by Tracy Brogan
“What sort of pictures?” he asked. “And what is that infernal beeping? My God, everything in this room is rigged with an alarm.”
A plump nurse bustled in and flipped a switch. “Please stop touching all the buttons, Mr. Hamilton.”
“I’m looking for the one that ejects me out of here, Nurse Ratched.” He smiled at her as he said it.
She smiled back, weary but obviously not insulted. “I sure will miss your special sense of humor when you leave us. But in the meantime, please stop touching all the buttons. And I can take that tray for you, if you’re all finished with lunch.”
“That wasn’t lunch. That was leftover POW rations from World War Two. Say, speaking of World War Two, it’s rumored that Hitler only had one testicle. Do you know the medical name for that?”
Marti scooped up the pudding cup and a spoon as the nurse lifted the yellow plastic tray from the bedside table.
The nurse chuckled. “No, Mr. Hamilton, I don’t, but I’m sure you can tell me.”
He nodded as he readjusted his covers. “Monorchidism.” She took a Styrofoam cup from the table and added it to the tray. “Fascinating. Please stop touching the buttons.” She turned and left, shaking her head.
“Really, Dad,” Marti said as she scooped pudding from the container. “Why would she want to know that? Why would anyone want to know that?”
“Anyway,” Libby interrupted, desperate to never learn how her father knew so much about missing testicles, “I wanted to cheer you up, so I printed out some pictures of possible décor for inside the ice-cream parlor. Window treatments and little bistro tables and stuff like that.”
He frowned. “How am I supposed to get that place finished with this bum leg? The doctor says I can’t put any weight on it for two months. I can’t believe I fell off a chair.”
“Well, you did. And we are all very grateful you didn’t break your neck. Because trust me, I saw you, and you looked like you had a broken neck.”
Sympathy would only make her father feel worse and act grumpier. The best way to perk him up was with no-nonsense gumption. He was usually a very big fan of gumption.
“Do you suppose if a giraffe broke its neck, its head would drag on the ground?” Marti asked.
Their father’s eyes perked up, and he pointed at Marti. “Actually, what’s especially fascinating about giraffes is that they have the exact same number of vertebrae in their necks as humans. Just seven. Can you imagine? Of course each vertebra is huge, ten inches, and weighs nearly eighty-five pounds.”
“Eighty-five pounds? That’s crazytown. So two of them would weigh more than my entire body. Right?”
Libby was losing them. Fast. “Do you want to see these pictures, Dad?”
“What? Oh, pictures. Yes. Say, have you talked to Tom? He’s still working, isn’t he?”
Libby nearly dropped the pictures on the tiled floor. Her lungs wobbled together like bowling pins teetering from a strike.
“I talked to him for a few minutes the day after you got here. He said he needed to do some work at his own house for a couple of days, but he’ll start back at the ice-cream parlor next week.”
Her conversation with Tom had been short and cryptic, in that monosyllabic way he had. He wasn’t one to emote in person, and he definitely didn’t do it over the phone, so she’d tried to read the sound waves in his voice to get some sense of what he might be thinking. At the end he’d sounded moderately upbeat and said, “I’ll see you soon, okay?”
It wasn’t much to pin her hopes on, but it was all she had.
“Oh, before I forget,” said Marti, tossing the empty pudding cup and spoon into the trash basket. “We’re supposed to go have a bridal fitting tomorrow afternoon, Libby. Can you do that? My wedding is coming up soon, you know.”
Peter tried to adjust in the bed, tugging at his hospital gown impatiently. “You know, I can’t walk you down the aisle for at least two months, Martha. How would you feel about postponing this wedding thing until springtime?”
She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Nice try, Daddy. Dante says if you’re not mobile by the wedding we can just launch you from a catapult into your seat. But he called it something else. A treble clef or something.”
“A trebuchet?”
“Yes. How did you know that?” Her voice squeaked in amazement.
Their father pointed at his chest. “History teacher, remember?”
