by Jenny Hale
Even though she still needed to get the wallpaper stripping liquid and a few things for the cottage, Libby walked with them to the register where Hugh paid for his nails. The same mustached man from the other day handed him his change. “So, my boy, should we leave Libby to her shopping?”
Pete looked straight at her, right into her eyes, and it was as if they were the only two there. “Maybe,” he said. The word had come out like Maybe we should, but Libby wondered if he really meant their maybe. Did he not want to leave her? She kept her face clear of any emotion just in case it was all in her head.
“You’ll have to stop by the house sometime,” Hugh said, embracing her to say goodbye.
Libby nodded and smiled, unsure of an appropriate response to that suggestion.
“Well, give her a hug then and we’ll be on our way!” Hugh said.
Tension zinged through her. Pete let out a nervous-sounding chuckle but took a step toward her, putting his arms around her. Then, to her surprise, he pulled her close just like he had so many years ago, his lips on the top of her head, her face nestled into his chest—it was only an instant, and then it was done. He’d pulled away before she’d even had a chance to really register the feeling. Unexpectedly, all the emotions from the last few weeks flooded her body, and tears surfaced in her eyes again.
Libby had so many feelings when it came to Pete: sadness because she missed his protective nature, the way he made her feel like nothing would ever hurt her; complete joy at seeing him again; anxiety because of how he felt about her now. She didn’t want him to hate her, but just that tiny glimpse of how he used to be with her made everything more difficult than it had ever been. The more he let her in, the harder it would be to leave. She wasn’t eighteen anymore, and this time she knew exactly what she was leaving. She didn’t want to repeat the feeling she’d had the last time she’d left, knowing that she’d never get to be with him again. She couldn’t bear it after everything else that had happened. She pushed her tears away.
“See ya,” he said. She could tell he had noticed her tears despite her effort to hide them. Hugh patted him on the back. The receipt for the nails floated off the counter and down to the floor where it rested, exposed on the empty concrete. Libby picked it up as Pete and Hugh walked through the door, neither one of them looking back. She folded it and slid it into her pocket. Pete wasn’t as angry anymore; she could feel it. That memory needed to be kept, so Pop’s receipt was destined for her memory box.
Chapter Ten
“A firm” had been a generous description of Marty’s business. The only people there were Marty, his receptionist called Janet, and Libby. Marty Bruin was shorter than Libby, had unmanageably curly hair, and twitched a lot when he spoke, making him appear nervous when he probably wasn’t. That was the great thing about accounting, however; one didn’t have to be a people person. He was pleasant and cheerful, and he’d given her a desk by the window, which was gracious of him since there were only two windows—the other being by the reception area.
“Here are your accounts, he said, handing her a small box of files. The coffeemaker is over by Janet…” The receptionist waved. “And the bathrooms are just down the hall on the left.”
“Thank you,” Libby smiled.
Marty stood by her desk in silence for an unsettling amount of time, his hand propped up on the wall behind her. She wondered if she should make small talk in an effort to move him along. Before she could offer anything, he said, “I’ll be just over there,” and pointed toward a small desk with papers haphazardly scattered over it. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“I sure will, Marty. Thank you again for the work. I am very grateful for it. I think I’ll dig right in!” Libby slid the box toward her.
Marty clicked his tongue and raised his eyebrows—another one of his gestures. Then, he grinned and waved, heading over to his desk. Libby flipped through the files in the banker’s box in front of her. She had accounts for a handful of local store owners, a veterinarian, and a head of a construction company, but piquing her interest was a file labeled Peter Bennett. From his account details, it seemed that her Pete had his own web development business, and he was certainly doing well for himself. With a flush of heat to her face, she slapped the file shut and put it back into the box. It didn’t matter what their history was, she didn’t feel right looking at his yearly income summary.
By lunch time, she’d trudged through the numbers for a few of her clients and created reports reflecting their taxable income. Her stomach growled and she figured that it was as good a time as any to get some lunch, so she let Marty know, out of courtesy, and walked outside into the magnificent sunshine.
