by Tracy Brogan
Tom nodded and ran a finger around the collar of his navy T-shirt.
“What is your name?” Marti asked.
“Tom.”
She smiled. “Okay, now say your full name and address so Dante can check your audio.”
“Oh.” Tom flushed and cleared his throat. His gaze moved to Libby and caught there. She felt an unexpected ripple of anticipation, as if she were holding a raffle ticket and waiting for her name to be called.
A smile hooked the corner of his mouth. “My name is Thomas Murlan Murphy.”
Libby caught herself smiling back.
“Murlan?” asked Marti. “That’s pretty funky. But not as bad as mine.”
Tom’s gaze moved from Libby to her sister, and Libby found she was a little sad about that.
“What’s yours?”
“Martha Washington Hamilton.”
Tom winced.
“I know. It’s awful.” Marti nodded.
“Okay, we’re good for sound, babe. Ask him the real questions now.”
Tom’s glance flitted back to Libby again, as if for reassurance, which she found interesting. And appealing. The unease from that morning’s conversation had disappeared, leaving behind it a new understanding. Or if not that, exactly, at least a new tolerance.
“Okay, you ready?” Marti asked. “When was this building constructed?”
She went on and asked him a dozen or so questions about the characteristics of the schoolhouse and the challenges unique to restoring old buildings. He answered thoughtfully, using lots of words without any extra prompting.
“Okay, one last question,” Marti said after they’d been filming for almost half an hour. “What is it about restoration projects that appeals to you the most?”
Tom looked at his hands for a minute as he paused. Libby could see he was thinking this through, not giving some flip response. “When you build something, you can see it. It’s solid and you can grab on to it. I like that about building in general. Tangible results. But especially with these old places, you can see the attention and care that went into constructing them. They were built to be permanent, crafted with materials meant to weather just about anything that blew their way. A run-down old place like this has seen hard times. I guess I just like giving it a second chance and a new purpose.”
CHAPTER nine
“Was that Seth you were talking to on the phone this morning?”
Libby and her dad were sorting through countertop samples while sitting on two overturned crates in the ice-cream parlor. Tom was off on some mysterious errand.
Her dad’s question pinched at her mood. She tossed a sample down onto the pile with a little flick. “Yes. He’s got some stuff of mine packed up back in Chicago, and he wants me to come pick it up so he doesn’t have to ship it.”
“Hmm. Are you going to go?” Peter took off his glasses and started cleaning them on his shirt.
“I don’t know. I kind of want to make him ship it.” She dropped another sample, and it skidded to the edge of the pile. “It would be a huge inconvenience for him to get to the post office. Seems like he deserves that.” Petty, table of one, your table is ready.
“Yes, it does. But knowing how cheap Seth is, he’d probably send you the shipping bill.” He put his glasses back on, and Libby chuckled.
“I’m sure he would.”
Recovering from Seth was a process, like sore muscles the day after a strenuous workout. There were sharp twinges, a surprised intake of breath, the realization that something hurt, but also the knowledge that it would fade, that the next day she’d feel even better. And want to exercise again. This breakup could have soured her on relationships, but it hadn’t. It just made her want to go out and find a better one.
Tom Murphy strode in the door right then, as if on cue.
Libby tried to douse the flame abruptly flickering in her belly. He was not her type. She dated men who wielded smart phones, not power tools. They had nothing in common. Plus as soon as she got a job, she’d be heading back to Chicago. But it was getting harder and harder to remember that.
Tom wore dark jeans today and a collared shirt. His mystery appointment must have been something important. He wasn’t even wearing a hat.
The two of them had come to an unspoken agreement since the awkward exchange over Rachel three days ago. She tried to stop pestering him with personal questions, and he tried not to get all huffy if she slipped up and asked him something he thought was out of bounds.
Her dad stood up. “Afternoon, Tom.”
“Peter. Libby.” He nodded at them both, but his eyes caught on hers. She sat up straighter. His eyes dropped to her shirt and lingered. She had on her favorite cupcake shirt—the one she’d stolen from Marti, so it was actually a little small. Tom seemed to like it, too.
He twitched his head a little and turned toward her father. “Did you get that new packet of pictures from the historical society yet?”
“Oh, drat. I forgot. What time did you say they closed?” Her father patted his pockets as if searching for his keys.
“Today I think they’re open until four. You can still make it if you leave now.” Tom reached over and picked up a set of car keys from another crate. “Here you go.”
“Excellent. Thank you. I’m on my way. Libby, I’ll see you at home.”
Her father left with a wave.
They watched his exit, and then Tom turned back to her.
“Hi,” he said.
Libby chuckled at his sudden awkwardness. “Hi. How are you?”
“Good. You?”
“Fine.”
“Good.” He hesitated, and she smiled up at him. His eyes were chocolate brown. She’d been noticing that a lot lately, but it was especially nice to see them without the ever-present shadow of a baseball cap.
He ran both hands through his hair, clutching it for a second. Then he spoke in a rush. “Do you know how to make a collage?”
“A collage?” That was a most random question.
“Yeah.” He nodded.
