Love Me for Me

by Jenny Hale

  She sat alone at her table as the other couples meandered onto the dance floor. She wondered what Pete was doing at that moment. Was Pop okay? Was Pete tired, or had he managed to have a good night’s sleep? With no one to talk to, she pulled out her phone from the tiny clutch that had been her bridesmaid’s gift, and checked to be sure there weren’t any messages. Nothing. Would he text her if Pop was having trouble?

  “Libby!” she heard Trish’s voice and turned around. Libby had helped her remove her veil and pin up the train of her dress before the reception, so Trish was swishing toward her easily, an unfamiliar man on her arm. “This is Clyde Williams. He works with me. I told him that you may like to dance.” She winked at Libby. “Clyde, this is Libby Potter, the girl I told you about.” Trish dropped his arm, smiled at both of them, and swished away into the crowd, leaving Clyde in front of Libby.

  “Hi,” he smiled, sitting down next to her.

  “Hello,” she returned weakly.

  “How do you know Trish?” he asked, clearly unable to come up with something better. Weddings were full of that sort of conversation. Libby had already had it about five other times that day.

  Clyde seemed like a nice guy. He had a genuine smile, and his face showed interest, but she didn’t even want to give it a shot. Normally, she’d have perked up, smiled bigger than usual, crossed her legs at just the right time, gotten a drink, and made light conversation. She didn’t want to do that right then. The idea of it was exhausting.

  “I’m just a friend of hers,” she said with a smile. It wasn’t Clyde’s fault she was in the state she was in.

  “Would you like to get a drink?”

  “Actually,” she feigned a tired look—although the conversation was making it a reality—“I’m really tired and I don’t feel well. I’m going to head out soon. Sorry. Thank you, though.”

  “No problem. Maybe we’ll meet again sometime.”

  “Maybe,” she said and smiled to herself, knowing which “maybe” she meant.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Libby’s alarm clock went off, the sound registering, but she kept her eyes closed. It was still strange being back in New York. She was finally getting settled, but she kept thinking about White Stone and the people in it. It was strange the way going home had changed her. She wondered about Pop and how he was doing, if Catherine was feeling okay at the start of her pregnancy.

  She wondered about Pete, about what he was doing, about how he spent his day... She’d never be able to feel his arms around her on the boat, watch her toes dangle off the edge of the pier next to his, lie on a hammock as the weight of the two of them rolled them into one another, forcing their limbs to intertwine. She looked around at the stark walls, the gray of the buildings outside casting the only color in the room, as tears clouded her vision.

  Pete had said she could text any time, so she decided to type a text to him: Hi. How are things? Her finger hovered over the word send. Did he care to hear from her? Would she be bothering him? She could feel the weight on her shoulders as she pondered it all. She’d never had to think so hard about sending a simple text before, but she wanted to be sure that Pete was okay and that Pop was managing. Without thinking anymore, she hit the button, and it was done.

  The coffee pot had just finished percolating, so she poured herself a cup and sat down at the tiny table she’d set up in a corner of the living area. Her phone was still quiet, so she opened the newspaper and started to read the In Style section.

  When she thought back to her days in the city before going home, she’d spent them having coffee with friends, doing charity events, finishing up work, things like that. Now, because she still hadn’t completely gotten into the swing of things, her days were very quiet when she wasn’t working. It wasn’t the first time she’d thought something was different since she’d come back. She was still capable of working hard, but the drive she had for success had been replaced by something else. She just wanted to go home and be with the people she loved.

  Libby closed the newspaper when she realized she’d read the last three sentences a few times and still hadn’t internalized them. Her thoughts were somewhere else. Where is Pete? she wondered. She looked at her phone. Nothing. Out the window, a few people were walking briskly down the sidewalk. She’d been one of those people once. Now, she found herself walking more slowly, looking up, taking in the things surrounding her, thinking. Now, she was in her head all the time.