Two doors down was The Bay Café, which during the summer months drew in vacationers but today was only moderately busy. The floor was traditionally tiled in large black and white tiles, a handful of tables turned to look like diamonds rather than squares, were covered in red gingham cloths, and sitting in the center of each table was a shiny bucket of fresh yellow and white daisies. Following the note on the chalkboard sign to seat yourself, Libby found the table nearest the corner and sat down.
It wasn’t until she was settled in her chair and had ordered her iced tea that she saw Mabel Townley, Anne Roberts’s best friend, dining alone. She didn’t look exactly as Libby had remembered her, but it was clear that it was her. Like Hugh, her age had caught up with her: her light-brown hair was now almost completely silver, her shoulders rounded forward as if the weight of her own body were too much for her these days. Wire-rimmed glasses sat just a little too low on her nose, and she pushed them back up into place. Mabel spotted her and smiled, her lips pressed together. Libby waved.
Seeing Mabel, she wondered if Anne’s best friend knew anything about Mitchell or his letter. She sat at her table engrossed in her own thoughts. Could Nana have been unfaithful to Pop? Certainly she hadn’t seemed like the type of person who would stray, but then again, was there a type for those people? She wondered if Nana had ever been unhappy living in White Stone, if she, too, wanted something more. The letter bothered her considerably, but she knew why. Pop and Nana’s relationship had always seemed so easy, so comfortable. It was an unsettling feeling, thinking that their relationship may not have been as perfect as it seemed. Every time she looked over at Mabel Townley, she wondered what she knew. Libby traced the square pattern in the table with her fingernail.
“Libby!” Celia Potter came clacking through the small dining area, flinging her hand up at Mabel in a quick hello. “Why didn’t you call me, honey? I’d have met you for lunch.” She looked down at her silver bangle watch and twisted it on her wrist to see the time. “Did you just get here?”
“Yep,” Libby leaned over and pulled out a chair, trying to sit up a little straighter so she wouldn’t have to hear anything from her mother about it. She realized what she was doing and immediately relaxed her body. She didn’t have to please her anymore; she was a grown woman. It was time she started thinking like it. “They haven’t gotten my drink order yet, so you’re just in time. You can join me now,” she gestured to the chair she’d pulled out. That was the trouble with a small town; with only one main street and a handful of places to go, running into people was inevitable.
“What a pleasant surprise!” she said, sitting down. “I was just going to pick something up but now we can have lunch together.” Celia dropped her handbag under the table and spun around toward Mabel. “Are you by yourself too, Mabel? Come over here and join us if you’d like.”
Mabel carefully hoisted herself up, steadying her legs by holding on to the table. Then she ambled over. Watching her mother’s ease of conversation there only made Libby wish again for her old life in New York. She didn’t feel comfortable at all. People there didn’t seem as driven as they did in New York, their pace was slower. It had never worked for her as a kid, and it still didn’t work. In her small town there was nothing. And there never would be anything. Just the same thing, day in and day ou
t.
A waitress appeared, transported Mabel’s lemonade over to Libby’s table, and filled their water glasses with a pitcher of iced water. “Can I take your order?” she asked. “Or do you need a minute?”
“I’m ready,” Mabel said, still wriggling herself into a comfortable position. “I’ll just have the southern fried steak and potatoes.” She looked over at Libby and Celia. “I get the same thing every time I come!” she chuckled. She pulled off the paper band from the silverware and draped the napkin in her lap.
“I think we’re probably ready too,” Celia said, smiling in Libby’s direction. “I’ll just have a salad. Do you have Ranch dressing?” The waitress nodded, and Celia turned toward Libby who, until that very moment, hadn’t given a second thought to what she was going to eat. She scanned her menu quickly. What should she get? The choices seemed almost foreign to her now: Chicken and Dumplings, Fried Catfish, Pulled Pork Barbeque. “I’ll have the same, please.” she said in defeat.
