The Happiness Pact

by Liz Flaherty

  Tucker didn’t see Libby’s car and thought for a wild, hopeful moment that she hadn’t been home when the tornado struck. She’d been seeing Jim Wilson—maybe she was with him.

  But the hope died when he saw her car lying upside down in the parking lot of the carriage house. He’d gotten out of the golf cart before it stopped moving, but the sight of the car nearly took him to his knees. He went still, and when Jack’s arm came around him, he sagged against him for a moment before straightening and beginning to shout.

  “Libby!” He didn’t care that he sounded desperate and afraid. He was desperate and afraid. “Lib!” He moved toward where the house had been, propelled by dread. His brother called, too, but moved in another direction.

  They met a few minutes later, their calls unanswered. “Tuck!” Jack stopped him, grasping his arm before he waded into the nightmare that had been Libby’s beloved tearoom. “There she is.” He pointed in the direction of the carriage house.

  Libby was walking across the parking lot, Pretty Boy at her heels and Elijah in her arms. She was moving slowly, her gait wobbly, but she appeared to be all right. She wore short pajamas, a robe and flip-flops. Her hair was tousled, her skin ashen.

  As she drew closer, he could see her features, find her eyes. She wasn’t all right at all.

  He caught her when she fell.

  * * *

  EVER HER BEST FRIEND, Tucker reached her before she could make a complete fool of herself. She hadn’t even realized it was him. How had he gotten there so fast? Or maybe it hadn’t been that fast—she wasn’t sure how long it had been since the storm passed.

  She hadn’t fainted, although things were swimming around in front of her eyes even after Tucker hauled her up against him. Or maybe she had lost consciousness—she wasn’t sure. If she had, the episode hadn’t lasted long. She could tell from the teeming activity all around that there were people and animals hurt—this was not the time for good old Lib to come out as the wimp she really was.

  She couldn’t bear to look at Seven Pillars, so she clutched the sleeves of Tucker’s windbreaker and buried her face against his shoulder. He held her, not saying anything, but his breathing was as irregular as hers.

  “Where...who can we help?” she asked when she could find her voice, drawing back but facing away from what had been her home for the last ten years.

  “Gianna just texted.” Jack kissed her cheek and kept a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “They’re going to open the clubhouse for anyone who needs shelter right away. The other side of the lake wasn’t hit. We just have to get people over there.” He pointed in the direction of St. Paul’s Church, across the street and farther away from the lake. People were moving around it, shining bright lights toward its roof. “The church has quite a bit of damage. It’s probably not safe.”

  Libby waved an arm. “The carriage house is right there. It’s still unlocked from when I came out. It can be used for whatever’s needed.”

  By the time the sun blazed up over the lake, the community knew there had been no deaths due to the tornado, although one person had suffered a heart attack and Arlie was in the process of delivering a baby in its Amish parents’ barn because their house was too heavily damaged to be safe. There were many cuts and bruises, a few broken bones, and some concussions. The damage in the light of day was horrifying, but the lakers were grateful it wasn’t worse.

  Libby worked alongside everyone else, dressed in clothing borrowed from Arlie. As long as she stayed busy, she would be fine. She avoided looking at Seven Pillars by helping with cleanup at the opposite end of the street and—later in the day—serving food in the carriage house to people who were working or who no longer had operational kitchens.

  Insurance company representatives came sometime after lunch. Claims adjusters took pictures and asked questions. Men and women who’d sold policies to lakers put on gloves and helped with cleanup.

  Libby answered the adjuster who questioned her as well as she could and promised to do her best to find the additional information that was needed. The bank could provide some of what she needed. Jesse had some of her records, too. It would all work out.

  It was the sympathy from all quarters that nearly undid her. Gianna’s long, tight hug. Father Doherty’s tear-filled eyes and his endless supply of peppermint candy—he gave her a whole handful instead of the two pieces he usually allotted. Kendall came and washed dishes all afternoon and Charlie helped, a process Jack took pictures of for future blackmail purposes. Max Harrison brought loaves of bread to serve with the sliced ham and cookies Jesse’s Amish neighbors had donated.

  Libby just kept moving. She laughed when people tried to cheer her up to show them it was working, then tried in turn to cheer neighbors whose losses were as great as hers. If there was a rebellious voice in the back of her mind that insisted no one else’s losses were as great as hers, she kept it silent. Especially since her bathroom was gone—she couldn’t get to the prescription bottle that sat behind the pain relievers. She had to remain calm on her own.

  No one must know just how certainly she was unraveling. No one.

  Even after power was restored in the late morning, the day seemed to go on forever. The streets were cleared of debris. Her car and a few others were hauled away. Repairs that could be made easily and quickly were done. People like Libby, whose homes couldn’t be inhabited, would have to wait.

  At suppertime, when Tucker said firmly that it was time to stop for the day and eat, she didn’t argue. They went to Anything Goes along with Jack, Arlie, Jesse and Holly.

