Stuck With the Grumpy Single Dad

13. Chapter Twelve Mabel

Chapter Twelve: Mabel

“ I think you’ve completely lost your mind, Mabel Lee,” I mutter to myself as my car rolls slowly down a narrow, wooded lane.

I’m in the middle of nowhere. Literally. The GPS on my phone can barely locate me, thanks to the fact that I only have one bar of service.

It’s pretty up here, though. I’m usually never this far inland, and I tend to feel a little suffocated when I know I’m not within thirty minutes of the coast, but the natural beauty of northern Maine is enough to quell that uneasiness. There’s just so much green . Green, as far as the eye can see. Green mountains and dark, greenish ponds. Green grass sprouting around a massive blue-green lake. Every few miles, there are signs to warn me about possible moose crossings, and I can’t help thinking about all of Cal’s fun facts about the absurdly huge creatures.

There aren’t many houses visible from the road. I see a lot of private lanes leading to mere glimpses of cabins hidden within the trees and a few other roads branching off from the main route. Even in the heart of Greenville, there isn’t a whole lot going on. It’s a simple but charming area, clearly in the height of tourist season just like Mermaid Shores. Even so, it’s not nearly as busy and crowded as my hometown can get in the summer months.

My memories of visiting this place as a kid are vague. All I can remember is the tiny, brown, lakeside cabin that my Aunt Sue used to own. I used to come up here and visit for a couple weeks every summer, but I guess I never really paid that much attention to my surroundings when I was a child. Most of my memories consist of swimming in the lake, running barefoot in the grassy woods, and eating ice cream at a shop in the town center that probably doesn’t exist anymore.

As I drive on past the main part of town, I find myself in a slightly less wooded area. The trees huddle in the background as rolling hills and small plots of farmland take shape on either side of the road.

Then, at last, after eight hours on the road, I come to the return address that Cal has printed on his envelopes for the past several years. It’s not the house that he lived in when I first wrote to him, but the house that he moved to when he and Lindsay got married. The house where his mother came to live with him after he was widowed. And then, the house that she died in, too.

One time, I asked Cal if moving to a different house might make him feel better. A place with less heavy memories attached to it might offer him a fresh outlook on life. He had agreed with me, but then very realistically reminded me that he couldn’t really afford to deal with finding a new place to live. I understood his situation enough to not argue the point further.

I chew on my bottom lip as I turn into the dirt driveway. There aren’t any other cars parked here, but it’s also the middle of the day on a Saturday. Chances are that Cal has taken his daughters out somewhere. Maybe I drove right past them by the lakefront downtown and didn’t even realize it .

Turning off the engine, I listen to the tired tick, tick, tick of the motor cooling down under the hood. I’ve never taken such a long journey with my little Jetta, and I was a little worried that we wouldn’t make it.

“Good job, baby,” I whisper to my old car, patting the dashboard affectionately.

Honestly, I could probably afford to get a newer vehicle, but I’ve had this thing since I graduated high school, and it’s never done me wrong. I know many might disagree, but there’s no need to replace something that’s working perfectly fine. It’s the same reason I’ve had the same phone for almost five years, despite the slight crack in the screen and weak battery. It’s another thing that Cal agrees with me about.

We agree on a lot of things. We’ve been friends for twenty years. So, surely, this last-minute road trip wasn’t the worst decision I could have possibly made… right? I’m not a weirdo or a Peeping Tom, and I’m most definitely not a stalker.

He’ll think it’s funny that I came all the way up here. He’ll be happy to see me. I’m sure of it.

I flip down the visor and check my reflection in the little mirror. After hours on the road, I don’t exactly look my best, but I don’t think Cal will care about some subtle eye bags and my wrinkled clothes.

Even so, I smooth down my hair in an attempt to tame its humidity-induced frizziness and straighten the collar of my plain white t-shirt.

Then, after taking several deep breaths for courage, I climb out of my car.

