by Tracy Brogan
Libby chose her spot and, with a final look to the right and left, shimmied her black shorts down her legs to assume a most undignified position. Nearly assaulted by a frisky weed, she shuffled forward to avoid its advances, her motion complicated by the restriction of the spandex bike shorts. Cop a squat, indeed. This was ridiculous. Her bladder thought so, too, and resisted—but at last, relief.
Except that she was peeing on her foot.
“Damn it!” She moved too abruptly, lost her balance, and fell back with a whoosh, whacking her arm against the side of the Dumpster. It was filthy and foul, and with nothing to grab on to, she fell to the ground with a whoof and a thud. Breathless, she lay sprawled out in the dirt and weeds, her shorts twisted at her knees. “Damn it!” she said again, louder this time.
“Hello?” A masculine voice floated around the corner of the old schoolhouse, followed by the six-foot-plus-something man who came with it.
Libby gasped and flopped like a fish on a hook as she tried to twist and stand up while simultaneously pulling up her resistant shorts.
He caught sight of her, his brown eyes going wide before he turned away and blocked his vision with his hand. “Holy—Oh, uh, sorry. Are you okay?”
Libby managed to scramble to her feet and yank up her shorts, but she could feel bits of gravel and weed fragments stuck to her ass. Her face burned with humiliation. Couldn’t a girl get a moment to herself around here?
The man glanced through his splayed fingers. “Are you okay?” he asked again, his voice solicitous but edged with humor.
“I’m fine!” She smoothed the waistband of her shorts. “I just fell down. What are you doing back here? This is private property.”
“Not that private,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Excuse me?”
“I, ah… nothing. I was just looking for Peter Hamilton. Is he here?” His cheeks flushed under tanned skin.
She slipped her hand inside the back of her shorts discreetly to dislodge a pebble ingrained in her skin. “That’s my father. He’s inside.”
He looked at the door, then back at Libby. “Should I just go in?”
“Oh, come on,” she said with more growl than she intended. “I’ll show you.”
It couldn’t have been some sweet little old lady with bad eyesight who found Libby splayed out in the weeds without her pants. Oh, no. It had to be a guy like this. A macho type… with wavy chestnut hair and shoulders as wide as a doorframe.
A little smirk played around the corner of his mouth. She frowned. That smirk was at her expense.
“Dad,” she barked as they stepped inside. “There’s somebody here to see you.”
Her father appeared from a doorway, wiping a cobweb from the front of his shirt. “Oh, hello there!” He extended his arm. “Are you Tom Murphy?”
Peeping Tom was more like it.
The man nodded and shook hands with her father. “You must be Mr. Hamilton.”
“I am. Proprietor of this fine establishment. I see you’ve met my daughter.”
The man nodded once, not meeting her eyes. “Sort of.”
Libby sighed audibly. “Dad, you didn’t mention you were expecting someone.”
“I wasn’t sure when he was coming. But how lucky that you caught us here,” her father said.
Libby winced. She was the one who’d been caught.
Her father continued, the smile on his face bright. “Tom, this is my daughter, Liberty Belle Hamilton.”
Insult, meet injury.
It wasn’t bad enough this stranger had seen her floundering with her pants down next to the Dumpster, now he also knew the full extent of her ridiculous name, courtesy of her history-loving father.
“Just Libby,” she corrected.
Another single nod and a fast flick of the man’s big brown eyes completed the introductions.
“Tom is a builder. And a restoration specialist,” her father said. “He’s going to help us get this place back to her former glory, isn’t that right?”
Tom tipped his head. “I’ll try. Let’s have a look around and see what we’ve got to work with.”
The men started walking toward the other side of the room, leaving her behind.
“There’s a lot to be done, but I’d love your ideas on where to start,” Libby heard her father say.
The man chuckled as he answered, “I think I’d start with a Porta-John.”