“Do you mean like a… picture collage with… pictures?” Libby slid the samples together into a pile as he sat down on a crate next to her with a thump.
“I guess. I’m not entirely sure.” He sighed, a big heavy sound, and splayed his hands out on his knees.
Libby’s curiosity clicked up a notch, but she bit her tongue. The other thing she’d figured out over the last few days was that, if left to his own devices, Tom would eventually start a conversation.
He looked around, but since her dad had left, it was just the two of them. He tapped his foot for a second before speaking.
“So, my daughter and I don’t have the greatest relationship. I’m sure you figured that out. But we’re working on it.” He paused again, and Libby’s heart gave a little whump as she silently urged him on. “And this family counselor we go to wants us each to make a collage.”
He shook his head. “I guess it’s supposed to express our feelings or something, using pictures. Because apparently I’m not very, um… what’s the word?”
“Articulate?”
He chuckled. “Yeah. And neither is Rachel, quite frankly.”
Libby couldn’t argue with him on that. She’d seen his daughter at rehearsal the last couple of nights. She was sweet, and everyone seemed to like her, but she didn’t bubble over with silliness like the average teen. Of course, now that Ginny had filled Libby in on the car accident, that made sense. It shed some light on Tom’s personality, too, but it still didn’t explain why Rachel lived with her grandparents. Someday she’d like to ask him about that.
“She’s very expressive when she sings, though,” Libby said. “She has an amazing voice.”
Tom’s shoulders went back, and he looked at her with curiosity. “When did you hear her sing?”
“At rehearsals. I’m helping my sister with the talent show.”
“What talent show?” His forehead creased as he frowned.
“Um, the high schoo
l talent show? Didn’t Rachel tell you?”
He was silent just long enough for Libby’s heart to go whump one more time.
“No. She didn’t tell me.”
“But you picked her up from school.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. She told me she was working on a history project in the library. I’m not that surprised.”
Well, Libby was. Her parents had never missed a school event, or a soccer game, or a volleyball tournament. Or lemonade stand, for that matter. Granted, her parents were insatiably overinvolved, but still…
“I know it’s none of my business,” she couldn’t resist saying, “but why would she not tell you?”
He regarded her for a minute, as if translating the question in his mind. “Because she’d rather I didn’t go.”
“Why?” That question popped out in a burst.
He shrugged and shook his head. “Because she lives with her grandparents and she doesn’t like me. I told you, it’s complicated.”
This time his tone had none of the heat from the other day, none of the snap. It almost seemed like he wanted to talk about it. He tapped his palms on his knees a couple of times, staring out the window, and then he turned back to her.
“I don’t have a clue how to make a collage. Will you help me?”
Will you help me? That was the last thing in the cosmos she’d expected to hear from a man like Tom Murphy.
He hadn’t intended for it to come out that way. What he meant was for her to tell him how to make a collage, not for her to actually help him make it. But she’d nodded her consent so somberly, staring at him with those big, dark blue eyes, and said, “Yes, of course. I can help you make it tonight.”
And so a few hours later he found himself with clammy palms and a dry mouth, standing in a convenience store with Libby, searching for magazines with pictures he could use. Pictures to demonstrate to Rachel who he was, and what he felt, and what he longed for.
None of which he wanted to share with Libby. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because trusting her would be so easy. And he didn’t want to.
She pulled something from the rack and smiled. “Knitter’s World. Do you knit?”
“No.”
“Figured that was a long shot.” She tucked the magazine back into the rack as she laughed.
The sound had a melody to it, one that had grown on him. During those first few days of working at the schoolhouse, her humor had tested his patience, distracting him. Now he rather liked the cadence of it. He liked the way she tipped her chin up as the sound burst out. She really was beautiful.
But still a hazard. Still a complication he didn’t need. Libby had seeped under his skin and into his thoughts, where she didn’t belong.
He fidgeted with the sunglasses display next to the magazine rack.
“How about Kitt ’n Kaboodle?” Libby asked.
“What’s that one about?”
“Kittens and puppies.” She laughed again.
She needed to stop doing that. It was too enticing. Lately, it seemed as if all the sexual energy he’d locked away after Connie died had surged forward, a tsunami of base desires. Dr. Brandt was supposed to throw him a life preserver and pull him free from that, but all she’d done with her absolution and her permission was toss him into the deep, way over his head. She thought pursuing Libby might be therapeutic.
Dr. Brandt was a terrible influence.
He crossed his arms. “Do I seem like a kitten and puppy kind of guy?”
Libby turned and looked him up and down, her gaze finally meeting his. “No, you seem like more of a… rattlesnake kind of guy.”
His laughter surprised him. “A rattlesnake?”
She nodded and held up a hand with two fingers curled out, like snake fangs, wiggling her arm a little. “Yes, you know. Coiled up tight, making all sorts of warning-type noises.”
“Really.” He tried to frown—and failed. “You know, rattlesnakes only make noise when something aggravates them.”
“You are easily aggravated.”
“You are a professional irritant.”
She smiled at that. “Well, there’s one job I’ve never applied for.”
