Stuck With the Grumpy Single Dad

14. Chapter Thirteen Matt

Chapter Thirteen: Matt

O n Sunday morning, unquenchable curiosity yanks me out of bed.

The girls are parked in front of the television, watching cartoons and eating Lucky Charms. They pay me no attention as I pace in the kitchen, impatient and antsy as the coffee maker gurgles into action.

I have an idea.

Maybe, instead of replying to Maple’s letter, I can just find out where she lives and speak to her myself. Today. This morning. Before this unintentional secret of mine can go on any further and I end up embarrassing myself in front of the person who knows me better than anyone else in this world.

The problem is that Maple Leaf has always used the same PO Box address—never a home address. And it’s not like I can go to the post office and ask them to tell me where the owner of that postal box lives. Anyway, it’s Sunday. The post office is closed.

This is a small town, though. Just like up in Greenville, the locals all know where each other lives. Not in a creepy way. Just in the sense that it’s common knowledge when you spend your entire life in a tiny community.

So, how hard can it be to find someone who can point me in the direction of Maple’s house?

The bigger problem is, of course, the fact that I know her as Maple Leaf . I’m pretty sure if I go around Mermaid Shores asking people if they know where someone with that name lives, they’ll look at me like I’m crazy. She told me herself that she doesn’t use that nickname with anyone else. Not anymore.

Even so, I do have a few details to work with.

I know she has a white picket fence around her yard, because she joked about the cliché of it in a letter one time.

I also know that her house is a two-story, because she once told me about a time when she was so excited about a dessert her mother brought her that she nearly tripped down the stairs in her hurry to get to the front door.

I know that she doesn’t have an ocean view. That sort of thing is reserved for the rich folks , she once wrote.

I can’t help glancing out the window over the sink, which offers a breathtaking glimpse of the Atlantic lazily but diligently pummeling the cliffside.

Will she be disappointed to learn that I now technically qualify as one of the rich folks ? Perhaps not. Maple isn’t spiteful of the wealthy. She just thinks they’re kind of silly and strange, like troublesome children. Plus, she knows I wasn’t born with this privilege.

She knows me. She likes me. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have kept writing to me all these years.

Still, even as I pour coffee into my to-go mug, I feel a trickling sense of hesitation. What if she’s creeped out by the fact that I decided to move here without telling her, and then proceeded to track her down on a random Sunday morning?

And what if… gosh, what if she doesn’t live alone? As in, what if I somehow find her, knock on that door, and come face-to-face with a man who loves her? How would I explain myself then? Maple hasn’t mentioned a boyfriend to me at all in recent years, but what if that’s something she chose to keep to herself? What if I get chased off the property by an angry lover with a shotgun?

You’re just friends , I remind myself.

I’m seeking her out as a friend. I want to meet her because we are friends.

Friends.

That’s all.

“Hey, girls?”

“Hmm?”

“Will you be alright by yourselves for an hour or two? I gotta head into town for a bit.”

They don’t even glance my way, too focused on the television.

“Yeah…”

“Whatever…”

I clear my throat, trying to get their attention. “Remember, don’t—”

Mia sighs loudly, cutting me off. “Don’t go in the manor. It’s a construction site. Yeah, yeah.”

“Dad, we’re almost thirteen. We can handle being home alone for a couple hours,” Ava reminds me.

“Right. Okay. Be good. You know how to reach me, right?

Mia scoffs. “Seriously, Dad?”

I come over to the couch and pat their heads, which earns me a chorus of synchronized, disgruntled whining .

Coffee in hand, I grab my keys and head out to the truck.

Once I’m on the road, heading toward Main Street, my stomach starts squirming with nerves.

If I find her, what am I going to say?

Should I have rehearsed a speech ahead of time?

And if I don’t find her, what should I do? Should I write her another letter today? Should I put it in a brightly colored envelope and stake out the post office until someone comes out of it with my letter in hand?

Then again, that seems like the sort of thing a stalker might do.

When I reach Main Street, it’s so crowded with pedestrians that I already know it’s going to be impossible to drive down the entirety of it in a timely manner. So, instead, I turn off onto the first side street I see, heading away from the ocean, and find myself in a web of pleasant suburban streets.

The houses are diverse, some large and others small. Some are a little outdated and saggy with slightly unkempt front lawns, and others are stylishly modern or tastefully restored. I drive past a couple joggers, a young couple walking their puppy, and a woman pushing a stroller. Everyone looks happy and relaxed, enjoying the sea breeze and sunny morning.

I consider slowing down and asking one of those contented locals if they know where to find Maple Leaf, but every time I pass by someone and my foot touches the brake, I decide against it.

I’m pretty sure I’m on a fruitless mission.

Also, who in their right mind is going to entertain the questions of some random guy hanging out of his truck?

I’m looking for a woman. No, I don’t know her name. No, I don’t know what she looks like. Any chance you can help?

Yeah, right.

Honestly, I might have to ditch the truck. I might be able to seek her out more easily—or at least less creepily—on foot.

I find street parking closer to the main hub of town, then walk back up into the inland suburbs.

I search for houses that have white picket fences. Luckily, it seems that it isn’t a common exterior design choice. Most houses don’t have fencing at all. If they do, it’s not in a traditional picket style or it’s not painted white.

Then, because I can’t help myself as I carefully observe all these houses, the carpenter side of my brain turns on. I notice cedar shingles on a bungalow that desperately need to be re-stained by winter. I see a crooked front porch that looks like it was thrown together by an amateur. I take note of a treehouse in someone’s side yard that looks like it might be rotting in a couple places.

