Then she found she didn’t have time to worry about that when she had to worry about her outfit for that evening’s dinner.
Now, she was standing in the guest bedroom wondering what on earth to wear to dinner at a haunted castle.
“Hello!” she heard Jenny call from downstairs.
Abby closed her eyes, tipped her head back and breathed, “Bloody hell.”
Chapter Twelve
Painful Lessons
It took Jenny what felt to Abby like a year to reach the top floor and when she finally entered the guest bedroom, Abby knew why.
Mrs. Truman was with her.
Just what Abby needed, Mrs. Truman.
“Why are you on the top floor?” Mrs. Truman demanded to know upon entry. “I never go to my top floor. I feel like I climbed a mountain.”
Jenny ignored Mrs. Truman’s complaining, took one look at Abby and asked immediately, “What’s the matter?”
Her best friend knew Abby well but, she had to admit, Jenny freaked her out sometimes.
“I…” Abby started to answer Jenny or more to the point, lie to her but she noticed Mrs. Truman leaning toward her.
Peering closely at Abby’s face, the older woman announced, “We need tea. We can’t have drama without tea. And maybe sherry. This looks like it’s going to be a sherry drama.”
“There isn’t going to be a drama,” Abby told Mrs. Truman, wondering why she was even there but not getting the chance to ask.
“Drama is written all over your face, Abigail Butler,” Mrs. Truman shot back always feeling entitled to be wherever she was.
“Abby, what’s going on?” Jenny asked, also leaning in.
They were both watching her and Abby opened her mouth to say something to throw them off the scent.
Then all of a sudden her eyes filled with tears and she felt them spill down her cheeks. She couldn’t control them and she found she no longer had the energy to try.
“Abby,” Jenny said softly but Abby ignored her.
Stiffly walking to the bed, she sat down and put the fingers of both her trembling hands to her mouth.
Jenny and Mrs. Truman followed, Jenny crouching in front of her saying, “What is it?”
“Cash and I had a fight,” Abby blurted on a tortured whisper and Jenny’s head jerked before her face changed to a look of stunned surprise.
“A fight?” Jenny repeated.
Abby swiped at the tears on her cheeks and nodded. “A fight. An ugly, shouting, awful, awful fight.” She looked at Jenny then Mrs. Truman, finding she couldn’t keep it in a moment longer, she knew she should, but she couldn’t. “I think I hurt his feelings.”
Jenny’s mouth dropped open.
She snapped it shut and parroted, “Hurt his feelings?”
“What’d you do?” Mrs. Truman demanded to know.
Abby looked away from her friend who was clearly not taking this in and turned to Mrs. Truman.
“I…” she started then squeezed her eyes shut, tears sliding down her face, she opened them and admitted, “it’s a long story but I did something. Something not very nice. He was being nice. Very nice. And I was very not nice in return.”
“How very nice was he being?” Jenny asked and Abby looked to her friend.
“Very nice,” Abby whispered then her silent tears ended, she let go of her emotions and burst into loud, wracking sobs. She covered her face with her hands and babbled from behind them, “I was so mean. And I hurt his feelings. I know I did. Then he asked me to explain myself and I just made it worse. Then he got mad and he said the most awful things.” She pulled her hands from her face and wailed, “But they were true! Even though he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand. How could he?” Abby looked at Mrs. Truman, knowing she wasn’t making a lick of sense and also not waiting for an answer, and cried, “He was so angry. I’ve never seen anyone that angry!”
“Did he hurt you?” Jenny asked, her voice hard and Abby looked at her, confused.
“How do you mean?”
“Hurt you? Did he get physical with you?” Jenny explained.
“Of course not,” Abby snapped as if the idea of Cash getting physical (in that way) was ridiculous. “He just yelled at me.”
“Did you yell back?” Mrs. Truman asked and Abby’s gaze moved to her.
“No, I mean yes. I mean, it was actually me who started the yelling,” she confessed.
“You forgot,” Mrs. Truman told her with all-knowing finality and Abby stared at her, not understanding what she meant.
She hadn’t forgotten a thing. She was certain that fight with Cash was burned on her brain until the end of time.
When Mrs. Truman didn’t say more, Abby asked, “Forgot what?”
“You forgot,” Mrs. Truman repeated and when Abby still looked confused, Mrs. Truman sat down beside her on the bed. When she spoke again, her voice was surprisingly gentle. “When they die, you forget.” Abby pulled a sharp breath into her nostrils but Mrs. Truman ignored her reaction and carried on. “When they die, you remember only the good things. You don’t remember the bad things. The fights. The bickering. Their annoying habits that drive you mad. Like when they don’t put their socks in the wash hamper even though the hamper is only two feet away. They drop them on the floor. Morty and his damned socks. Used to drive me insane.”
Abby felt her lip tremble as more silent tears slid down her cheeks.
Mrs. Truman watched her face and then leaned slightly toward her. “After he was gone, I would have paid money to pick up another pair of his dirty socks. Those socks, the blight of my life, became a cherished memory. You forget that they’re just dirty socks on the floor that you have to pick up, Abigail.” She touched Abby’s hand every-so-lightly then took her own away so swiftly it was almost as if the touch never happened. “Now, you’re remembering what it’s like to be with a living, breathing, annoying male who you yell at and who yells at you. It isn’t something that you can mould into a cherished memory because it isn’t in your head. It’s real and it’s happening. And you forgot what it felt like. Now, Abigail, you’re remembering.”
“Mrs. Truman –” Jenny started but the older woman shook her head, not taking her eyes from Abby.
“But you know,” she said softly, “you know something your young man doesn’t. You know that even these fights, that hurt so much they make you cry, are something to cherish.”
Abby stared at her, eyes suddenly dry, body frozen even though her heart was beating a mile-a-minute.
Then Mrs. Truman broke her own spell by clapping her hands.
“Now!” she announced and went on authoritatively, “Tea. And cucumber. You can’t sit down with the upper crust with puffy eyes. You need cucumber and a wet flannel.” She pushed herself up and bustled to the door with the energy of a woman who would never complain about climbing two flights of stairs. “I’ll see to the tea, cucumber and flannel. Jennifer,” she turned and pointed at Jenny, “you take care of the outfit.”
And after issuing her orders, she disappeared out the door.
Leaving Abby with Jenny.
“I think you got some ‘splainin’ to do,” Jenny said, using her best Ricky Ricardo voice, attempting to inject humour where both women knew there was none.
“Jenny, I screwed up,” Abby admitted quietly.
Jenny got out of her crouch and sat on the bed beside Abby, saying on a sigh, “Why does that not surprise me?”
“Jenny!” Abby cried loudly, stung by her friend’s words even though of anyone Jenny knew Abby could screw up, big time.
Jenny turned to her. “Girlfriend, any woman in her right mind would screw up with Cash Fraser. The man is hot. He’s also interesting. He’s also funny. He also looks at you like you painted the Sistine Chapel on your lunch break while wearing a bikini. And let’s not forget, he’s hot.”