Libby left a short while later after waving to Calvin who was in the garden. Although no spring chicken, the short, stocky man seemed far younger than her grandmother. He reminded her of Cooper, although she couldn’t say why. Cal was small and fastidious. A neat freak. He did all the cooking, shopping and cleaning. Her grandmother once said, “Calvin was my slave in another life.”
And this life, too, Libby remembered thinking. But the two truly seemed to care for each other. They had an ongoing game of gin rummy that, at two-cents a point, had run into the thousands of dollars.
Arriving back at the Post Office, Libby brushed past her car, which she’d left parked in its usual spot while she walked to Gran’s. After checking to make sure there wasn’t anything blocking the loading platform, she unlocked the heavy metal door and pulled it open. A wave of familiar smells--paper, ink, and toilet bowl cleaner-–rushed to meet her as she walked inside.
She’d grown up in this building. Her kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Nightingale, had walked Libby to the post office every day at noon recess to pick up her mail. From first grade on, Libby came here directly after school. She’d do her homework at the table in the front lobby, where Gran could keep an eye on her. Sometimes, she’d take a nap atop the pile of outgoing mail bags, which were made of rough canvas closed at the top with a thick leather belt.
The citizens of Sentinel Pass knew Libby, and she knew them. She’d watched her grandmother interact with patrons and she came to understand that Gran was respected, trusted and beloved. Libby hadn't consciously planned to follow in her grandmother’s footsteps, but when Gran fell and broke a hip during Libby’s freshman year at Spearfish, she’d felt compelled to come home and help. It’s what Gran would have done.
And later, when Gran was well enough to return to work, she'd decided to use some of her overdue vacation time to travel. That was how she met Calvin. On a cruise, which he’d taken with his family to celebrate his successful bypass surgery. Cal sold his family home and bought a lot on the edge of town. Gran deeded the house she’d built with her second husband, Gordon, to Mac and Misty, then moved in with Cal–-her younger man. And Gran never returned to work, leaving Libby to fill her role permanently--after the requisite tests and interviews, of course.
“Yoo-hoo,” a familiar voice called.
Libby looked toward the back door as Jenna’s head popped around the frame. “I’ve brought a peace offering. Are you still talking to me?”
Libby motioned her in. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Jenna carried two white paper sacks in outstretched hands. The smell said coffee and doughnuts. Libby’s stomach rumbled. Her grandmother’s coffee was the color of tea, so she’d only taken a few token sips to be polite. “I was just craving this very thing.”
“Oooh, you’re experiencing cravings and you’re not even P.G. Maybe that’s a good sign that you’re fertile.”
Libby laughed. “Or maybe it means I’m hungry, you goose.”
They pulled up two stools at the counter where the rural carriers would be sorting mail in a few minutes. Jenna wasn’t working today, if Libby remembered the schedule correctly. Both of the regular carriers would be in.
“How come you’re up so early?”
“Mom’s got an appointment in Rapid.”
Libby pulled a bear claw from the bag and took a big bite, savoring the decadent sweetness and shameless indulgence of calories. She’d pay for this later. “What’s wrong with her now?”
“Oh, who knows? She thinks she has MRSA?”
Libby opened her coffee container. Pitch black. Perfect. She took a sip. It burned all the way down. Perfect. “The flesh-eating disease?”
“Methicillin resistant staphylococcus aurous. According to an article in Reader's Digest, it can kill in seventy-two hours. Mom’s got a scratch on her arm from the cat. She’s convinced it’s infected and she’s going to die. I’m thinking about canceling her subscription to the magazine.”
Libby tried to look sympathetic. Jenna’s mother had been a bit of a hypochondriac even before Jenna’s father died, but in the last couple of years her illnesses-–real and imagined-–had gotten more frequent.
She held up her own hand to display Onida's scratch. “Can you get it from dogs? Call me if I don’t have long to live, okay?”
She was teasing, of course, but Jenna looked at her seriously. “Why? So you can make mad, passionate love to your blond hunk before you keel over?”
