by Jenny Hale
The yellow taxi pulled up against the curb outside and she took the stairs down to the lobby and out to the street. It was a magnificently bright New York day so she slipped on the Gucci sunglasses she’d gotten herself as a reward for getting her new job, and slid into the backseat of the taxi. With everything now in place, it was time to try and get back to her regular life.
“West Houston Street, please,” she said. Off they sped.
The towering structures slipped past her window. They were a definite change from the pines back home. The diesel fumes, the traffic, the vast expanses of concrete, she saw them all in a different way now. She paid more attention to them. The taxi idled at a stop light and she looked over at a man walking his dog, and wondered why Pete had never gotten a dog. She envisioned a Labrador bounding past them into the water to retrieve a tennis ball. He should definitely have a dog. But then again, maybe it would be too much with Pop there.
Tears were clouding her eyes as she thought about how she’d never get to see whether Pete got a dog. He was moving on without her, and it made her feel like her feet were stuck in cement, every movement she made taking all the effort she could muster because she really just wanted to crumble to the ground. She shook her head to break free from the thought, and her vision cleared, the man and his dog now behind her as the car began to pick up speed toward her destination.
The taxi pulled up at the restaurant. Libby paid her fare and headed inside.
“So glad you’re here!” Trish came over to her, wearing the most stunning outfit Libby had ever seen her wear—clearly one of her wedding purchases. “How are you?” Trish nearly squealed. She kissed Libby on both cheeks.
“I’m very well!” Libby lied, pushing her sunglasses on top of her head.
“I was worried you were going to fall in love with that cottage and never come back! Weren’t you thinking about staying?”
The comment caused her to make a tiny gasp as she felt her chest tighten to the point where she couldn’t get enough air. She cleared her throat to play it off. It wasn’t the cottage I fell in love with, she thought. She remembered her one-to-one comment to Trish when she’d first gotten to the cottage. She could see the empty house in her mind, the For Sale sign in the front yard. The mental picture was hanging somewhere between reality and a memory, still so fresh that she could close her eyes and smell the salty air. The sun on the horizon, the sand on her feet, the crickets at night…
“You look like you might be considering that cottage,” Trish said.
“You know,” Libby forced a smile, “I absolutely love it there, but New York was calling. I couldn’t stay away.”
“I’m so glad. And you did a fantastic job with this brunch! Everything looks gorgeous.”
“Well, it only took a few phone calls. Let’s have a seat so we can chat before everyone arrives.”
Libby and Trish sat down at the table as a waitress poured iced water into their goblets. The sun was streaming through the oversized glass windows at an angle, its rays catching on the dark wood floor. The interior of the place was so different from the little restaurants back home—the columns, wood tables, trendy staff, and glossy decor. She sipped her water and took in a deep breath. Everything she’d wanted for so long was right in front of her now—the new job, being back in New York, the apartment—but she couldn’t see any of it. All she could see was what she’d lost, what she’d never have, and Libby realized that it was more valuable than anything she’d ever worked for.
She thought a lot about her mother. Celia had been both right and wrong, and it had knocked Libby sideways once she realized it. Her mother was right in that Libby could be successful, eventually wealthy, and have opportunities to advance in a big city. Celia knew what it took to have that life, and she’d done an excellent job grooming Libby to do it. But she’d been wrong, too. She’d painted a picture of back home that wasn’t accurate. No one was judging her; they were interested, concerned. More people had gotten to know her there than in all the time she’d lived in New York. They could’ve just passed by like people do in the city, but they hadn’t. They’d asked her questions, made her laugh, brought her into their lives. She already missed them all. Where in the city would people call her by name when she entered a store, or wave at her just for walking by?
“So! Are you bringing a date to the wedding? I gave you a plus one,” Trish said.
In the past, this would have felt like a one-to-one comment, but now, it was just a question to Libby.
“No one yet!” she smiled. She told Trish about how Wade had tried to get back together again, and she told her what she thought about him and his roses.
It didn’t take long before she and Trish were talking like they always had. Trish dished the latest on all the gossip she’d missed, and got Libby caught up on the wedding drama involving two caterers and a sick florist. Little by little the guests arrived, and brunch was served.
The next morning, Libby sat on the edge of her bed with her phone in her hand. The sound of honking and engines outside did nothing to calm her thoughts today. She’d just gotten an email from the real estate agent. A family with a little boy had put in an offer on the cottage. Perhaps he would find his way over to Thomas and Matthew. What kept coming back to her was that Pop and Nana’s house was gone. It would belong to someone else now. Part of her was nostalgic for all of the memories she’d had there, but another part of her was ready to let it go so another family could enjoy it. She had nothing tying her down anymore. She was free to carry on with her life.
