limp. He only knew bits and pieces of Seth’s history, but he’d never doubted what an inherently good person the young man was. Then again, his opinion was colored by the fact that he’d first met Seth when the then eighteen-year-old had saved his life, at considerable risk to his own.
Now it was his turn to save Seth.
Seth’s entire focus was aimed at showing the world he was as good as any man who could walk unhindered. He was driven to the point that he didn’t seem to know how to enjoy what he already had. Someone had to give him a nudge in the right direction before it was too late.
And if he could help a certain young lady in the process, so much the better.
Arthur glanced again at the letter on the corner of his desk. Abigail was the opposite of Seth in many ways—sweet, optimistic and a bit naive—but she was also intelligent, spirited and had a mind of her own. Like Seth, she also needed a bit of a push to set her feet on the right path.
The plan forming in his mind could be described by some as meddlesome. But he’d employed a similar tactic with his granddaughter six years ago. That had worked out even better than he could have hoped. Could success repeat itself? After all, just as with Reggie and Adam, he would merely set the stage. The rest was up to them.
Speaking of setting the stage... He sat, then reached for a pen and paper.
My dear Abigail...
“How is the hunt for a job going?”
Abigail Fulton grimaced as she set her letters and parcel on the pharmacy counter. “I’ve checked with nearly every business here in Turnabout and no one is hiring.”
Constance Harper, her best friend, gave her a look that seemed equal parts sympathy and amusement. “Surely you’re exaggerating. I can’t believe you checked with every business in town. For instance, you never checked with me.”
Just this week, Constance’s long-held dream had come true when Mr. Flaherty had retired and turned over the keys of the apothecary shop to her.
Abigail patted her friend’s hand. “Don’t even think about offering me a job. You can’t afford to hire me, not for a wage that would allow me to move into the boardinghouse.”
Constance gave a reluctant nod then smiled. “Give it time, something will come up.”
“That’s just it—I’m running out of time. I absolutely have to move out of Everett and Daisy’s home by the end of the year.”
Constance’s expression turned skeptical. “Has Everett or Daisy said anything to make you feel unwelcome?”
“No, not at all.” Not yet anyway.
Living with her older brother had been fine when Abigail was fifteen and Everett was single. But she was twenty now and Everett had a wife and two children. Lately, she’d begun to feel she was taking up much-needed room. Better to work this out herself than to wait for them to bring it up themselves.
“Daisy and Everett are expecting another child.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful.” Constance’s smile faded. “Aren’t you happy?”
“Of course. They’re wonderful parents and have enough love to encompass a houseful of children.” Abigail sighed and leaned her elbows on the counter. “But I can’t justify taking up a room in their home any longer.”
Constance frowned thoughtfully. “Actually, I’d think having you around to help would be more important than ever now.”
Daisy ran the local restaurant and Everett produced the town’s newspaper. Abigail helped out where she could, which was her way of repaying their kindness to her.
“I’ll still help when I’m needed, of course. But it’s past time I get out on my own and gave them the space they need. I just need to prove to someone that I’d make a good employee.”
“Of course you would.” Constance sounded almost indignant.
It was easy for her friend to feel that way—she had an important job and was a respected businesswoman.
“After all,” Constance added, “You’ve been running the town’s only library since you were fifteen years old.”
Abigail waved a hand dismissively. “It barely makes pin money, certainly not enough to allow me to support myself.” Then she fingered her collar. “Actually, there is a job coming available that would meet my needs.”
Constance eyed her suspiciously. “You don’t sound happy about it, whatever it is.”
“I ran into Hilda Burns earlier. Seems she and Joseph Melton are engaged. And they’re planning a Christmas Eve wedding. Which means, come mid-December, Mrs. Ortolon will be looking to hire someone new.”
Hilda’s job consisted mainly of cleaning and cooking at the boardinghouse and using her “free time” to run errands for Mrs. Ortolon. Not only was the work near-drudgery, but it was common knowledge what a hard-to-please employer Mrs. Ortolon could be.
Constance apparently sensed something of her feelings because she touched her arm sympathetically. “You don’t have to decide immediately. You have two and a half months to find something else. Think of it as a last resort.” She paused a moment. “When is the baby due?”
“February.” Abigail lifted her chin. “All right, I either find something else, or the boardinghouse job it is.” She firmly believed there was always a way if one looked hard enough. She need only convince one local businessman she could bring something to his business he hadn’t realized he needed. It would take a bit of imagination, but she was convinced she could find her niche if she just looked hard enough.
Time to change the subject. She touched the parcel she’d set on the counter. “I have something here from Judge Madison.”
Constance shook her head. “It’s beyond me what you two can have to say to each other. I can’t think of a thing you have in common.”
Abigail grinned. “I’ll have you know we enjoy a very lively correspondence on a wide variety of subjects.”
She’d first written to Judge Madison when she learned how he’d given her brother his second chance, a chance that brought him to Turnabout. She’d wanted to thank him, tell him how well it had turned out, and let him know it had given her a fresh start as well.
To her surprise, he’d written back and they’d enjoyed a regular correspondence ever since. She found him charming, intelligent and quite intriguing. Even though they’d never met face-to-face, he’d become like the grandfather she’d never had. And her letters to him had become almost like entries in a diary, sharing hopes and dreams she didn’t tell anyone else.
“It looks like it contains a book of some sort,” Constance observed.
Abigail frowned. It wasn’t unusual for Judge Madison to send her books. In fact, ever since he’d learned about her subscription library he’d periodically sent books from his personal collection. But in her last letter she’d asked him not to send her any more—she simply didn’t have room for them. Had he forgotten? Or simply not believed her?
“Let’s