A spark of excitement traveled down her back and settled much lower. She could almost see that happening. If she took her grandmother’s advice and grabbed on-— “Can you think of a better way to spend the last hours of your life?”
Jenna’s mouth dropped open, exposing a partially masticated bite of sugar doughnut. Then she burst out laughing. “No, my friend. You’re absolutely right. As my dad used to say, ‘If not now, when?’” She finished chewing and swallowing before adding, “Would you do it if I called and said you were dying even if you weren’t?”
Libby finished her coffee and stood up. “The carriers should start arriving any minute. Time to get busy. You know the drill.”
Jenna hopped to her feet but didn’t leave. “Kat and Char and I took a vote before we got to your house last night. It was two to one in favor of you sleeping with him before he leaves.”
Libby stared at her a minute. “You decided this before you even talked to with him? Who was the-—Let me guess--Kat?”
Jenna shook her head. “Nope. They both think the experience would be good for you-–even on the fly. But I told them you’re not the kind of woman who settles for easy-come-easy-go. You stick. Anybody you choose to be with has to stick, too.”
Libby couldn’t process her friend’s evaluation right then because two people walked in-–Clive Brumley and Sandy Hanson. Jenna gave Libby a long, knowing look, then left, shouldering the razzing from Clive and Sandy for not bringing more doughnuts.
The day began in earnest. Libby did what was required of her, but she couldn’t get her friend’s words out of her head. You’re not the kind of woman who settles for easy-come-easy-go. She wasn’t the kind who advertised for a sperm donor, but she’d done it.
Could she handle a quick affair? Possibly. But how would that affect their deal? The chance of her getting pregnant from that kind of encounter was nil because there was no way she’d risk having unprotected sex with a man with Cooper’s reputation. But if she and Coop made love, he might decide to leave without providing the promised sperm. She wondered if the law would support the claim that any ejaculation would count toward satisfying their contract.
She didn’t think Cooper was that petty, but she’d known men who would stand on a technicality if they thought there was money to be made from it. And she’d been adamant from the start about wanting there to be no emotional strings between them.
But he was a man. And he had kissed her twice. She was pretty sure he’d be…up for the task.
“Whatcha smiling about?” Clive asked.
She felt her cheeks heat up. “Nothing. Um…is the first aid kit where it’s supposed to be?”
She held up her hand to distract him from her obvious embarrassment. Plus, there was no sense dying from a simple wound before she made up her mind whether or not to seduce the sperm donor.
---
“What a dufus,” Coop muttered as he trudged along the path into town. The shortcut, Libby called it. An opportunity to break a leg fit better, he preferred to think of it.
His unsteadiness on his feet, he decided, stemmed from his brand-new hiking boots, which had been delivered a couple of hours earlier. A big truck had roared into the driveway, waking Coop from a hot dream. An embarrassingly hot dream that had slowed his response to the determined knocking on the cabin door.
“Need a signature here,” a voice had called.
Coop had been forced to tug on sweatpants, which hopefully were sloppy enough to cover his still-emphatic woody. “Coming,” he’d called, mentall
y cringing at the irony.
The deliveryman had been all business, presenting Coop with a hand-held device and plastic stylus to sign. Coop had blinked to focus and finally managed to scratch his name across the small space. The fellow had traded him a box for the device, then asked if he could take Coop’s picture. “For my wife. She’s a big fan.”
Coop knew he looked like hell, even if his hard-on was hidden by the shoebox. He’d tried to close the door, but the guy had snapped a couple of shots using his phone.
Once the guy was gone, Coop had splashed cold water on his face and looked in the mirror. “His wife, my butt,” he’d groused.
But he couldn’t blame the man for seeing an opportunity and taking the chance. The Internet had opened up a new market for homegrown paparazzi. And although Coop might have wanted to disappear in theory, he knew his career needed a few “sightings” to keep people’s interest. The price of doing business.
