by Julia London
“Hi,” Max said. At six years old, he was not the least bit garrulous, particularly on the phone.
“Hi, Max!” Libby said. “What are you doing?”
“Watching TV. We’re not supposed to. We’re supposed to be cleaning our rooms.”
“Oh . . . where’s your mommy?” Libby asked curiously.
“I dunno. Here’s Alice,” he said, and then he was gone.
“Libby, did you go to the hospital?” Alice said. “Daddy said you went to a hospital.”
The question startled Libby; she’d not thought of what she’d tell the kids, and in a moment of decisiveness, opted for honesty. “Yes, I did. But that was a few weeks ago, and I’m okay now.”
“What was wrong with you?”
“Well . . . I was really, really tired.”
“Is that why you can’t come to my house? Because you hit Daddy’s truck with a golf club?”
Libby winced. “That’s part of it. Hey, are you practicing your dance every day like the teacher said?”
“Yes. Are you going to come see the recycle?”
“I’ll try my best, Alice,” Libby said sincerely. “I really miss you, and I love you. And I can’t wait to see you.”
“Okay. I love you, too. I have to go. Bye!” Alice said cheerfully, and the phone went dead.
Libby clicked her phone off and sank back in the chair, her head resting against the wall, her gaze fixed on the peeling wallpaper. She could almost smell Alice’s hair, could almost see the smudges of dirt on Max’s face. That Ryan was allowing her to call—
“Libby?”
Libby sat up with a start; she hadn’t heard Madeline come into the dining room. “Hey,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I didn’t hear you.”
Madeline stepped down into the dining room, still holding a cup of coffee. She was staring at Libby as if she couldn’t quite make her out, as if she had seen her somewhere and couldn’t place her. “Who was that on the phone?”
Libby could feel the stain of guilt spreading across her cheeks. “Alice.”
“Oh no,” Madeline said weakly, and sat down on the step so heavily, it almost appeared she’d fallen onto it. “Libby, what are you doing?” she asked in a near whisper. “Are you trying to get thrown in jail?”
“What? No!” Libby said, surprised. “Of course not. It’s not what you think, Madeline. She’s been calling me—”
“Oh my God, how?” Madeline exclaimed.
“Calm down. You know Alice and I have a very strong bond.”
Madeline closed her eyes. “Libby . . . he has a restraining order against you,” she said, opening them again. “He doesn’t want you anywhere near him or his family. People don’t get restraining orders for the hell of it.”
“Well I know that,” Libby said. “But people also change their minds.”
Madeline’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, changed his mind? About the restraining order?”
Madeline’s questions were making Libby question herself. She felt guilty. And wrong. She stood up. “He has apologized to me. He says he wishes things hadn’t happened like they did.” She stepped around her sister and went into the kitchen, desperate for an activity, anything so that she wouldn’t have to listen to Madeline.
But her sister was right behind her. “Okay, you have to explain this to me,” Madeline demanded, and put down her coffee cup. “Are you saying that Ryan has apologized for dumping you for his ex-wife, and lying to you, and then saying horrible things to you, and then slapping you with a restraining order? And you’re okay with that?”
“No, I am not okay with that,” Libby said firmly. “I was only explaining to you why Alice is calling.”
“Because if he has changed his mind,” Madeline said, sounding like she didn’t believe Libby, “that doesn’t make what he did to you any less horrible. In fact, it makes him even scuzzier.”
“Madeline!” Libby said sternly, whirling around to her. “Is he not allowed to apologize? To regret what he did? Don’t you believe that people can change?”
“Of course I believe it. People do change,” Madeline said. “But some people are just really good at playing both ends against the middle, you know? Because I promise you, if he’s told you he’s sorry, he wants something.”
“Jesus, you should have been a lawyer,” Libby said. “I understand your concern. I don’t want . . .” She paused, tried to gather her thoughts. “I miss Alice and Max, Madeline. I miss them so much,” she said, pressing both hands against her heart. “I miss having a family and I can’t say good-bye to them. And what about them? I was the one who took care of them. They love me, too, you know. What about what they want? You don’t know Ryan, you don’t know what went on between us. You can’t make judgments about it.”
