by Jenny Hale
“Pete’s probably at the park by now. We were looking for you. We’d split up.” She linked her arm in his. “Let’s go meet him. He’ll be so happy you’re okay. And Pop,” she stopped walking and waited for him to make eye contact. “Next time, would you leave us a note?” He nodded, and she could tell the suggestion bothered him. He didn’t like his predicament any more than they did.
When they got to the park, Pete was waiting under a street light, his arms folded, his gaze up near the tops of the trees. “Pete,” she called out quietly, approaching him from behind. He turned around, and she could see the worry leave him as if it were some foreign being in his body. His shoulders fell, the tightness in his features left.
“Pop. Where have you been?”
Pop’s cheerful demeanor was replaced by one of annoyance. Libby had never seen him that way before. “I’ve already accounted for my night with Libby. Do I have to say it again just for your benefit?” he snapped. Libby looked at Pete, concerned again. Hugh hadn’t ever spoken to anyone like that before, that she’d ever heard. “Here,” he held out the loaf of bread tied in a plastic bag with a twist tie. “We were out.”
The three of them walked back to Libby’s to get Pete’s car. None of them uttered a word. Libby was too busy thinking about Pop’s behavior. It’s the disease, she thought. It had to be terrible not remembering basic things like where one lived. Even worse, it must be hard knowing that a time may come when Hugh wouldn’t even know the people around him. She wondered if he was irritable like that on a regular basis.
Pete must have a lot on his mind. Her presence was probably making it worse. He didn’t need her to get in the way with her insensitive texting. She thought again how selfish she’d been to send that text tonight.
By the time they got back to the cottage, the silence between them was deafening. The situation was too heavy to make small talk, yet none of them had anything to offer regarding the issue at hand. When they got onto the patch of grass, illuminated by the porch light, Libby finally said, “Pop, I’m glad you were just getting coffee and bread.” She hugged him, and she was happy he hugged her back. “Have a good night,” she said to Pete.
“You too,” Pete said and then left her on the grass. He and Hugh climbed into his Bronco. The engine growled as Pete looked one last time in her direction. Then they drove away into the darkness of the night, his red taillights shrinking in the distance. With the sound of crickets singing in the woods nearby, Libby stood, thinking.
Her worries about Pete’s shortness with her, the wine, seeing Catherine, and then the frantic search for Hugh had exhausted her. She tried to make sense of her thoughts, but her fatigue was knotting them all together, and she couldn’t even get one entire thought to process. She’d never been that tired in New York. Things had never been that hard. Even losing her job, leaving her apartment, and breaking up with Wade hadn’t exhausted her like that. She thought again how she needed to get a move on with the cottage, sell the thing and get out of town as soon as she could.
As she got inside and got settled, a text showed up on her phone. She opened the screen and read: Still bored? Didn’t think so. :) Good night. Libby smiled, feeling the fizz of happiness at the sight of his text. But then, as reality sank in, she realized there was a sadness to his message; she could feel it, and it made her remorseful for even sending such a flippant text in the first place. What had she been thinking? The only thing that made her smile again when she reread the text was that she’d gotten a smiley face. That was enough to make the rest of the night okay.
Chapter Nineteen
“Do you think you can continue the hardwoods into the kitchen, or would tile look better?” Libby asked Bert from the flooring shop on Irvington Road as he snapped his measuring tape against a wall. She could hardly hear his answer above the banging of the cabinetry guys doing the kitchen remodel. She’d been busy all week, setting appointments and getting work done to ready the cottage for sale, and she was nearly finished. The kitchen wall had been repaired and painted a canary yellow, cabinets were being hung, and a new countertop would be installed by that evening. Bert was getting final measurements for a quote on the new kitchen floor, and that would be her final decision of the day.
