Love Me for Me(23)

The breeze in the pines above the hammock brought Libby back to the present and she opened her eyes, the feel of the envelope registering under her hand on her stomach. She wanted to find this Mitchell person, tell him how wonderful Pop and Nana were together and how nothing should have ever come between them. Had Nana considered his offer? The mere question made her shudder.

Libby swung her legs over the edge of the hammock, the sea grass tickling her, and tried to clear her mind of the shock of the letter. She was feeling uneasy because of it, and she already had enough making her uneasy. She needed to get up, get on with things, and try to put one more day in that town behind her. She walked back to the house to put the letter in her handbag when she heard her phone ringing through the screen door.





Chapter Eight





“We miss having you out with us,” Trish said on the other end of the line as Libby finished hanging up the last of her clothes. They looked out of place in the cottage closet. “I had my first pineapple cocktail the other night. It was fantastic!”

Going out after work in New York was a regular occurrence. Libby wondered if this trend of having dinner and drinks any night of the week had started as a result of the stressful occupations many New Yorkers had. Most of her friends worked for big-name businesses, and with a big name came big demands. Libby’s job had been the same. She usually started work before eight o’clock in the morning, worked through her lunch, and finally finished up after seven thirty. By the time she was done, she was ready for a drink.

“Who went out last Friday?” she asked, although she really didn’t want to know; it was too depressing. The fact that her friends could still have drinks because they were all working and perfectly successful in their own lives only sharpened the edge of her failures, making her feel miserable. She opened up a small box containing jewelry and other accessories and fished through it, untangling her necklaces.

“Sonya and Babs. It was a small crowd.”

She took each necklace and stretched it out along the oak dresser of her new bedroom. There wasn’t a whole lot of storage in the cottage, so she’d have to get creative as to where to put things. For now, she was just focused on unpacking so as not to use up the entire evening. She wanted to try and send out a few more applications.

“Anything interesting happen?” she asked.

Trish sighed. “No, same old thing.”

“Apart from the new cocktail.”

“Yes! Apart from that. What have you been up to? Lots of sunbathing, I hope.”

She rested the phone between her shoulder and ear as she tugged at two more necklaces. “A little.” On vacation, one can lie around in the sun and enjoy it, but in her current situation, she saw it as a sentence for her shortfalls, a prison to keep her away from the successes she knew would make her happy.

“Well, I didn’t want to bombard you after the last phone call, so I waited until you were a little more settled… I was wondering if I could offer some possible dates for the shower and the brunch? It looks like we have a few parties on Kevin’s side to attend.”

Everything sounded so festive—so many celebrations. She wanted to be happy for Trish. She was trying very hard despite the sinking feeling that she’d ruined her own chance. But, if Libby was an expert at anything, it was planning. All her life, she’d been a planner. As a girl, she’d always been that person who did all the inviting and organizing whenever she went out with her friends. She had meticulously structured her courses in high school to ensure the most attractive transcript for colleges. Her entire life she’d spent fine-tuning her years down to the last detail to ensure her success.

Sometimes, however, even the best plans went south. Look at where all of that planning had gotten her. But this would give her a project of sorts, which she welcomed. “Of course! What are the dates?” she asked, dragging another moving box toward her with her free hand.

While Trish told her the days to work around, she pulled a wooden container from the moving box. It had been sanded down until the surface was as smooth as glass, the grains evident under the clear varnish. On one side of the lid were two brass hinges with curling details, and on the other side, a brass latch. Her memory box. She set it down next to her necklaces and opened the lid. “Other than the dates you can’t,” she scooted the moving box to the side with her foot, “do you have any particular days you’d like better, or do you want me to pick?” she asked.

“Could you fit them in during the next month or two? I know that’s probably a lot on you, given that you’ve just moved and you’re trying to do renovations.”