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Come on. I have an appointment in ten minutes.
RayAnne, her hairdresser, had squeezed Abigail in last-minute and there wasn't time to spare. She'd have to see if Fancy could meet her at Salon 86.
Birdie replied:
OMW
Abigail drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, trying to decide whether to go with an updo for her hair, or leave it down. Probably the latter.
Finally, Birdie hurried to the car. "Sorry. I had to find the chick cataloging the art going to the country club. That was one of the pieces on display tonight during the gala. I had to take it to a different room.”
“I didn’t know the Mott boy was so talented,” Abigail said, feeling a bit miffed that Birdie’s work hadn’t been chosen. Her daughter had been working so hard on her technique and it seemed to be paying off.
“It wasn’t Hayden’s. It was one of Mr. Lively’s.”
“Oh. Well, I’m glad you were able to get it there. Weird he forgot it.” Abigail started the car and pulled out, while dialing her mother.
"Yeah, lucky for him I saw it,” Birdie said, turning her head to stare out at the dreary afternoon.
"You okay?"
"Sure."
Abigail shrugged off the weird vibe sleeting off her daughter as Fancy answered. After settling things with her mother, Abigail headed to the salon. Definitely hair down so it brushed her shoulders. That would make her more approachable.
Hopefully, Leif wouldn't avoid her and she would get the opportunity to reopen the dialogue between them. All she could do was be honest about her fear of being hurt again. She would tell him about how she'd started down the path to his house several times. About how she missed him and the way he made her feel. Then she would ask him to consider a different relationship, one that was in the open. She would tell him he’d been right about her being scared and that she was ready to be honest with herself and everyone else in town.
Because she would rather have Leif to love for a little while... than not at all.
And that was the truth that was bigger than her fears.
She said a prayer for guidance as she parked the car, waving at her mother, who had just arrived wearing yoga pants and a breast cancer awareness T-shirt. She looked hard at her mother, a woman who had fought cancer years ago and won. A woman who bad been scared of her hair falling out and people looking at her. A woman who had feared death no matter how many times she'd nodded in agreement with her husband in the pulpit when he declared eternity with God the ultimate reward. Her mother had taught Abigail to fight, chin up, shoulders back, while wearing fabulous shoes.
Fancy hadn't raised Abigail to be scared so Abigail needed to stop running from everything. Life couldn’t be controlled, managed, and pressed into its place. It was messy, dirty, and sometimes it hurt. But it was worthwhile.
Tonight Abigail needed to let go of her past and reach toward her future.
21
LEIF TIED HIS tie for the third time, finally getting the length right. He'd spent the past few hours overseeing the delivery of the art to the gala, leaving Jolene Marks, one of the committee members, in charge of arranging the last few donations for the silent auction. He'd contributed a piece he'd done of a California beach portraying a lone figure against the sinking sun.
Giving his tie one final tug, he turned to make sure Birdie had indeed grabbed the framed pieces he'd left atop his drawing table. The spot was empty, and the girl had even remembered to lock up and return the key to the birdhouse.
Like her mother, the girl didn't miss a beat.
He'd sent Abigail several messages regarding the artwork, but she'd put off dropping by. The woman was good at keeping her distance.
Trying to pull his thoughts from Abigail and the dark clouds that surrounded her, he hummed an old Stones' tune, pulling on the dinner jacket he'd borrowed from Hilda's late husband's closet. As he adjusted his collar, he realized what had been nagging him from earlier- the sketch he'd done of Abigail.
He hadn’t noticed it when he shuffled through the frames he’d slid next to his desk.
Unable to put the chalked work aside half-finished, he’d completed it a few nights ago. Those lonely nights when he ached to touch her, the best he could do was lovingly trace her high cheekbone or shade the underside of her breast. He'd set the chalk only a few nights ago, sliding it into a simple frame to gage what might work best.
He walked over to his large drafting table and sifted through the few pieces that leaned against the side. The one featuring Abigail was missing.
Huh.
Leif rounded the bed to see if he’d moved it and forgotten about it. Just as he stooped, the doorbell rang.
