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Abigail lay in her bed staring at the ceiling.  She was numb.  She had no feelings.  She was empty.  She was supposed to be done with it all.  And here she was again, staring at the ceiling.  She had thought she was traveling down the road she wanted and then she had been veered off it by a big, blond truck.  Where had he come from?  Abigail had been so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she hadn’t even heard him approach and his first shouted cry had startled her so much, she nearly fell off the rock.  She hadn’t known what to do next…obviously, it was a private moment in his own personal hell.  He hadn’t noticed her so far, so she kept very still and hoped he’d take his anguish and go somewhere else, so she could get back to the business at hand.

But he hadn’t.  She hated the thought that she was eavesdropping, but at least, he wasn’t saying much.  Both of his next shouted words had made her jump and she almost said something, but it was only when he threw the box that words came out of her.  “Hey!  Watch what you’re doing!”

He was a big man, and a very determined one, as it turned out.  He was tall and stocky, just this side of fat.  His face was round and puffy to the point where it distorted his features.  She didn’t know how much of that was excess weight and how much was from crying.  Because he had been doing that.  It was obvious.  “Why?...Fuck!...Bitch!”  It was pretty clear that he was having woman problems.  And then the ring.  It had to be a ring in a box that size.  You didn’t need to be a genius to figure it out.

He’d called her Abby. 

All her life, she had wanted to be called Abby.  But it never took.  She was Abigail.  Abby was too cute, too pert, too…pretty.  No one ever matched that name to her face.  Abigail.  Staid, old-fashioned, plain.  That was her.  But he had called her Abby.  Even though she had introduced herself as Abigail, he had called her Abby.

When he walked away, she thought how ironic it was that it was at this moment in her life that someone had done that.  It could be her last thought.  It wouldn’t be a bad one.  Abby.  She could go out as Abby.  No one would ever know, but then again…who knew anything about her now?

“Don’t.”

One word. 

Don’t.  And it said it all.  It said that he knew what she was planning to do.  And he wasn’t going to let her.

She had begged him.  Go away.  This is none of your business.  Please.  But she knew he wouldn’t give in.  Who would, after all?  Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stumble upon your attempt to end your sad, sorry life.  I’ll just be moving along now.  Have a nice day.

It didn’t make him a hero.  It made him a human being.  But not one that she’d wanted to see at that moment.  Nick, he said his name was.  Nick.  Well, thanks for nothing, Nick! 

She snorted…an ironic little laugh.  He had the bedside manner of Attila the Hun.  Suck it up and go on.  This doesn’t take any courage.  He thought she was taking the easy way out.  The easy way out.  Maybe he was right.  But maybe she wanted the easy way out.  Did he ever think of that?  Okay, it doesn’t take courage, so what?  Maybe it’s all I can do right now.  Maybe the courage does lie in continuing.  And maybe I don’t have it.

“What could be so bad?” 

He hadn’t expected an answer and she hadn’t meant to give him one.  He wasn’t prying for details.  He didn’t even care.  And she surprised herself with her answer.  She’d thought there were way too many reasons.  She guessed when it finally came down to it, though, there was only one.  What her life had been reduced to.  That sentence.  It said it all.  My parents tried to hire someone to marry me.

She leaned her head back on her pillow and gasped as the pain moved through her heart.  The overwhelming agony.  The thought that her parents had done that.  They had obviously lost faith in her, lost any hope that she could find a man on her own.  And so they had decided to do it for her.

They had been doing it all her life, of course.  Setting her up with guys.  It wasn’t hard.  She was ugly, but she was also rich.   At least she would be.  There was a serious pot of gold at the end of her rainbow.  But it wasn’t enough to turn an ugly duckling into a swan.  It would just turn her into a rich ugly duckling.  The men who moved in her social circle already had some money.  And most of them weren’t willing to invest time in her to get more.  And those that were, were so obviously transparent about it that she had sent them packing at the first opportunity.  What she needed was a poor man, someone so desperate for cash that he would overlook her physical attributes and be willing to spend time with her.  But her parents didn’t know any poor people.  At least, that’s what she thought.

