Penmort Castle

Chapter Six Mrs. Truman

Abby sat at the big battered farm table in her grandmother’s huge kitchen. The Aga stove, aided by a merry fire burning in the stone hearth of the fireplace, warmed the space so thoroughly, even the huge chunks of slate that formed the floor felt heated.

She was drinking coffee with Pete and listening to him tell her about plumbing, electricity, new boilers, chimney pots and so on down to re-plastering and paint, all of which her house needed to be put back to rights.

“That’s just what I see, love, but I’d get someone in to do a survey,” Pete advised, before draining his mug. His eyes came back to her as he put down his cup. “I know someone if you want me to set it up.”

Abby nodded. “I can’t do this anymore Pete. Every week it’s something new. I need to know what I’m up against.”

He grinned at her with approval. “Smart girl.”

She smiled back and grabbed his mug. “Another cuppa?”

“Supposed to be bringin’ the boys up in your bathroom one, so make it three,” Pete answered.

Abby stood and went to the kettle.

She’d decided on the way home from Cash’s that now the deed was irrevocably done, she was setting the plans in motion to get her life back in order.

She was not going to delay.

When her arrangement with Cash was over, she was going to begin anew and she was going to hit the ground running.

Over a year ago, Jenny had negotiated a good deal on the sale of Abby and Ben’s home. Selling her furniture, her car and their other belongings allowed Abby to pay off her mountain of debt and left her with enough to rest comfortably as she started her new life in England (or so she thought).

Abby had decided to take a month or two off before starting work. In hindsight, of course, this was not the most sterling idea. She already knew her grandmother’s home needed attention. Gram was a packrat, she kept everything. Abby had visions of spending her days sorting and tidying, maybe slapping some new coats of paint here and there, making Gram’s home her own.

However, a week after she’d moved in it had rained, as it had a way of doing in England, rather heavily outside.

Unfortunately, it had rained rather heavily inside too.

Abby had spent the night rushing around with pots, pans and bowls to place under the drips.

She’d spent the next day listening to Pete tell her she needed a new roof and that the leaks had been around awhile, there was water damage. Gram, who’d spend most of her time on the first floor, probably didn’t know it (or didn’t want to).

After paying the taxes, Gram’s inheritance didn’t come with a boatload of money. The roof and repair of the water damage dug deep into Abby’s reserves but she had no choice and even if it was expensive, it certainly didn’t bankrupt her.

She had time to make it up and get her life rolling.

At least that was what she thought.

Deep into December, about a month after she’d moved in, England was gripped by an arctic cold snap. Gram’s home was also gripped by it. The house was huge, big rooms, tall ceilings, wide stairways and lots of open space in the halls. The boilers were in overdrive and older than Mrs. Truman. Abby kept the fires in the rooms blazing with wood and coal and still could barely keep out the chill.

Unfortunately, some of the rooms had chimneys that needed work and Abby learned the hard way she should have had them looked at before she built fires in their grates.

Pete came after the smoke cleared (literally), telling her not only did she need her chimneys serviced, she needed new windows and insulation for her insulation had been installed during the Boer War (this was not Pete’s estimate, it was Abby’s).

She lived in a conservation area so she couldn’t buy cheap but effective windows. She had to buy expensive timber framed ones.

At the time Abby had found a job. She was working. She liked her job and the people there but her pay was a fraction of what it used to be. Since she didn’t have a mortgage (although her gas and electric bills were staggering), she thought this would be okay and she could live the standard of life she was used to.

Also, considering she had a goodly amount of money in the bank and not knowing what would soon befall her, she’d sold her Gram’s old estate car and bought herself a brand new, sporty BMW 118, not going over the top (she thought) but it suited her and Ben would have loved it.

This had dwindled her reserves further.

To pay for the chimneys, insulation and windows, she’d taken out a loan.

Then in a shocking turn of events, she and four of her colleagues had been made redundant. To their credit, her employers were nearly (but not quite) as upset as Abby and promised if things improved they’d call her (so far, obviously, they hadn’t).