“Libby, it’s good to see you,” Mabel said, squeezing the juice of the complimentary lemon wedge into her lemonade and stirring it with a spoon. “You’re living in the Roberts’ place, right?”
She nodded.
“It has a lovely view of the bay from the screened porch. Anne and I used to sit out there all the time. I just don’t get that kind of breeze on my porch.”
“You’ve known Anne a long time, haven’t you?” Libby asked. Had Mabel been at the dinner with Anne and Mitchell that night, she wondered? If Anne had feelings for Mitchell, might she have shared them with Mabel?
“I’ve known her all my life. We lived next door to each other growing up, and we went all the way through school together.” She moved around in her chair, her face showing discomfort as if her sitting position were giving her pain. “We didn’t go away to a fancy college like you, Miss Libby,” she smiled.
Libby broke eye contact and looked down at her lap, but she could feel that her mother and Mabel were both still looking at her. She didn’t want to make things uncomfortable so she pretended to notice something on the napkin in her lap. Heat rose up her neck and onto her face. She hoped they couldn’t see it. Did Mabel think she thought herself high and mighty like Pete had? Did she think Libby was just like her mother, too? Libby offered a counterfeit smile and then took a sip of her water to alleviate her drying mouth.
“I’m glad we stayed here, got married here, and lived out our years here… It gave me more time with my best friend,” Mabel said, her expression thoughtful. “I remember when Anne and Hugh bought that cottage of yours.”
“You do?”
Mabel nodded.
As a kid, Libby hadn’t ever considered the lives of Pop and Nana as young people; she’d only seen the end result of their young choices. From her perspective, they seemed happy, settled. They enjoyed their family and each other. What must it have been like for Nana when she’d decided to spend her life with Pop and move into a home they’d bought together?
“She’d spent the whole first month decorating,” Mabel smiled. “I wasn’t married yet, but I longed to be as happy as she was. I helped her sew the curtains for every one of the rooms. She and Hugh barely had enough money to scrape by, but Anne hadn’t let that discourage her. She wanted to make the little cottage into a home, and she certainly did,” Mabel chuckled. “Anne had wanted an oriental rug in the living room, I remember—that was the only thing she couldn’t make herself—but she never complained that she didn’t have it. Never once. We’d look at them at the furniture store in town. Whenever she’d admit that she wanted it, she’d always follow with, ‘Ah, it’s just a thing. Things don’t make us happy; people do.’ She and I made table cloths, draperies, and linens… everything we could. Hugh built a lot of the furniture himself.
“Then Hugh’s sales picked up and he started making a good living. A great living, actually. Anne and I had gone out to lunch one day, and when we returned, sitting under her living room furniture was the oriental rug that she’d always wanted.”
Libby knew that rug. She’d played card games on that rug. She’d watched movies as a girl, on her belly, her head propped up with her hands as she leaned on her elbows on that rug. She’d sat on that rug with Pete as she opened a birthday present that Pop had given her, a birthday present that she still had. Her memory box. The recollection of it caused her fondness for Pop to bubble up.
Mabel’s story was a perfect description of Pop. He always tried to make everything better, make it all okay. Nobody wanted for anything when he was around, if he could help it. He’d made Libby the memory box after he’d found out that her parents hadn’t been getting along and her dad hadn’t been staying at home much anymore. Libby escaped with Pete to Pop and Nana’s cottage a lot. She’d spent her birthday that year amidst a broken home, her mother crying, her father absent. With red-rimmed eyes, her mother had baked her a cake, given her a present, and together—just the two of them—they’d sung the birthday song. Celia had tried to keep it together, but it was clear to Libby that their life wasn’t together at all.
She looked at her mother across the table now, the lines in her face like battle scars from those trying years, and she felt guilty suddenly for not asking her to lunch. For not trying harder in adulthood to make her happy. Libby had done everything her mother asked of her: She’d worked hard to be successful, to get out of her small town and do something with her life, but it had only occurred to her right then that perhaps she should have shown her mother affection, hugged her a little more. Celia had never been openly affectionate with Libby, and she wondered now if, maybe, Celia didn’t know how.
