Stuck With the Grumpy Single Dad

7. Chapter Six Mabel

Chapter Six: Mabel

M ay 6, 2012

Dear Maple Leaf,

I know we haven’t written to each other in over a year, and maybe that means I’m supposed to move on from my childhood pen pal and carry on with my adult life, but the sad fact of the matter is that I don’t have anyone else to talk to.

This letter is bittersweet, Maple, but I should warn you that the bitter part is pretty bad. I’ll start with the sweet stuff, though.

The twins were born at the beginning of last October. Two beautiful girls. They are perfect. For a little while, everything was great. I knew fatherhood would be challenging, but, as dumb as it sounds, I wasn’t prepared for how absolutely amazing and incredible it is. I couldn’t imagine life without them.

Here comes the difficult part.

Last summer, when Lindsay was about six or seven months along, she started getting pretty bad migraines. We figured it was just a normal part of the pregnancy. She’s always had headaches, you know? But after she gave birth, one of her doctors suggested she go in for a brain scan, just in case.

They found cancer.

The thing about brain cancer is that it causes things to go downhill very fast. Once you’re able to detect it, it’s pretty much already too late. They tried, though. Surgery, radiation, everything. She didn’t have time to enjoy being a mother. She couldn’t breastfeed. She became so weak that she could barely hold them.

She passed away in January.

Now I’m a widower, and the father of two seven-month-olds. I’ve never felt more alone. My mom is doing everything she can to help. She moved into the house and she makes sure that I’m eating proper meals and getting a reasonable amount of sleep. Lindsay’s family has been helping when they can, too.

It’s hard, Maple. I don’t really know what to do. I mean, I can’t give up. I have to care for my baby girls. It just breaks my heart to think that they’ll never know their mother. They’re too young to remember her. All they have is me, and I’m terrified that I’m not enough. How am I supposed to raise two daughters by myself? Things like this aren’t supposed to happen. I’m twenty-two. People aren’t supposed to be widowed this young. We were supposed to live until we were wrinkly and gray. Lindsay was supposed to finish her PhD and become a professor and teach the girls things that I can’t even begin to understand.

I know there’s nothing you can do, and it’s not like I expect you to fix my life for me. It’s just that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how much I miss writing to you. I hope you’ve been okay. Also, I hope this letter isn’t so horrifically depressing that you decide you no longer want anything to do with me. Then again, I’d understand if that’s the case. You deserve a good life, Maple Leaf. You deserve happiness .

Anyway, I should wrap this up. I can hear one whining for her bottle, which means the other will join her any second now.

Wishing you the best, always,

Cal

***

March 20, 2013

Dear Cal,

I’m so happy to hear that the girls are chatting your ears off, crawling all over the place, and already causing trouble. They’re growing up so fast! You’re doing a great job, Cal. Those girls are so lucky to have you as their father. I know you told me I shouldn’t spend my money on them, but I’m enclosing more toys. I can’t help it—you’re my friend, and therefore, it’s my job to spoil your kids.

I’m also trying to decide if I should tell you about the news I just got from the doctor. I don’t want to add negativity to your day. You already have so much on your plate. But, crazy as it is, you’re the only one I want to share something like this with. I mean, my parents know. That’s it, though. And I don’t really want to tell anyone else. Other than you, I mean.

Okay, here goes.

So (this is TMI, and I’m sorry for that, but you’re raising daughters so you’ll have to get used to this topic), a few months ago, I stopped getting my period. At first, I didn’t think it was that weird. I’ve always been pretty irregular (again, sorry). But then two months passed and I still hadn’t bled. And I wasn’t dating anyone at the time. I wasn’t being intimate with someone, so it’s not like I could’ve been pregnant. Still, I figured my period would come back eventually .

Earlier this year, my mom finally convinced me to go see a doctor. They did an insane number of tests. I felt like a lab rat. Anyway, it took them a while, but they finally diagnosed me with something. I’ll spare you all the tedious details and very long, scientific words, but the moral of the story is that my reproductive system has officially retired at the ripe age of twenty-two. I can’t have children. I’m infertile.