Marti nodded as she pulled her vibrating phone from her pocket and looked at the screen. “Oh, yeah. Okay, well, anyway, looks like I have to go help Ginny now. She just texted me to say Nana is driving her crazy and she’s about to lock her in the bathroom.” She turned to Libby. “So, are we on for tomorrow?”
So many awesome options. Hang out at the hospital with her grumpy dad, go to Ginny’s and listen to her argue with Nana about baby-rearing, or get trussed up in the most absurd version of a bridesmaid dress ever.
“Yep, I’ll go with you,” she told Marti.
“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at two.”
Marti left, and Libby took a seat next to her father. “Ready to look at these pictures?”
He looked at his leg and sighed. “This wasn’t supposed to happen this way, Liberty. I wanted to fix up that old schoolhouse with my own two hands. I wanted to be the one to transform it into an ice-cream parlor.”
“I know, Dad. And I’m sorry. I guess you could tell Tom to postpone the work until you can join him again.” Even as she said it, she prayed he’d reject that notion.
“I can’t. I’ve sunk too much money into that place, and I need to start turning a profit as soon as possible. I’m up to my shoulders in debt already, and your mother didn’t speak to me for two weeks after I bought it. I have to prove it was a good idea. But falling off that chair just proves she was right.”
Libby leaned over and hugged him. “She’ll get over it, Dad. As soon as she sees it full of happy little kids all excited about their ice cream, she’ll jump on board.” She sat back down in the chair.
Her father shook his head. “If I can get her to go. She still hasn’t set foot in there, you know. And now that I’ve broken this leg she thinks the place is cursed. Maybe it is.”
“It’s not cursed. It was just an accident with a wobbly chair and some old, weather-weakened wood. But we do need to get her inside to see how cute it’s all turning out. I was just thinking that if I invite her and Nana to go out to lunch, I can offer to show it to them. You know Nana will say yes, and then Mom will have to go, too.”
He pursed his lips for a moment before speaking. “That’s quite devious.”
“Do you mind?”
“Not if it helps my cause.” He smiled, but it didn’t last. “What about another job for you, Liberty? My ice-cream parlor is taking up all your time, and I haven’t heard you mention any interviews in quite a while.”
Libby looked down and fidgeted with the pictures in her hands. “I have been thinking about that. My unemployment lasts a couple more weeks, and until your ice-cream parlor is finished I kind of feel like that is my job. I do have a few résumés out there, but everybody is cutting back, and companies just aren’t hosting big events like they used to. Plus, I’m not so sure about Chicago anymore.”
Libby hadn’t really admitted that to herself, but there she was, saying it out loud.
“Really? Well, that’s quite a shift in thinking. What brought that about? Or should I say, who?”
She looked into her father’s dark blue eyes, the same shade as her own. He looked small in that industrial hospital bed, frail, with plastic tubes jabbed into his veins. His leg would heal and he’d be fine, but the fact remained that her father was getting older. Someday he would go the way of that anglerfish and just fade away. For those long moments when he’d been unconscious on those steps, she’d thought it might have already happened.
“You really, really scared me when you fell, Dad.”
He looked away and fussed with his covers.
“It was just a c
lumsy accident. You can’t plan your future worrying about something like that.”
“I know, but it got me thinking about what’s really important. Chicago was great, and I had fun there, but part of that was because I loved my job, and now that’s gone. And the other part was because of Seth, and he’s not there anymore either. I’m not sure what I’d be going back to, because the things I care about now, and the people I love, are here in Monroe.”
Her father smiled, and moisture sparkled in his eyes as he reached over to squeeze her hand. “There’s no place like home, is there, Dorothy?”
“Nope, I guess not. Plus I love that there is parking, like, everywhere. I sure never found that in Chicago.”
She squeezed his hand back. “Now I just have to find a real job. No offense, but being your handygirl doesn’t pay very well.”
“Ah, but there are other perks. Like maybe a man you’ve got your eye on?” He arched a brow and twirled an imaginary mustache.
This was not a road she wanted to travel with her father, especially given his propensity for sharing tidbits about bizarre mating rituals. The last thing she needed was her dad asking Tom if he was familiar with bonobo monkeys.