“I’m glad I got to have lunch with you two today,” Libby said. She was thankful that Mabel had shared Anne’s story with her, and she was glad that she’d had a chance to understand her mother a little more. She wasn’t just saying the words. She was truly grateful.
* * *
Work had been relatively monotonous the entire week. The only excitement Libby had was Pete’s file that she still hadn’t opened. She knew at some point she’d either have to ask Marty to take the account, or she’d have to let Pete know she had it. She left it on her desk until Monday.
The weather had warmed up just enough by the weekend that she found herself dozing on the hammock under the intermittent shade of the pines, the gentle lapping of the water toying with her consciousness. Her Saturday had been uneventful until the roar of a boat engine pulled her right out of her slumber, the speed of it causing waves to roll in, smacking the shore. The sound of the engine got so loud that Libby sat up, shielding her eyes to make out a white speedboat coming toward her. It slowed as it got closer to the shore. Finally the engine stopped and the boat floated in, right onto her beach.
Is that Pete? she thought to herself, squinting at the all-too-familiar figure walking around on the boat deck. He tossed a tire through the air and it landed with a thud in the sand. Then a very long ladder inched its way along the edge of the boat until it fell free onto the shore below. Libby got off the hammock and made her way toward the boat. The wind picked up closer to the water and she held her hair back with her hand to keep it out of her face. She reached the boat just as a coil of rope came flying at her and hit the beach only a few yards away.
“You almost hit me with that!” she called up to the boat. Happiness fizzled inside her at the sight of him. She couldn’t help it. Pete looked over at her, his hair blowing, sunglasses on. Even when his expression was neutral, it looked as though he were almost smiling, as if a smile were the natural resting position for his features, his eyes always dancing, the corners of his mouth turned upward. She walked a little closer toward him just so that she could see it again. As she neared him, it made her feel light and jittery. He moved to the front of the boat and hopped onto the sand.
“What are you doing on my beach?” she asked.
“I’m hanging a swing.” He tugged the boat farther onto the shore to keep it from floating away. The water, still rippling an
grily from the boat’s arrival, rushed in around his ankles. “For Thomas and Matthew. Don’t worry. I’ll be gone in a few minutes.” Behind his sunglasses, his expression was different when he looked at her; it was more rigid, as if he’d pulled his face into a straight position just for her benefit. She willed him to smile at her, to let her see that grin, but it wasn’t there.
The miniscule smile she’d seen in the hardware store with Pop, the tiny instance where they’d shared a moment, seemed to be gone. Had he put it on entirely for Pop? Who was she kidding? She didn’t deserve his smile or even pleasant conversation from him. Her heart fell. As the tears came again, without warning, she turned away from him.
When they were young, he would’ve turned her around, lifted her face with his fingers, wiped her tears, but this time, he didn’t do anything. She didn’t expect him to. It was just one more reminder of what he must think of her now. She blinked in the sunlight, trying to keep the tears from spilling over her lashes.
“I’ve never seen you cry so much,” he said from behind her.
“I’m not happy,” she said with a sniffle.
“I know.” His voice was quiet and thoughtful.
Once she had swallowed the lump in her throat and pushed the tears back from where they’d come, she turned around to face him. “I’ve hurt you by the things I’ve said and you have every right to hate me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. It makes me sad, that’s all.”
He took in a deep, steady breath and let it out, his eyes on the sand. “It’s hard for me too, Libby. You turned out to be someone totally different from the person I knew. A person who left without a care in the world about your family. It’s all about you, all the time.” He looked out over the water. “It’s hard to see you again… You blindsided me when you left. It was as if I hadn’t known you at all. I lost the one person I thought I knew best. It knocked the life right out of me for a while. When I look at you, I see everything that made me angry that day. Can you blame me for not wanting to see you?”