  Libby was afraid to talk for fear she would scream instead. Wasn’t it enough that she had to survive one more loss without being reminded of all the others? She loved her brother, but when she looked at him today, it was their father she saw. When she’d brushed her teeth with the new brush Arlie had handed her and seen herself in the bathroom mirror, her mother’s haunted, pain-filled eyes had looked back at her.

  “You’ll come out to the farm, right?” Jesse touched her arm from across the table and held her gaze. “I know it’s hard for you there, but there’s plenty of room and you’re always welcome to stay however long you want.”

  She smiled at him, the emotion that clogged her throat so thick it nearly smothered her, then shook her head. “I’ll stay in the carriage house. It will work out.” How many times that day had she said that? It will work out.

  She needed to replace her medication that had been lost in the tornado, but there’d been no opportunity that day to call her doctor or even to ask Arlie for an emergency prescription. She was okay so far, but would she be when she was alone in the empty apartment above the carriage house, when she could look out the windows and see what was left of the life she’d built for herself?

  “I don’t mean to be the overbearing big brother,” said Jesse, “but I really don’t like the idea of you being by yourself right now.”

  Her eyes narrowed. What did he know, or think he knew, about her condition? Had Arlie or Gianna told anyone? She knew before the thought was complete that they had not.

  She also knew the time for her secret remaining a secret was winding down. She tried not to panic at the thought of everyone knowing.

  Tucker spoke from beside her. “We’re having a sleepover. It’s the newest adventure.”

  Libby laughed, although exhaustion made it sound wheezy. “A sleepover? I don’t even have any furniture up there, Tuck, much less the flat-screen TV and beer and chips you need to make it through the night.”

  “Sure you do.” He spoke easily. “The new owner of the Albatross offered up any furniture that was needed anywhere and manpower to move it, so you actually have everything up there.”

  “That’s impossible. I was working in there all afternoon, remember?”

  “You were working downstairs.” Jack was laughing. “They took everything
in through the outside entrance. I guarantee, since the furniture was Grandmother’s, that you’re not going to like it, but it’ll work for starters.”

  “I’m so grateful.” Libby knew she didn’t have to say anything else. The people at the long table understood—to a certain extent—how she felt now.

  Arlie texted her from the other end of the table. Are you all right? Do you need a scrip?

  Libby caught her eye and shook her head.

  She could do this. She could keep the secret a little longer. She couldn’t bear one more thing today.

  She and Tucker left the Grill first, stopping by the convenience store near the bridge for snacks, beer and a bottle of wine. A quick run into the Dower House netted clean clothes. Back in the golf cart, she leaned against his shoulder. “I am so tired.” It was an effort to get the words out.

  “I know.” He tucked his arm around her, drawing her closer into himself. “It’s been a long, long day.”

  The apartment was sparsely but adequately furnished. Two bar stools even sat at the counter that divided the small kitchen from the living area.

  They took turns showering, then, dressed in sweats, they sat on the floor and leaned back against the front of the couch. “Believe me,” he said drily, “it’s more comfortable to lean against it than it is to sit on it.”

  She chuckled, took a sip of wine and hugged her knees, staring sightlessly at the sliding doors at the end of the room. She’d love to do some stargazing to soothe her soul, but her telescope...no, she wasn’t going to think about that. Not yet. “If this has been your idea of an adventure,” she said lightly, “you need to work on your repertoire, not to mention your delivery.”

  The look he gave her told her he knew what she was doing. “And here I thought you’d arranged it so I could meet the new EMT from Sawyer. She was pretty cute but looked like she was barely out of high school.”

  “I know, but you gotta give me credit for trying.” It took such effort to talk, even the silly buddy-to-buddy banter that always came so easily.

  “Lib?”

  Don’t ask me. Don’t ask me things I don’t want to answer. Don’t make me tell you things I don’t want to tell. But he wouldn’t. Surely he wouldn’t. He knew she was on her last nerve. “What?” But she didn’t look at him. She couldn’t.

  “What took you so long?”

  She frowned. What was he talking about? “Took me so long when?”

  “To come outside after the storm. Couldn’t you hear us calling?”

  He knew.

  “I didn’t know it was over. There was silence, but I couldn’t be sure there wasn’t another one coming. Don’t tell me you’ve lived away from tornado territory long enough to forget they sometimes travel in packs.” Her laugh was whispery, hurting her throat when she forced it out.

  “Not buying it.” He was silent for a few beats, as if waiting for her to say something else. When she remained still, he went on. “I’m sure they heard us shouting clear across the lake, but you didn’t—or at least you didn’t respond. When you finally came out, you didn’t even look up. You didn’t look anywhere. When I got to you, I’m not sure you knew it was me. It could have all been shock, I guess. I’m no expert. But I just don’t think so.” He leaned far enough away that he could stroke her hair, still damp from her shower, back from her face.

  “The storm’s over, Lib.” His eyes caught hers and didn’t let go. Not under penalty of anything she could think of—not that she had much left to lose—could she have looked away. His hands were so warm, she didn’t want to move away from his touch, either. “It’s time to talk.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “I’M REALLY TIRED,” Libby said again. “Can’t we do this tomorrow?”

