by Jenny Hale
“You can’t catch me!” the smaller boy shouted.
“Oh no?” Pete picked up speed and scooped the boy into the air, the football dropping down onto the grass. The little boy shrieked with delight.
“That’s a tackle,” Pete said, setting the boy down and tossing him his ball.
Libby wondered who they were, and a wave of anxiety rushed through her veins. Were they his children? Did he have a loving wife at home, and his own family? Pete looked so comfortable with them, so happy. She’d seen that playful side to him as kids, but to see him as a grown man, the kind way he handled them, hit her hard and made her feel like she was missing so much more than what she’d already lost.
“When’re you gonna set up that swing for us?” the lanky one asked.
Pete stopped, as if pondering the question, but noticed Libby and, for the first time in twelve years, she saw that smile. He hadn’t been smiling at her; he’d smiled for the benefit of the boys, but she didn’t care. The sight of it caused a flutter that started in the pit of her stomach and rose all the way up through her chest. The two boys looked her way; they seemed to just now notice that she was there.
“Who’s that?” the small one asked.
“That’s Miss Libby. Miss Libby, this…” he tousled the boy’s hair, “is Thomas, and this…” he gestured toward the tall, lanky one, “is Matthew.” Then he looked back at the boys. “This is Miss Libby’s house now. Pop doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Are you going to come over still?” the taller one asked.
Pete glanced over at Libby. “Maybe,” he said, his face turning serious before looking back to the boys.
Libby knew what Pete meant by “maybe.” They used to joke about it when they were young. Whenever he wanted anything from his mother that she wouldn’t let him have, to quiet him, she answered, “Maybe.” He used to say, “My mother has three answers: yes, no, and no, but she calls the second ‘no’ maybe.” Because of this, Pete and Libby always used to say “maybe” instead of “no.”
Another memory came back like a flash of lighting. It had been years since she’d thought about it. Pete would pin her down, kissing her relentlessly, tickling her, and she’d scream, “Let me go!”
He’d tighten his grip on her, that smile across his face, and, just before kissing her again, he’d say, “Maybe.” She’d squeal and wriggle underneath him until he finally loosened his grip and let go of her wrists so she could wrap her arms around his neck, still giggling. She wondered why that particular memory had surfaced. There were tons of times they’d used “maybe,” but it was that time that she’d remembered.
Even though Libby knew that it was probably better that way, she still felt a little sad when she heard his answer to the boys. She shouldn’t have him around though, because it would just make leaving too hard if they became friends again before she left for New York.
“I have to help Miss Libby now. Can I catch you two later?”
The boys ran off, the lanky one waving at Pete and the little one tossing the football into the air. They ran down the gravel road adjacent to the cottage.
“Who were those boys?”
“They live down the beach. The next house up. I promised them a tire swing about a week before Nana died—like the one we used at Catherine’s house.”
She remembered him pushing her so far out over the water that the tickle in her stomach had almost made her lose her grip. It seemed like so long ago.
“But with Nana gone and Pop…” He looked down at the ground and scuffed his shoe along the loose dirt. Libby could tell by his demeanor that he was dealing with something. Seeing his face like that made her want to protect him, help him through whatever it was.
“Leave the boxes. Come in. Tell me about Pop. I miss him so much.” Why had she just asked him to do that? It went against everything she should do… By getting closer with him, she was making things more difficult than they had to be, and she was afraid it might hurt again when she left.
“I can’t. I really have to go,” he said, and she could tell that her concern for Pop had softened him a little. He knew as well as she did what Pop meant to her. “Let me get these boxes out of the car for you, and then I’m off. I have to check on Pop. He’s been alone all morning and sometimes he thinks he can take a walk when he’s been by himself for too long. He forgets…”
“He can’t take a walk?”
“Not when he doesn’t remember how to get home. He has dementia.”
Hugh Roberts, who had been so strong and so intelligent—she couldn’t fathom anything like that happening to him. He was a salesman—medical supplies. People said that he could sell anything because he was that sharp, that much on his game. So the thought that someone so bright could have a disease of the brain was tough to take. It seemed like such a loss. As if Anne’s death hadn’t been enough, now Pete was dealing with that.
“Does he… know who you are?”
“Yes. He remembers his family. He remembers Nana... It hasn’t progressed that much yet. He’s just a little forgetful right now.”
A cool breeze rustled the leaves in the trees, causing Libby to look up. The sky was a piercing blue with cumulus clouds that looked like bowls of whipped cream. She wondered if Anne could see the two of them standing there. What would she think about all this: Libby living in her house, talking to her grandson after so many years, Hugh being cared for by Pete? She could almost feel her presence.
“Can you help me? Let’s see if we can get the rest of those boxes inside,” Pete said.
Libby followed him to the truck and, together, they finished unloading the boxes, piling them in the center of the living room, filling nearly the entire floor.
“Thank you,” she said, wiping her hands on her trousers.