I’ve been trying to put on a brave face because I really don’t want this to spread around town and become common knowledge, but it’s been hard. As dramatic as it sounds, I’ve been crying myself to sleep most nights because it’s the only time I’m alone and able to really feel my emotions.

I mean, it’s not like having kids was the only thing that mattered to me. It wasn’t like I’d been living my life with the sole intention to become a mother. But it was something I was really looking forward to, you know? I was excited to fall in love and start a family with someone one day. I wanted at least three babies. Maybe four. A big family. Now I can’t have that. Sure, I guess I could still fall in love, but now my options are limited to guys who don’t want to have children. How am I even supposed to handle that? Should I drop the news on the first date before things can get too far?

I don’t know, Cal. This sucks. There’s really nothing else to say about it.

In the meantime, I will be coping by showering your girls with colorful material possessions that they don’t actually need. Deal with it.

Yours truly,

Maple Leaf

** *

A week after the cherry pie debacle, I’ve given up on hunting down the newcomers. The little Morgan family hasn’t made a reappearance at the Siren & Sword, and they’ve been keeping so much to themselves in the meantime that the rest of the locals have started to lose interest, too.

He’s too handsome to be a hermit, my mom lamented. But he’ll show his face sooner or later. When tourist season ends, he’ll have fewer people to hide behind.

The thing I don’t understand is why Matt would hide in the first place. Why move to a new town and then completely refuse to be a part of it? It’s baffling.

Still, as much as mystery intrigues me, there are other secrets to solve here in Mermaid Shores.

Like the identity of the Beaufort heir.

Joshie mentioned that Colette said her cousin’s boyfriend’s brother saw even more trucks coming and going from the property. Construction vehicles, mostly. Laborers. A masonry company. An appliance delivery vehicle. Whoever inherited the property isn’t wasting time updating it.

Even so, nobody has been able to figure out who the heir actually is. Roy told me that his neighbor’s daughter, who works for The Mermaid Gazette , tried to get an exclusive interview, but with no luck. Apparently, the new resident at Beaufort Manor is just as private and reclusive as the old resident.

But I’m Mabel Lee. My greatest strength is my charm. Just because Matt is impervious to it doesn't mean that the Beaufort heir will have similar defenses.

That’s how I find myself driving up to the cliffs on my next day off, a Tupperware full of Gigi Lee’s famous blueberry-cheese Danishes in the passenger seat. I’m confident that a few smiles and a bite of my mom’s baking will be the key to unlocking this mystery.

When I pull up to the rusted iron gates, my Jetta whines. She doesn’t like driving up sharp inclines. I pat the dashboard encouragingly and steer the car onto the gravel driveway.

I’ve never actually been inside the grounds. Not many people have. According to a few older citizens of Mermaid Shores, old Roger Beaufort used to throw lavish parties here in the seventies and eighties. They were the talk of the town. In the nineties, however, Mr. Beaufort changed pace. The parties petered out, and, by the time the new millennium began, he was rarely seen around town. Some say that he had a health scare that spooked him into becoming antisocial. Other people think all the questionably legal nonsense he got up to at those parties finally got to him, so he turned to sobriety and solitude instead.

The point is, the fact that these gates are open is a big deal.

The driveway is narrow and winding, snaking up the grassy cliff and bordered on either side by austere oak trees planted at equal intervals. The landscaping could do with some tidying up, but I’m sure that’s already on the heir’s long to-do list.

When I come upon the house and crawl to a stop in the circle of gravel that serves as the driveway, I stare through the windshield with my lips parted in shock.

It’s huge. Not quite as huge as Blakeley Manor, and clearly in need of some TLC, but way bigger than any house I’ve ever lived in. It’s made of red brick, most of it shrouded in ivy, and stands so proudly atop the cliff that I swear I feel a stern, ancient gaze washing over me.

There are three other vehicles in the lot. One is a large white van with Mansfield Construction printed on the side. The other two are pickup trucks, each at least fifteen or twenty years old. The four-car garage is open, revealing piles of new lumber, unidentifiable building equipment, and a tarp-covered yacht.

I don’t see any sleek foreign cars or fancy SUVs. Nothing that a wealthy heir from abroad might drive. Nothing that suggests Mr. Beaufort’s beneficiary is around.

