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He muttered something under his breath but stayed put, hands shoved into the pockets of his tracksuit pants, and I mouthed him a silent thank you.
It took me a few minutes to arrange a path of safety from sodden rubber mats before I could escort my students from the studio to the street outside one at a time. After that, I went back for their belongings. I lived in a cute little two-bed apartment underneath the studio, and though I was tempted to pop my head in and make sure everything in there was dry, the brightgreen door remained closed no matter how many times I walked past it. One problem at a time.
Someone was sensible enough to call the fire brigade while I was busy, and by the time a couple of firefighters with hoses and water vacuums had been in and out of the building multiple times, a decent crowd of busybodies had gathered on the street to get a look at today’s gossip.
A man in uniform pulled me aside. “Abigail Ellison?”
“That’s me,” I confirmed, scraping my soaked hair back from my face. Jesus, what a moment to meet this guy. He was just my type—tall, lean, and toned with a boyish light in his blue eyes. Meanwhile, my long blonde waves hung in wet, ratty lengths stuck to my face and back, an icky stale water smell had washed away my coconut-scented body lotion, and my workout wear was sticky and wet in all the wrong places. Well, perhaps notallthe wrong places. One quick check confirmed my nipples felt the chill. Excellent.
“The water damage is extensive across both floors,” he confirmed, glancing back at the old, narrow building I’d bought two years ago. “We’ve turned off all power to the property, and your insurance company will need to do an assessment, but nobody should enter the premises until an electrician completes a safety check and gives you the all-clear. We can assist you now with extracting any personal items you need to take with you—”
“Hold up.” I frowned up at him, his face not nearly pretty enough to warrant a smile right now. “What do you mean,take with me? I live here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Mr Sexy Firefighter’s grimace was apologetic. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. At least, not for a while. Why don’t you come in and take a look?”
2
Abbie
Thirty minutes later, aftera depressing tour of my flooded studio and the soaking mess that was my apartment, I’d packed my bags, loaded them into my hatchback, and set off for my parents’ house. That waiting sensation still lingered around my solar plexus, and after I turned into their familiar driveway, I activated the handbrake, cut the engine, and completed a deep breathing exercise that eased some of the tension. Only then did I open my eyes.
“Hey, Universe,” I muttered as I climbed out of the car. “I don’t know what else you’ve got lined up for me today, but I’m listening, okay? No need to drop the entire sky on my head.”
I let myself into my parents’ house and dropped my half-dozen bags in the hallway. The place was quiet, faint classical music playing from an ancient stereo system in the living room, and I knew better than to call out for someone. At this time on a weekday morning, Arthur and Nancy Ellison always shared tea and toast over the morning papers. The old-fashioned printed-in-ink kind. The kind nobody bought anymore. But Mama and Dad had me late in life—I was the miracle baby who arrived fifteen years after their only son, my forty-four-year-old doctor brother who lived in the city—and they were in their seventies now. Nothing I said would ever convince them to ditch the black smudges on their fingertips for a digital version of the daily news.
“Morning, Mama,” I said, planting a kiss on her greying crown.
She startled and dropped her last corner of jam toast just as Dad looked up from the sports pages, moving his glasses to the end of his nose.
“Abigail,” he said as I pressed a kiss to his creased but freshly shaved cheek. “What are you doing here, Pumpkin?”
I took a chair and straightened, even though I wanted to drop my head onto the table and stay there until my problems had magically solved themselves. I had no idea how long it would take to fix my studio or apartment or how I was going to keep teaching my classes without a venue, but I wanted my parents to believe I had everything under control. Their worries, added to mine, wouldn’t solve anything.
I wasn’t hungry, but I reached for a slice of melon and chewed on it like I didn’t have a care in the world. “A water pipe burst in the studio and flooded the building. My apartment, too.”
My mother gasped, hand flying to her chest, while my father shook his head and set his glasses on the table. “I’ve always worried that building was too old.”
I set the half-nibbled melon slice on an empty plate and lifted Mama’s hand to reassure her. “It’s not too old,” I said to Dad. “I had all the proper assessments done when I bought it. The burst pipe could have happened anywhere, to anyone. It’s just bad luck.”
“Well, I can always come by and take a look at it if you need some help.”
My heart grew a little bigger, and I leaned over to give his cheek another kiss. “Thank you. I think the insurance company will take care of everything, but I need to stay here while I sort out the repairs.”
Mama withdrew her hand from mine to pour me a cup of tea from the pot she always brewed for brunch. She slid it in front of me as she threw a furtive look at my father that he completely missed.
“What?” Mama was about to give me trouble, though I wasn’t sure why. I’d just announced their little girl was coming home for a few days. I’d anticipated some kind of parade and my favourite dinner on the table by six. Not a hard time. My eyes bounced between the two of them, but Dad was oblivious. “What is it?”
Mama smiled apologetically. “You know we’d love you to stay with us a while, sweetheart, but the church is using our extra bedrooms for storage while they prepare for the biannual charity markets. We’re overrun with boxes and bags of old clothes and books, and there are people in and out almost every day. It’s a madhouse here.”
The knot in my stomach loosened, and I relaxed back into the chair. I should have known Mama’s problem would be something trivial. Small inconveniences were always large, life-altering events for Nancy Ellison.
I popped the last of the melon in my mouth and spoke around it. “A madhouse, you say?”
Mama nodded gravely as the sounds of birds chirping and butterfly wings floated in through the open kitchen window, audible even over the tinkle of elevator music in the next room.
I lifted an ironic brow. “I’ll risk it.”
Mama fiddled with the pearl buttons on her cardigan, a pretty pale blue garment she’d knitted herself fifteen years ago. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”