  Her phone pinged and she nearly scrambled to get it. The excitement that had fizzed when she saw Pete’s number quickly dissolved as she read his words: Hi, Libby. Things are not good. Pop’s not well. Can I call you?

  Panic stung her insides as she dialed his number. “What’s wrong?” she asked when he answered.

  “Hi,” Pete returned, his voice quiet.

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  With a deep breath, he started in, “You know how stubborn Pop is, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “His bones are getting brittle. He refused to go to the doctor, but I’d noticed that things weren’t right—he kept limping—so a couple days ago, I made him an appointment and dragged him there. He’d been walking around with a broken leg. He’s in a cast right now because he fell trying to get down the stairs outside. He hadn’t told anyone.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She wanted to leave right then, just get her keys, lock up, and head for the airport.

  “He barely remembers recent events anymore,” he said, his voice sounding tired. “He’s cranky most of the time because of the dementia. I’m doing my best, but it’s getting really hard. He’ll have only a day, maybe two at a time where he remembers. His mind’s gone more than it’s here these days.”

  Pop was starting to leave them more often now, and Libby didn’t want to miss a single lucid moment. “I’m coming home. You need me, and Pop needs me. I can help you.” She didn’t care about work or her responsibilities. She needed to be with them as much as they needed her help.

  “Libby, you don’t have to.”

  “I want to. I want to see Pop. I’m coming.”

  * * *

  She’d caught the last flight out of New York, her mother was picking her up at Richmond International, and she’d told her boss, Mr. Wiesner, that she had a family emergency and had to return home immediately. She wasn’t lying. Pop was family, and he needed her.

  “It’ll be okay, honey,” her mother said as they drove down the narrow, two-lane road toward home. Libby hadn’t wanted to talk the whole way there. If she had tried, then the sobs would come, and she was scared that she’d not be able to make them stop. “It’ll be okay,” her mother said again, patting her arm with her free hand. It’s funny how people say that when something goes wrong. It wasn’t going to be okay. Pop wouldn’t magically get better; he couldn’t make his brain work again.

  Her phone pinged in her bag and she pulled it out, her mother glancing over at her with concern as she drove into town. Pete had texted: How far are you from home? Pop’s himself!

  She texted back: Not far. Be there in five.

  “Mom, can you take me straight to Pete’s and drop me off there? I’ll get him to bring me home,” she asked.

  “Of course,” her mother said, and Libby noticed that this time there wasn’t any sideways look, no flash of disapproval. Just concern. It was a relief to be back, to know she’d get to see Pop and talk to him at least one more time. Seeing Pete would take a weight off her shoulders that had been so heavy, she could hardly stand it. She’d wanted to see him, be near him, help him in any way she could.

  The five minutes seemed like fifty. Libby nearly jumped from the car before it had come to a stop in front of Pete’s. His front door opened as she leaned in the car window and thanked her mother. With a quick wave, she ran up the stairs to see Pete. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his glasses on, a small grin on his face. Seeing him was like coming up for air.

  “Hey,” he said. It was one word,
but his eyes said so much more. He hadn’t shaved, the gold scruff on his face was longer than she’d ever seen it, and he looked tired, dark circles showing under his eyes, but he was smiling despite it all.

  “Hi.”

  “I told Pop you were coming.” He gestured for her to enter and shut the door behind them. “He’s in the living room.”

  Libby walked in to find Pop sitting in the recliner, an afghan over his legs, the cast on his foot poking out the end. “Libby!” he said with a smile that warmed her heart. “I’d get up…”

  “I know. I heard,” she said, leaning over and kissing his cheek. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine, really. I can still walk; I just have to use that boot,” he pointed to a thick, black wedge with large straps sitting next to the chair. “Pete, my boy, can you get me some supper, please? I’m starving, and you’ll have plenty of time with Libby after I fall asleep,” he winked at her. She wanted to smile at that comment, but it sent a pinch through her chest. She’d come strictly for Pop. She couldn’t dwell on the sadness of her situation with Pete because she had to be strong for Pop.