Until Philip Randall came into her life.  She folded her hands over her stomach, trying to stop the pain that coursed through her at the thought of him.  Philip.  Philip Randall.  Not tall, dark and handsome, that would be asking way too much!!  He was tall, well, taller than her at least.  She was 5’8”, tall for a woman.  He was about 5’10”, she guessed.  He was dark, not swarthy Latin dark, but medium dark.  Brown hair and a decent tan in the summer.  And handsome?  Looks counted for nothing in Abigail’s world.  Too many people judged her on her looks.  She refused to judge others the same way.

No, she thought, not in Abigail’s world…in Abby’s world.  She was going to be Abby from now on. She had intended to get rid of Abigail tonight, and dammit, she was going to.  From now on, she would be Abby and she would sort the people she knew into two groups, the ones who called her Abigail and the ones who called her Abby.  She laughed out loud.  The latter group now contained a total of two people…herself and Mr. Nick, who appeared to be as much of an emotional loser as she was. 

Maybe they could find other people who would call her Abby…other losers…they could start a support group…Abby’s Army.  Her thoughts and emotions were spiraling up to hysteria and tears weren’t far behind.  She put her face in her pillow and sobbed.  She did it as quietly as she could.  Nick had Rose Cottage to cry in.  He could wail if he wanted.  No one would hear, except those bloody awful roses.  But Abby was in the Lodge.  She had a corner room and didn’t think anyone was on the other side of her, but still…it would not do to be heard.

“Philip, oh Philip, damn you, damn you, Philip!”

She wrapped herself around her pillow and curled into a fetal position.  She rocked back and forth and cried. 

She’d met Philip at a black-tie fundraiser for The Chicago Symphony.   She was on the Committee.  She was the organizer, the behind-the-scenes girl.  She did the mailing lists and the brochures.  Other people handled the public aspects.  It suited her fine.

Philip Randall ignored her at the Fundraiser.  Which also suited her just fine.  She didn’t even want to go.  There wouldn’t be anyone there her own age.  People her age had better things to do than attend fundraisers for music that they didn’t even listen to.  You want to have a fundraiser for the House of Blues, they’d be there!  But the Symphony was for their parents.  Abby only went because her parents insisted.  Her father was on the Board of Directors and she was a member of the organizing committee and should be there.  Her mother, of course, did not want to waste an opportunity for her to find a man.  What if this were the evening that Prince Charming swooped down to claim her?  It wouldn’t be, of course.  It would be an evening of blue-haired ladies patting her arm and calling her ‘Abigail dear’.

Philip was introduced to her as a relative of Russell and Margaret Sloan, a distant cousin from Philadelphia.  He was a ‘consultant’.  That could mean anything from financial wizard to con man and Abby wasn’t impressed. 

Ordinarily, an unattached man would have been prey for Abby’s mother who would have manipulated the two of them into dancing together or private conversation.  But this time she didn’t even seem to notice him.  Perhaps Russell and Margaret had already given him the thumbs down.

The next time Abby saw him was in the living room of her own house three days later.  She arrived home from tennis to be told in a loud stage whisper by Mrs. Smith, the housekeeper, that there was a gentleman in the living room waiting for her father.  Mr. Fremont had been delayed and asked that Miss Abigail entertain him until he was able to get there.

Philip rose to his feet as Abby entered the room.  “Abigail.  How lovely to see you again.  I’m waiting for your father.”

“Yes, he’s been detained.  If you give me a minute or so to change out of these tennis things, I’ll come back and mix us a drink.”

“That would be lovely, “ he said.  “Take your time.”

Abby stood under the shower and laughed.  He had said ‘lovely’ twice in two sentences.  ‘Lovely’ was a word people used around her a lot.  It was the most benign compliment they could give.  Lovely talking to you.  We had a lovely time.  It meant nothing.

She laughed again at ‘take your time’.  This would be a good indicator as well.  She was sure he meant ‘take your time, there’s no hurry’ but it could be interpreted as ‘take your time, and do a careful job and try not to be as plain when you come back as you are now’.  She would know how much thought he’d put into her looks if he was embarrassed on her return.

But he wasn’t.  When she re-entered the living room a few minutes later, wearing grey slacks and a yellow blouse which made her skin look sallow, he just smiled.  She made them each a gin and tonic and they made small talk about the Symphony fundraiser.  When that avenue of conversation was exhausted, she asked him about himself.  This question usually got her a recitation of a man’s résumé, all the things he had done in his life that would qualify him for equal signing privileges on her chequing account.

