Libby knew that rug. She’d played card games on that rug. She’d watched movies as a girl, on her belly, her head propped up with her hands as she leaned on her elbows on that rug. She’d sat on that rug with Pete as she opened a birthday present that Pop had given her, a birthday present that she still had. Her memory box. The recollection of it caused her fondness for Pop to bubble up.
Mabel’s story was a perfect description of Pop. He always tried to make everything better, make it all okay. Nobody wanted for anything when he was around, if he could help it. He’d made Libby the memory box after he’d found out that her parents hadn’t been getting along and her dad hadn’t been staying at home much anymore. Libby escaped with Pete to Pop and Nana’s cottage a lot. She’d spent her birthday that year amidst a broken home, her mother crying, her father absent. With red-rimmed eyes, her mother had baked her a cake, given her a present, and together—just the two of them—they’d sung the birthday song. Celia had tried to keep it together, but it was clear to Libby that their life wasn’t together at all.
She looked at her mother across the table now, the lines in her face like battle scars from those trying years, and she felt guilty suddenly for not asking her to lunch. For not trying harder in adulthood to make her happy. Libby had done everything her mother asked of her: She’d worked hard to be successful, to get out of her small town and do something with her life, but it had only occurred to her right then that perhaps she should have shown her mother affection, hugged her a little more. Celia had never been openly affectionate with Libby, and she wondered now if, maybe, Celia didn’t know how.
“I’m glad I got to have lunch with you two today,” Libby said. She was thankful that Mabel had shared Anne’s story with her, and she was glad that she’d had a chance to understand her mother a little more. She wasn’t just saying the words. She was truly grateful.
* * *
Work had been relatively monotonous the entire week. The only excitement Libby had was Pete’s file that she still hadn’t opened. She knew at some point she’d either have to ask Marty to take the account, or she’d have to let Pete know she had it. She left it on her desk until Monday.
The weather had warmed up just enough by the weekend that she found herself dozing on the hammock under the intermittent shade of the pines, the gentle lapping of the water toying with her consciousness. Her Saturday had been uneventful until the roar of a boat engine pulled her right out of her slumber, the speed of it causing waves to roll in, smacking the shore. The sound of the engine got so loud that Libby sat up, shielding her eyes to make out a white speedboat coming toward her. It slowed as it got closer to the shore. Finally the engine stopped and the boat floated in, right onto her beach.
Is that Pete? she thought to herself, squinting at the all-too-familiar figure walking around on the boat deck. He tossed a tire through the air and it landed with a thud in the sand. Then a very long ladder inched its way along the edge of the boat until it fell free onto the shore below. Libby got off the hammock and made her way toward the boat. The wind picked up closer to the water and she held her hair back with her hand to keep it out of her face. She reached the boat just as a coil of rope came flying at her and hit the beach only a few yards away.
“You almost hit me with that!” she called up to the boat. Happiness fizzled inside her at the sight of him. She couldn’t help it. Pete looked over at her, his hair blowing, sunglasses on. Even when his expression was neutral, it looked as though he were almost smiling, as if a smile were the natural resting position for his features, his eyes always dancing, the corners of his mouth turned upward. She walked a little closer toward him just so that she could see it again. As she neared him, it made her feel light and jittery. He moved to the front of the boat and hopped onto the sand.
“What are you doing on my beach?” she asked.
“I’m hanging a swing.” He tugged the boat farther onto the shore to keep it from floating away. The water, still rippling angrily from the boat’s arrival, rushed in around his ankles. “For Thomas and Matthew. Don’t worry. I’ll be gone in a few minutes.” Behind his sunglasses, his expression was different when he looked at her; it was more rigid, as if he’d pulled his face into a straight position just for her benefit. She willed him to smile at her, to let her see that grin, but it wasn’t there.
The miniscule smile she’d seen in the hardware store with Pop, the tiny instance where they’d shared a moment, seemed to be gone. Had he put it on entirely for Pop? Who was she kidding? She didn’t deserve his smile or even pleasant conversation from him. Her heart fell. As the tears came again, without warning, she turned away from him.