Cal’s house is an old farmhouse. It’s quaint, but it also looks a bit crooked and heavy, as if it’s stood there for too long and it’s tired of remaining upright. I can tell that a carpenter lives here, though, because the porch railing is freshly maintained and the front door is a slab of beautifully stained oak.

The sound of the driver’s side door slamming shut is jarring in this quiet, peaceful place. There’s a barn with a sinking roof and shabby cedar siding next to the house, which I already know functions as Cal’s workshop. I expect to hear the sound of a power saw or wood sander, but it’s completely silent.

The entire place, even the forest skirting the edge of the property, is eerily silent.

Clearly, nobody’s home, but I make my way toward the porch anyway. My footsteps crunch in the dirt, then make dull thump-creak sounds as I climb the stairs. On the porch, I pause and glance back at my car, at the empty driveway, at the overgrown lawn.

It seems unlike Cal that he would go so long without mowing his lawn, actually. Bright yellow dandelions have popped up among the long blades of grass, waving cheerfully in the warm August breeze.

The porch is also oddly empty. I swear I remember him mentioning a swing he built for the twins and a rocking chair that he built for his mother so she could sit outside when she was feeling well enough for it in her final months. Neither of those things are anywhere to be seen. Nor are the little girls’ shoes that he often complained about being kicked off with reckless abandon by the front doormat.

Maybe he’s just doing some very, very late spring cleaning.

I take another deep breath and pull open the screen door. It groans loudly, causing me to flinch, but no sounds echo from within the house. No chatter. No laughter. No footsteps on floorboards. Nothing but an incessant chickadee perched on a branch overhanging the porch roof.

Still, I knock on the door.

No answer .

Another slow inhale. Another measured exhale.

I knock again.

A silent minute passes before I resign myself to the fact that nobody is going to answer.

Carefully, I let the screen door swing shut and then wander over to the window that provides a clear view into the front room of the house. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I cup my hands around my eyes to guard against the glaring sun and peer inside.

It’s completely empty.

No furniture. No storage boxes. Nothing but a bare room with blank walls.

Nobody lives here.

Jerking away from the window, I march down the porch steps and stand in the driveway, hands on my hips.

The number 41 is clearly posted on the front door. This is most definitely 41 Hackwith Drive. And I’m absolutely, without a doubt, in a town called Greenville, Maine. I know this address by heart, as well as I know my own.

Cal lives here. I know he does. Other than the few missing bits, everything fits his description. The farmhouse. The barn. The big front lawn with the huge tree down by the road.

“Weird,” I murmur out loud.

Unsure what to do with myself, I amble back toward my car.

At that moment, I hear the telltale sound of old tires on cracked pavement and the rumble of a well-used engine. I peer down the road toward the right and see a pickup truck heading this way. Is that Cal’s truck? He mentioned he drives a truck, right? Surely, he does, given his career.

My stomach bubbles with anticipation as the truck approaches, then slows. However, instead of pulling into the driveway beside me, the driver rolls to an idling halt on the side of the road.

An older man with ruddy skin and a substantial beard leans out the window.

“You lookin’ for Matt?”

For a few seconds, all I can do is stare at the stranger. He must be in his fifties, and even from several feet away, the scent of tobacco wafting from within the cab tickles my nose.

Despite all my reliance on natural charm, all I can manage is an idiotic, “Uh, Matt?”

The old man nods. “A-yup! Matt Morgan. You know him?”

A strange, hollow rushing sound echoes in the back of my mind. My thoughts fizzle into thin air. A wave of lightheadedness nearly strikes me down.

“Matt Morgan? Matthew Morgan? Yes, I—he lives down in—but we—I’m sorry, what?”

The old man chuckles like I’ve just said something funny.

“You just missed him, beautiful,” he tells me. “Him and his girls moved outta state a few weeks ago! Somewhere in Mass, but I can’t remembah the name of the town.”

“Oh. Okay. Yes. Sure. Um… right. Thank you, sir.”

“You okay, hon?”