“You’re right,” Madeline said, still nodding, her hands on her hips now. “I don’t know him or what it was like between the two of you. I’m only going by the fact that he basically used you to babysit his kids while he was running around for everyone to see with his ex-wife.”
“For everyone to see?” Libby repeated. “No they didn’t!”
“Yes, they did, Libby. Ask anyone,” Madeline said, casting her arm wide. “Everyone in Pine River knew what was going on but you. He made you look like a fool,” she said, her voice softer. “And if he is telling you anything other than he deserves to go to hell for what he did, he’s lying.”
Libby’s mind was racing again, trying to sort through what was truth and what was her, trying to justify her feelings.
Libby’s heart felt as if it would leap right out of her chest. She was angry and hurt, and felt a little breathless. She was second-guessing everything she thought she knew about the last four years. Again.
Madeline groaned. She covered her face with both hands for a moment, as if she was trying to regain her composure. “I’m sorry,” she said, and dropped her hands. “I don’t mean to . . . to butt in. But I really care about you, Libby. I don’t want to see you hurt again, or . . . or—”
“Institutionalized?” Libby finished for her.
“Or that,” Madeline admitted, and pressed her lips together.
“For heaven’s sake,” Libby said wearily. That Madeline worried she was fragile didn’t hurt as much as it had right after Libby had come home. Now it was just a dull ache. “One week at Mountain View and I guess I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that I’m not crazy to everyone around me. I had an emotional breakdown, Madeline. It’s not going to happen again. But if there’s a chance that I can have Alice and Max in my life—”
“Here we go,” Madeline muttered.
“That was my family!” Libby cried angrily. “Don’t you get that? They were my family and of course I want them back! Do you know how I ache for Alice and Max every single day?” she shouted, pressing her fist against her heart. “How much I miss hearing the details of their lives, or helping them brush their teeth, or watching them play? That was all yanked out from beneath me without warning, so yes, I do want them back. And if I have to take Ryan as part of the deal, I might just have to suck it up.”
“But here’s the thing, Libby,” Madeline said quietly. “It wasn’t really your family. It was Gwen’s.”
The truth detonated painfully inside Libby, exploding into painful little shards. “I can’t talk about this anymore,” she said, her voice shaking. She turned around and walked out the door, onto the porch. She stood there, trying to suck in deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart.
It wasn’t working.
She jumped off the porch and began to stride up one of the trails into the forest behind the house, her fists clenched tightly and her head aching from the many confusing, competing thoughts.
What was the truth? Or was she trying to create a new truth, one that suited her emotions, her sense of having been wronged? Libby truly didn’t know anymore.
TWELVE
Dani was behind the cash register when Sam stopped into the Grizzly Café for a coffee. “Goo
d to see you, Sam,” she said cheerfully. “The usual?”
“Please,” he said. He glanced at the tables at the window—that’s where he always sat when he came in for a cup of coffee—but his usual table was occupied.
It reminded him of another time it had been occupied. He’d been passing by, and had seen Libby through the window, sitting at his usual table. She was hunched over a mug with both hands wrapped around it, staring at the tabletop. Sam couldn’t say how he knew, but she didn’t look right to him. Something was off. Maybe Sam should have walked on. Maybe he should have not let his emotions guide him. For whatever reason, he’d changed direction and had come in.
She’d been on his mind a lot the last couple of days, obviously, after that damn impetuous kiss. He couldn’t help thinking back to that day only a few weeks ago, and how she’d looked up when he’d entered, smiling a little and giving him a halfhearted wave. Her hair was always a mess of curls, but that day it looked as if she hadn’t attempted to comb it. She’d rolled a bandana and tied it around her head to keep it from her face.
Dani had told him that she’d been like that for an hour, sitting and staring. Sam had gone over to check on her.