“You’re welcome.” He took a step toward her, and for that one second, she felt like time had stood still for those twelve years. It was as if she were the same eighteen-year-old girl she’d been back then when she looked at him.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted. She didn’t know what else to say. She was sorry she’d hurt him, sorry she didn’t get to see Nana, sorry she hadn’t spent time with Pop. She could keep listing the reasons for being sorry, and she felt like that one little word wasn’t good enough, but it was all she had. “I’m sorry,” she said more quietly, her eyes on the wooden floorboards by her feet.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
What did he mean by “okay?” Okay, he knew she was sorry? Okay, he wasn’t upset with her anymore? Okay, he didn’t care one way or the other? She looked for an answer on his face but his expression was neutral, his smile gone. She wanted him to smile. She needed his smile. It always made things so much better.
“Hey,” he said. “Happy birthday.” The corners of his mouth turned up just a bit, winding her stomach tighter than a nautilus shell. That slight glimmer, that infinitesimal look of happiness, took her breath away. “Get anything nice?” he asked, clearly chewing on some thought. Had she finally convinced him that she was truly sorry for what she’d said to him? He had to know that, regardless of her opinions of where he lived, she didn’t have the same opinion of him.
She had a strange urge to grab him by the pockets of his shorts and pull him toward her like she’d always done, but she knew better. “Yeah,” she nodded, thinking how good it felt to be near him. That was gift enough. “I did.”
Chapter Seven
Libby folded some of the empty boxes and leaned them against the wall upstairs. She’d contemplated not even breaking them down since she hoped that she’d be filling them back up sooner rather than later. She opened the door of the last bedroom upstairs. Tucked away inside the room, on the ceiling, was the attic, accessible by a pull-down lever door, where she planned to store the boxes until she needed them again. Libby tugged on the rope and the door fell open on its hinges, revealing a folded wooden ladder. She unfolded it and stood on the bottom step, testing her weight. It seemed sturdy, so she grabbed a coup
le of boxes and climbed up.
The warm spring air filtered in through two vents on either end of the house, causing a plume of heat to envelop her the minute she got to the top. The old wood interior smelled of dust and rain. She pulled on the chain of an uncovered light bulb to illuminate the small space. The light clicked on, exposing a roll of old flooring and a few spare tiles from one of the bathrooms.
Libby pushed her hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ears. With a nudge, she thrust the flattened boxes over the flooring. They sent up a cloud of dust as they came to a rest on the other side. She turned around to go back down the ladder but stopped, noticing a yellowed envelope peeking out from under the linoleum flooring. Curious, she pulled it from its spot, wondering if it had old family photos or something the Roberts had left behind. The end had been torn neatly to expose its contents. She flipped it over in her hand, and saw the name “Anne” written in heavy script on the outside. Inside there was only a single sheet of yellowed paper.
The humidity had blanketed her with a sticky, wet heat, so she decided to take the envelope with her downstairs where she could investigate it further in the cool breeze of the bay. With it still in her grip, she left the attic and went outside onto the stoop where the sea air nearly chilled her sweaty skin. Inside the envelope was a letter addressed to Anne. As an impulse, she looked around to make sure no one was watching, even though she was isolated at the Roberts’ cottage. She was being nosy, and she knew it.
She chewed on her lip as she began to read the letter, and she wondered if she should read any further, since the letter had been written for Pete’s grandmother. Libby looked around one more time to ensure that she was alone. Just to be on the safe side, she took the envelope and its contents down to the beach where she could sit in the hammock and read with no interruptions.
She sat down and got comfortable, the old rope creaking beneath her in time with the rising and falling of the waves. The wind caused the letter to flap in her hands so she smoothed it out on her lap, pinning the envelope underneath it, and read:
* * *
My Dearest Anne,
I hope this letter finds you well. Thank you for coming to dinner with the others to welcome me back home. I really enjoyed it. I wanted to pull you away and tell you all of this then, but I know that you are an honorable woman, and I would not put you in such a precarious position as to require an immediate response. So now on to the reason for this letter.
Anne, I am shamefully in love with you. My affections for you transcend duty and honor, and I am willing to take a knock to my reputation if it means spending the rest of my life by your side. While I know in my heart that you will not leave your husband, I wanted to put forth this gesture just in case you ever reconsider. Come to Chicago with me. We can live in the city, travel, do anything you’d like. I will buy you a ticket immediately should you want to come with me. You can just leave; I’ll ensure you have everything you need. You know where to find me. I will be waiting, whether you come or not.
Forever yours,
Mitchell
* * *
This was not what she had expected to find. Nestling the letter inside its envelope, Libby folded down the jagged flap of paper at the end and pressed it down in her hands. She wondered what Anne had thought of this proposition. Had she considered it? What would her life have been like if she’d accepted Mitchell’s offer and left Hugh to move to Chicago? Indignation swam inside her as she processed Mitchell’s words in the letter. How could he think he could step in and try to ruin what Pop and Nana had together, she wondered? They’d always been the perfect couple, full of love for each other, completely happy. How could someone have tried to interfere with their relationship? She lay back on the hammock and closed her eyes.