Libby had been so busy with the house, she hadn’t seen Pete after the night he’d lost Pop to a loaf of bread, except to get him to sign his tax paperwork. When he’d come into the office, she didn’t ask him to lunch even though she’d wanted to. She kept it all business, like she should. He’d signed and they’d filed the taxes. Job complete. He hadn’t texted, and she hadn’t texted him either. Losing Pop that evening had been a wakeup call for her. She’d realized that Pete had his own life to live and she shouldn’t interfere with it, especially if she wasn’t planning on staying.
And she wasn’t staying. After work tomorrow, she was boarding a plane for New York. She couldn’t wait to see her friends at the shower, find out the latest from Trish, and maybe even go out for drinks. Her bags were packed, her tickets on her dresser, and the bridal shower gift purchased online and in transit. But there was a part of her that felt a little sad to be leaving. She’d made so many relationships stronger in her short time there, and as much as she’d tried to escape it when she’d arrived, she’d miss White Stone’s calming atmosphere and friendly people.
“Let’s go with tile in the kitchen,” she called out to Bert over the racket. “It’ll look best since you can’t match the hardwoods perfectly. Why don’t we do that white and gray tile that you showed me?” Bert nodded, scribbled a few things onto his clipboard, and then stepped over cabinetry to get to the front door.
The kitchen remodel had been going on all day while she was at work, so she’d called her mother and set up a supper date. She’d really enjoyed having Celia at Catherine’s house. It had marked a change in their relationship; it was a start to understanding her mom better. She was glad to be going over to her childhood home, and she was happy to be spending time with Celia. Their relationship had been difficult over the years, certainly, but she loved her mother and she wanted to spend time with her before going back to New York. Conversation was still a little difficult between them, but Libby was willing to give it a shot. Other than her father, who wasn’t ever near enough to her to have any kind of real relationship, Celia was Libby’s only family.
She left the cabinetry guys to finish their work, asking them to lock up as they left—one of the perks of a small town: knowing everyone enough to leave them to lock up her house. Then she went to her mother’s.
She pulled the car into the drive just as Celia stepped onto the front porch, waving like someone leaving port. It made her giggle, which felt good. She got out and shut the door. “Hi, Mom. How are you?” she called up to her.
“Great! Great. Come in and relax with something to drink.” her mother beamed, as they entered the house, Celia scuttling off to the kitchen.
Libby stood next to the curio cabinet by the front door, noticing her swimming trophies inside. She went through the small entryway that led to the living room and dropped down onto the sofa. A candle burned on the mantle, just in front of a massive oil painting of Libby at the age of five. The overwhelming display of her achievements right at the front door, the pictures of her all over the living room, it all hadn’t seemed odd until she’d seen it as an adult. It occurred to her that her mother’s sense of worth rested on her achievements, and it made getting that job in New York feel even more important. Not only was her own happiness riding on it; her mother’s was as well. The tense feeling she’d had as a child came back even with her efforts to rationalize it.
“Hope you like lemon in your sweet tea,” she said, handing Libby a glass. “It’s not homemade. I got it premade at the market. It was some new brand. Thought I’d try it.” Celia took a sip of her own and set the glass on the coffee table.
“Thanks,” Libby smiled. In adulthood, her mother seemed to want to please her, to make her happy. It occurred to Libby that Celi
a’s own insecurities and need to please people had probably been instrumental in her choices in raising Libby. Her mother seemed as anxious as Libby did most of the time, and Libby understood that now. “I got an interview in New York,” she said, knowing how delighted her mother would be with the news.
Celia clapped her hands together loudly. “Oh! That’s fantastic, Libby! I’m so proud of you!” Then, as quickly as her smile had emerged, it faded. “Be sure you tell Marty. Give him enough time to get organized before you leave.”
“I haven’t gotten the job yet, Mom. And Marty did tell me in our initial phone interview that it could be temporary, so it shouldn’t be too much trouble for him.”
“Well, I just know you’re going to get it! Won’t you be so happy to get out of here?” She took a sip of her tea.