If I was desperate for clients, and if I was an unapologetic busybody, I might find a way to politely let these people know about such things. But in general, I prefer to mind my business. It’s not like our house back in Maine was anything other than an old eyesore.

After wandering around aimlessly for half an hour, I come across a house with a picket fence. However, this fence is painted bright purple, like heavily saturated lilac petals, and is laden with all kinds of… stuff. As I draw closer, I know that I’m openly gawking at the house, which is painted white with yellow shutters and has a large screened-in porch, but I can’t help myself.

There are all sorts of things hanging from the fence posts. Bits of dried plants. Beads of all sizes and shapes and colors. Gemstones encased in silver wire. Frayed ribbons and scraps of cloth. I pause on the sidewalk, keeping a respectful distance as I observe the oddities.

“It’s a bit much, isn't it?”

I jump, whirling around to find a willowy old woman with long silver hair smiling serenely at me. Her gaze is keen, yet soft as she stares at me, and I get the odd sensation that she might be able to see all the way into my very soul. Or perhaps she can read my mind.

She’s dressed strangely, in many layers of wispy fabric in various earth tones. I can’t tell if it’s a dress, or a skirt and a top, or some sort of cloak… really, she seems like something out of one of the fairytales that I used to read to the girls at night.

“Um,” I say.

“Hello,” says the old woman. “You must be Matt Morgan?”

She phrases it like a question, and even though I have a feeling she already knows the answer, I nod my head.

“I’m Miss Maisie. Would you like to come inside? I can make tea.”

“No, thank you, ma’am,” I reply automatically. “I’m sorry, but I have to be somewhere.”

She gives me another shrewd, all-knowing look, and just when I think she’s about to call me out on my lie, she lets out a tinkling laugh.

“Ah, yes,” she muses. “I see. What you’re looking for is on the next street up. Take a left at Gideon Lane and a right on Cherry. Have a nice day.”

Struck speechless by the strange interaction, I stand there numbly and watch as the old woman ambles through the purple front gate. The beads and gems clatter as it swings shut behind her, and I swear I hear her humming to herself as she wanders toward her porch.

How did she know what I was looking for? Is she being spooky on purpose? Is she playing some kind of prank on me?

At the same time, I guess I don’t really have much else to do other than follow her vague instructions. It only takes me a couple minutes to find Gideon Lane, and then I notice Cherry Street branching off to the right immediately after .

It’s only when I’m a good ways down the street, past a dozen other homes, that I notice a small two-story house with a white picket fence.

My stomach flips.

The house is charming, tucked away between two larger houses constructed in a traditional style. The neighbors to the east have a picket fence, too, but theirs is stained with a clear, matte coverage rather than paint. The fences are low, barely waist high, and seem more for decoration than to keep anything in or out.

Still, as I stand on the sidewalk and look at the little house, I feel an odd sense of confirmation that I can’t explain. I’m also not sure I’m ready to decide how I feel about that old woman being able to read my mind, either.

This is where Maple Leaf lives. I’m sure of it.

After all, there’s a maple tree in the front yard. That has to mean something, right?

The fencing leaves a gap for a paved walkway leading from the sidewalk to the front door. Although I don’t see a car in the driveway to indicate anyone is home, I head up the path anyway.

Only, when I’m about halfway to the porch steps, the neighbor’s screen door squeals open. A familiar, plump woman comes bustling out, her arms laden with a stack of covered foil trays. I recognize Gigi Lee from the cooking class.

“Hi, there!” she chirps at me, peering over the top of the trays to smile at me. “Maple Leaf isn’t home at the moment!”

I pause. “Pardon?”

“Mabel Lee, my daughter! That’s her house, hon. Did she tell you to stop by? Because I’m afraid she won’t be home for a little while. She went on a little weekend trip up the coast and had some car trouble on the way back down.”

“Mabel lives here? ”

Gigi continues down her own front lawn, tucking the trays carefully into the backseat of her white Camry.

“Yes, hon! Of course! Sorry you missed her! And I’d invite you in for some coffee myself, but I’m afraid I’m running a little late and need to rush off…”

As she speaks, she climbs into her car and starts the engine, talking a mile a minute. She doesn’t even wait for a response before she gives me a wave goodbye, shuts the door, and backs out the driveway in an impressive reverse maneuver.

In seconds, I’m left alone on Mabel Lee’s front lawn.

Mabel Lee . Of course. How did I not put that together last week when I met her mother, Gigi Lee? At the time, I must’ve assumed the “Lee” was Gigi’s middle name and not thought too hard about it.

Mabel Lee. Maple Leaf.

Isn’t that what Gigi said to me when she first stepped out of her house?

Or had I misheard her? Is that how she got the nickname?

Even though it must look questionable to any neighbors peering over here, I remain standing in the footpath with my hands hanging limp at my sides.

How could I have been so foolish? So blind ?

Mabel. Maple. They sound so obviously similar when I think about it.

But it can’t be her. Because I swore to myself that I’d know when I saw my Maple Leaf for the first time. It’s true that I thought Mabel was stunning, but all that appreciation soured when she laughed about hating kids. And now that I know the truth about that, too, how could I not consider the possibility that the two women are the same?

My Maple Leaf is the incessant, nosy, flirtatious Mabel Lee.

And she clearly has no idea that I’m her Cal.