  After Pete had gone into the kitchen, he called out, “You hungry, Libby?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” she said. She didn’t care if she was hungry, and, truthfully, she hadn’t noticed. She just wanted to see Pop and try not to think about anything else. She sat down on the floor next to him and rested her chin on her hands as she leaned on his footrest.

  “So!” she said. “How are you really? How do you feel?”

  “Honestly? This whole mess with my head isn’t what’s been bothering me. It’s Anne. I want to be with Anne, if you really want to know.”

  Libby nodded, unable to say anything. The lump in her throat wouldn’t let her.

  “We had a good life here. We were happy. But now she’s moved on to another life, and I’m left here to drive everyone crazy. I want to be with her.”

  He was talkative today, which was good, because Libby could hardly swallow, she was so upset. If she tried to get the words out, she’d start weeping uncontrollably. She missed Nana too, and while she wished for Pop to get what he wanted, she knew what that meant. She’d lose him.

  Pop shifted in the chair and tilted his head back against it as if the weight were too much. He turned and looked at Libby, a smile on his face. “I’m fine. My leg’s been bothering me a little, but otherwise I feel okay. This disease is tough emotionally, that’s all.” He pulled his head back up. “How about you? How are you?”

  Libby was having a hard time emotionally too, but she didn’t want to bother Pop with all of it. “I’m doing okay,” she said.

  “I’m glad you came back. I think Pete needs you.” He paused, and Libby had nothing to fill the silence. She wasn’t sure what to say because she knew it wasn’t true. Pete didn’t need her. He’d made it clear. He was doing just fine without her.

  “Can I tell you a story?” Pop asked.

  This should be interesting, she thought, and nodded.

  “Anne had a choice once. A man, who’d lived here and who’d grown up with us, tried to seduce Anne after we were married.”

  Libby couldn’t move. She was frozen, hanging on his every word. She knew exactly who that man was. She still had his letter. What surprised her most was that Pop already knew about him.

  “His name was Mitchell Dawson. He was very career focused, so worried about moving up he left town at the first opportunity. After high school, he went off to some big college and landed a job in Chicago, I believe. He worked for a large newspaper up there. He’d always had his eye on Anne. I knew him well.” Pop pulled the afghan up around his middle, tucking it down the sides of his legs.

  “When he got to Chicago,” Pop continued, “he was miserable. He missed Anne in particular, I suppose.”

  He shifted awkwardly in his seat, and Libby sat up, ready to help if he needed it. It was so good to see him the way she knew him and not in the state Pete had described. It was as if she were meant to come back at that very moment to help Pete and to hear his story, almost as if Anne had a hand in it in some way. “So, what happened?”

  “He gave her a letter, telling her that he’d buy her a train ticket and she could run away with him. He was a good man, Libby, apart from his proposal. She could easily have gone.”

  Pete popped his head in the door. “Iced tea, Pop? Or water?”

  “Water, please. I’d like to be able to sleep tonight, and the caffeine keeps me up.”

  “Libby? Need anything?”

  “No, thanks,” she said, wanting to get back to Pop’s story about Mitchell. “Did she tell him ‘no’—or just ignore the letter?”

  “She sent him a letter with a heartfelt ‘Thanks but no thanks,’ and then she told me all about it. Years later, I asked her if she had contemplated his offer.” A smile broke out on Pop’s face. “Anne let out the most splendid laugh and said, ‘If I had married Mitchell, I’d have lost out on the greatest love of my life.’ That was all I needed to hear. I’ve still got the letter around here somewhere, God knows where. It was a reminder that Anne loved me enough to be completely open with me. Plus, I couldn’t quit thinking, my wife’s still got it!” He winked at her.

  Libby giggled. It was so good to have Pop back. And she’d never heard a love story sweeter than that one. Life can throw a lot at a relationship, but right there, right then, she had proof that there really could be a perfect happily ever after.

  Pete came in with a tray of food, and Pop patted Libby’s arm. “Go on over to the sofa and get comfortable.”