That’s fine. Maybe one of the laborers can tell me what I want to know.

I climb out of my car, the pastries balanced on one hand like the expert waitress I am. I adjust the straps of my white tank top and check that my denim shorts aren’t riding up too high. My hair is loose and long, flowing down my back. To put it bluntly, I know I’m an attractive person, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with working it to my advantage. You’ve got to use the tools you were born with, as my mom would say.

I can hear a group of men talking from within the house, but I’ve got my eyes set on the man on the lower section of roof that hangs over the porch. He’s only about fifteen feet above me, and my whiny Jetta certainly made a fuss on her way up here, so he’s already watching me as I approach.

Except, as soon as I get close enough to take in the details of that man, I stop short.

It’s Matt.

He’s wearing a paint-stained t-shirt and plain blue jeans, a tool belt hanging around his hips. His work boots look like they’ve seen better days—probably the result of crawling around on too many rooftops.

Well, I guess I finally found him. And I suppose I know what he does for work now. I’d been right all along. Not that it was hard to guess he works in construction with all those calluses and scars on his hands. At least the newcomer didn’t have a hard time finding employment in this town.

Matt slips the hammer resting comfortably in his palm back into his tool belt and twists to look down at me, his lower body braced expertly on the roof.

“You,” is all he says.

I let the undisguised contempt blow right past me and offer him a warm smile.

“Hi, there. Nice to see you again. Any chance the owner of this place is around?”

Matt quirks an eyebrow at me. Even from the distance, his ice-blue eyes are piercing. I swear I feel a coolness in the breeze despite the hot August weather.

“Why?”

Refusing to let my smile waver, I hold out the Tupperware. “I brought some pastries as a welcome-to-town present.”

“Hm.”

“And, you know, I might have brought you something, too, if I actually knew where you lived.”

For some reason, that makes him laugh and shake his head.

“The owner of the house isn’t available at the moment,” Matt informs me.

“Do you know when he will be available?”

“Nope.”

“Might I ask for his name? I’d love to include a note with these pastries, but I wouldn’t know whom to address it to.”

“Nope.”

“You won’t tell me his name?”

Matt shakes his head again. “Now’s not a good time, lady. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Lady ? Seriously ?

“My name is Mabel,” I inform him. “I already told you that. At the restaurant, last week.”

He shrugs. “Okay.”

What is wrong with this man? He can’t have a nice conversation with a friendly woman bearing baked goods? Does he not have a soul?

“Hi!” chirps a pair of girlish voices on my left.

I turn to find the blonde twins bounding toward me with bright grins on their faces. It’s funny, really. They remind me of the Sullivan twins, even though Amy and Ruby are grown women. The Sullivans are blonde and pretty and beloved by everyone in Mermaid Shores, but they might have competition now. Even so, while Amy and Ruby have sky-blue eyes, these sisters have deep brown eyes the color of freshly brewed coffee.

“Are you here to see our dad?” asks one of the twins. Her wrists are loaded with colorful beaded bracelets and she’s got a neon pink ribbon tied around her ponytail.

“We could give you a tour while he’s busy,” suggests the other twin. There’s a bit of grass tangled in her wild, golden mane, as well as a streak of mud along the front of her shirt.

I smile at them. At least they seem to like me. Their dad must have opted to bring them to work with him. They’re so new to town that he probably hasn’t had the chance to find suitable childcare yet. Then again, these girls seem reasonably old enough to fend for themselves.

I open my mouth to tell them that I would love a tour of the Beaufort property, but Matt is quick to interrupt.

“Girls, you better run along,” he barks. “This is a construction site. You know better.”

They pout in unison, but one synchronized glance up at their father tells them that he means business. With quiet grumbles, they scamper away again.

I let out a sigh of defeat. “Well, I suppose I’ll just leave these pastries here on the porch. Maybe I’ll stop by another time.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. The owner isn’t available to greet guests all that often.”

“So, he’s just as antisocial as the previous owner?”

In response, all I get is a shrug. He reaches for his hammer again, wordlessly ending the conversation as he turns back to his task of hammering nails into a fresh slew of shingles.

