by Jenny Hale
Chapter Three
Libby could feel the sting of salt in the air as the breeze hit her sun-warmed skin. The sun’s rays were finally behind the trees, but they’d been on her face all day. Cocooned in the latticework of rope that comprised the hammock, bolted to two towering pine trees near the shore, she closed her eyes and let the lapping of the waves lull her. There was something so peaceful about it. It was like being on vacation but with no one to share it.
She’d sent off a dozen applications all over New York this afternoon, each one taking double the time to send as the wireless went in and out because she was so far away from town. She resolved to do the rest at the coffee shop since they had advertised free wireless. She was hopeful that they had a better connection. For now, though, she kept her eyes closed and tried to block out the last month of her life.
The moment of tranquility didn’t last. Her cell phone was chirping on the towel in the sand. She rolled out of the hammock, catching herself as it twisted in a circle and spun her outward. “Hello?” she answered. “Trish, how are you?”
Instantly, all the tension that her rest had eliminated came flooding back. The call from her friend, Trish—newly engaged and full of excitement about her wedding—brought her back to reality and filled her with the uneasiness that came when she thought about how she’d lost everything.
“I’m well! How are you?” Trish sounded extra chipper.
Libby pushed her toes into the sand. “Okay.” Even though she wasn’t.
“I called to say happy early birthday!”
“Oh, thanks.”
“Kevin and I are going to be up to our eyeballs in wedding planning tomorrow picking china patterns, so I knew I wouldn’t have a chance to call…” Libby could hear traffic in the background, the sound of it making her homesick.
As much as she loved Trish, she disliked how she brought out the competitive side of her. Trish always did that: she always said something to put herself above Libby, like how she’d be too busy to call on her actual birthday, and then, right away, something exciting about herself. Not that Libby wanted to drone on and on about the situation, but the way Trish did that, it was almost like a challenge—one negative, one positive. One-to-one: Happy Birthday—so sorry! I’ll be too busy planning my wonderful wedding with my fiancé—who didn’t leave me like yours did—to call. As if to say, Your turn. What can you offer? When she’d had something to offer, it hadn’t been a problem at all. It was as easy as lighthearted sibling rivalry. But now, with her confidence shattered, it was a blow to her ego.
“Would you be my Maid of Honor?” Trish asked.
“Of course!” she said. She was honored to be asked to be in Trish’s wedding. She just wished she could be happier about it. She felt so low, it was hard to be anything but miserable.
The sun had completely slipped beyond the horizon, sending out a bright orange and pink glow in the sky. The spring air was still cool in the evenings, and Libby felt a slight chill against the heat of her skin. She sat down on the hammock and hung her head, the ropes creaking beneath her.
“I’m so glad! I was nervous to ask, given what’s happened in your life recently. I didn’t want to upset you or anything.”
My wedding! Your disaster of a life. There it was again. One-to-one.
“It’s fine, Trish. I’m happy for you! So, what are my duties?” she asked, trying to sound as chipper as one should sound when her best friend had asked her to be her Maid of Honor. Shame was swelling in her gut in the form of acid as she thought about how bad a friend she was for not being happier. It was just too hard. How in the world would she be able to help Trish plan her wedding festivities when she’d just had to cancel all her own? It made her feel hollow and exhausted, and she hadn’t even started yet.
“I’ll send you a list of addresses—most of the people you know—and you can send out invitations to the shower. Would you mind planning that?”
“Of course not. Do you have anything particular in mind for the shower, or do you want me to surprise you?”
“Why don’t we have that shower game that Becca had at hers? Do you remember it?”
Libby remembered it. It was the shower game she’d wanted to play at her own bridal shower. The shower she’d booked at the 21 Club on West 52nd. The shower she’d squealed with delight about because she’d been able to squeeze in her reservation after another group had canceled. The shower that she’d had to call about and tell the event planner that, after all his hard work getting her an open banquet room for thirty-five people, she wasn’t going to make it after all.
“Sure. We can have that game,” she said. “Any other requests? I want it to be perfect.”
“I trust you. You’ll make it better than I can think up. You’re so good at planning these sorts of things. Just keep it classy—nothing too frilly—and I’ll be happy. You sure you’re okay to do all this?”
She wasn’t okay. The thought of making wedding plans after she’d just seen hers vanish into thin air made her chest hurt. It was another one-to-one. Then, as if something in her snapped, she didn’t want one-to-one anymore. She wanted her own happiness. Why should Trish get all the good luck? “Of course,” she replied. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it is here,” she heard herself saying. “It’s like being on vacation all the time! Renovating won’t be hard work at all with this gorgeous view.”
“Wow, that’s really nice,” Trish returned, causing the competition to take a turn. Trish hadn’t said anything about herself yet. Time to throw in an oh-for-two!
“I’m really enjoying it.” Inwardly squirming, Libby thought how she seemed, at that moment, an awful lot like her mother. It was official: she was falling apart.
“Libby, I’m so glad to hear that things are looking up!”