Philip didn’t do that.  He didn’t even mention business, but instead talked about leisure interests.  Tennis, anyone?  He enjoyed that and golf, as sports to be played.  And he liked to watch football and basketball.  What about her?

Well, she played tennis, of course, she said with a laugh, sweeping her hand down her body to indicate the tennis gear that she’d been wearing a few minutes earlier.  He smiled at her little joke.  And baseball, she said.  I love to watch baseball.  The Cubs.  I let them break my heart every year.

Do you get to many games? he wanted to know.  Yes, she said, we have a private box.  Daddy entertains there quite often, although he doesn’t care for the game himself.

“I used to be a Phillies fan, but there doesn’t seem to be much point to it these days,” Philip said with a grin.

“Hey, you’re talking to a Cubs fan,” she said.  “We hang in there through thick and thin.  Only there hasn’t been too much thick.  We’ve gotten close a couple of times lately, but…” She shrugged, “…it seems we get our hopes up and then get them squashed flat.”

“Oh, well, there’s always…”  Philip started the sentence and they finished it together.  “…next year.”  They laughed together and moved on to talk about their favorite baseball movies.  John Fremont’s entrance into the room a few minutes later disappointed Abby.

“Sorry, I’m late, Philip.  Thanks for taking over, Honey,” he said, dropping a kiss of dismissal on Abby’s forehead.  “Come into my study, Philip.”

“It was nice to see you again, Abigail,” said Philip sincerely, cutting across her father’s words.

Three weeks went by and she didn’t see him.  Her father mentioned him once or twice when he was giving the report of his day at the dinner table.  Sharon Fremont didn’t care about the business details but she did want to know who he had met with and lunched with.  There might be gossip to be gleaned from it.

“He mentioned you today,” said her father one night.  Abby paid scant attention to her father’s recital of the day’s events and hadn’t been listening.

“Who did?” she asked.

“Philip.  Philip Randall.” 

Abby could see her mother’s ears perk up like a rabbit sniffing out a carrot.  “What did he say?” her mother demanded.

“Nothing,” said her father.  “Just mentioned her.  Mentioned having seen her here at the house.  Asked how she was doing.”

“Why?” asked Abby’s mother.  “Did he think there was something wrong with her?”

“You mean, beyond the usual?” said Abby sarcastically.  Sharon ignored her.

John Fremont furrowed his brow.  “It wasn’t a big deal.  He said…um…oh yeah, I remember…we were talking about tennis…and he said that he missed playing…and I said that Abigail played…” 

Abby groaned.  “Oh, Daddy, you didn’t.”

“Sure I did.  He doesn’t know many people in town.  What could it hurt you to invite him to the club for a tennis match?”

“But what did he say about her?” demanded Sharon.

“When I said that Abigail played, he said, ‘yes, that’s right, she was just coming in from tennis the day I was at your house.’  And then he asked if you had recovered from the Bishop trade?’”

Abby laughed and so did her father.  Her mother was clueless about baseball, however, and didn’t have any idea what they were talking about.  “What?  What’s that?  What’s a Bishop trade?”

Abby and her father shared a smile.   Abby’s faded immediately at her father’s next words.

“I think I’ll invite him to the Club on Sunday for tennis and brunch.”

Abby’s heart sank.  She knew what would happen.  Her mother would fuss around and say embarrassing things to try and make Abby more palatable, talk about her work with this Committee at the Art Gallery or that one with the Symphony or her volunteer work with underprivileged children.  They’re not underprivileged, Abby would respond, they’re deaf.  Her mother would wave her protest away and continue her quest to help Abigail land a man.

“Daddy…” she said, nodding her head at her mother. 

John Fremont nodded.  He understood exactly what she meant.  “Okay, then, you call him up and invite him for tennis during the week, then.  He’s staying at the Renaissance.”

“He hasn’t found an apartment yet?” asked Abby, wondering why this question wasn’t coming from her mother.

“No, he wants to get established in business first,” said her father.  “You’ll call him?”

Abigail nodded.  Thanks, Daddy for putting me between the rock and the hard place.  Either I call him on my own, or you’ll send Mother after him!  Not much of a choice there!

So she called him.