  Tucker hesitated, still holding her gaze, still stroking the hair that felt like warm silk between his fingers. “I don’t think so. We were going to do it after you got mad at me last week, too, but we never got to it.” He moved his hand from her hair to her face, shaping her cheek. Her skin was even softer than her hair. “You’re the most important person in my life, Lib. Our friendship is the only relationship I’ve ever had that has never broken down, no matter how much we’ve both abused it from time to time. But I can feel you slipping away. Not for the first time, but I always waited before. I tried to give you time to come back when you were ready. I’m not doing that now.”

  She tried to turn her head, but he wouldn’t let her, placing his free hand on her other cheek. “I’m not letting you go,” he said, “but I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know how to help.”

  “I don’t need help. I just need us to go on being friends like we’ve always been.”

  He shook his head, thinking it might be too late for things to be as they’d always been. Different wasn’t always bad, though—it could be downright wonderful. “Still not buying it. My brother distanced himself for years. He hurt Arlie, his son, me and himself most of all. I’m not watching you do the same thing.”

  “Jack had a huge case of survivor guilt. I don’t.” She put her hands on his, started to pat them but gripped them instead, her knuckles going white.

  He looked at her, seeing the faint white line at her hairline that was her only visible scar from the accident. “Do you still get headaches?”

  Her eyes widened for a second. “Oh, you mean from the accident? No. At least, I don’t think so. I get...you know...just regular headaches from time to time. Everybody does, don’t they?”

  Probably, but most people weren’t defensive about it.

  “Did I ever tell you my mom has anxiety attacks?” he said, keeping his voice conversational. “Scared the snot out of Jack and me the first time it happened. Scared her, too. She thought she was dying, or at least having a humdinger of a heart attack. It was how she met Grant—well, how we all met Grant. It was the year after the accident, and we were at Stonehenge. It was the first time she’d taken us to England, and even though we were all excited, we were suffering aftereffects of the wreck, too. I was ticked off about my hearing. Jack was already buried in guilt and separating himself from everyone as much as he could—I don’t remember how we got him to make the trip. Mum seemed fine, at least until she wasn’t.”

  “What happened?”

  “She collapsed. Her heart was going a mile a minute, and she couldn’t breathe. She was sweating—and this was in England, mind you, and it was drizzling. She shouldn’t have been sweating. We yelled for help, and Grant and a few others came charging over. He knew right away what it was, and convinced us all she wasn’t going to die right then. By the time he’d talked her—and Jack and me—off the ledge, he’d also offered her a job in Hylton’s Notch. The rest, as they say—”

  “—is history.” Libby smiled, but the expression was brittle. “What a nice history it is, too. Does she still have the attacks?”

  “Not really, because she and Grant both know what to watch for. She insists it’s only a ‘wee bit’ of anxiety, anyway. She calls it a storm in a teacup.” He moved, leaning back against the couch again and putting his arm around Libby’s shoulders. “So tell me,” he said, his cheek against the softness of her hair, “do you have any storms—teacup-size or otherwise—that you’d like to talk about?”

  Her inhalation was so deep and long lasting, he found himself breathing with her. “How did you know?” It was that thready voice again, the one that made him feel as if she was slipping away.

  It frightened him. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I do know something’s wrong.” He chuckled, forcing the sound out so she could hear it, since she wasn’t looking at him. “And getting wronger, I think, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. And took another deep breath.

  And another.

  “I have clinical depression and anxiety disorder,” she admitted finally. “Neither of them is t
he teacup variety, I’m afraid. More the why-do-I-have-to-wake-up-tomorrow? type.”

  “Ah.” He nodded, bumping the top of her head. “How long have you had this—these bumps in the road you’ve chosen to keep to yourself?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure. It came to light a few months after Dad died. I had a tension headache and, like your mom with the anxiety attack, I thought I was dying. The pain was in my neck, my jaw, all on one side. I called Arlie, who was in nursing school at the time, and she took me to the ER. All the way to Sawyer, I was telling her what to do with everything I left behind, because I didn’t have a will.” She laughed, although there was nothing funny in what she’d said. “They gave me stuff that helped the headache almost right away, but indicated depression and anxiety were often causes for symptoms like I had. I wasn’t surprised—Dad had it my whole life—but I was scared. I was afraid I was going to take the same way out of it he did.” She shrugged again, just a little lift of her shoulder that Tucker felt against his chest. It broke his heart.

  “Then what?”

  It was her turn to bump his chin when she lifted her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Your dad’s been gone seventeen years. What have you done all this time to hide that you have all this going on? And what in God’s holy name made you think you needed to hide it from me?”

  She moved quickly, getting up and going into the kitchen. “I’m going to get another glass of wine. Do you want a beer?”

  “Sure.” He didn’t, but he thought it would be good to keep his hands busy. He followed her to the kitchen area, taking a seat on one of the bar stools.

  He was angry. He was offended. But he had to keep reminding himself this wasn’t about him. Whatever anger and hurt he felt could be discussed later, when he could be sure he wouldn’t say things that couldn’t be unsaid.