“I hope so.” What am I doing? she thought. Things aren’t looking up. If anything, they’re looking down, further into the abyss that is my life! She grabbed her towel to shake it out, the phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. The wind blew as if to spite her, sending a storm of sand from the towel into her face. “Hey, Trish. I need to go. I have something I need to do.” Wash the sand out of my eyes. “Can I call you later?”
“Absolutely.”
She ended the call, dropped her phone into her handbag, and then sat down on the shore. With sand still in her eyes that were now watering uncontrollably and causing her to blink in an effort to relieve the scratching feeling, she threw her head back and laughed at the absurdity that was her life. There she was, sitting on the beach with a ridiculously small bath towel (that had been in the one box of things that she had) and her Michael Kors tote. The designer handbag sat half buried in the sand. Just like her, that tote was made for city life; it was in the wrong place.
Libby missed New York horribly. All her life, her mother had groomed her to be successful. She’d been in the top five in her high school class, she was an accomplished swimmer, her memberships in school clubs and organizations were a mile long. Those things made her different in her small town, but once she got to Columbia, she met so many other kids like her. There, she felt normal. She wasn’t an overachiever anymore because the others had worked just as hard as she had to get there. Then, as she took her first job in the city, she fell right into place. Working in New York, she was able to mingle with people who had the same ideals, the same goals. She had friends there, friends just like her. There, she could be successful and driven—and not under the judging and boastful eye of her mother. She could just be herself. She felt a freedom that she could never feel back home.
The minute she’d returned to White Stone, that freedom had all but dissolved. She’d sunk a ton of savings into the cottage, she was still paying the loans for her Columbia education, she had nowhere else to live, and she was stuck where she’d never hoped to return. I’m turning thirty tomorrow, she thought, and what do I have to show for it? Her failures made her feel as if she were being held down and unable to move. Having felt the joy of success, co
ming back was unbelievably demoralizing, as if being so low, she’d never be able to get as high again. I will get through, she told herself, but deep down, it was difficult to believe, given how much had happened to her.
A pinch on the arm sent her hand slapping in that direction, and she remembered that as the sun went down, the mosquitoes came out. Unable to tell at that point if the tears were from the sand or the misery that she felt, she got up and started toward the house.
* * *
“Good morning!” her mother’s voice chirped through the phone.
“Morning.”
“It’s someone’s special day today!”
She’d nearly forgotten, and probably would have if Trish hadn’t called last night. Originally, she and Wade were going to take a trip to the Cayman Islands to celebrate, but he wouldn’t ever finalize their plans.
“I know you probably don’t want to, but it would be good for you… I’ve got a late brunch scheduled with Jeanie and Sophia in town. Won’t you come?”
Mom, you’re asking me to meet you and two other women your age for brunch on my birthday? It’s not exactly what I’d have planned. Libby shook her head. She’s trying, she thought. I should at least go for that reason. The guilt that rose up due to her lack of enthusiasm for going to brunch made her feel even worse. She should feel lucky to have anyone want to celebrate with her, but she didn’t feel lucky. She felt awful.
“Sure,” she said.
“Perfect! We’re meeting at Jeanie’s house. Do you remember where she lives?”
Libby pursed her lips and nodded even though her mother couldn’t see her. Finally, she verbalized her thoughts. “Yep.”
Of course she remembered where Jeanie lived! Jeanie, unbeknownst to her mother, had been her confidante. She’d always been able to tell Jeanie when her mother’s demands had become unbearable, and she had listened. Jeanie never had children of her own, but she was amazing with them, and Libby wondered if maybe she hadn’t been able to have any. Since that’s something one could never ask, and Jeanie hadn’t shared anything regarding the issue over the years, she was left to wonder.
“It’s at eleven. I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay.”
“Libby?”
“Yeah?”
“Happy birthday, honey.”
She took in a deep breath. “Thanks. I’ll see you at eleven.”
All Libby had was the spare outfit she’d packed. She was supposed to pick up her boxes of things from New York at the local post office, but they’d said—twice—that the boxes had not arrived. She decided to have a look at her change of clothes, wondering how many wrinkles she would find.
She pulled her trousers from her bag and shook them out. They weren’t too bad, but they didn’t go with the pair of shoes she had. She draped them on the bed and paired them with the shirt she’d packed. The shoes would do, she decided after a debate with herself, since they matched her handbag.
Mentally reexamining her packing choices, she got up and got ready with what she had. The only silver lining to it all was that she didn’t have groceries yet, so she could justify a visit to The River Market where they had delicious coffee and an enormous array of freshly baked muffins.
The spring air, striving to be as hot as summer, but maintaining its chill every morning, had put a layer of dew on the grass that lined the front sidewalk of the cottage. With the late-morning temperatures only slightly cooler than room temperature, Libby decided to park the car and walk through town.