Out of work and nearly out of money, Abby soldiered on.

She spent her days alternately working at high-paid but short-lived contracts or clearing out her Grandmother’s piles of magazines and newspapers, the plethora of books and knick knacks and a kitchen full of equipment that was broken, rusty or hadn’t been needed since cavemen were starting fires by striking together flint rocks.

Then one bathroom groaned to a halt, which Abby ignored (and shouldn’t have), then another one did (ditto the ignoring bit).

Then the window men found the damp, the fixing of which led to her second loan. And the insulation men found the dry rot, the fixing of which led to Abby being broke.

Kieran and Jenny had offered help on numerous occasions but Abby refused.

They’d done enough.

There were no jobs in sight, contracts were growing thin on the ground and Abby’s desperation was increasing.

It was the evening after the day Abby sold one of her brooches, a gold and pearl antique one that belonged to her great-grandmother that Jenny went to the party.

Jenny knew about the brooch, knew that Abby hated selling it and then she overheard James and Cash talking. She heard James’s suggestion of a discreet escort to deflect attention off some business Cash was involved with regarding his uncle (business Jenny didn’t hear) and further protect him against his uncle’s increasingly frustrating efforts to throw Cash in front of one of his three stepdaughters.

And Jenny came up with her idea. Then she talked Abby into it. Then Kieran.

That morning, showering in Cash’s bathroom and attempting to ignore the fact that Cash’s naked body had been in the same space but hours before (and also trying not to think about how much she liked his shower, it was lush), Abby thought instead about what her family would think of what she was doing.

The answer she came up with was not much. They wouldn’t like it, not one bit.

Then again, she couldn’t imagine Gram or her mother for that matter ever allowing anything to happen to the house or allowing it to go out of the family.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

She couldn’t think about what they’d think. She’d learned the hard way after Ben died and she tried to hold on to what they had that she had to live in the here and now, keep herself fed and keep her legacy safe.

The bell in the door clattered taking her out of her thoughts just as the kettle flipped off.

“Can you see to the drinks, Pete?” Abby asked as she headed out of the kitchen.

“Sure thing, love,” Pete replied.

Abby walked through the house, pulled open her huge front door and on the stoop stood Mrs. Truman with her three spaniels on leads.

Abby tried not to groan.

Instead, she greeted, “Mrs. Truman.”

“Well?” Mrs. Truman snapped.

“Well what?” Abby asked.

“Well, what was it like?” Mrs. Truman snapped again.

“What was what like?” Abby queried, confused and hiding impatience.

“Your date!” Mrs. Truman shrieked then shoved her way in, bringing her dogs with her, something that Zee would not like at all. “Making an old woman stand out in the cold,” she muttered. “What’s with young people these days?” Mrs. Truman went on to grouse, bending down to detach the leashes from her canines who scattered to the four winds upon release.

“Mrs. Truman, my cat –” Abby started.

“Pah! Your cat can take care of himself. Little Georgie learned that the hard way,” she announced as she unbuttoned the big, fabric-coated buttons of her granny coat. “I need tea,” she declared.

“I’m kind of –” Abby began again but Mrs. Truman had her coat off with a nimbleness of someone at least three hundred and forty-two years younger and threw it over the antique, oak, mirrored coat stand in Abby’s vestibule.

Abby heard her old lady shoes squelch on the tiled floors as Mrs. Truman headed toward the kitchen.

With no other choice, Abby closed her front door and followed but she did so after heaving a deep sigh.

By the time she’d made it to the kitchen Mrs. Truman was opening and closing cupboards, reaching high on her tiptoes to do so as she was about four foot tall and Pete was carrying three full coffee mugs with a packet of biscuits tucked under his arm.

Abby gave him a “save me” look but he was rushing toward the door however he had the decency to look sheepish about it.

“Did you see the papers, Peter?” Mrs. Truman called, finding herself one of Abby’s grandmother’s delicate and irreplaceable (thus never used) china teacups with saucer and the box of tea.