She turned back to the magazine rack, and Tom shook his head at his own foolish thoughts.
Somehow they managed to find a handful of magazines he hoped would be useful. There were a few about remodeling, one about fishing even though he rarely fished anymore, and one about organic gardening. That one he almost left behind. The garden had been Connie’s dream, but he’d plant one with Rachel if ever she asked, and he wanted her to know that.
He and Libby kept the conversation light as they paid the convenience store cashier and left. Once outside, he tipped his head toward the sandwich shop next door.
“Come on. I’ll buy you dinner for helping me out,” he said.
“Ooh, someplace fancy, huh?” The color heightened in her cheeks, and for the first time, her laughter sounded more nervous than sincere.
He opened the door, and she stepped inside the shop, sliding her hands into her pockets. The place was small and smelled of toasted bread and burnt cheese. A few rust-colored booths ran along one wall, and other than the two yellow-smocked sandwich makers behind the red laminate counter, the place was empty.
“This might not be the best choice,” Tom murmured.
“The food is actually pretty good,” Libby whispered back. “It’s just empty because it’s Friday night.”
It was Friday night? He didn’t even realize that. He worked nearly every day, and so the weekends didn’t mean much to him. But Libby should be out doing something social. Like being on a date. Not that it was any of his business. Maybe she was still pining over that jackass who’d up and moved to San Diego.
He frowned at the back of her head. What kind of woman fell for a guy like that anyway?
She turned and smiled at him, her thick gold hair sliding over her shoulder. “They have a chili dog here that is scrumptiously divine.”
Oh. That kind of woman. The kind with sapphire blue eyes and a luscious mouth who used expressions like scrumptiously divine—but wasn’t too girly to chow down a chili dog.
Well, it didn’t matter to him what kind of mouth Libby Hamilton had, or how soft her lips might be, or what sort of words she used. As soon as they’d eaten and she’d explained to him how the hell to make a collage, he’d thank her and say good night. He could manage from there well enough. He was not going to sit next to her for hours, sifting through magazines while her hair fell all over his arm.
They ordered their food and sat down near the front window to wait for it. The evening light was fading slow, casting shadow fragments over the table. Country music played from the overhead speakers, some guy singing something about a truck.
“So, explain to me again the purpose of this collage,” Libby said, taking a sip from her straw.
He stalled, drinking from his own cup, trying to decide how much he was prepared to share. “Well, you’ve met my daughter, right?”
Libby nodded.
“Do you know anything about… our situation?”
Libby glanced down at the table but then quickly back at him. There wasn’t any judgment there, or pity either. Only calm regard. “My sister told me Rachel’s mother died in a car accident about a year and a half ago.”
Tom set down his drink. “Did she tell you I was driving?”
“Yes, she told me that, too. And that Rachel lives with her grandparents. Why is that?”
He looked out the window and watched cars drive by, people going on their way, never thinking how that turn in the road might be their last. “She moved in with them while I was recuperating. It was supposed to be temporary. Now it’s going on a year and a half, and I can’t seem to get my daughter back.” He looked back at Libby.
She straightened in her seat. “That doesn’t make sense. They can’t just keep her there. I mean, she’s your daughter. They don’t have custody, do they?”
&nb
sp; Tom felt a brief moment of gratitude that it hadn’t come to that. “No, there is nothing legally binding her to stay there. I just… I want her to come home because she wants to. Forcing her would just make her dislike me even more.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t dislike you.”
“I’m pretty sure she does. I was kind of… useless for a while after her mother died.”
“Useless?”
He didn’t want to tell her the details. She didn’t need to know about the pills and the booze. Not because she’d judge him, but because she might not. And if she looked at him with any kind of tenderness in those pretty blue eyes, he’d be lost.
“Rumor has it I was a little unpleasant to be around,” he murmured.
“And that’s why you’re going to a counselor together?”
The yellow-smocked waitress set red plastic baskets full of chili dogs and French fries in front of them. “Here you go.”
Tom waited until she was gone before answering Libby.
“Yes, that’s the reason for the counselor. And why I’m doing this art project with paste and scissors. Dr. Brandt says I need to meet Rachel at her level, and try to communicate in a method she can relate to, which leaves me at a distinct disadvantage.”
“How so?” She took a bite of her chili dog.
“Because I don’t understand high school girls any better now than when I was in high school. Maybe it’s just my opinion, but she seems a little touchy.”
Libby smiled, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “I don’t recall being particularly rational during high school.”
“So it’s not just her, then?” He took a bite from his own chili dog.
“No, it’s pretty much a universal phenomenon, crazy-girl syndrome. She can’t really help it—raging hormones, peer pressure, schoolwork, stupid boys.”
“Are you referring to me?” He took another bite. This was a damn good hot dog.
“No.” She chuckled, wiping mustard off her finger. “I’m referring to the boys at Monroe High School.”
He dropped the remaining half of his chili dog into the basket. “Please don’t remind me that my daughter is surrounded by high school boys.” This topic he was completely too familiar with and yet entirely ill-equipped to handle.