CHAPTER two
The Hamilton clan, minus one, was gathered in the sage green dining room for their once-a-month-you’d-better-not-miss-it Sunday dinner, the invitation for which was as binding as a subpoena. Beverly Hamilton, Libby’s mother, sat at one end, presiding judiciously, her red-gold hair held back from her face by a brown barrette. A sturdy platter piled high with succulent roast beef surrounded by steaming vegetables was in the center of the table, smelling delicious and ready to be eaten, but as usual, they were waiting for Libby’s youngest sister.
Libby shifted on her wooden chair and tried to sneak the corner from the dinner roll in front of her.
Her father glanced down at his watch, his forehead creased in annoyance. “Beverly, let’s just start without her, or this will all be too cold to eat.”
“Thank goodness. I’m starving.” Libby’s older sister, Ginny, reached for the mashed potatoes and plopped a huge mound onto her plate. “Doesn’t she realize when she makes us wait, she’s making the baby wait, too?”
Ginny was older than Libby by thirteen months and four days, and wore the crown of that achievement regally on her strawberry blond hair. Libby was forever trying to catch up. It wasn’t a race, of course, but thanks to the recent setbacks in Libby’s personal and professional life, Ginny was a career, a husband, and a pregnancy ahead of her. Libby needed to get her life in order soon, or she’d be lapped by a sweet-smelling newborn baby.
Ginny smoothed a hand over her expanded belly, the fabric of her pink-striped shirt taut and nearly giving up at the seams, before she reached for the gravy. She was round and plump and serene, one half of a picture-perfect couple. Her husband, Ben, sat next to her, his arm draped around her chair and his sandy-blond head tipped close, just in case Ginny should need to whisper some sweet little something into his ear.
Looking at them, Libby felt the twinge of missing… all of that.
She hadn’t confided in anyone about the status of her relationship with Seth. How could she, when she wasn’t entirely certain of it herself? They’d lived together for a year and a half and dated for two before that. And not once in all that time had they talked about any future beyond the next weekend. They’d never discussed getting married or having children, except in the most abstract way. And she hadn’t minded. Much.
Libby wasn’t pining away for a diamond ring or a white picket fence in the suburbs. She didn’t need a proposal from Seth. But she did need the promise of a future, something to be certain of and to cling to when everything else seemed unstable and out of reach. But once she’d lost her job, her fair-weather boyfriend became decidedly vague about their relationship. And then he asked for her half of the rent.
It was Seth’s idea for her to leave Chicago and stay with her parents until she found a new job. He was traveling all the time for work anyway, and so it made sense. Sort of. But she’d been home a month now, and he didn’t seem to be missing her all that much.
“Mother, can I get you some roast?” Libby’s father asked Nana, nudging Libby back to the moment.
Nana Hamilton spread her dark green napkin across her tiny lap. “If you could find a bit that’s not too overcooked, that would be nice. Beverly’s roasts are a little tough.”
Libby’s grandmother was hard of hearing, or at least pretended to be so she could say whatever she wanted to in a dramatic stage whisper and then feign embarrassment when she was overheard. Not that she was any gentler when speaking directly to someone. “Ginny, that extra weight you’ve put on won’t come off the same day the baby is born, you know. Maybe yo
u should put back some of those potatoes.”
“Thank you for your concern, Nana.” Ginny put another scoop of potatoes on her plate, clanking the spoon against the side.
“Ginny has been taking great care of herself, Nana,” Ben said dutifully. “And I hope our baby girl looks just like her.”
Libby’s father passed the platter laden with beef. “So, the baby is a she? I thought it was a boy.”
“We thought so last week.” Ben nodded. “But this morning, Ginny decided he was a girl.”
“I had a dream she was a girl,” Ginny explained.
“Can’t you get a picture taken so you know what it is?” Nana asked.
“I want to be surprised,” Ginny answered.
“She’ll be surprised, all right,” Nana fake-whispered to Libby. “That baby’s going to weigh seven pounds, and she’s gained fifty.”
“I dreamt all three of you were boys,” said Libby’s mother, talking over Nana. “Except for the one time I dreamt Marti was a baby ostrich. That was disturbing.”