Libby had tried to perk up. “Hey, Sam,” she’d said. “Sit down . . . did you come for coffee?”
“Yeah. Are you sure you don’t mind if I join you?”
“Not at all. I could use the company.” She’d laughed, but it had sounded hollow.
Up close, Sam had noticed that her complexion was sallow, and there were dark circles under her eyes. It had alarmed him—he’d never seen Libby look anything but healthy. “Are you okay, Libby?” he’d asked.
She’d laughed and looked away from his direct gaze. “Why does everyone keep asking me that? I really must look bad. But I’m fine. Really. I’ve just been battling a bout of insomnia, that’s all. My mom gets it, too.”
That had sounded to Sam like a practiced response.
“Sam?”
Dani tapped him on the shoulder, and Sam turned around. “I’ll have your coffee right out,” she said. Sam nodded. He sat down at a table near his usual one, his thoughts returning to the past. Libby had been so much on his mind recently that he couldn’t help his thoughts wandering back to that day.
He remembered Libby asking him what was up, and his casual shrug.
She’d said, “Hey, guess who I ran into last week? Don Chadwick—remember him?”
Sam had remembered him—Don Chadwick had retired from the sheriff’s office about a year before Sam’s demise. “Sure. He was a nice guy.”
“He always helped me with the holiday parties,” Libby said. “He asked how you were doing. I told him you’re doing great, that you’re the county’s rural area deputy now. And he said he was very glad to know that you’d landed on your feet.”
Sam remembered thinking that it was nice of her to say something kind about him. He’d gotten past the shame of what had happened to him, but he still didn’t mind a good word now and then. He’d told her that it was nice of her to say so.
“But it’s true. You look great, Sam. You look happy.” And then she’d suddenly leaned forward, looked at him with dull blue eyes. “Are you happy?”
It had seemed an oddly earnest question to him at the time, but in hindsight, he could see why. “I’m as happy as I can be, I guess,” he’d said. “Are you?”
“Me?” She’d eased back, as if leaning away from that question. “Truth is, I’ve been better.” She’d shrugged. “But I’m okay. Really.”
“Are you trying to convince me? Or yourself?”
With a soft sigh, Libby had looked down and rubbed her eyes. “Maybe trying to convince myself. Do you ever wonder what might have happened if you’d gone one way instead of the other? Like, what if you hadn’t gotten the job in the sheriff’s office? Where would you be now?”
Sam thought then what he thought now—that he’d probably be drunk in an alley somewhere. “I don’t know,” he’d said.
“I wonder . . . what if I hadn’t been in the office the day Ryan came in? I never would have known him. Poof, just like that, I would have had a different life. Maybe I would have moved. Maybe I’d have married someone. Maybe I’d be someone else right now, like a novelist or a singer.”
“Do you like to sing?” he’d asked.
“No,” she’d said with a funny little laugh. “I’m just saying, that but for one moment in time, your life could go down a completely different path.”
He could see where she was going. He’d gone there, too, in the last couple of years. But he’d had the benefit of looking at it from a long lens. “True,” he’d agreed with her. “But you can make yourself crazy imagining all the things you might have missed or avoided. There’s no point to it. Personally, I think it’s useless to look back.”
“What do you mean? You never look back?”
“I used to,” Sam had admitted. “I don’t anymore. There’s just too much water under too many bridges, and I can’t change anything that happened.”
“I hear you,” she’d said, but Sam had been fairly certain she hadn’t heard him at all. She’d looked at her wristwatch. “I’ve got to go.” She’d gathered her things. “Sorry to sip and run.” Her coffee looked untouched.
As she stood up, Sam had impulsively grabbed her hand and had said, sincerely, “Libby . . . take care of yourself.”
“You and my mother,” she’d said teasingly. “I will, Sam. I promised Mom I’d go to the doc and see if I can’t get something for the insomnia. I just need to sleep, that’s all. Then I’ll be right as rain.” She’d smiled as she’d pulled her hand free, but again, that smile seemed off to him. “I hope you have a stupendous day, Lone Ranger.”