Pete, his escape foiled, turned to the older lady.

“The papers?” he asked.

Mrs. Truman jerked a thumb at Abby and said, “Our girl here out on a date with an international playboy.”

Abby didn’t know when she became Mrs. Truman’s girl and for a moment she considered it more terrifying than what her life had become.

“Is that so?” Pete asked, already knowing about her date because he had, indeed, seen the papers.

“They look good together,” Mrs. Truman grumbled, dropping a teabag in the teacup and sounding like she didn’t believe her own words. “Though he’s way too tall,” she said this last as if Cash could and should do something about his height.

“I’ve got to take these to the boys, if you’ll excuse me,” Pete said and started to head out, giving Abby an apologetic look.

“Yes, Abigail’s having work done again,” Mrs. Truman poured water into her tea, “banging, knocking, banging, blah, blah, blah. It’s enough to kill an old woman.”

Because it made her a very bad person, Abby tried to stop herself from thinking that might be a wish come true but she couldn’t quite do it.

“I’ll just be heading up,” Pete said.

Mrs. Truman waved him on his way at the same time she spooned three sugars (a fact Abby found unbelievable, there was nothing sweet about Mrs. Truman) into her tea. “Go, go, go. Abigail’s got some talking to do and it’s not for men’s ears.”

Abby rolled her eyes to the ceiling. As she did this Pete disappeared.

When she mentally came back into the room, Mrs. Truman was helping herself to some biscuits.

“I’ve just made a decision,” she proclaimed and Abby braced.

“What’s that?” Abby asked, not wanting to know and going to the kettle to make herself another cup of coffee.

“I’m having you and your new man over for dinner with those two friends of yours. The Australians,” Mrs. Truman told her as she teetered to the table balancing her cup and saucer which held four biscuits and Abby sucked in breath in horror at the very idea of Cash, Jenny and Kieran sitting down at any table much less Mrs. Truman’s table.

“That’s very nice of you but it isn’t necessary, Mrs. Truman,” Abby replied.

“I know it isn’t necessary. If it was necessary I wouldn’t do it.” Then she contradicted herself. “But someone has to size this fellow up and with your grandmother out of the picture that someone is me.”

Abby desperately tried a different tactic. “Cash is a pretty busy guy, he’s –”

“Pah!” Mrs. Truman burst out and Abby waited for her to say more but apparently she felt that summed up her argument.

In another demonstration of just how bad her luck could get, at that very moment Abby’s mobile, lying on the table in front of Mrs. Truman, sounded.

Abby, all the way across the kitchen and with her hands full, couldn’t get to it as fast as the heretofore-unknown agile Mrs. Truman could.

She snatched it off the table, studied it briefly and then slid it open as Abby dropped the spoon and coffee and hurried across the room.

“Mrs. Truman –” she said as the older woman put the phone to her ear.

“Abigail Butler’s phone, Edith Truman speaking,” she announced grandly.

Abby halted and hoped to all that was holy that there was a salesman or someone else she didn’t care about on the other end.

“Yes, Abigail’s here and I’m glad you called,” she said tartly, sounding as if she was not glad and furthermore the last time she was glad was 1943. “Abigail and I were just talking about you and we’ve decided you’re both coming to dinner at my house tomorrow. Seven o’clock.”

Abby’s heart sank as she realised Mrs. Truman was speaking to Cash.

What was next? Would the sky fall? The oceans boil? Tidal waves on the Bristol Channel?

The lady sat and listened and then snapped, “Well, change them! I’m an old woman. I don’t know how many dinner parties I have left in me.”

Abby watched as Mrs. Truman paused and listened some more then went on. “The stories say you’re a clever boy, they even made a movie about you, you’ll think of something. Now bring a bottle. White. Chilled. And some flowers. I like roses. And some chocolates. None of that stuff from the grocery stores, decent chocolates,” then she finished, “Abigail’s right here.”

