Chapter 7
The delivery truck arrived with Abby watching from the front door. It occurred to her that she should probably have waited until the pool was finished before adding more furniture to the backyard.
But it was too late.
The morning was already warm, the humidity thick enough to make her skin feel damp within seconds of stepping off the porch.
There were promises of a storm on the way.
Not a big one. She was praying that Mother Nature was done with the hurricanes that ravaged the island.
It would be a serious bummer to have all the work decimated.
"Morning," the taller delivery guy said. "We've got your outdoor furniture. Where do you want it?"
"Back patio," she said, gesturing around the side of the house. "I'll show you."
They followed her through the gate and into the backyard. The torn-up pool area dominated the space, but the patio itself was intact. Her other little table and chairs had been pushed aside to make room.
“You can just put it all here for now.”
The men made quick work of it. Box after box came off the truck. The sectional pieces, the coffee table, the side table, and the lounge chairs.
She signed the paperwork and tipped them both. By the time they drove away, the patio was covered in cardboard and plastic wrap.
She stared at it. She'd assembled furniture before. How hard could outdoor pieces be?
Two hours later, she had her answer. Very hard. And hot. She was so sweaty. She was certain there were at least a million fly carcasses attached to her body.
The sectional alone had taken an hour. The instructions were printed in a font so small that she needed her reading glasses, which she'd left inside twice. The cushions were heavier than they looked. The coffee table had a piece that wouldn’t screw in properly, no matter how much she coaxed it.
When she managed to get it together, it appeared one of the legs was at least an inch shorter.
Instead of fussing with it, she used some cardboard to level it.
A millionaire with cardboard under her table leg.
But she got it done—all of it. The sectional was arranged in an L-shape facing the pool.
The coffee table was centered in front of it.
The lounge chairs were angled to catch the afternoon sun.
When she stepped back to look at it, sweat dripping down her back and her hands aching from the screwdriver, she felt a surge of satisfaction.
It looked good. Really good. The bright blue cushions with their white geometric pattern popped against the gray concrete. And she did it all by herself. Give her an award.
“Hello?” a man’s voice called out.
“Back here,” she said.
Rick came around the corner. He whistled when he saw the patio.
"Look at that," he said. "You've been busy."
"Furniture came this morning."
"I can see that. Looks great." He walked over to inspect it, running a hand along the back of the sectional. "Good quality, too. This'll hold up."
"That was the plan."
He turned back toward the pool. "Speaking of plans, we're right on schedule. Plumbing's in; shell's getting poured tomorrow. Once that cures, we'll do the tile work and then the decking."
"How long?"
"Two weeks, give or take. Weather-dependent. We’re ahead of schedule.
The weather has held out, but today looks like it’s going to be rough.
" He pulled a business card from his pocket.
"You should think about landscaping. Get some plants in, maybe some pavers leading from the patio to the pool. That would really tie it all together."
She took the card. Martinez Landscaping. A local number.
"He's good," Rick continued. "Does most of the high-end properties on the island. Tell him I sent you."
"Thank you; I will."
"You're going to have the best backyard on this street when we're done. Mark my words."
Abby looked at the card in her hand, then at the space around the pool. He was right—it needed something. The yard was too bare, too exposed. Some greenery and maybe a fence. And a space for Gerald to frolic in.
She pulled out her phone and called the number on the card.
A man answered, sounding just a little out of breath. "Martinez Landscaping."
"Hi, my name is Abby Prescott. Rick Carlson gave me your number. I'm having my pool renovated, and I need some landscaping work."
"Rick's a good guy. When were you thinking?"
"As soon as possible. The pool should be done in about three weeks."
"I can come by this afternoon and give you a quote. Say around four?"
"That works."
"Great. I'll see you then."
Her oasis was coming together. She may never leave. She took a few pictures of her furniture and retreated inside. She poured herself a glass of icy lemonade.
She wanted to celebrate her big success and decided to text Levi.
Abby: Outdoor furniture arrived. Looks amazing. Want to come by tonight and see it?
Levi: I'd love to. What time?
Abby: 7? I’ll make tacos.
Levi: Perfect. I'll bring wine.