He’d quickly dressed and decided to test out his new boots, which he’d ordered for the infamous hike he and Libby were planning. A job he could have left to the location scouts but had decided this kind of overview would prove invaluable when he and Shane really started talking story development.
His only problem: the damn boots hurt.
He found a convenient rock at the spot where the trail intersected the main road and sat. He was still massaging his ankle when a car stopped. Two women. One older but quite beautiful in a Jane Seymour kind of way. The driver he recognized. Libby’s friend Jenna.
“Hey, there. You lost?” Jenna asked, leaning across her passenger.
“Nope. Just on my way into town to show Libby my new hiking boots. Although they may take a couple of years to break in.”
“I have some great leather treatment that might help. I was a tour guide at Wind Cave one summer, did a bunch of hiking. Hop in.”
The trip to Jenna’s house only took a few minutes, but it was such a relief to be off his feet, he hardly paid any attention to how they got there. “Walking downhill can actually be harder than going uphill because the foot is crammed against the toe of your boot,” Jenna told him.
“I had terrible shin splints one time,” Jenna’s mother, who said her name was Bess, told him. She’d removed her seatbelt in order to turn sideways and look at him. Unfortunately, that caused the car’s alarm to chime incessantly. Jenna ignored it, but from his position he could see her lips flatten together and a nerve in her jaw twitch.
Coop’s character sonar went off and he couldn’t help investigating the two women’s backstory. “Have you lived in Sentinel Pass long?”
“My husband and I started spending our summers here when we were first married. He was a young professor at the University of South Dakota in Vermillion. I was a theater arts major.”
He leaned forward. “I thought I picked up an actor vibe. What did you play?”
“Juliet, Lady Macbeth, and I had the lead in several musicals. They said I set the bar with my Stella, but I gave up the boards when I got pregnant with my daughter and we moved west.”
“Dad was awarded a geologic fellowship with the School of Mines. He was there until he passed away two years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss. I don’t think Libby mentioned it. I just lost my mother recently, too.”
Bess nodded. “I read about that. Jenna printed off a bunch of stuff about you from the Internet.”
“Mom,” Jenna said sharply. “You’re doing it again.”
Her mother popped one hand over her mouth. “Sorry. My daughter says I’m guilty of speaking before thinking. I have a bad habit of saying what’s on my mind.”
“At her daughter’s expense,” Jenna added.
“True.”
“She doesn’t recognize social boundaries,” Jenna explained.
“I believe it’s tied to the stroke my daughter doesn’t believe I had.”
“Your doctor agrees with me, Mom.”
“Which proves I need a new doctor. Look how he bungled your father’s case.”
A quick twist of the wheel put them squarely in front of a two-story house that was almost identical to Libby’s. “Did the same builder construct all the homes around here?”
“Sorta. This was a Sears Roebuck catalogue plan.”
“No kidding? My mother told me she grew up in a Sears Roebuck house.” And she vowed never to sink so low that she had to return to that level of ordinary, he didn’t add.
A few minutes later he was sitting on the top step of the wide plank porch, shoeless, while Jenna labored over his boots. He couldn’t help but notice that the paint was starting to peel in places, and the gritty runners that had been glued to the steps-–for traction in winter, he supposed-–were sketchy, at best.
“Can I help?”
Jenna shook her head. “I’m a bit of a perfectionist. Like my dad,” she added.
He canted to one side so his shoulder was resting against the solid post. His tailbone was still a little tender from his fall. Through the open window, he could hear Jenna’s mother involved in a one-sided conversation. “Who’s she talking to?”
“I have no idea. Probably one of her actor friends. She failed to list in her credits the twelve years she spent playing the victim. Literally. Her most beloved role was as Poor Penelope Plaingood at the Mellerdrama in Rockerville-–until the new highway went in. No one could quail quite like Mom.”
“No one could quail quite like Mom,” he repeated softly, committing yet another great line to memory to share with Shane.
“Has anyone ever told you you mumble?”