Her comment was interrupted by a crash, a bang, and a clatter as the third Hamilton daughter burst through the front door. She wore cargo pants and a gray T-shirt. She was flushed and giggling and dragging a scruffy young man behind her.
Libby turned to Ginny and rolled her eyes.
Ginny nodded in silent agreement.
Marti’s boy toys were like snowflakes. No two were exactly alike, and they seemed to drift away just as silently as they arrived. This soul mate du jour was mangier than most, with long black hair, ripped jeans, and a vivid green dragon tattoo clawing its way up his left forearm.
“Oh, Mom! I’m so sorry we’re late!” Marti said, her multiple necklaces swaying as she bent over to kiss her father’s cheek. “Hi, Daddy. Hi, everybody. This is Dante.”
The newcomer raised his tattooed arm in greeting and smiled a lopsided smile. “Hello, family.”
Marti nudged him into the chair next to Libby. “Here, baby. Sit in this one.” She grabbed an extra chair from the corner and plopped down next to him, her auburn hair swirling around her face. Marti was twenty-two, looked twelve, and acted somewhere in between. “So, did we miss anything?”
“Did you lose your phone again? You might have called,” Libby’s mother said. “I was getting worried.”
“I’m sorry. I meant to call, but…” Marti stole a glance at Dante and giggled again. “We lost track of time.”
Ginny let out a faint grunt of distaste. Ben patted her hand.
Libby’s mother pursed her lips for a minute, and her shoulders lifted a fraction before she said, “Well, we’re all here now. Welcome to our home… Dante, is it?”
He nodded.
“Well, Dante, help yourself to some roast beef.”
Marti shook her head. “Oh, no thanks. We’ll just have the salad. Dante is vegan.”
A hush fell over Libby’s meat-and-potato-loving family.
“Did she say he’s a heathen?” Nana said. She didn’t even pretend to whisper that.
“He’s also a locavore, but we’ll make do with what’s here,” Marti added.
“He’s a loca—what?” Libby’s father asked, shaking his head as if it might rattle.
“A locavore, Daddy. It’s someone who only eats foods that are grown locally.”
“That’s… interesting,” Ben said.
Libby exchanged another eye roll with Ginny. This guy wouldn’t last through an entire meal at this house.
Her father waved around an inordinately large bite of meat before stuffing it into his mouth. After chewing and swallowing he asked, “So, Dante, did you two meet at school?”
The dragon guy grinned. “Hardly.”
“We met at that medieval banquet I went to a couple of weeks ago.” Marti turned toward her mother. “I told you about it. Remember? Dante was my jousting champion. I tied a scarf on his lance, just like in the movies. It was so romantic.” Her delicate cheeks blushed rosy pink, and she looked back at him like he was a fluffy kitten, a yummy donut, and a million bucks all rolled into one.
He leaned over and kissed her with a loud, juicy smack.
Ginny let out another huff of dismay as Libby just stared.
Her father cleared his throat. “Well, Dante, that’s… also very interesting. So where do you go to college?”
Dante took a bite of salad and talked around it. “Life is my education. I don’t need college.”
Three of Libby’s family members simultaneously choked on their food. To almost anyone with Hamilton DNA, there was no higher calling than academia. Libby’s father had taught history for thirty years at Monroe High School, and her mother and Ginny both taught there now. Libby was decidedly the black sheep for choosing corporate America over the blackboard jungle.
“Everyone needs college,” her mother said, aghast.
“Could we hold off on the inquisition for a bit and just enjoy this dinner, please?” Marti said.
Dante glanced around and finally seemed to realize his mistake. “I don’t have anything against college. I tried it for a while, but it wasn’t a good fit for me.”
“Dante is a jousting instructor,” Marti said. “And he’s studying filmmaking, just not in a formal program.”
Libby knew if Seth was there, he’d bet ten bucks that meant the kid sat around all day watching movies and talking about how he could make them better. She took a bite of roast beef and was glad to not be a locavore.
