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.