Although he probably knew already, just because word spread so quickly in White Stone, she decided to text Pete and tell him the news. Her fingers tingled as they moved along the screen of her phone. She typed: Morning. Wanted to tell you Pop’s house sold.
Almost instantly, he responded: Sorry you’re homeless when you come for a visit. Good thing you have your mom. How are you?
She typed: I’m well. She wasn’t well. She was heartbroken. Just seeing his words made the hurt of not having him come back. Who would have thought that at the young age of eighteen, she’d have already had everything she needed in life? Pete had loved her and he was making plans to move forward with her then. They could have gone to college together, and who knows where they’d be right now—maybe as perfect as Pop and Nana. But she’d blown it. She’d lost her chance because she couldn’t see what was right in front of her until it was too late. He’d moved on with his life, and there was nothing she could do about it. She felt her bottom lip start to tremble, and she closed her eyes before the tears could start.
She missed him. If only she could see that grin playing at the corners of his mouth, the friendliness in his face, the warmth behind his eyes. She missed the way his head turned to the side just slightly when she was talking, how he leaned forward a tiny bit in interest. She missed the sight of him with his hands in his pockets whenever he was standing. She missed the feel of his hand in hers. Those things weren’t hers to have anymore. They weren’t ever meant for her. Would he look at someone else with doting eyes and that smile of his? Her stomach burned with the thought.
She typed back: How do you think Pop feels about the sale?
She looked up from her phone. Her apartment seemed more sparse than it had in the past few days. And quiet. No one stopped by to say hello, she didn’t know her neighbors and, while coming and going, she’d only seen a handful of people more than once.
As she waited for Pete’s response, she remembered the way it felt lying on his chest that morning, his arms around her, his hand on her hip, the feel of his steady breathing. She could lie like that indefinitely. She’d been so quick to get up, to move things along, that she’d missed out on more of that feeling. What if the best moments of life were spent being still? As she sat in her apartment, trepidation settled inside her because she knew the answer already. Being in New York wasn’t as important as being with people she loved.
Just like Nana’s story about the rug: All the
earnings and accolades were just things; things don’t make us happy. People do. Now Pete didn’t want to be with her, and she was miserable in New York because she couldn’t be with him. A wave of fear swept over her, prickling her skin from the inside out because she realized in that moment that she didn’t have a plan for this, she didn’t know how to fix it. And what worried her most was that she didn’t know if it could ever be fixed.
Her phone pinged. Her heart fell as she read Pete’s answer: Honestly, lately, he doesn’t even remember that house. He’s losing it, Libby. A few days here and there, he didn’t remember my name. The good news—if you can call it that—is that he hasn’t wanted to take walks lately. He spends most of his time in his room.
She stared at his words until the screen on her phone went black. She sat in silence, tears welling up in her eyes and then spilling over. She felt so far away. She wanted to talk to Pop—about anything—so she could have those last few moments of the real him before the disease stole him from her. She knew there probably wasn’t much time left, and she felt guilty for not being there. A runaway tear chased another down her cheek, and she wiped them with the back of her hand.
If it weren’t for Trish’s wedding, she’d be on a plane immediately. She wanted every minute with Pop, so she wouldn’t miss a single moment when he was lucid.
I want to be with him, she typed. The tears were coming faster, one after another, with no end in sight. Her heart ached for Pop.
The phone pinged again. The minute he’s himself again, I’ll be sure to tell him that you miss him. Promise.
She needed Pete’s hug. She needed him to hold her hand. No one else could make the hurt any better. But she couldn’t have any of it. The reality of that was like a boulder on her chest. The sound of engines outside began to make her ears ring as she sat, alone, trying to figure out how to get herself together. She had to get ready for work, and she hadn’t been there long enough to take a day off.
Another ping. She opened the screen and read: Libby, I know you want to be here and you can’t. I’ll give him enough love for the both of us. I’m right at the other end of your phone if you want to check in on him. Go get ready for work. You’re going to be late.
The last bit made her smile, her unremitting tears still falling. How did he know she wasn’t getting ready? With a deep breath, she got up and walked into the bathroom for a shower.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Libby put the last of the day’s files into the basket on her desk and looked up. Her office was a far cry from the small desk she’d had at Marty’s. She hadn’t bought any plants yet, and the walls were still bare. Libby rested her forearms on the dark mahogany-stained desk, her eyes roaming the top of it. She’d put her name plate in the center, a lamp on one corner, and her computer on the other, but the emptiness was still apparent. There were no framed photos of children or loved ones, no family to display. Not even a pet.
