“Nobody can see back there anyway,” Abigail insisted, with an indifferent sweep of the roller. After which she thought she heard a soft bump.
“Or I could get a brush and touch that up.”
Compared to the walls, the wainscoting needed serious sanding. Her insubstantial sheets of sandpaper were no match for the fossilized dribbles of paint, so she whittled away the most egregious blobs with another butter knife and applied a fresh coat of white. The cabinetry was next. Using a screwdriver salvaged from the shed to remove the hardware, Abigail went from cupboard to cupboard and drawer to drawer with her roller and brush. The bright white paint was an immediate improvement. She considered springing for new doorknobs too.
“That is, if Merle hasn’t put a moratorium on selling me remodeling supplies.”
Abigail left the empty cabinetry open to dry. Once she’d eaten what had become her customary lunch—a cold sandwich devoured at speed—she carted her painting supplies upstairs. Given a choice between the study, the bathroom, or the bedroom, the bathroom was her least favorite, for reasons she didn’t want to revisit. The study was running neck and neck.
“The bedroom it is.”
She pushed the heavy headboard and dresser away from the walls, then moved the rocker and nightstand into the middle of the room, as she had done downstairs. In a cleared corner lay the newspaper article.
“Hey, there you are.” Abigail picked up the clipping and began to read the article aloud. “
A shrill ringing interrupted her, nearly shaking her out of her skin. It took a second ring for Abigail to realize that it was the telephone. She shoved the article in her pocket and hurried down-stairs.
“Hello?”
“Abby? Abby, you there?”
“Lottie? Is that you?”
“Yes, dear, it’s me.” A burst of static sizzled the line, drowning her voice.
“Lottie, where have you been? I’ve—”
“What’s that, dear? I can’t hear you. This darned cell phone my husband gave me isn’t worth the plastic it’s made with.”
“Where. Have. You. Been?” Abigail voiced each word loudly.
“I’m in Hatteras at the ER. My cousin broke her hip. Slipped and fell getting into her girdle. Been here since yesterday morning taking care of her.”
Knowing that Lottie wasn’t intentionally avoiding her assuaged a fraction of Abigail’s irritation. But just a fraction.
“I wanted to check in with you, dear. How’s it going?”
“I’m—”
A wave of static scorched the line.
“What was that?” Lottie shouted. “I couldn’t understand you.”
“I’m—”
“Say again.”
Abigail took a deep breath. “I’m fine, Lottie. Everything here is fine.”
“Terrific. Well, gotta run. I think the battery on this cell phone is about to—”
The line went dead. Abigail hung up and looked around. The furniture was jumbled in the center of the living room, dishware was scattered across the floor, and half her groceries were waiting to be put away, yet the house was indubitably different.
“Maybe everything is fine.”
Painting the bedroom didn’t seem like labor to Abigail, what with the radio playing and the ocean air gusting through the windows. She slid the cream polyester drapes off their rods, then repurposed them as drop cloths. Soon the new pale-blue paint, mimicking the sky, blotted out the stale green.
The call-in show Abigail had listened to the day before was on again. Dr. Walter was discussing modern romance and the new rules of courtship. At issue was first-date etiquette.
A guy on the phone was ranting, “I understand what women want. It’s none of this sweet, sensitive crap. They need a man who knows what’s what and knows how to take care of business. Holding doors and talking about your feelings ain’t going to get you nowhere ’cept home alone on a Saturday night.”
“Listen, Casanova,” Dr. Walter quipped. “I have a sneaking suspicion you couldn’t get a date with a woman unless she was drunk, stupid, or paid for, so why don’t you try standing up straight, because I can hear your knuckles knocking on the ground as we speak, you dumb Cro-Magnon.”
The tough-talking doctor disconnected before the guy could reply.
