Stuck With the Grumpy Single Dad

9. Chapter Eight Mabel

Chapter Eight: Mabel

I ’m not a stalker. Definitely not.

It’s just that I happened to be leaving my shift at the Siren & Sword at the exact same moment that Matt and his girls were hopping into their pickup truck on Main Street.

I mean, it’s not like I planned to slip into my Jetta and casually pull out into traffic right behind them. It’s just that I felt like taking a more circuitous route back home today.

And when I bypass the last street that could possibly lead me home without requiring a U-turn so that I can keep following them, it’s simply because it’s such a nice evening and I’m really enjoying cruising with the windows down.

I’m not stalking the Morgan family.

Would a stalker politely keep their distance, and even let another car or two get between them and their target? Would a stalker casually happen to memorize Matt’s license plate?

His truck has Maine plates, and I remember them mentioning that’s where they’re from that first day at the restaurant. But don’t Mainers generally dislike people from Massachusetts? If so, why on earth would he come here?

Okay, maybe I am showing some stalker-ish tendencies.

It’s not malicious, though. I’m just curious . It’s not like I’m hunting him down so I can hide in his bushes and peer through his windows. It’s not like I’m going to take out an ad in The Mermaid Gazette, declaring his home address to everyone in town.

The traffic clears out the further away from the town center we get. Maybe this guy doesn’t live in Mermaid Shores at all. Maybe he lives right on the outskirts, just barely over the town limits. Only, we’re not heading in the direction of the next town over.

We’re going up to the cliffs.

I keep my distance, praying that Matt doesn’t happen to glance in his rearview mirror and wonder why the same junky green car has been following him for the past several minutes. Luckily, I’ve got a silky blue bandana in my hair today, so my telltale red hair won’t give me away if he happens to look too closely.

Which is definitely not how a stalker thinks, by the way.

The sun sinks lower toward the horizon as we rise above sea level and curve up the winding, narrow roads that snake up and down the rocky cliffs of the coastline. They’re not particularly tall cliffs, if I’m being honest, but the incline is so gradual that it makes it seem like they stand so much higher above the rest of town.

In the distance, I see Matt pull through the open gates of the Beaufort Estate and disappear into the embrace of the gnarled oaks.

I slow my wheezing car to a crawl at the head of the driveway, then kill the engine.

I should drive away. I really should. Matt’s probably just working late, right? Maybe the new Beaufort heir demands absurdly long hours from the people he hires. Or perhaps Matt forgot an important tool on the job site and is swinging by real quick to pick it up before heading home for the night. In that case, it’s probably not a good idea for me to just be sitting here in my car on private property.

But instead of starting the car back up and driving away, I decide I’m not being enough of a freak and climb out of the vehicle. I’m wearing raggedy denim cutoffs, a Siren & Sword t-shirt stained with ketchup, and I smell like fried food.

And yet, I venture onward.

I walk past the gates, marveling at the mossy gray stone that forms the imposing wall around the perimeter of the property. I’m pretty sure this place was built way back in the nineteenth century. Just like Blakeley Manor, it’s a historical relic.

As I sneak down the gravel driveway, careful to stick to the lengthening shadows and overgrown shrubs, it occurs to me how bizarrely quiet it is up here. Other than the distant rush of the ocean crashing against the cliffside and a few birds chirping overhead, all is silent and still. Even the grumbling sound of Matt’s truck engine has gone quiet.

When the house finally comes into sight, I slip behind a thick tree trunk and peer around. Matt’s truck is the only one in the driveway—the only vehicle in general. There’s no sign of another car or form of transportation that might belong to the owner.

The girls hop out of the cab, their flip-flops crunching on the gravel as they head toward a quaint little guesthouse tucked into the tree line. Matt is close behind them, carrying a pizza box from The Siren Slice. Interesting. Why is he bringing his daughters and a pizza to work at eight on a Thursday night?

From my hiding place several yards away, I watch as Matt makes his way to the guesthouse. The sound of his keys jingling echoes across the yard, reminding me not to make a single noise .

He opens the door to the little cottage. The girls kick off their sandals and scamper inside, their dad close behind them.

Weird.

Maybe the Beaufort heir is letting them stay on the property while it’s being renovated? Or maybe the heir is still not officially in town and Matt is squatting?

Or maybe…

There are matching pink bikes resting on their sides on the lawn in front of the guesthouse. A collection of muddy shoes on the front porch. Not to mention the sparkly unicorn light I can see glowing in one of the cottage windows.

And the way the girls approached me the other day, offering me a tour as if they’re reasonably familiar with the place.

They live here.

I think about the way Matt subtly evaded direct answers to my questions.

The owner of the house isn’t available at the moment , he told me as he was perched atop the roof with his hands full of tools.

And then he refused to tell me the owner’s name. I thought he was just being faithful to his employer, but now I think I’m understanding that I’ve been a bit of an idiot.

Matt isn’t fixing up Beaufort Manor because some mysterious, fancy, foreign heir hired him to do it.

Matt is fixing this place up because it belongs to him.

He is the Beaufort heir.

Numbly, I turn away from the guesthouse and carefully pick my way back down the driveway toward my waiting car.

Honestly, the main thing I’m feeling right now is embarrassment.

I assumed that Matt lived among the rest of the townies because he looked like a blue-collar type of guy. I assumed he’d never live in one of the grand mansions along the shoreline because he simply didn’t behave like the more refined occupants of Mermaid Shores.