“Can I ask you something?” Libby said, setting her glass down and turning toward Celia. Her mother waited, her eyebrows raised, an expectant look on her face. “If you’re so glad for me to get out of here, why did you stay all these years?”
Celia’s face became serious and she sat for a few silent seconds without responding. She frowned, her chest rising and falling with her breath. “Your father and I moved here for his job when we were young. I didn’t necessarily like it here, but we had to go where he could work. Then, like anywhere else, we started to make a life.” She paused for a long time, then took a sip of tea before continuing. “Your dad left me, Libby, and I couldn’t afford to go anywhere. I’d left my career far behind. That’s why I worked so hard to get you where you are. I didn’t want you to fall into the same trap.”
Libby had never heard her mother be that candid before, that honest, that open. She’d always said, “Chin up,” whenever Libby failed, and she’d pushed her harder. Now, Celia was showing Libby that she didn’t always have her chin up. She was letting Libby see her vulnerable side. For the first time in her life, Libby saw someone in front of her who was just like her, who understood her like only family could.
“I figured, but I’ve always wondered. Thank you for telling me.”
Celia smiled. “Now you know.” She stood up. “I’ve got chicken parmesan in the oven. Let me go check on it.”
Libby watched her leave, still thinking about her mother’s words. Now, looking at Celia Potter, Libby saw someone completely different. She saw a woman who had been heartbroken, who had spent her whole adult life trying to overcome the misery of a failed marriage. Her mother had lived so many years there, stuck where she’d never wanted to be, most likely hoping to find that happiness again, but knowing she wouldn’t get it. So she’d pinned all her hopes on Libby. She didn’t want Libby to get caught there, trapped in a relationship that may be doomed to fail. She’d made sure Libby’s life didn’t look a thing like hers. The whole time, Libby had thought she’d been protecting her mother by trying to make her happy, when really it had been Celia who had been trying with everything she had to ensure Libby’s happiness. Celia struggled with showing love—that much was clear. But Libby finally understood that by raising her the way she had, Celia was trying her best to show that love. Libby felt a warmth for her mother that she’d never felt before.
“It’s steaming hot, but dinner’s ready,” Celia called out from the next room.
Libby took her glass and headed into the kitchen.
“Grab your plate,” Celia said with a grin, “Let’s eat like we used to, just us girls.”
So many nights it had been only the two of them eating exactly like that. All of those nights, Libby had tried her best to relate to her mother but always struggled. Tonight was different. She finally got her.
During dinner, conversation was easy and enjoyable. Libby only wished she’d figured her mother out sooner than the day before her interview. If she got the job, she’d be moving back as soon as she could, putting distance between them once again. She promised herself she’d come home more often. She’d be sure to stop by Catherine’s and say hello. She may even try to get around to visit some of the people in town if she could. But most importantly, she’d come and visit her mom and Jeanie, Helen and Pop. And Pete. She’d never stay away that long again.
Chapter Twenty
Libby wondered how Pete fit in her life. She wanted to talk to him, let him know her excitement at getting the interview, tell him how eager she was to get back, but she knew that he wouldn’t share in the thrill of it. She wasn’t the girl anymore that he wanted to hear from. She’d spent the whole day at work, her mind alternating between thinking about Pete and how things had changed with her mom. With her mother, Libby felt she was in a good place; she felt like she could finally communicate with her. With Pete, things weren’t that clear.
With a deep breath, she checked one last time for her tickets, grasped the handle of her suitcase, and headed for the airport.
* * *
Riddick Wiesner was every bit Libby’s dream job. She’d have an actual office—no cubicle—a solid number of vacation days, and a better salary than the one she’d had at her last job. All she had to do was nail the interview. With her best Tom James power suit on and her highest heels clicking along the pavement, she crossed the busy Manhattan street toward the address on the screen of her phone. It was glorious to be back. The sun was shining, the morning was crisp. In the air she could hear the sound of traffic, honking taxis, and the movement of commerce, all of it filling her with an inexplicable excitement.