With that she held out the phone to Abby.

Abby stifled the urge to strangle her to death and took the phone, mumbling, “Excuse me,” and with all due haste she left the room, walked down the hall and shut herself in the living room.

Then she put the phone to her ear and with no further ado said, “I told you she could be worse.”

She heard Cash’s rich laughter through the phone and at the sound her belly dipped.

When he’d stopped, she asked, “How much do the English authorities frown on homicide of blue-haired ladies?”

Cash didn’t answer, instead he told her, “I’m considering hiring her. She’d strike fear in the hearts of half the bastards I have to deal with every day. How old is she? My pension people will want to know.”

“Nine hundred and ninety-two,” Abby answered and heard his lush laughter again and knew she’d tried to make him laugh on purpose, again.

When his laughter died, she asked, “Why are you calling? Is something up?”

There was still amusement in his voice when he responded, “I’m calling because that’s what women expect men to do. You expect us to call at least once a day, proving we’re capable of thinking of nothing but you when we’re not. We’re thinking of work.”

Abby smiled to herself, walking to the window where she saw Jenny parking her new Mini outside. “So you’re calling me to tell me you’re not thinking about me?”

His voice changed when he replied. It got that deeper, throatier, sexier that she was beginning to like way too much.

“You? No. Your ass, your smile, your hair and that fucking kiss this morning? Yes.”

She was inordinately thrilled he was thinking about the kiss. When she wasn’t thinking about her screwed up life, her troubles, her house and crazy Mrs. Truman, that was all she could think about.

“Mostly,” he went on, “I wanted to make sure you got my note.”

She’d got it. It was sitting on the kitchen counter by his espresso maker with a set of keys beside it. The black ink was a manly scrawl on the sheet telling her to take the keys, leave a grocery list for his housekeeper and that he’d be home at seven.

She’d made a grocery list but she’d also met Aileen, his housekeeper, by bumping into her while going out the front door.

To Abby’s surprise, Aileen acted like she didn’t run into a woman every time she came to see to Cash’s house.

They’d chatted for a bit and Abby decided she liked her. Then again, there were few people Abby didn’t like, she could count only one and at that very moment that particular person was sitting in Abby’s kitchen.

“I got your note,” she told Cash as she walked toward the door.

Jenny was about to come in and Jenny was Abby’s best friend in the whole world. She didn’t want her to meet Mrs. Truman without warning. No true friend would let that happen.

“Good, what are you making me for dinner?” Cash asked in her ear as Abby opened the door to find Mrs. Truman outside it eating a Bourbon biscuit and unabashedly listening.

“Mrs. Truman!” she cried instead of answering Cash.

“You need to speak up when I’m eavesdropping,” Mrs. Truman told her. “I’m not as young as I once was and that includes my ears.”

At that moment, Jenny walked in stomping her feet and slamming the door, shouting, “It’s fucking cold out there!”

“Language!” Mrs. Truman snapped and Jenny swung around, her face getting pale.

Jennifer Kane was the kind of woman who didn’t let anything faze her. Kieran had a great job that paid really well but he also had to move from country to country. Without a peep, Jenny went with him. She said good-bye to friends. She bought and sold homes and cars and shipped belongings. She found new friends and renewed acquaintances. She travelled to far lands with her husband on business and pleasure.

She could even change her own oil.

What she couldn’t do was live without fear of nosy, maddening Mrs. Truman.

Jennifer Kane was a strong woman but she wasn’t Superwoman.

“Cash,” Abby whispered, “I think I have to –” she was going to say “go” but Mrs. Truman was speaking.

“You and your Australian husband are coming with her,” she pointed a bony finger at Abby, “and her new man, to my place for dinner. Tomorrow night. Seven.”

Jenny’s pale face swung to Abby and she asked, “I am?”

