“So,” she said, wavering slightly, “would you live in New York?”
Pete’s face was serious, his eyes appraising. “Maybe,” he said without even the hint of a smile, and she knew exactly what that “maybe” meant.
Realizing the disappointment that had most likely made its way to her face, she quickly recovered, straightening out her features to a more cordial expression. She nodded, her hopes dashed. She’d known the answer; it was silly of her to even ask. “I figured,” she said.
“Why are you even asking that, Libby? With that one question, you’re telling me that you don’t know me at all.” She’d never seen him look at her like that before, even when she’d told him about Columbia. He wasn’t stung, or hurt; he seemed angry and frustrated. “First, I hate New York. I would never want to live there. Second, I wouldn’t leave the state when Pop was healthy,” he hissed in a whisper. “How could you even think that I would leave him now? Don’t you care at all? What should I do, Libby? Put Pop in a home, sell it all, and go run off with you somewhere away from everyone I love?”
Humiliation sheeted over her. What would she tell him? How could she ever explain to him why she’d asked about New York? She wouldn’t dare admit to him that she was crazy about him, and she had wanted to know if he’d leave everything to be with her. It sounded awful hearing it from his lips. It had been outrageous even to ask. What was she thinking?
Chapter Twelve
While Marty was digging head first into the copier machine, pulling out wads of sooty paper, Libby looked out the window at the late afternoon sky, still thinking about her question to Pete. Their conversation had been mortifying and it had kept her up all night. The conversation went round and round in her head: her motive for asking and what she’d actually implied when she’d asked. She hadn’t meant to sound like she had; she had just needed to know if there was any chance they could be together. And there wasn’t.
She reached into her newly organized file cabinet and pulled out his file, looking around as if someone would scold her for even having it. The idea of rifling through Pete’s finances made her extremely self-conscious. Noting his contact information, she pulled out her cell and sent him a text: Hi. Just wanted to inform you that I’ve been assigned as your accountant. Let me know if this is a problem and you’d prefer someone else to look over your finances. If not, I’ll have you sign a consent form. Libby.
Her phone lit up: You can do my taxes. It’s fine.
She texted back: Are you sure?
Her phone pinged again. I should feel lucky, right? Not everyone in this town gets a fancy New York accountant with a degree from Columbia.
She stared down at the plant by the window, its leaves drooping and looking a lot like she felt at that moment. She texted back: I’ll send you the form. She was too tired to text anything more.
She looked around again, still self-conscious about viewing Pete’s documents. With a flourish, she opened it up and peered down at the contents. At a quick glance, it looked like Pete had a few separate IT jobs and his own web design company. She turned the page. He’d also invested some money in the winery down the road. Impressive, she thought.
She checked her phone but Pete hadn’t said anything more, so she turned the sound off and dropped it into her bag before she typed anything else. She didn’t want to have to think about him any more than she already had.
* * *
Libby woke to a stream of sunlight piercing her vision. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept that well. She’d spent most of the evening planning Trish’s bridal shower, and found herself in bed before nine o’clock. Blinking to clear her vision, she pulled her phone over to see what time it was when she noticed a text waiting for her. She sat up in bed to escape the blinding light and opened the message. The number was Jeanie’s. It read, Good morning! I’m picking you up at ten o’clock for a party. This is a two-man mission. I need someone to help me carry food. Wear something a little dressy.
Libby kicked the blankets off her legs and put her feet on the sun-warmed floor. What if she didn’t want to go to a party? Walking back and forth across the hardwoods, she mulled it over. The thought of hanging out with Jeanie did sound very appealing—she needed a friendly face—but she should really focus on the things she had to do at the cottage. Then she wondered, Will Pete be at this party of Jeanie’s? The idea of seeing him caused Libby’s hands to get tingly and her mouth to feel like it was full of cotton. Her phone faded to black and she set it on the dresser.