“I hope the same for you.”
He’d sat at the table after she’d gone, thinking about what she’d said. When he heard the commotion outside, he hadn’t at first registered what it was, not until he heard the sound of breaking glass.
By the time he rushed outside, everyone was shouting, Gwen was shrieking, and Libby was swinging the golf club. He’d run across the street and pulled Ryan back before he could launch himself at Libby, then put himself between Ryan and Libby.
“Libby!” he’d shouted.
He would never forget the way she’d looked at him, wild-eyed. Not all there.
Sam had lifted his hand, palm up. “Think about what you’re doing. Put the club down.”
Her grip on the club tightened, and she looked at the truck. She had bashed in all the windows except the window vent on the driver’s side.
“This isn’t solving anything,” Sam had said quickly. “This is just adding to the problems you’re having and making them worse. Give me the club, and let’s talk about it. I’ll help you, Libby. I’ll help you any way I can.”
Libby had lifted her arms, club in hand, as if she intended to have a whack at the last window. But then she had suddenly dropped her arms.
Sam had grabbed the golf club from her hand, and Libby had sagged against him. “I am so tired,” she’d said hoarsely.
“Yeah, I know,” he’d said, and put his arm around her.
That had only been a few weeks ago. Libby had a long way to go. And still, he’d kissed her.
Worse, he’d kissed her like a teenager in heat. But damn it, she’d been standing there with her blue eyes glittering up at him, and her hair in funny little ponytails. When she opened her mouth, his composure had cracked, and his mouth was on hers, and he was kissing her. He hadn’t even realized it was in his mind. And now, all he could think of was all the other places of her body he’d like to touch.
This was the worst kind of trouble for a guy like him. First of all, Libby had some ghosts following her around, and Sam did not do well with women and their ghosts; he had a tendency to think he could fix things, to remove the ghosts, and he’d learned the hard way that he was no superman.
Second, Libby was violating her restraining order half the time, and he was enforcing it h
alf the time, which made it more than just a bit of a conflict for him to walk around kissing her. Every cop knew not to fraternize with the people who break the laws they were charged to enforce.
There was nothing good that could possibly come from any desire for her, so Sam had studiously avoided her. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying went. But the saying was not entirely accurate, Sam discovered, because he really couldn’t avoid her in his thoughts. She kept popping into his head with those sparkling eyes and a charming smile, usually jabbering nonsense. He would push her out of his mind. But she would pop up again. And again.
There was no explaining the laws of attraction, but there was something about that woman that had crept under his skin.
He was startled by the sudden appearance of Dani, with his coffee and a creamer. “Sorry that took so long, I had to brew a fresh pot. So, are you going to be at the Kendricks’ Sunday night?” she asked, sliding into a seat across from him.
Sam clearly didn’t answer quickly enough because Dani slapped her hand down on the table. “Sam Winters, you’d better say yes! You hide away up there in those mountains and you don’t come down. It’s not good for a person to be so alone.”
Sam chuckled and began to doctor his coffee. “What makes you think I’m so alone, Dani? For all you know, I’ve got a harem up there.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not as dumb as I look, Sam. And I’ll tell you this—if I don’t see you at the Kendricks’ Sunday, I am liable to drive up there and fetch you.” She suddenly smiled and stood up. “You want a cinnamon roll with that? I just made some fresh this morning.”
“You bet. Thank you,” Sam said. He wasn’t as dumb as he looked, either.
THIRTEEN
Dani’s warning notwithstanding, Sam did not want to attend the Kendricks’ dinner party. Sam wasn’t a big party guy anymore, obviously. In addition to being an alcoholic, it reminded him too painfully of his life with Terri. He was no good at small talk, and he was even less good at watching people drink. That part of his life never got any easier. And frankly, he preferred to watch the football game in his living room without a lot of chatter.