“You are,” Mrs. Truman declared, moving forward, toward her coat, “Bring a bottle. White. Chilled. And some dog treats. They’re having company too.” Then she let out a piercing whistle, Abby winced at the shrill sound nearly dropping the phone and she could hear little spaniel feet thundering through the house. Mrs. Truman turned her attention to Abby. “Tell your man I won’t take any last minute excuses. I don’t care if he’s got fancy schmancy friends. If Marlon Brando himself asks him to dinner, he’s going to say no. Understood?”

“I think Marlon Brando is dead, Mrs. Truman,” Jenny, now standing (or, more accurately, huddling, protection in numbers as it were) beside Abby, informed the old woman.

“Is not,” Mrs. Truman shot back.

“I think he is,” Jenny, unwisely, pressed.

“He is not!” Mrs. Truman snapped loudly and Abby could hear Cash chuckling in her ear so she knew he could hear every word. “I would have heard,” Mrs. Truman went on.

“Maybe I’m wrong,” Jenny mumbled toward Abby (and Abby’s phone), and Cash’s chuckle became laughter.

The dogs had arrived and Mrs. Truman was clipping their leads on them. “Tomorrow, seven. Don’t be late,” she said and then she was out the door.

Abby rushed forward to close (and lock) it behind her.

“I’m sorry, Cash, that was –”

“Stop saying sorry, darling,” his burr sounded softly in her ear, her body experienced a top-to-toe shiver and he finished, “see you tonight.”

Then he disconnected.

Abby slid her phone shut and saw Jenny was staring at her.

“What just happened?” she asked and Abby had a fleeting feeling of fear that Jenny knew about the top-to-toe shiver.

“What?” Abby asked, trying to look innocent.

“Are Kieran and I really having dinner with you, Cash Fraser and Mrs. Truman?” Jenny queried as if she wanted above all else in the world for Abby to say “no”.

Abby was forced to disappoint her friend. “I’m afraid so.”

“My God,” Abby breathed, “we’re going to have to pretend he’s your new boyfriend. He doesn’t know about us.”

This was true.

“Oh my God,” Abby whispered, a new feeling of fear gripping her.

“Don’t worry,” Jenny rallied first, “I’ll talk to Kieran. Everything will be fine. Right?”

Abby nodded, as ever sucking courage from her friend in a time of need.

Abby and Jenny walked to the kitchen together.

“Was it okay?” Jenny asked, “Last night?”

Abby nodded, went to the kettle and took it to the sink to refill it.

She was going to lie.

If there was ever a time to lie, this was it.

Jenny already felt responsible enough. She didn’t need to know what happened this morning.

“He was really late,” Abby explained to her friend. “We just talked and then went to bed. He didn’t try anything.”

“How weird,” Jenny mumbled to herself then her eyes focused on Abby. “What’d you talk about?”

“Music,” that wasn’t a lie, really, “food,” that also wasn’t a lie, as such. “Not much, he was really late,” that was a total lie (well, not the last part).

Jenny looked at Abby closely and Abby figured her friend knew she was telling tall tales, or short, uninformative ones, but Jenny’s face cleared and her eyes got soft.

“He’s being okay with you?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Abby replied, setting the kettle on its charge and flipping it on. She turned back to her friend and rested her hips against the counter. “He’s a…” she hesitated and then went on, sharing just a little bit, “Jenny, I think he’s a good guy. He thinks I’m funny and…” she stopped.

“And what?” Jenny prompted.

“And that’s it. It’s weird sometimes because he’s so hot and, well, he’s rich and paid for me to be with him but when I forget that, it’s okay,” Abby told her.

“You’re sure?” Jenny asked and when Abby nodded, she watched her friend’s body relax and realised just how much Jenny was shouldering this burden.

She’d been right.

Definitely right.

Abby wasn’t going to share any of the things that were not okay with Cash.

Further, Abby wasn’t going to share any of the feelings about Cash she felt relatively certain Jenny would not think were okay.

Jenny walked to a cupboard and pulled down a mug asking, “So, what does Hot Guy, International Man of Mystery, Spy Master General wear to bed?”

At that, Abby knew, for now, everything was okay.