Stuck With the Grumpy Single Dad

16. Chapter Fifteen Matt

Chapter Fifteen: Matt

I n the aftermath of my discovery, I throw myself into all the work that needs to be done on the manor. I need a distraction, a way to keep my hands busy, as I try to process this impossible revelation.

Over the years, whenever I tried to picture Maple Leaf in my mind, I never really thought about specifics. I didn’t see her as blonde or brunette, short or tall, blue eyes or brown. None of those things mattered to me. Even so, it’s weird knowing all the details now, knowing that she’s a redhead with pretty green eyes and freckles.

At the same time, when I thought about Maple over the years, I did imagine her having a nice smile and a boisterous laugh. It’s strange to think I was right about those things, at least.

All the while, I also had a feeling she was beautiful. It was something in the way she phrased things, in the way she saw the world. There was always so much tender frankness in her point of view, so much sweetness in her letters. Someone like that surely had to be beautiful, right?

She is beautiful .

But she’s also nothing like I pictured. Because even though I’m not surprised to learn that Maple is overly friendly, and maybe a little too overeager when it comes to her charm, I didn’t expect her to be so…

So… what ?

What exactly is my problem with Mabel Lee?

We had one miscommunication, but that’s cleared up now.

Is it her nosiness? Is it because I’m annoyed that I’m genuinely attracted to a woman for the first time in years?

Or maybe, for the first time in my life, I’m gravely overthinking things.

After all, there’s a very good chance that Mabel has no idea who I really am. Unless she’s a really good actress.

But even then, what would she gain from that?

And then why would she bother to write me another letter as if nothing had really changed?

No, I’m certain that Mabel doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t know that my middle name is Callum, or that I made a split-second decision to sign the letter with Cal instead of Matt and, by the time she replied, it was too late to go back.

If she finds out the truth, how will she react?

Will she be disappointed? I can’t imagine she’ll be thrilled, considering how standoffish I’ve been toward her.

In real life, I’m nothing like Cal. On paper, it’s easier to be that version of myself. It’s easier to be soft and reflective and thoughtful about things. It’s easier to find the humor in situations and to be honest about my emotions when I have the luxury of taking my time with a pen and some stationery.

It’s also easier to be like Cal when I’m talking to Maple Leaf. Something about her always made me feel so comfortable and free, like I truly had nothing to fear when it came to being vulnerable. Maple was just always so frank and honest about things. I knew I could tell her anything and she’d never judge me.

Real life isn’t like that. People like that are rare.

And, in real life, when I’m just Matt Morgan, it’s nearly impossible for me to soften up. Sure, I can be friendly and polite, but I’ve always got my guard up around others no matter what.

Even Lindsay used to complain that she felt like I couldn’t fully open myself up to her. Like I purposefully blocked myself from total and complete vulnerability.

Which probably means I’m the worst person alive. What kind of man is capable of being fully honest with a stranger who lives hundreds of miles away, but can’t even push his emotional limits when it comes to conversations with his wife?

Then again, even though Lindsay and I loved each other, our relationship was never really centered around emotional depth and philosophical discussions. We were a practical couple. We were attracted to each other, we got along well enough, and we had compatible lifestyles. Therefore, it made perfect sense for us to be together. Yes, the twins were a surprise, and yes , we both would’ve liked to have waited a little while longer before we got married, but…

That’s life, isn’t it? You can’t control everything.

When I was married to Lindsay, it was never romantic between me and Maple Leaf. Even before that, it just wasn’t like that. It hasn’t been until recently, maybe the past few years, when I’ve started to realize that the connection I feel to my pen pal could be the basis for a truly meaningful relationship—that I might actually have more than platonic feelings for this person who lives so far from me.

But now that I know it’s Mabel Lee… I mean, it’s not like I’m repulsed at the idea of taking her on a date. She’s a beautiful, vivacious woman. It’s just that we’re really not as compatible as we should be. Not when I consider how harmonious every conversation with Maple has been for the past two decades. Then again, our conversations are made up entirely of the written word. It’s different than a face-to-face discussion. For all I know, a meeting with Maple Leaf would have gone about as well as the first time I met Mabel Lee.

In general, I’m still having a difficult time processing the fact that they’re the same person. As dramatic as it sounds, I feel like the entire world has been turned upside down.

“Hello? Earth to Matt? You okay, man?”

