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“Hey, Daddy.”  Abby poked her head into her father’s study.  “Do you think I could check my email?”

“Sure can,” said John Fremont.  “Expecting to hear from someone?”  Abby rarely used the computer at home.

Well, that was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? thought Abby.  Was she expecting to hear from someone?  She had vacillated for a week.  Should she check or not?  She knew she would be disappointed to be told ‘No new messages’, and she didn’t want to invite any more disappointment into her life.  But what if the miracle had happened, and Nick had indeed emailed her, even just to say ‘thanks for the ride to the airport; I made it to Atlanta’.  Then it would be rude not to answer.

“Well, if you’re busy, I can come back later,” said Abby, losing her nerve again.

“No, that’s okay, Honey.  Here you go.”  John stood up from the desk and motioned Abby into the chair.  “We really should get you one of these of your own.”

“I can come back later,” she said.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant.  I meant that if you had your own, you might use it more, whenever you wanted, not just when you thought I wasn’t.  Yes, I think that’s what we need to do. We’ll get you a computer.”

Abby smiled to herself.  She knew that her father was still seeking absolution for his heinous crime.  Being able to buy her something expensive would set him on the road to redemption in his own eyes.

“Sure, Daddy, whatever you say.”  Abby was humble.  She had been humble all week.  Her unreasonable behavior the night of her arrival home had been followed by abject apologies and a suitably repressed demeanor.  She had spent a lot of time playing tennis at the club.  At home, she stayed in her rooms and read.  And thought about Nick.  Not in any romantic sense, she wasn’t interested in him like that.  But he was the other half of the Abby Club, the only other person in the world who thought of her as Abby.

Abby’s campaign to change her name had been singularly unsuccessful and she had given it up.  Mrs. Smith just looked embarrassed every time she said it, and she always checked around first to make sure that Sharon Fremont was not within earshot.  She had looked relieved earlier in the day when Abby had said, “That’s fine, Mrs. Smith.  I guess I’m not really an Abby anyway.  Call me Abigail, if you’d rather, but please drop the Miss.”

Abby’s mother had steadfastly refused to call her anything but Abigail and had, in fact, tried to put the name into every sentence she said to her.  Her father had taken the middle ground, as he so often did.  He didn’t call her Abby, but he didn’t call her Abigail either.  He stuck with Honey.

Abby sighed and clicked her email open.  There were two new messages.  And her heart stopped.  They were both from Nick.  The subject line on the first one said ‘Thanks’.  What a proper well-bred boy, thought Abby with a smile.  Thank-you notes were de rigueur in Abby’s life.  It had been drilled into her since childhood.  You said thank you and then you said something nice about the gift and then you said something nice about the person…and then you said thank you again.  If Nick had followed Miss Beecham’s protocol, the email would read:  Thank you very much for the drive to the airport.  It was a fun trip.  It was kind of you to go out of your way.  Thanks again, Nick.

Abby looked at the date on the message.  It had been sent on Monday.  That meant he’d gotten to Atlanta on Saturday and gotten settled in…probably hadn’t got to a computer until Monday.  Oh for God’s sakes, Abby, open the damn thing.  It’s a thank-you note, not a Shakespearean play.  Stop looking for subtext.

Hey, Abby! it read. First I wrote Dear Abby and I thought that sounded funny…you know the Advice Column Lady…so I changed it.  Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks for the lift to the airport.  It sure was more fun driving with you than being stuck in some limo.  I made it to L.A. and then on to Atlanta.  Seeing the guys again was great.  It was a bit hairy at first, but it’s good now.  Take care and don’t let your mother get you down.  Nick.

Abby stared at the message for a long time, wondering if she should reply.  There were many schools of thought on email protocol.  One theory said that you should reply to every email you received, if only to let the sender know that you received it.  The problem with that theory, of course, was that you could turn a simple thank-you note into a lifelong correspondence.

Abby decided to look at the second email before she decided about the first.  The subject line on it said ‘Hi again!’  It was dated earlier today.  Abby did time zone calculations in her head and figured this was only an hour or so old.

Hey, Abby!  Me again.  Just wanted to say hi.  How’s it going?  Everything here is good.  I played Ribbons of Light for the guys.  They liked it.  And I was wondering, did you ever go to college?  Nick

Huh?  The last sentence threw Abby completely.  What was that about?  But the fact that there was a question in the email made it clear that an answer was expected.  She raised her fingers to the keyboard and then drew them back.  She thought for a moment and then tried again.  She typed and then backspaced and typed.  She chuckled at her behavior.  You’d think I’m writing the Great American Novel, she thought.

Dear Nick.  I can say that because it doesn’t sound funny (like Dear Abby).  I got your email

No, that’s dumb, she thought.  Obviously, I got his email or I wouldn’t be answering it.

Dear Nick.  I can say that because it doesn’t sound funny (like Dear Abby).  It was my pleasure to drive you to the airport.  I was going that way anyway

No, wait a minute.  That’s not the email you’re answering.

Dear Nick.  I can say that because it doesn’t sound funny (like Dear Abby).  I’m glad you arrived in Atlanta safely and have reconnected with the Boys

There!  That was a good opening.  It showed that she’d received the first email and was answering it along with the second.  Now what?

Dear Nick.  I can say that because it doesn’t sound funny (like Dear Abby).  I’m glad you arrived in Atlanta safely and have reconnected with the Boys.  I’m glad they liked the song.  I did.  I have a degree in Social Work from Northwestern.  Why?

Nope, nope, nope.  You have to include a question to get him to write back, but that sounds a little demanding.  And you said ‘I’m glad’ twice.

Dear Nick.  I can say that because it doesn’t sound funny (like Dear Abby).  I’m glad you arrived in Atlanta safely and have reconnected with the Boys.  I’m not surprised they liked the song.  It’s a good one.  I have a degree in Social Work from Northwestern.  How did they like the jam?

Better.  There’s a question…and it’s innocent.  Should move it around though.  It looks weird at the end.

Dear Nick.  I can say that because it doesn’t sound funny (like Dear Abby).  I’m glad you arrived in Atlanta safely and have reconnected with the Boys.  I’m not surprised  they liked the song.  It’s a good one.  How did they like the jam?  I have a degree in Social Work from Northwestern.  Abby

She stared at the computer for a long time, the cursor poised over the Send button.  Oh, for God’s sakes, she said finally and clicked the missive into cyberspace.  She exited the email program and stood up, feeling satisfied with her effort.  She went in search of her father.  She found him in the living room reading the newspaper.  Her mother was in the chair across from him with a novel.

“Daddy, I’m done now.  You can go back to the computer.”

“Thanks, Honey.  Did you have many messages?”

“A couple.  I answered them.  Um…Daddy?”

“Yes, Honey?”

“I think maybe getting a computer of my own is a good idea.  Then I don’t have to bother you.”

“It’s no bother, but I agree with you.  You need a computer of your own.  I’ll take care of it tomorrow.  Would you like it in your sitting room?”

“Yes, please, Daddy.”  Abby dropped a hand on her father’s shoulder and squeezed it.  It was the first time she had touched him since her return from the Lodge.  He placed his hand over hers and squeezed it.  Abby smiled at him and left the room.

“What’s that all about?” asked Sharon Fremont, looking over the top of her reading glasses.

“I’m getting Abigail a computer of her own,” said John.  “Then she doesn’t have to wait around for mine.”

“Humph,” snorted Sharon.  “And I guess that will make the two of you best friends again.”

“No,” said John, sadly, “I don’t think we’ll ever be best friends again.”