
“And that’s it. It’s weird sometimes because he’s so hot and, well, he’s rich and paid for me to be with him but when I forget that, it’s okay,” Abby told her.
“You’re sure?” Jenny asked and when Abby nodded, she watched her friend’s body relax and realised just how much Jenny was shouldering this burden.
She’d been right.
Definitely right.
Abby wasn’t going to share any of the things that were not okay with Cash.
Further, Abby wasn’t going to share any of the feelings about Cash she felt relatively certain Jenny would not think were okay.
Jenny walked to a cupboard and pulled down a mug asking, “So, what does Hot Guy, International Man of Mystery, Spy Master General wear to bed?”
At that, Abby knew, for now, everything was okay.
Chapter Seven
Late
Abigail Butler was stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She thought she was being smart. She had it all planned. Then, as usual, it all went awry.
She’d decided, since tonight was the night the use of hands, mouths, touching, tasting, etc. was going to “begin”, she’d delay it by spending part of the time together with Cash cooking.
What she wanted to make for dinner would take a half an hour, more if you counted cooking time.
So she decided to arrive at a quarter to seven and still be cooking when Cash got home. He’d have to wait to do… whatever-it-was-he-was-going-to-do… until after she was done cooking, the food was done grilling and steaming and they were done eating.
She lived in Clevedon, he lived in Bath. It was a forty-five minute drive.
What Abby didn’t know since she usually took the train or travelled during non-rush-hour-times, was that it was a forty-five minute drive on a good day.
On a bad day (which Abby seemed to be having a lot of lately or, perhaps, for the last six years) and traffic was heavy and an accident meant the cars were crawling on the motorway, it took a whole lot longer.
Furthermore, it was against the law to talk on your mobile in your car in England so when Cash called at seven twenty-five, she couldn’t answer.
Even though she turned up her music very loudly so she couldn’t hear the phone beeping to tell her she had a voicemail message, it rested on her passenger seat in a threatening way like a coiled snake waiting to strike, freaking her out throughout her journey.
Last, but not least, it was a veritable impossibility to park in Bath. She’d discovered that the day before but somehow forgot it in the twenty-four hours since driving there last.
She was a half hour late to be there for Cash’s arrival. It became forty-five minutes late by the time she parked and fifty-five minutes late by the time she hoofed it in her high-heeled boots to his house from her parking place which she was sure was closer to Sri Lanka than his townhouse.
She listened to his two word voicemail message on her walk to his house.
“Call me,” and he sounded not happy, to say the least.
At his door she fumbled clumsily in her purse for the key (which she should have extracted on the walk there, but she hadn’t thought of that), found it, unlocked the door and rushed through into the hall.
There were welcoming lights on and she had to stop when she saw them, the pain in her stomach was so acute.
If it was dark and she got home before Ben, she lit the house (just here and there, not anything blazing
and environmentally unconscious) so he wouldn’t have to grope around in the dark to find the lights.
She’d never told him to do it but he must have realised her intent and, awhile after they were married, Ben started to do it for her too.
She thought of them as “welcoming lights” because they said someone was home, someone who cared about you, someone who didn’t want you to walk into a cold, dark house after a rough day and grope around to find a light.
It never occurred to her that Cash Fraser was the kind of man who wouldn’t want her to grope around to find a light.
She recovered herself with a deep breath and walked on leaded feet down the hall, around the corner and down the stairs toward the sound of jazz (not new-age, gross jazz but old-age, fantastic bluesy-jazz).
By the time she made it down the stairs, Nina Simone had started singing, “Tell Me More and More and Then Some”.
She saw Cash was in the kitchen, a tumbler of Scotch in one hand, the other hand clenched in a fist that was on his hip. He was wearing a pair of dark brown suit trousers, a dress shirt the colour of which was an attractive blend between dandelion yellow and burnt orange that had a subtle sheen, it was unbuttoned at his throat and the cuffs were turned back.
His eyes were locked on her.
And he looked less happy than his voice sounded on her phone.
“Cash –” she started.
At the same time he demanded, “Where the fuck have you been?”
“There was an accident on the motorway and then –” she began.
He cut her off. “Do you have your mobile?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Did it occur to you to phone to let me know it wasn’t you in a fucking accident on the motorway?”
Two things came to Abby at once.
First, the reminder that she knew exactly how it felt to learn someone you cared about had been in an accident on the highway.
Second was the shocking knowledge that Cash wasn’t angry because he was losing time with her, valuable time he’d paid dearly for. He was angry because he was worried about her.
She knew how she felt about the first, it tore at her soul every day. The second she didn’t know what to do with.