I’m so lost in my own thoughts that it takes me the better part of a minute to realize that Joe, my contractor, has been talking to me. I glance down from the roof, realizing too late that I’ve just taken a huge risk by letting myself completely space out while I’m perched this high above the ground.

Joe is down on the lawn, palms raised to his forehead to serve as a visor against the bright August sun.

“Hey!” I call down to him. “Give me a sec!”

He nods, dropping his hands to his sides and stepping away from the ladder.

I drag my attention back to the nail gun in my hand, trying to figure out how long I’ve been crouched on these roof tiles, still and silent. Thankfully, I’m almost done patching up the roof. There’s only one more tiny spot that needs to be sealed up, and then I can get back to work on the kitchen cabinetry.

Leaving my tools up on the roof for now, I carefully climb down and then step onto the rungs of the ladder. The girls are currently at their expensive day camp, so I don’t have to worry about them running through the construction site at the moment.

When the soles of my work boots hit the grass, Joe grins at me.

“In your own little world up there, huh?”

I huff out a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve got a lot on my mind today, I guess.”

“You got enough mental space to chat about your bed-and-breakfast plans?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

Joe nods his head toward the front doors of the manor and I follow him inside.

Even in just the past week or so, the crew I hired is making incredible progress. The traditional curved staircase has been restored, meaning that we can actually go up to the second and third floors now without worrying that our feet will crunch right through rotted boards.

Furthermore, most of the floors downstairs have been sanded, repaired, and are ready to be stained. Windows have been replaced where it’s necessary. Broken light fixtures have been removed, and the electrical wiring has been updated.

It’s been strange to be able to sign off on this stuff without thinking twice about it. Every invoice that comes my way gives me an immediate rush of anxiety, and then I have to pause to remember that I have plenty of money to cover it. In fact, the last time I looked at the full cash inheritance available to me thanks to old Roger Beaufort’s kindness, I realized I could probably renovate several historic manors. If I wanted to, that is.

Not to mention all the non-liquid assets that McHugh listed out for me.

“So, I’ve got a consultant who will be coming by to offer his services directly to you,” Joe says, dragging my attention back to the present. “Name’s Kent Carol. Nice guy from Southie. He’s been in the hospitality business for about two and a half decades, I think? My point is, he’s usually my go-to when it comes to projects like this. ”

As he talks, Joe heads up the stairs. I follow after him, begging my brain to let go of its obsessive Mabel-Maple loop so that I can actually focus on what he’s saying.

“Sounds good to me,” I reply, resisting my instinctive urge to ask how much this Kent Carol guy charges per hour.

Joe heads across the second-floor landing and down the wide hall that stretches out toward the east. Behind us, the western wing of the manor echoes with the rumbling and banging of several construction workers.

“The good news is,” Joe begins, “these halls are nice and broad. We can refinish the floors and put down a customized rug that’ll run the length of both wings.”

“Isn’t it better to avoid carpeting?”

“In a personal home, I’d say yes, but in a public hotel, I’d say it’s better for insurance purposes to have flooring that gives guests some kind of traction underfoot. You don’t want to deal with any slip-and-fall cases in the winter, for example, if a guest takes a tumble on wet, shiny floorboards.”

“Ah. Understood.”

“It’ll also help you avoid needing to refinish the floors more often. I’m sure you’ll advertise to a classier clientele and that, knowing Mermaid Shores, the guest list will be people used to living in the lap of luxury, but it’s still smart to protect against regular wear and tear. That’s what Kent Carol would tell you, and I have to say I agree with him.”

“Sure. A customized rug. No problem.”

Joe chuckles. “It’s a lot to think about, I know.”

“I’m just not even sure what color carpet… or what color anything …”

“I know a lady in Hyannis—interior design. She’s fantastic at this stuff. I’ll give you her number.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Of course. Interior decorators are a thing. And I can afford to pay for one. Really, I can afford to pay for pretty much anything regarding this renovation that I don’t feel like dealing with by myself. It’s a concept that I’m struggling to internalize. I’m so used to doing everything by myself.

We reach the end of the hallway. Joe steps into one of the bedrooms, which has recently been gutted. Half the wall has been ripped off, too, since we noticed some mold damage that sank down from a leak on the roof—which I was supposed to be done patching up this afternoon.

I’m just so maddeningly distracted.

Even now, as I look around at the bare walls and original hardwood floors, I’m seeing flashes of copper hair and green irises, porcelain skin and soft brown freckles.