She pictured Nana, and a memory of her and Pop one summer’s day came to mind. Pop had a pontoon boat—a big, flat, slow thing that inched its way along the bay. It had a row of seating down each side and a canopy above the helm. Nana always insisted on having a cooler for mixed drinks, her bottle of wine and a picnic basket full of fresh vegetables, crackers, and fruit. Pop dutifully hoisted it all onto the boat before every voyage. Pete had taken Libby along with Pop and Nana on a ride out into the middle of the bay so they could go swimming.
Libby sat on the boat, hugging her knees to keep the chill off her, her tank top coverall flapping in the sea breeze as the boat made its way out into the bay. Pete sat beside her with his arm around her bare shoulders. Occasionally, he toyed with the tie to her swimsuit at the back of her neck. His soft touch, the sun’s heat, and the lull of the waves against the boat were making her drowsy.
Pop came to a stop and lowered the anchor, the boat swaying on the water. Libby was too relaxed to swim, so she’d opted to stay on the boat and read a book. Pete stayed with her. Pop turned on the radio, beach music filling the air. Nana began unpacking snacks and drinks and setting them on the small table on the side of the boat. She had on a halter dress that fell past her knees, and sandals.
There was an ease to the way Pop and Nana communicated. Watching them move about the boat together was lovely. Libby had tried to read, but they were more entertaining. They’d done it so many times that they knew exactly what the other needed. One moved, while the other leaned, back and forth, as they laughed together, helped each other, and set up for the day. When they were finally settled, and Nana was sipping her Chardonnay, Pop gently took it from her hands and set it down next to the picnic basket. He pulled her close to him, placing a hand on her back and holding her other hand out to the side, and he started to dance with her. He spun her around, making her laugh, and then swayed back and forth in time with the waves. Nana lay her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, a smile on her lips. The sight had made Libby lean toward Pete, and he wrapped his arms around her, intertwining his fingers at her shoulder. She thought how she’d like to be that happy one day.
The breeze in the pines above the hammock brought Libby back to the present and she opened her eyes, the feel of the envelope registering under her hand on her stomach. She wanted to find this Mitchell person, tell him how wonderful Pop and Nana were together and how nothing should have ever come between them. Had Nana considered his offer? The mere question made her shudder.
Libby swung her legs over the edge of the hammock, the sea grass tickling her, and tried to clear her mind of the shock of the letter. She was feeling uneasy because of it, and she already had enough making her uneasy. She needed to get up, get on with things, and try to put one more day in that town behind her. She walked back to the house to put the letter in her handbag when she heard her phone ringing through the screen door.
Chapter Eight
“We miss having you out with us,” Trish said on the other end of the line as Libby finished hanging up the last of her clothes. They looked out of place in the cottage closet. “I had my first pineapple cocktail the other night. It was fantastic!”
Going out after work in New York was a regular occurrence. Libby wondered if this trend of having dinner and drinks any night of the week had started as a result of the stressful occupations many New Yorkers had. Most of her friends worked for big-name businesses, and with a big name came big demands. Libby’s job had been the same. She usually started work before eight o’clock in the morning, worked through her lunch, and finally finished up after seven thirty. By the time she was done, she was ready for a drink.
“Who went out last Friday?” she asked, although she really didn’t want to know; it was too depressing. The fact that her friends could still have drinks because they were all working and perfectly successful in their own lives only sharpened the edge of her failures, making her feel miserable. She opened up a small box containing jewelry and other accessories and fished through it, untangling her necklaces.
“Sonya and Babs. It was a small crowd.”
She took each necklace and stretched it out along the oak dresser of her new bedroom. There wasn’t a whole lot of storage in
the cottage, so she’d have to get creative as to where to put things. For now, she was just focused on unpacking so as not to use up the entire evening. She wanted to try and send out a few more applications.
“Anything interesting happen?” she asked.
Trish sighed. “No, same old thing.”
“Apart from the new cocktail.”
“Yes! Apart from that. What have you been up to? Lots of sunbathing, I hope.”
She rested the phone between her shoulder and ear as she tugged at two more necklaces. “A little.” On vacation, one can lie around in the sun and enjoy it, but in her current situation, she saw it as a sentence for her shortfalls, a prison to keep her away from the successes she knew would make her happy.
“Well, I didn’t want to bombard you after the last phone call, so I waited until you were a little more settled… I was wondering if I could offer some possible dates for the shower and the brunch? It looks like we have a few parties on Kevin’s side to attend.”
Everything sounded so festive—so many celebrations. She wanted to be happy for Trish. She was trying very hard despite the sinking feeling that she’d ruined her own chance. But, if Libby was an expert at anything, it was planning. All her life, she’d been a planner. As a girl, she’d always been that person who did all the inviting and organizing whenever she went out with her friends. She had meticulously structured her courses in high school to ensure the most attractive transcript for colleges. Her entire life she’d spent fine-tuning her years down to the last detail to ensure her success.
Sometimes, however, even the best plans went south. Look at where all of that planning had gotten her. But this would give her a project of sorts, which she welcomed. “Of course! What are the dates?” she asked, dragging another moving box toward her with her free hand.