Martinez showed up at four on the dot. He was maybe fifty, wearing a long-sleeve shirt, pants, and a big hat. He slowly walked the yard’s perimeter, taking notes on a tablet, occasionally crouching to examine the ground.
"Good bones," he said finally. "The space has potential. What are you thinking?"
"I want it to feel tropical and lush but low maintenance. I'm still figuring out the whole plant-care thing."
He smiled. "I can work with that. Some birds of paradise along the back fence. Maybe some ti plants for color. Hibiscus in the corners. I'd recommend putting in a small palm near the patio—it gives you shade without blocking the view of the pool."
"That sounds perfect."
"Pavers?"
"Yes. Rick mentioned that. Something to connect the patio to the pool."
"I'll price it out with a few different options. You want stepping stones or a full path?"
"Full path. I don't want to walk on grass every time I go swimming."
He made more notes. "I'll have a quote for you by tomorrow morning. If you approve it, I can start as soon as the pool's done."
They shook hands, and he left.
By the time seven o'clock rolled around, she'd showered and changed into a sundress.
The temperature had dropped slightly, enough to make sitting outside bearable.
The smell of rain was in the air. She'd set out two wine glasses on the new coffee table and was arranging some cheese and crackers when Levi's truck pulled up.
They settled onto the sectional, Levi pouring wine.
"The furniture looks great," Levi said.
"Thank you. Took me two hours to put together. I learned a whole new vocabulary.”
He chuckled. "I'm impressed."
They ate tacos, which she realized might not have been the best meal choice. It was very messy but refreshing.
"Can I ask you something?" Levi said after they had finished dinner.
"Sure."
"What was your life like before? Before the divorce, before here?”
She thought about that. How to explain twenty-five years in a way that makes sense.
"Quiet," she said finally. "Really quiet. I worked at an accounting firm. Same job for fifteen years. We had a house in the suburbs. Routine. Everything was routine. Monday was meatloaf. On Tuesdays, believe it or not, it was not tacos but grilled chicken. On Wednesdays, my husband had his boys’ poker night.
I could plan my days for a year because nothing changed. Ever."
"What did you do for fun?"
"I'm not sure we did. Have fun, I mean." She turned the wine glass in her hands. "We'd go to dinner sometimes. Watch TV. Donald played golf on weekends. I'd read or do crossword puzzles. It sounds depressing when I say it out loud. I feel like I was living the life of an eighty-year-old woman.”
"It sounds safe."
"It was very safe, very predictable. I knew exactly what every day would look like. What every year would look like." She took another sip. "I think that's why the cancer scare hit so hard. It was the first unpredictable thing that had happened in decades."
Levi nodded slowly. "And Donald couldn't handle it."
"No. He really couldn't." She paused. "I don't think he was a bad person. Just... limited. He needed everything to be controlled and manageable. A wife with cancer wasn't manageable."
"That's still a crappy thing to do."
"Oh, absolutely. I'm not defending him. I'm just saying I understand it now in a way I couldn't then. He was scared, and he ran. Some people do that."
"You didn't."
"I didn't have anywhere to run. And I was too angry to run anyway." She smiled at the memory. "I was so angry. At him, at my body, at the universe for throwing this at me right when I thought I had everything figured out."
“It rocked your world.”
“It did, but I know this sounds terrible, but I’m so glad it happened. I think I might have spent the rest of my life eating meatloaf every Monday night.” Abby shuddered. “I can’t believe that was ever my life.”
“Meeting you now, it’s hard for me to imagine you like that.”
She grinned. “Good. That means I’m doing it right. I’ve reinvented myself.”
“Do you still talk to your husband?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Not since I walked out of that room with my divorce finalized.”
“Do you miss him?” he asked.
“Like I miss a comfortable pair of shoes,” she said. “I really do miss my old Nikes. I sometimes think I might have been a little hasty donating my entire wardrobe.”
“That’s fair,” he said. “You spent half your life with him. It’s normal to miss someone.”
She thought about it. Thought about Donald. She missed what it had been in the beginning. But she didn’t miss what they had become. She didn’t miss the easy life. That was then, and she was living in the now.