“The good news is,” Joe says, nudging me back out of my reverie. “Most of the guest rooms already have ensuite bathrooms, so we don’t need to make any drastic plumbing renovations to coordinate individual suites for the guests.”

“Yeah, that’s—that is good.”

Joe gives me an odd look, like he can tell that my heart isn’t really in it. I try to look as interested as I can while he continues discussing the more technical aspects of how we’ll convert this massive house into a functional bed-and-breakfast. I manage to pick up on some crucial details, but everything else sounds like a weird buzzing throughout my entire head.

By the time we head back downstairs, the only thing I can remember is that Joe made a comment about using maple furniture because of its sturdiness and durability. He also said something about the leaf patterns in the crown molding up on the third floor, but I can’t quite recall exactly what it was.

Basically, I’m useless. All I can do is smile and nod and provide vague mhm s and uh-huh s in response.

Shortly after five, the crew packs up and files out of the manor one by one. As usual, I shake their hands or pat their backs as they go, thanking them for another long day of hard work. Joe is the last to leave, but he makes sure to let me know that Kent Carol will be here bright and early Monday morning. Somehow, I think he can see that very few things are getting through my hazy state of mind at the moment.

When everyone is gone, I stand on the porch for a long while and stare down the gravel driveway. I don’t need to go pick up the twins this evening, since they’ve already made a bunch of new friends and will be going directly to a sleepover tonight.

So, basically, I have this entire place to myself for the night.

Instead of heading to the cottage, I go back inside the manor.

It’s so quiet in here. So empty. So large. There’s no way me and the girls would be comfortable claiming this huge space all to ourselves. My plan is to simply expand the cottage with an addition on the back side to make it a little roomier for us. From there, I can easily operate the new family business.

I’m going to open a bed-and-breakfast. A sweet little hotel, created by me and the girls. It’s both daunting and exciting. It’s something I never really imagined doing, except for that brief moment in time when my late wife made a comment about how it might be fun.

If only she could see us now. What would she say? What would she think ?

Would she call me an idiot for being so blind about Mabel Lee and Maple Leaf? Would she hate me for keeping that from her for so many years?

Something tells me the answer to both of those questions is no . Something tells me that, if there is an afterlife, Lindsay is there and she’s smiling warmly at my foolish mistakes while whispering encouragement from afar.

I stand in the grand foyer, gazing up at the high ceiling. The antique chandelier has been removed for cleaning and restoration, so there’s nothing but a tangle of wires hanging high over my head.

What am I supposed to do with myself? Should I go into town, grab a beer, and pretend to be social? Should I finally check out the public beach? Maybe take a walk as the tide rolls out?

Just as I turn toward the door and reach for the knob, I hear a strange, metallic knocking sound.

It takes me several seconds to realize that someone is on the other side of the door, using the old-fashioned brass knocker. I step forward, confused. If it was one of the workers coming back for something they’d forgotten, I doubt they’d bother to knock. They know that nobody technically lives here.

I open the door… and nearly stumble back at the sight of the person on the other side.

Mabel Lee—my Maple Leaf —is standing on the porch. She’s wearing denim shorts and a t-shirt with the Siren & Sword logo on it. Her thick, red hair is pulled back in a ponytail, but it looks like the elastic securing it in place is fighting for its life against the raucous waves and curls.

She is beautiful. I can’t believe I’ve spent the past couple weeks refusing to acknowledge just how perfectly lovely this woman is .

For a while, Mabel simply stares at me. It’s like she’s as startled by the sight of me as I am unnerved by her sudden appearance. I also get the sense that she’s observing me closely, as if cataloguing my features like it’s the first time we’ve ever seen each other.

“Hi,” I force out, relieved to discover that I don’t sound angry or off-putting for once.

She blinks. “I knocked on your other door—the cottage, I mean. No one answered, but your truck is in the drive—well, I figured I’d try knocking on this door, too. So, um, hi.”

“Hi,” I repeat, stupidly.

“Hi,” she echoes again.

For another moment, neither one of us moves. I know I’m not acting normal. I know that, usually, I might already be growling at her or shooing her away.

But this is Maple Leaf.

She’s right in front of me.

Twenty years of letters and, finally, I’m looking her in the eyes and speaking to her face-to-face.

I clear my throat. “What, uh—what brings you out here?”

Mabel bites her lip. Glances down at her dirty white sneakers. Brushes a stray coil of copper hair behind her ear.

“I was wondering if we could talk, Cal.”