  “Thank you for telling me the story,” she said, sitting down, some of the anxiety she’d felt finally melting away. She knew that Pop wasn’t like that all the time, and things would get hard again. She wanted to stay there in that moment where nothing was wrong; Anne’s letter wasn’t hanging over her head, Pop was lucid, and Pete was pleasant.

  Chapter Thirty

  It was July fourth. Independence Day. Libby could feel the excitement in the air as she arrived at the winery for tonight’s fireworks. She hoped to see Pop. If he was himself, he would probably be there. He’d always gone. She remembered how he’d sit on the quilt or towel—whatever they had that year—and smoke his cigars while chatting to everyone who walked by. To this day, whenever she smelled a cigar, she thought of him. Libby said a silent prayer that he’d be well enough tonight. She couldn’t wait to celebrate with everyone—her mom, Pop, Jeanie, Helen… Pete would surely be there.

  She was apprehensive to see Pete because this day had always been a day they’d spent together. As the evening breeze wrapped around them, he’d shield her with his arms, sitting behind her, his chin on her shoulder. They’d watch together, the smell of sulfur from the fireworks mixing with his scent, his fingers entangled with hers, the feel of his breathing at her neck. She’d never get to feel that again. Seeing him tonight, and knowing that, would add a layer of tension to the night that she didn’t welcome.

  Libby stood next to the bar consisting of a slab of ultra glossy wood resting on top of a line of oak barrels while the man in front of her explained the type of wine that was in her glass. A grid of bottles, cork sides out, blanketed the wall behind the bar. She took a sip of her wine and set it down. Holding a linen table napkin against the bottle, the barman poured her next taste into a fresh glass. She took another sip, glad that the wine was taking the edge off her worry.

  Pete came up beside her. “How are they?” He eyed the wine glasses on the bar.

  There was something different about him tonight. As she looked at him, she didn’t see the kid she’d dated so many years ago. She saw the grown man who had told her that day in the woods that he didn’t want her. She also realized right then that she didn’t still love the kid she’d known. She had fallen for the man who was standing in front of her now. The man she could never have. She chewed on her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

  She looked out at the lawn to steady herself. The sun was fl
oating just above the horizon. Its light was coming in through the wall of glass doors leading out onto a veranda. “They’re all very good. I like this one,” she said, pointing to a bottle of dessert wine she’d tasted.

  “Do you have a place to sit yet?” he asked.

  “Mom’s here somewhere. She’s probably found a spot. I’ll walk out with you.”

  “Would you grab us a couple of bottles of her favorite, please, Phil?” Pete said to the man behind the bar. The man smiled warmly at them and then disappeared below the bar top. It was barely sunset and people were starting to take their spots on the acres of manicured lawn outside. Beyond the grass, endless rows of grapevines stretched along the hills of the grounds.

  Phil slid two slender bottles across the bar to Pete then set down fresh glasses and a corkscrew with the name Sandy Grove Vineyards etched in script along the handle. Pete dropped one of the bottles into a straw bag containing large towels. He grabbed the other bottle and led Libby toward the glass doors, their wine glasses dangling between his fingers at her back. She followed him down onto the lawn.

  It only took a minute for her eyes to settle on a sight that gave her pause: in front of her, on patchwork quilts and towels, were so many familiar faces. Jeanie was pulling food out of a wicker picnic basket and handing it to Helen. Pop was in a camping chair, his feet propped on a beach bag. Her mother was next to Jeanie, fluffing her sundress over her knees, her sandals kicked onto the grass beside her, a glass of wine in her hand. Emily was scattering toys over one of the towels while Ryan had Charlotte on his shoulders, running around them all, making airplane noises. Mabel had stopped to chat with Pop, her hand above her eyes to shield the sun as she looked for her own family, presumably. Jeanie, wearing a white visor and American-flag dangle earrings, was the first to notice Libby and Pete, raising her hand and waving wildly at them. It made Libby smile so wide that it was almost a laugh.