“Yes, there is a man, Dad. I’m completely in love with him. His name is Teddy Roosevelt Garner.”
“Ah, yes. Teddy sure is a cute little bugger, isn’t he? There’s nothing quite as wonderful as holding a baby. Especially your own. I was a master diaper changer, you know.” He beamed with accomplishment. “Even your mother said she could never change a diaper so fast or so efficiently as I could.”
Libby smiled. “You haven’t figured that out yet, huh?” She leaned back in the pleather chair.
“Figured out what?”
“That Mom only said you were the best and fastest so that you’d do it and then she wouldn’t have to.”
His face fell. “No, she didn’t.”
Libby patted his hand back. “Yes, she did, Daddy. Where do you think my devious streak came from?”
“And that is how you make my famous peach pie,” said Nana as she pulled her golden-crusted masterpiece from the oven.
It smelled divine and might taste delicious enough to justify spending two hours shut up in the Hamilton family kitchen with Nana and Marti. With their help, Libby had finally mastered a pie.
“Now,” said Nana. “I want you to take this pie to that nice Mr. Murphy and tell him I said thank you for taking care of Peter when he fell. And for giving me a ride home. I did enjoy bouncing in his truck.”
“Seems like there’s a lot of that going around lately.” Marti snorted with laughter, and Libby flicked her. She never should have told her sister what happened with Tom, but they were at that stupid bridal shop for hours yesterday afternoon, and somehow Marti had gotten it out of her.
“Ouch! Geez, don’t take it out on me just because you can’t close the deal,” Marti said.
Libby flicked her again. “Shut up, Marti.”
“Girls, stop roughhousing. Libby has a pie to deliver,” Nana scolded. “And I’m not quite sure what you two are talking about, but I have a pretty good idea. I’m not that old.” She handed the pie to Libby. “Trust me. This will work. How do you think I got your grandfather’s attention?”
Libby pretended she didn’t want to take that pie over to Tom’s house. She pretended they were being ridiculous. But the truth was, Nana’s idea was brilliant. Maybe it wouldn’t close any deals, but at least it gave Libby an excuse to drop by Tom’s place and see him. Not in a crazy-girl stalker way, but more as a friendly social call. With pie.
She sent him a text before she left her house. RU HOME? I HAVE SOMETHING TO DROP OFF FROM NANA.
There. That sounded innocent enough.
So did his one-word response. YEP.
She stewed about that for a minute, and very nearly asked Marti’s opinion, but if he didn’t want to see her, he would’ve ignored the text or said he wasn’t home.
She drove to his place, breathing in the aroma of peach pie and trying to admire the beautiful fall colors, deep red and gold in the setting sunlight, but her palms were damp and everything inside felt slightly wobbly.
She pulled in and parked behind his old blue truck and smiled. She liked that truck. It was kind of faded and dinged up, but it had a lot of character. Very much like Tom Murphy. Same for the outside of the white farmhouse, with its unadorned porch and empty landscape beds. Lots of potential but none of it realized.
When he opened the door, though, Tom didn’t look faded or dinged up at all. He just looked good, wearing a shirt she’d seen a dozen times, the gray one that said COLLEGE in block letters across his chest.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” She held up the foil-wrapped pie. “This is from Nana. She said thanks for the ride home. And thanks for helping with my dad. Well, she said, ‘Thanks for helping with my son,’ but you know what I mean. And my mom said to tell you thanks again, too.”
She suddenly felt a little foolish. Maybe she’d just drop off this pie and leave. He was going to let her ramble. She could see it in his posture as he leaned against the doorframe making himself comfortable. She lifted the pie higher. “Here. Take it.”
He smiled, his eyes warm. He pushed the door open wider. “Come on in.”
The inside of Tom’s house was quaint, but plain, as if he hadn’t quite moved in. Nothing hung on the walls; nothing was modern. She was expecting artsy craftsmanship, like the stuff he’d done at the ice-cream parlor, but there was little here that seemed like him. She stepped inside into a small, clean kitchen that overlooked a tiny family room. A hallway next to the refrigerator led off to the rest of the house.
