Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Kellen Frey had run off shortly after that night and not been heard from since.
The gossips in town whispered that he might have (some said must have , others said definitely had ) caused the trouble that night, and his absence was seen as potent evidence supporting that claim.
By putting together a few words that had slipped from Mel when he was distracted, Abigail had become fairly sure the gossips were right.
Mel had told her, straight out, that the Jalen and Knox Frey and a couple of their friends were the ones who’d ransacked her place. Just a few silly boys doing harm without grasping the impact of their actions. If they’d been taught better, they’d have known better. But they hadn’t been.
As far as Abigail was concerned, that case had been closed as soon as her property had been cleaned up.
She was relieved to know there had been no real animus behind the act; she hadn’t accidentally forged an enemy who wanted to hurt her.
Just silly children, old enough to think themselves grown and young enough to be very wrong about that.
She’d had to work to convince Mel that the situation was over.
She didn’t want the boys hurt or scared—she doubted that would really work, anyway, and after the Harvest Festival debacle, there had been more than enough hurt and trouble for one season.
Besides, the Frey family was dealing with their own trouble; Kellen hadn’t reached out to them, either, and they were frantic with worry.
Mel didn’t like it, he’d almost been angry with her, but he’d finally agreed to let the matter drop.
Now, three days from Thanksgiving, Signal Bend was back in its groove. Even the grapevine had moved on to other things—particularly the holidays and the grand opening of the Signal Bend Pavilion.
As Karlene cut the tape and opened the box, Abigail said, “That’s the last order, unless you have a new one.
A dozen each of cinnamon apple, balsam berry, and pumpkin cookie candles and sachets.
Honey butter, vanilla spice, and cinnamon apple soap and lotion—and I threw in some crocheted bags I had left over from a special order.
I thought you might find a use for them. ”
Karlene reached into the box and drew out a fistful of the lacy little bags, done in marled yarns in amber, dark green, or crimson tones.
Abigail had started making them as a better, more useful alternative to the cheap organza bags a lot of indie artisans, especially jewelry makers, used.
Hers were more expensive in both materials and time than those flimsy bags, but she enjoyed the time and had tons of scrap yarn, so she’d given it a go.
She could whip up eight or ten bags in an evening, each one simply two lacy granny squares stitched together, with a ribbon slipped through the top as a drawstring.
A shop she consigned with in Sullivan had ordered a hundred for their holiday gift boxes.
She’d taken a monetary payment—all 1s and 0s deposited into the credit union account in Rolla she kept for things that required money—and that one order had more than paid for her time and supplies for every bag she’d made.
“These are darling!” Karlene enthused. “I love them!”
“There’s twenty. I don’t know if that’s enough to be use—”
“It’s perfect. I was just telling Addy that I want to do little stocking stuffer sets, but I hate those dumb net things everybody uses, and baskets and boxes get expensive. These are better than any of that. These are special.”
Leaning her arms on the top of the box, Karlene sighed and continued, “I wish you’d make up some business cards.
” She nodded at the little array of card holders in front of the register—a selection of Signal Bend businesses, including, of course, Me Day itself.
“If you got the word out better, you’d be set for life, I think.
All the good you do, all the pretty things you make? ”
Abigail didn’t want a life where strangers could reach her to make demands any time they wanted.
She loved people, especially the people she knew, but she liked to engage with them on her terms. It was different when someone had need, but they weren’t talking now about things people needed.
In her experience, people were much less aware of boundaries when they chased their wants.
“My life is set just like it is, Karlene, but I appreciate the compliment, and I appreciate you.”
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~oOo~
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A fter delivering her orders, Abigail returned to her home.
Mel wasn’t back from the hospital yet, but she hadn’t expected him so soon.
It was about an hour’s drive each way, and he’d had to make three appointments—with his surgeon, his physical therapist, and his nutritionist—to get all their approvals to return to full activity.
He’d be away most of the day. So she parked her truck and got busy with her chores.
In addition to her regular daily work, she had a dozen pies to bake—six for the B it had already been around for years, so she’d probably seen it on television or maybe one of the drive-in nights the city council put on sometimes in the summers back then.
What she remembered most keenly was finally arriving at the point where her solitary life was comfortable, felt complete.
Looking back now, Abigail could understand why those three simple words had been almost offensive to her.
But also now, with Mel in her life, Abigail understood what it meant to be completed by another person, and it did not mean she was lacking any part of herself before. Romantic love had opened new parts in her, and in her life.
Mel filled those new spaces.
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~oOo~
T wilight had come and gone, and Mel wasn’t back yet.
Abigail wasn’t worried—the sun set early at the end of November, and she and Mel had texted a few times throughout the day, so she knew he was doing pretty well and had gotten good reports from at least two of his appointments.
But she was curious. His last appointment of the day had been scheduled for three hours earlier, and she hadn’t heard from him since right before he was called back.
It was with his nutritionist—losing his spleen and gall bladder meant some adjustments to his meat-and-potatoes diet—and Abigail didn’t expect the nutritionist to have any news that would undermine the good reports from Dr. Gladwell and the physical therapist. She did, however, expect Mel to do a fair amount of whining about the way his diet was permanently changed.
After reading the instructions he’d gotten in the hospital and doing some research of her own online for recipes and such, Abigail didn’t think the restrictions terribly restrictive.
For the most part, they were about moderation.
He could still have dairy, fatty foods, things like that—eventually, after he was really completely healed—but he’d have to do so carefully, in smaller quantities and with more awareness of where he was and when he’d taken his meds.
Mel wasn’t an overeater, but he had a naturally high metabolism and ate what and when he wanted without thinking much about it.
That was the main thing he’d have to change.