She worried about what she’d say to Celia’s friends. Her perfect life wasn’t perfect anymore, and she didn’t know how to do anything less than perfectly. For as long as she could remember, her mother had always expected perfection. Libby had thrown fits about the clothes her mother had made her wear as a child, the curls in her hair. In school, if her homework wasn’t in her neatest handwriting, she’d have to erase it, rubbing holes in her paper until it was her very best effort. Ultimately, it was her mother’s way or no way.
It occurred to her that her father should have stuck up for her, but after her parents divorced when she was ten, he had always let her mother make the decisions when it came to Libby, the Potters’ only child. He’d only been around to voice his opinions every other weekend anyway. By the time she was about fourteen, he’d moved to another state. So her mother went on with her rigid childrearing.
As an adult, Libby could rationalize this behavior, try to explain it. Her mother, resentful and bitter about having to live in a town she’d never have chosen for herself, had put all her hopes and dreams of success into Libby, and if Libby didn’t succeed, neither did her mother as a parent. All this made perfect sense to her as an adult, but it didn’t do anything to change the way it had affected her personality.
She worried that she wasn’t as good as her mother had made her out to be, and she worried that she had let her down. There she was, back home, having taken a job for which she was far overqualified, with no hope of a wedding or family in her future. Certainly her mother was disappointed. Could I have changed anything about the cuts at the office? she wondered again. Could I have been a better fiancée in some way? She went over and over it all in her head. She was an intelligent woman; she knew how to solve her own problems. But she couldn’t solve those.
Standing at the corner of Windmill Point Road and Rappahannock Drive, she had arrived at the only stoplight in town. As a kid, it had been a cautionary, blinking, yellow light, but having moved along with the times, all three colors were now represented, and the light was red. Libby didn’t notice the red light, but she noticed the truck that was stopped there. It was a vintage yellow 1969 Bronco.
She only knew that because she’d been with Pete when he’d bought it. She remembered sliding across the tattered seat toward Pete who was sitting, poised in the driving position, his hands on the wheel, considering the purchase. “How do we look in it?” she’d asked playfully. His expression was frozen in her memory as if she’d seen it just yesterday. Pete turned to her with fondness in his eyes, a grin on his face, and said, “Well, I must say it looks a whole lot better now that you’re in it.” He and his brother had spent the rest of their high school years saving money to restore it.
As she surfaced from her memory, the window slid down and Pete called out, “Still here?”
Libby turned to face him, her eyes narrowing. With an empty lane between them, she glared in his direction. Of course I’m still here! she wanted to yell. I can’t go anywhere else! I’m stuck here against my will, which should make you happy, so leave me alone and let me stew in it! Instead, she said nothing.
The light turned green and, to her dismay, she saw him put on his turn signal and move closer to her. He kept going and rounded the curve, pulling the truck to a stop on Rappahannock Drive. A few cars passed, and she watched them go, not wanting to look in Pete’s direction.
“I thought you’d be gone by now,” he said, closing the door and stepping up onto the curb. She recognized two women from her childhood church gawking at them from the window of the market.
He took a step closer to her and slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans, bunching the shirttails of his oxford button up. Even when he wasn’t spruced up, he looked perfect. She had so many things she wanted to say to Pete Bennett that all the thoughts bumped into one another, and she couldn’t sift out a single one. She stood there in silence, the irritation of her lack of coherent thought nibbling away at her from the inside.
“What are you doing back here, Libby?” He said the words in anger, but she’d known him over half her life, well enough to see the softness behind his expression, and she could also see the hurt she’d caused.
She wasn’t about to tell him what had transpired during the last month of her twenties. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He didn’t need to know any more than she was willing to tell him. “I’m here to sell the cottage,” she said matter-of-factly.
The anger that had been evident on his
face deepened, and the softness was now gone completely. “You're getting rid of it?” he asked, his green eyes shooting daggers at her. His face was flushed, his jaw set in a rigid line.
The cottage had belonged to Pete’s grandparents. But now that Anne was gone, and Hugh was living with Pete, she didn’t know why he cared one way or the other about that cottage. Especially since she’d heard from her mother that he had an amazing house he'd restored himself, right on the water and not far from her own childhood home.
“Yep.”
“Why? Isn’t it good enough?”
This wasn’t about the cottage. “Pete,” she took in a breath, trying to decide how to start. Her arms were crossed around her body, and anyone looking would think she was cold, but it was really an effort to keep herself from trembling. She felt as if she’d fall apart if she let go.
“You waltz back into town like you own the place, with your,” he swung his finger up and down in the air at her, “high and mighty, too-good-for-this attitude. You show up just to sell off the cottage, fluff out your feathers. Well, I don’t care about your wealth or all the airs you’re putting on. None of us care.”
Libby opened her mouth to retort, but the words weren’t there. She could feel the sting of tears, but she wasn’t about to let them show. Irritation burned in her stomach. She pressed her lips together to keep from screaming. What did he know?
The two ladies in the shop window were talking to each other, their knobby fingers pointing in the direction of Pete, and Libby felt like she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her. She’d lost everything, and now Pete was making a show of her poor choices for everyone to see. Her cheeks were on fire, her hands trembling. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said through clenched teeth.