She set the pie on a beige laminate counter.
He leaned over and pulled up the foil, the muscles flexing in his arm. “This is still warm.”
“Fresh from Nana’s oven. Well, not Nana’s oven. My mom’s oven, actually.” Rambling again. He seemed happy enough to see her, but her heart gave a little hop, skip, and a jump when he pulled two forks from a drawer.
“How’s your dad?” he asked.
“Pretty good. Anxious to be home. Driving the nurses crazy with random trivia.”
Two forks?
Tom chuckled. “I’ll bet he is. I’ll give him a call in a couple of days to talk about our next steps for the ice-cream parlor.”
The air pressure around her seemed to double. “He wants you to finish it. I already asked him. You’ll do it, won’t you?” He had to stick with it. If Tom gave up on this project, and on her, Libby might seriously consider joining a convent. Which was going to be a real challenge because she wasn’t Catholic.
“Of course I’ll finish it. I always get the job done, remember?” His voice was quiet as he leaned against the counter. “Are you going to help me?”
He looked at her expectantly, his expression almost flirty. Tom Murphy really should come with some directions, or at least a compass so she could tell which direction his emotions were heading.
“Do you want me to help you?” It seemed like maybe they were talking about more than the ice-cream parlor.
“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate with his answer, and her stomach gave a little flippity-flop toward optimism.
“Okay, then. I will,” she said.
He walked toward her, holding up the forks. “Good. Are you going to stick around and help me eat some of this pie?”
Now it seemed like they were talking about more than pie. Nana was very wise. “Do you want me to eat some pie?”
Setting down the forks, he stepped around behind her and tugged the jacket from her shoulders. He slid it down her arms and hooked it over a chair. His breath was warm on her ear. “Yes. Pie’s no fun to eat alone.”
She turned to face him, trying to gauge his expression. “No, I guess it isn’t. But eating it alone is… less complicated.”
He leaned closer. He looked at her mouth, his gaze so heavy it was nearly a kiss. Then his deep brown eyes came back to hers. �
�Liberty Belle Hamilton, my life got more complicated the very first time you smiled at me.”
Her lungs joined her stomach in a jig of optimism. It felt good, but it was hard to breathe.
His hands came up and cupped her face, his thumbs lingering at the corner of her lips. “I find myself wanting to make promises to you, but I can’t. I can’t guarantee what comes tomorrow.”
She reached out then, clutching the material of his shirt. “No one can. And anyway, I don’t need a guarantee. I just need you to kiss me.”
There it was, that look of possibility in his eyes, a certainty of purpose, and Libby flooded with desire.
Tom leaned closer still and nuzzled his lips near her mouth. “Okay, but if we start this, I’m not stopping. No matter who goes into labor or who falls down the stairs.”
All of her breath escaped in a single burst. “Good. Me neither.”
He kissed her then, hard, with no preamble, his lips firm and insistent. His tongue delved into her mouth, and she welcomed it. She’d been waiting for this kiss for days and days. Maybe even all her life, because never in her past had she been kissed like this before.
Tom pulled her tight, and pressed her back against the edge of the counter, pinning her with the width of his body and the force of his desire. He was hunger and pleasure and turmoil sealed in one kiss. His mouth was delicious, full of texture and heat. She ran her hands up his back, aching to peel that shirt away and touch every part of him.
He caught her lip in his teeth, and her knees buckled. He wasn’t being gentle, and she didn’t want him to be. This was the Tom she’d imagined, all primal and uncontrolled, ruled by reckless passion.
She pushed up the hem of his shirt. “Too… many… clothes,” she uttered between breathless kisses.
He pulled it off in a single motion, tossing it behind him to the floor. In the moonlight, he’d looked mysterious and sexy. In the bright light of the kitchen… he was still mysterious and sexy.
“God, look at you.” She ran her hands up his chest and over his shoulders. His skin was smooth and warm and quivered beneath her touch.
“Let’s look at you,” he whispered back.
