One Autumn Night

Chapter Four

The tenacious autumn air in Stonebridge, Connecticut clutched onto the chill, not letting go. While the sun had begun to wake golden sparkles alive on the frosty layers of sheen that coated the town, morning patrons bundled in thick sweaters, puffy jackets, and vibrantly colored scarves. Children chased each other, racing across the central square of slick lawn, sliding, laughing, and shivering as they awaited the arrival of the school bus.

A storm on the horizon, a sliver of dark rumbling above the jagged treetops, and the sun lifting slightly over the deep blues and saturated grays to eagerly greet the kids who'd returned to the routines of school, the town bustled with the novelty of the season.

Inside the pub, Abigail threw open the cooler, the freezer, the cupboards and the supply closet, raiding every nook and cranny. Ingredients and dishes connected in her head as she visualized what the buffet line would look like.

While she fiercely despised the idea of catering for the Fitzgeralds, she was running a business, and the work needed to be quality or she'd only be shooting herself in the foot.

And her foot already hurt from its fall through the stairs.

So she poured another cup of steaming coffee then sat on a barstool in the closed pub and made three lists that grew extensively by the minute. One of the lists featured the menu for the event, one was a draft of the groceries needed to fulfill the menu, and one ran down the supplies with the corresponding locations to purchase or borrow the items.

After reviewing the lists, crossing off the extemporaneous items and sticking only with the necessities, she returned to the kitchen, slightly stricken with panic at what she'd gotten herself into. Then she reminded herself that the Fitzgeralds needed her and she needed the money. It was as simple as that. A simple, basic transaction.

Ben shoved Beckett through the back door as Abigail was piling the current sausage supply on the counter, doing a final check, counting one more time, just to be sure.

"Holy hell. What's all this?" Beckett's face scrunched beneath the crop of crazed chestnut waves that were well overdue for a cut.

"Adulthood. Welcome to it. Swallow some aspirin, eat something fried, and get ready to cook a hundred and fifty plates of Bangers N' Mash." Abigail couldn't tell if Beckett was scowling or on the verge of throwing up. "Do I need to worry about you? Please say no."

"No, I'm good. Will be. Something like that." Beckett rubbed a hand across his stomach as he shuffled to the front of the empty pub. "Can't party like I used to," he grumbled, his voice like a deep scratch of sandpaper.

"Yes, you're so old now," Abigail replied, though only Ben remained with her in the kitchen.

"So what now?" He asked with innate steadiness.

"Now we get to work. I talked to Marshall and Kelly and Danielle. Marshall is in some UConn debate today and tomorrow so he's out but Kelly and Danielle are onboard and will be here ASAP. Though Danielle's picking up Kelly because Kelly's car is in the shop, and they'll be a little late because Danielle was on her way to Mystic to have brunch with her grandmother. Feeling bad about that but I'll give them brunch on the house next weekend to make up for it. I'd say we should just go pick up Kelly ourselves but I think we'd do better to focus on preparations and just let Danielle wrangle Kelly."

"All right." Ben, used to his sister's fast mind and blunt words, followed along, figuring he'd be speeding off the starting line soon enough.

"I need your help running errands since you're the most awake and most responsible which I don't think anyone, including Beckett, would disagree with. I have two lists of to-dos, which do you want? Supplies we need to beg and borrow from other businesses—thinking the Red Roof Diner will help out with chafing dishes and serving spoons, that sort of thing. Or I have a grocery list. I called Marty's Meats but they can't be here until tomorrow, even with the offer of paying cost and a half. So we hoof it to the market and take whatever they have then head out to New Haven for everything else we'll need in bulk. Which list do you want? Remember, we're working on desperation here, not perfection."

"You reminding yourself?"

"I am. I hate doing things half-assed but we're going to have to produce an end result to get paid today so we do our best and that's all we can do," she said fast and on a huff.

"Then our best will be done," Ben told her, ever the calm, reassuring voice of the family. "And I'll take the supply list, you take grocery. That way you'll be able to make judgment calls on food if needed."

"Okay, that works." Abigail pushed up the sleeves of her sweater to her elbows. "Let's do this."

She sped through the aisles at the local market then dropped off the first round of groceries at the pub, checked on Beckett who was on his third cup of coffee and looking less like a twenty-one-year-old ready to hurl, and more like a man not too much worse for the wear.

And on her second outing for additional goods—more potatoes, onions, and pork sausages—she had a half-hour drive to contend with, which wasn't easy when she had physical momentum going and was stuck sitting still in the driver's seat. Slowing only for deer that shot out from the woods to cross the highway, daredevils that they were, she kept a steady fifteen ticks above the speed limit and pushed Lucky, her little beat up car, to its limit.

With her mind providing an abundance of chatter, she kept the radio quiet. Every now and then the engine would clink or sputter or growl and she'd surface from her thoughts, only to dive back in when the car returned to humming along just fine.

Declan Fitzgerald, she thought, the name poking into her mental rundown of to-dos. He looked good, she had to admit. Even a stubborn woman would have to admit that the man was handsome from any and every angle. She hadn't seen him in years, roughly eight, and he wore those years as well as he wore jeans and the navy half-zip pullover he'd shown up in.

The planes of his face were punctuated by dark brows and thick hair, but his face had narrowed with a sculptured strength, a handsome hardness that hadn't been there before. And God, she'd always loved his hair. In high school she'd run her fingers through it casually and, at times, passionately, she remembered. Even with it cropped shorter now, it still had those same unruly ends that hinted at moneyed mischief.

Money, she thought, an echo in her mind that dropped to the pitted bottom of her empty stomach. He was from money, and she barely had any. He knew what it was to stand on solid ground, and she knew all too well what it felt like to fall through the cracks.

It was what it was, she reminded herself. No use feeling bad over the past or the present. She had a business to run, and thinking about Declan was only bound to knot her up. And being knotted up in a nook of her own mind was a waste of time, especially when she had work to do.

Her life may be small by comparison to his, and she may stumble a whole hell of a lot, but it was a life that meant something to her.

She rolled down the window of her old Honda and breathed in waves of air scented with the ripe brew of rain, loving every whiff.

She should've checked the forecast, she thought duly, refocusing. From what she understood, the Fitzgeralds' Autumn Harvest deal was held in the sprawling grass courtyard in massive white tents. At least that's what she'd seen photographed in years past in the Stonebridge Gazette. And being outside in soggy lawn could pose a challenge, but the menu she'd decided on would be a hearty match for a stormy event so she gave herself extra points for that.

Then it dawned on her that she was responsible for feeding some of the wealthiest mouths on the eastern seaboard and her heart pattered to a new set of erratic beats.

Speeding forward, she left the window down and turned on the radio to whatever station she'd last listened to, and breathed deep.

She would get through the day, she would make it through the evening, and she would take home the money she needed to keep a roof over her head and over her pub, and, more aptly, a floor beneath her feet.

Simple, she thought. She could do it. No problem.

And when she returned to her pub, armed and overloaded by paper sacks full of groceries, she found Declan Fitzgerald slicing onions in her kitchen.

Not simple, she corrected, hearing his mother's words scream through her mind—to stay away from Declan, that she was holding him back from the life he deserved, that he'd never marry a girl of her scanty stature—from so many years ago. Not simple, she decided. Complicated, very complicated.