The sun made her thick red hair vibrantly alive. She was actually quite pretty he realized and wondered how he’d missed that. It wasn’t like him to overlook beautiful women in his midst. Shane wasn’t going to believe that.
“Yes. All the time. I don’t read well. Probably a learning disability. Mom never had me tested. She compensated by reading my lines aloud to me. Once I hear something and say it back, I remember it.”
She held out the yellow flannel cloth for Coop to squeeze another dollop of the pungent treatment from the can she’d handed him. The thick paste came out in a bubble and made a loud farting sound. She looked at him, blushed, then went back to rubbing. “I’m just the opposite. I was a voracious note-taker in college. My father had a near photographic memory. Served him well as an engineer.”
“I thought you said he was a geologist.”
“He had a fellowship in geology, but his Ph.D. was in engineering. He wrote a computer program that geologists use to catalogue soil strata and erosion.”
“Smart guy.”
“Yep. He was passionate about science of any kind. Mom was mad about plays and acting. And I…haven’t found my niche, according to Libby.” She stopped rubbing to look at him. “Are you going to help her? She’d make a great mom. Have you seen her with Megan? Lib’s all the things I’m not. Patient. Understanding. Forgiving.”
He was saved from answering by her mother who returned carrying two three-inch-thick albums. “Come join me inside, Cooper. I’ll show you my career in a nutshell.”
Jenna groaned. “Mom. Please. He’s a nice man. He didn’t do anything to deserve this kind of torture.”
Her mother ignored her. “I’ve made coffee.”
A bribe he was dying for. He’d been too distracted by the deliveryman and the arrival of his boots to make his own. “Sounds great.”
Bess shot her daughter a smug look and went back inside. “Black or with cream and sugar?”
“Surprise me,” he said, leaning over to set the can of leather treatment beside Jenna. “Are you sure you don’t need my help?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to run-–even in your stocking feet-–while you have the chance?”
He laughed. “I’ve been around actors my whole life. I can handle one woman’s scrap book.”
Jenna dropped the first boot and shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He stood, stretch
ed the kinks out of his legs, then went inside. The interior of the house, like the outside, showed signs of wear, not neglect. Dust free, every little knickknack and framed photograph-–of which there were dozens-–in place, but the walls could have used a fresh coat of paint and the carpet runners were frayed in spots.
“Come sit by me,” Bess said, patting the forest green sofa. “It’ll be easier to point out who’s who.”
As she walked him through the story of her life, Coop decided Bess reminded him of his mother, for no discernable reason other than she hid her personal disappointments behind a thick layer of bravado. He’d known at some level that his mother was living her life vicariously through him, and that knowledge had driven him to do better. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with that. But from a few telling remarks-– “Jenna suffered stage fright the first time I talked her into playing a small part and would never go back”-–he gathered Jenna didn’t buy into his coping mechanism. Apparently she was even more of a disappointment to her father, who had expected her to go to college, graduate with honors and follow in his footsteps.
“Jenna dropped out of college?” he asked, trying to piece together the story.
“Snidely Whiplashes exist beyond the stage, you know. Sometimes they hide behind nice manners and a letter jacket.”
“Pardon?”
Bess looked toward the front of the house. “Something happened to her in college. We don’t talk about it.” She shook her head and looked at him with false brightness. “More coffee?”
Intriguing. But his insides were sloshing and he wanted to see Libby. He'd thought about suggesting they do a practice hike after she closed up for the day. Maybe he’d buy a picnic from the diner and they could find a nice romantic spot to watch the sunset.
Romantic? No, that wasn’t the right word. Quiet. Intimate. No. Wrong again. Um… “I should be going. I enjoyed our stroll down memory lane. Have you thought of writing your memoirs?”
“Don’t encourage her,” Jenna said, opening the screen door. She walked to where Coop and her mother were sitting and deposited his boots on the coffee table, nearly upsetting his half-full china cup. She looked at her mother and shook her head. “Mom’s bugging me all the time to do it. I tell her only she can do justice to her story.”
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