She’d thought about Pop all day, wondering how he was and if Pete was doing okay. She knew that even if she were there, she couldn’t make the disease go away, and there was nothing she could do right then anyway, but it didn’t ease the worry she felt. She wondered about whether Pop was scared all the time, or if he’d felt anything when his mind had been gone. She was frightened for him, worried that he wouldn’t be able to say goodbye when the time finally came because he wouldn’t be lucid.
On her way home after work, she contemplated her life. She wished she lived closer to her friends, that people would drop by unannounced the way Jeanie had done back home. She missed Pop, Helen, Jeanie and her mother, and wished they, too, could be there with her.
The one person she tried not to think about, but he kept rising to the surface every time she had a thought, was Pete. She’d made such a fool of herself in the woods that day at the bench, when she’d been too caught up in her own feelings to take Pete’s feelings into consideration. He’d been quite clear that day. The sadness that she’d had when he’d told her how he felt was as fresh as the day it happened. She played the conversation over and over in her head, and every time she thought about it, she felt more terrible about her own behavior. No one had caused this sadness but her.
Libby unlocked the door to her apartment and went inside. With a thud, she dropped her bag onto the floor, went into her bedroom and plopped down on her bed. For a few minutes, she stared at the ceiling, not letting any thoughts at all into her mind. Her eyes moved from the window to the heating vent to the dresser. Across the room, on the dresser, sat her memory box. She got up and opened it, pulling out the little blue-stoned ring Pete had won her at the bonfire. She slipped it onto her finger.
Then she lay back on her bed, buried her face in her pillow, and allowed herself to cry like she had after she’d left so many years ago. This time, however, she felt worse. She felt as if she had a hole in her chest that she couldn’t fill. Get yourself together! she thought. You have Trish’s wedding tomorrow! She bunched the covers up over her head and tried to clear her mind, her tears unrelenting.
“Do you think they’re too much with the veil?” Trish asked Libby, holding up a pair of teardrop pearl earrings to her ear in front of the church mirror. “Should I have kept it more basic?” Her chestnut hair was swept up, tucked, in hundreds of curly strands, into a simple headband with a veil attached. The deep shade of her hair contrasted beautifully with the antique white of the veil.
Trish had talked a whole lot about the planning of her wedding, but Libby wondered if her friend realized how lucky she truly was because, after the wedding, she’d have the start of her own family, the one person she wanted to spend the rest of her life with right there when she needed him. As much work as weddings took, it was really the moments after the wedding that would be the happiest, in Libby’s opinion.
“They’re gorgeous,” Libby said. She pulled Trish’s train out from under the table and fluffed it along the floor. The heat from outside seeped in through the old window frames and doorways of the cathedral, flushing the faces of the bridal party. Thank goodness their dresses were strapless and their hair was up. Libby ruffled the skirt of her pale green satin dress to allow some air to flow under it. There was no breeze like back home to relieve the warmth in the air. She couldn’t slip her shoes off and walk under the shade of a large tree, the cool grass beneath her feet. Outside there was just more sunlight and pavement, making the summer heat seem worse.
“About two minutes,” the wedding planner said, her eyes darting around the room as if to ensure everything was as it should be. “Take your places.”
Libby helped Trish turn around by lifting her train as Trish fastened the last earring. The organ began through the large double doors. It was time.
Trish twisted toward Libby. “I’m so glad you could be in my wedding.” In the past that would have felt like the ultimate one-to-one: I’m getting married and you’re not. This time, however, it didn’t bother her one bit. She didn’t feel competitive about it at all.
“Congratulations,” she said, feeling genuinely happy for her friend.
Libby walked down the aisle, holding a bouquet of roses, the stems wrapped in wide, white satin, an Austrian crystal broach holding the whole thing together. As she walked to the front of the church, she thought about the meaning of the day. She was struck again by the fact that it wasn’t about the dresses or the flowers or the church. It was about celebrating that one person that you love more than anyone else in the entire world. She turned, walked to the right and took her place next to the center of the church where Trish would stand with Kevin to say her vows.
It seemed as though the entire room were made of glass. Windows stretched from the floor all the way to the three-story ceiling, the flickers of candles reflecting off their surface. The tables were covered in white linen, and summer blooms cascaded down vases the size of baseball bats. Everything about Trish’s reception, down to the hand-calligraphy on the place cards, was perfect. The reception was in full swing by the time she had
finished her bridal party photos, and Libby was ready to relax.
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.”