“Alright, then!” I force myself to call up to him, doing my best to sound as cheerful and unbothered as always. “You have a good day now, Mr. Morgan! I’ll see you around town!”

He tosses a half-hearted wave over his shoulder.

Whatever.

Back in my car, I let out a growl of annoyance. There must be something wrong with me if I can’t seem to soften this man up with my trademark smile and a playful wink.

Then again, maybe there’s something wrong with him .

Trying my best not to feel the sting of rejection left behind by Matt’s rudeness, I guide my car down the slope of the cliffs and head back into town. At least I was able to drop the pastries off. Not that the owner will know who they’re from, given that I wasn’t lying about not including a note. Except maybe that’ll be a good excuse for me to go back again soon.

I’ll have to re-strategize.

Chewing on my bottom lip, I stop by the post office to collect my mail. I’ve been using the same PO Box for ages, even though my home has a fully functional mailbox. Old habits die hard, or whatever. I dig around for my keys inside the little lobby with the wall of metal boxes, then shove the tiny key into the hole. I’m distracted, barely paying attention as I reach inside, until my fingertips graze the edge of an envelope.

When I pull it out, I gasp.

It’s a letter from Cal.

Instantly, the sourness of today’s failure drifts away. I smile to myself. I haven’t heard from Cal in a while, and this envelope is all dirty and crumpled as if it’d spent the last few weeks lost in the mail.

I rip it open as I rush out of the building and back to my car, eager for news from the one person on this earth who never fails to make me feel better, even during the worst times.

July 22, 2024

Leafy,

This letter will have to be brief because I don’t have much time to sit down and write out a detailed explanation. Exciting things are happening. I have great news to share with you, but I want to wait until things are finalized. A big change has occurred. It still feels like a dream.

My point is, maybe it’s time to take our pen-pal friendship one step further. I know we’ve never talked about it before—heck, we’ve never even shared our real names with each other—but maybe there’s a chance we could meet sometime soon? In person?

Or maybe you’re not interested in that, which is completely fine. Either way, let me know. I’ll update you soon.

Best,

Cal

Back home, I read through the letter again, trying to make sense of it.

“What?” I murmur out loud to the empty living room.

I read through the short letter several more times. First of all, I can count on one hand the number of times that Cal has used the nickname “Leafy” for me, and it’s usually only when he’s in an insanely good mood.

“‘A big change’?” I ask my quiet house. The cluttered rooms offer no explanation.

Cal’s life doesn’t have big changes, unless you count the birth of his daughters almost thirteen years ago and the tragic death of his wife shortly after.

Actually…

Cal has twin girls who are probably around the same age as Matt’s twin girls. What are the chances?

“Huh,” I mutter to the embroidered throw pillows as I flop down onto the sofa.

Cal is right, though. We’ve never talked about meeting in real life. We don’t live that far, relatively speaking. He’s up in Maine and I’m down here in Massachusetts. At most, it’s a few hours on the road. Still, it’s just not something that ever came up after my Aunt Sue sold her cabin in Maine. I’d thought about mentioning it a few times over the years, but it always felt like one of those things that would break the spell between us. Like, if we ever met face-to-face, maybe the bond we’ve built since we were kids would disappear into thin air. Maybe we wouldn’t like each other at all.

The comment about our names is what’s really causing me confusion, though.

It’s obvious that Maple Leaf isn’t my real name. But I always assumed that Cal was his real name. Short for Calvin or Calhoun or something like that.

I always look forward to these letters, but I can’t help feeling insanely confused about this one. What is going on? What sort of exciting stuff is happening to Cal that he can’t explain himself? Did his carpentry business land a huge, important client? Did he get a huge payment? Is he taking the girls on a fancy vacation? Is he writing to me from a luxury cruise where he’s going to meet the second love of his life and forget all about me?

I set the letter down on the coffee table.

“What am I even supposed to say to all of that?” I ask the dirty coffee mug I left there earlier this morning.

Alas, this is not a fairytale, and therefore, none of the inanimate objects in my house can talk back to me. I’ll have to figure this out by myself.