And when I showed up here a few days ago and saw him up on that roof, dirty and sweaty and hammering away, I didn’t question it because that’s exactly what my brain believed a guy like that should be doing. He’s rough around the edges. He has visible scars. His clothes and shoes clearly aren’t designer. He drives a rusty pickup truck.

What else was I supposed to think?

“Oh, Mabel,” I grumble to myself as I duck into my car and shove the key into the ignition.

I’m not just a stalker. I’m a snob .

Totally by accident, though. I mean, I’m not an elitist. I’m a waitress, for goodness’ sake. Yes, I was recently promoted to assistant manager and took a nice pay raise with it, but I’m still nothing more than a small-town waitress at heart. I’m a simple girl. I rent a little, two-bedroom house, and one of those bedrooms is so small that it’s more like a closet. I rarely leave Mermaid Shores. When I do, it’s usually only to go as far as Boston.

Basically, I’m not the sort of person who should be passing judgment on who fits into a stereotypically wealthy role.

Clearly, even though Matt Morgan comes off as a simple man, he’s got rich relatives.

As I pull into my own driveway about ten minutes later, I resolve to keep this information to myself. It’ll come out soon enough, but I don’t feel like being the one to break the news. Anyway, I’m probably not the only one who knows. Some of the laborers Matt hired to help with the house are probably locals, which means they know the truth. And surely, Principal Hanover put it together when Matt registered the girls for school, right ?

I’m not carrying this secret alone. Which means that I’m definitely not going to be the one to crack. I can be just as discreet as the more tight-lipped members of this town. I’m not the gossip that so many people believe me to be.

I sigh heavily as I step into my house. I can tell that my mom has been through here recently from the faint scent of her coconut blossom perfume in the entryway.

Sure enough, when I head into the kitchen and open the fridge, there’s a glass container full of leftovers from a recent catering event.

I really love my mom’s job.

I pull off the note stuck to the container and smile.

Eat up, Mabel Lee, she wrote. BTW, I borrowed some chipotle seasoning and corn starch from your pantry. Love you.

I tut my tongue as I open up the container. It’s an odd assortment of things—a stuffed poblano pepper, some saucy steak tips, a bunch of roasted vegetables—but I’m just grateful that I don’t have to cook after a long day at work.

I pop the dish into the microwave and wander into the living room. Most of my furniture is an odd collection of pieces I’ve found at yard sales and thrift stores. Technically, I make enough from my job to be able to afford nicer things, especially since I don’t exactly have anything else to spend my money on, but I’ve always been frugal. I prefer to save, rather than spend. Whenever my mom asks about it, I just tell her that I’m saving for a rainy day. I keep it vague.

My biggest secret, however, is that I am technically saving for something. Years ago, when I found out about my inability to have children, I knew I had other options. Still, surrogacy was off the table, since I don’t really like the idea of renting space from another woman’s body. IVF is absurdly expensive, arduous, and I don’t have anyone to be the actual fertilizer for me.

Adoption, however, appealed to me. There are so many unwanted kids out there in the world, and if I could take just one of them in, I would be happy. The thing is, adoption is a difficult and expensive process. Especially when you’re single, not a homeowner, and not a high earner.

Technically, though, my dad owns this house that I live in. When he retired from being a firefighter, he decided to invest his life savings in some local real estate pursuits. I’m sure he’d sell it to me cheap, or at least vouch for me that he doesn’t intend to evict me one day. Unfortunately, that would require me actually telling him that I want to adopt a baby.

And I haven’t told anyone that. Not even Cal.

Cal…

When the microwave dings, I head back into the kitchen. I sit down at the table with my food and stare at the pile of mail scattered across the surface. Cal’s last letter is still there, hidden underneath the latest issue of Bon Appétit and an electric bill that I already paid online. It was careless of me to leave it out like this. Not that I think my mom is interested in going through my mail, but she helps herself to my pantry often enough that it’s possible she might shuffle things around in here and accidentally find letters from my secret pen pal.

I don’t know why I’ve never told her about him. Other than the adoption stuff, he’s my best-kept secret.

I just wish I knew what the heck he’s talking about in this most recent letter. Exciting things? A big change?

And he wants to meet me? After all this time?

Dinner temporarily forgotten, I fetch a scrap of paper and a pen from the kitchen junk drawer and sit down to write a response .

August 11, 2024

Dear Cal,

You’re really building the suspense, dude. All those vague sentences and absolutely no explanation. Did you finally buy the girls a pony like they’ve been asking for, for years? Or maybe you decided to switch brands of oatmeal at the grocery store? After all these years, I’m not really sure what you might consider a BIG change. Whatever it is, I’m glad that it at least sounds like something good.

We’ve never discussed meeting in person before as adults. It’s daunting. What if you’re nothing like the man I’ve pictured in my head? What if you realize I’m not nearly as witty and amusing as I am on paper? Or what if it turns out you laugh like a donkey in real life? Or you find out that my voice is like nails on a chalkboard to you? We could end up hating each other, Cal. I mean, I know the chances of that are unlikely, considering we’ve been friends for almost twenty years, but still.

Even so, I think I do really want to meet you. It might be nice. I just don’t know when it could possibly happen. We live several hours away from each other and we both work most days. Maybe we could pencil each other in for a quick coffee at a midway point between us, four or five years from now?

Anyway, I’m happy you’re doing well, Cal. I’m doing okay, too.

Best,

Maple