“So, Ginny,” Marti said, clearly intent on redirecting the conversation, “are you sure there’s only one baby in there? You’re looking kind of wide.”
Ginny wiped a bit of gravy off the front of her shirt with a napkin. “I have not gained too much weight. Someday you and Libby will be pregnant, and you’ll see—”
“All right. All right. Let’s not start bickering.” Their father tapped his fingers against the tabletop, drumroll style. “Now that you’re all here, I have an announcement to make.”
Libby glanced at her mother, taking a mental “before the homicidal breakdown” snapshot. She’d hoped her father might hold off on this grand proclamation until after dessert. There was strawberry shortcake in the kitchen, and she really wanted some, but she could hardly sit there eating it while her mother wept. Could she?
Her father cleared his throat again. “Since my retirement last year, it’s no secret I’ve been floundering a bit. There’s only so much golf a man can play, especially since I don’t particularly like golf.”
He seemed to be waiting for them to chuckle. Open with a joke and all that. Only no one laughed, even his own mother, so he plowed forward, making eye contact with each of them to ensure their rapt attention. “I have found myself a project. A pretty big one, and you are all invited to help me with it, if you’d like to. Or not. It’s your choice.”
“What are you talking about, Peter?” Beverly prompted.
He took a sip of water. Libby saw the liquid quaking in the glass as he set it back on the table.
“Beverly, kids, Mom, I bought the old Mason schoolhouse, and I’m going to turn it into a vintage, turn-of-the-century ice-cream parlor.”
A whoosh of stunned silence swept through the room. The air around Libby felt thick with their disbelief. She looked at their stunned faces, her gaze finally landing on her mother.
Beverly’s expression blanked even as a telltale flush crept up her peach-hued skin. She touched her throat with one hand. “You did… what?”
“I bought the old Mason schoolhouse, and I’m turning it into an ice-cream parlor.” He said it with a hint of defiance this time, as if saying it louder and faster made it seem like a better idea. “I have all the details worked out. Well, most of them. And I’ve asked Libby to help me,” he added with far too much enthusiasm.
“I haven’t said yes.” Libby shook her head.
Her father frowned at her lack of solidarity.
She couldn’t help him. She really wanted that shortcake.
Beverly blink
ed rapidly. “I see.” Her voice was honey-soft, but her skin was turning a mottled sort of fire-ant red.
“Which place?” Nana asked.
“The Mason schoolhouse, over near the lake.” He smiled tentatively at his wife. “I didn’t want to tell you beforehand, Bev, because I wanted it to be a surprise. So… surprise!” His voice was strained with painfully false glee.
Libby shook her head at his simplicity. He was playing the dense card, pretending it had never occurred to him that her mother would be upset. Then he could act wounded and victimized when she got angry. It was textbook passive-aggressive. Nana had taught him that.
“That’s amazing, Daddy,” Marti said. “What a fabulous idea. Everybody loves ice cream.”
“It’s a crazy idea, Marti,” Ginny scoffed. “Daddy’s not a businessman. And the economy right now is terrible.” She turned to her father. “Do you mean that old dump on Arbor Drive? There’s nothing down there but empty buildings. No one will go down there for ice cream.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, Virginia.” Her father pointed at her with one hand while gripping the arm of his chair with the other. “The city council wants to renovate the entire area. They’re adding a bike path and a new boat launch. That whole stretch along the lake will become just like the old Atlantic City boardwalk.”
Like the fish that got away, every time her father told this story, it grew in size. There was just no telling where actual fact stopped and his optimistic vision began.
“The first businesses in, like mine, will anchor the whole development. There is even talk of bringing back the old merry-go-round that was there in the forties.”
Yep, that was a new twist.
Her father smiled more broadly now. “Isn’t it exciting, Bev?”
A thin white line had appeared around the edge of her mother’s lips. Her eyes were like a doll’s, round and unseeing. “Exciting? Peter, what do you mean you bought it?”
He rolled his shoulders. “I used some of our savings, and I bought it.”
Her fingers fluttered around her throat again, and Libby felt real sympathy for her mother.