“Totally. I was just—yes, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Alrighty. You have a good day.”

He nods at me, and then his truck rumbles away a moment later.

Robotically, I walk back to my car. I sink down in the driver’s seat and stare through the windshield at the empty house.

Matthew Morgan lived here. Matt, the stranger with the pretty eyes and the bad attitude, lived in this house .

But that can’t be true. Because Cal lives in this house. My Cal.

And yet, I know that Matt is from Maine, just like Cal. I know that he arrived in Mermaid Shores around the same time that Cal sent me that strange letter about big, exciting things.

My head spins so violently that I have to close my eyes and rest my forehead on the steering wheel.

Matt has twin daughters, roughly twelve or thirteen years old. Cal has twin daughters, turning thirteen in less than two months.

Matt clearly knows how to fix up a house, given how hands-on he’s been with Beaufort Manor. Cal is a carpenter, trained in how to handle a variety of construction tools.

Matt is a single father. Cal is widowed.

With shaking hands, I pull out my phone. Despite the shoddy signal, I open the search engine and type in Matthew Morgan + Greenville, Maine.

It takes a handful of minutes to load, during which time my breathing becomes erratic and my heart feels like it’s about to explode out of my chest.

The first thing that comes up is an obituary.

Diana Marie (n. Plourde) Morgan passed away on May 6, 2014… states the short, simple passage on the local newspaper’s website. I skip to the end, where it reads, She is survived by her son, Matthew Callum Morgan, and her granddaughters, Ava Jean and Mia Beth Morgan.

I press my hand to my mouth, reading it over and over again until my mind is forced to process what’s right in front of it.

Matthew Callum Morgan. Callum. Cal.

Diana was his mother, who died only a couple years after he lost his wife.

And… Ava and Mia. Those are the girls. The adorable blonde troublemakers who were giggling throughout my mom’s cooking lesson a few days ago.

Matt is Cal. Cal is Matt.

It doesn’t make any sense. Cal is a sweetheart who is kind and introspective and sweet. Matt is a hardened grump who looks like every word he utters to me tastes sour.

Then again, the exciting changes Cal was talking about could certainly apply to the inheritance of a million-dollar waterfront estate. That’s certainly big , to say the least.

Which is exactly why Cal mentioned the possibility of us meeting in person sometime soon. Because he’s in Mermaid Shores, my hometown.

What are the chances? How could it be that my pen pal of two decades has been keeping the secret that he’s related to Roger Beaufort, a man who owns property in my hometown, this entire time?

Unless Cal—or rather, Matt —didn’t even know he was related to old man Beaufort. If he had a relative in Mermaid Shores, I’m sure he would’ve mentioned it in one of his letters over the years.

I have no idea how long I sit there for, staring numbly out my car window at Cal’s old house. Matt’s old house.

The girls that I’ve been hearing all about, that I’ve been sending presents to, are Mia and Ava. They are the twins who lost their mother when they were still infants.

And Matt… from the way he’s interacted with me, he clearly has no idea that I’m Maple Leaf.

I should’ve known. How could I not know? I always thought that, if Cal ever came to Mermaid Shores, I’d be able to pick him out from a crowd of strangers without hesitation. Despite not knowing what he looks like, I convinced myself that I would simply know him by his soul alone.

But I didn’t.

When Matt wandered down the back hallway at the Siren & Sword looking for the restrooms, I didn’t know him at all.

Yes, I thought he was gorgeous. Yes, I was curious about him.

But there were no alarm bells going off inside me, nothing to alert me that he is Cal.

Cal… Matt… for goodness’ sake, all the things I’ve told him over the years.

Cal is one of my best friends. Matt can’t stand me.

What will he do when he finds out that I’m the girl he’s been telling his deepest secrets to for more than half his life?

What am I supposed to do now?

One thing is for certain: I wasted my time driving to Maine this weekend. All my well-intentioned impulsiveness has boiled down to a really stupid decision that part of me wishes I could take back.

Either way, I need to get back home.