She entered through two glass doors—both taller than the oak trees back home—and made her way to the reception desk. A woman about her age sat at a sleek, fifties-inspired wood-grained desk, a brass plaque behind her with a list of the businesses in the building. Libby caught her eye and the woman smiled. “May I help you?” she asked pleasantly.
“Yes. I’m here for an interview at Riddick Wiesner.”
The woman reached over the desk to direct Libby to the elevators where she would get off at floor fourteen. She walked the blindingly shiny white floors to the elevator and hit the button just as her cell phone alerted her to a message. While waiting for the doors to open, she took a look at her phone. She was surprised to see a text from Wade. It read simply: Can we talk? Why did she have to get a message like that just before going in? Now her mind was wandering to all the reasons Wade could want to talk instead of focusing on her interview. Wade would not distract her. She was there for one purpose and one purpose only: to get that job. Nothing was going to get in the way of that.
The elevator doors swished open and she stepped aside to allow a few people to exit. When she got on and the doors had closed, she quickly texted a response: Can’t talk now. About five mins out from interview with RW. Then she turned the sound off on her phone and put it in her handbag. She wasn’t even going to look at the response if there was one. She didn’t want to know if he was checking on the sale of the cottage or if he was wishing her luck on the interview or anything else.
He’d left her at her lowest moment, dumped her—just like that. As she thought about it, she wasn’t sad anymore. She was angry. How dare he be that insensitive after all the time they’d spent together? She deserved more than the sad excuse for a break-up he’d offered. She shook the thought from her mind, trying to clear her head for the interview. He was not getting in the way of her success on that interview. She was giving it all she had.
When she arrived at floor fourteen, she stepped off the elevator into the hallway, still trying to clear her mind. She needed to be there, in the present, not thinking about anything else. Time to get to work on real life. She could sort out her muddled love life later.
After a quick call to Steven Wiesner, Libby was ushered into the Riddick Wiesner conference room where she met her potential new boss. He was tall and thin with a tailored, navy suit, a heavily starched blue pinstriped shirt peeking out from under his jacket, and a blood-red tie, but his face was friendly, his eyes warm. “Hello.” He held out his hand.
“Hi. Libby Potter.” She offered a firm handshake.
“Have a seat.” He pulled out a chair, the castors rolling toward her. She sat down across from him, the gleaming table empty except for a leather-bound legal pad and a pen on his side. “Thank you for coming today,” he said as he looked down at his notes.
He began to ask her all the right questions and she was firing answers back with ease and skill. There was no better feeling. Her mind went back to that tire swing, soaring toward the water, knowing the thrill of her fate. This was it. Like that perfect, splash-free dive, she was gliding along, completely free. The entire interview felt right, like she was meant to be there, and she could tell by his responses to her that he was impressed—the raised eyebrows, the eye contact, the smiles at just the right moment.
“Well, Miss Potter, normally I give it a day or two, but I have to say, you are the right fit for this job. I’d like to have you on our team.”
Like a bolt of electricity, excitement zinged through her. “I’d love to join Riddick Wiesner,” she said, standing and offering her hand across the table. Mr. Wiesner shook her hand, nodding.
“Thank you for a fantastic interview.” He walked around to her side of the table. “I remember you had some things to tie up, and I know you’ll need the obligatory two weeks’ notice for your current employer. Would you be able to start, say, in a month’s time?”
“Certainly.”
“Excellent. It was very nice meeting you. I look forward to working with you.”
“Thank you so much. It was a pleasure to meet you,” she smiled, trying with every ounce of energy she had not to burst into fits of screaming and laughter. She’d done it. She was back in the game. As she walked out of the office, Libby took in a deep breath and let it out, all her insecurities and worries lifting right off her like helium balloons. The warm sun was shining down on her like a ray of hope, and she knew things could only go up from there. She’d never been more focused, never more willing. She was going to sell the cottage and move as soon as she possibly could.
