“Jeanie,” she turned on the swing, tucking her leg under herself, “I’m sorry I left for college and didn’t ever call or anything.”
“Aw, honey.” Jeanie patted Libby’s knee. “I’m glad to hear that. You know, God didn’t offer me what he offered your mom, and I’m okay with that. I love you as if you were my own child. Here or not here—I still love ya.”
A knock at the screen door stopped them rocking. With the wind in her ears, she couldn’t ever hear when people came up to the screen door. When Libby stood to open it, she recognized Tim Mathis from the flower shop. She’d grown up with him. He was two years younger than her in school. His parents owned the local florist, and it seemed he’d carried on in their footsteps. Tim was holding a vase with at least two dozen red roses.
“Hi, Tim,” she said as she accepted the arrangement.
“Hey there! It’s been a while.”
“Sure has!”
“I heard you’d come back from New York.”
She nodded.
“Well, New York is following ya. Got the call for these this morning,” he pointed to the flowers.
“Thank you so much.” Libby said goodbye and plucked the card from the flowers.
It read: I miss you. Give me another chance. Love, Wade. Looking at the flowers—those perfectly arranged, identical, red roses—she realized how unoriginal they were. Wade knew what he was supposed to do, but he didn’t have any heart behind it. There was no passion there, and she just hadn’t realized it until right then. Certainly, it was nice to get red roses, but in Wade’s case, it had been a box to check: Bad Breakup: Red Roses. She didn’t want the perfectly arranged bouquet; she wanted something with heart. She set them on the table.
“Hello? Don’t just leave me sittin’ over here! Who’re they from?”
“Sorry,” she smiled. “They’re from a man named Wade. He was my fiancé…”
“Was? Looks like he wants to be an is.”
“Yes. He does.” She pinched one of the stems and pulled it toward her to take in its scent. As she maneuvered the large, glass vase on the small porch table, it occurred to her how out of place and formal they seemed there.
“What happened?”
“We dated for a year before he proposed. Then, a year after that, not long after I lost my job, he broke it off. He said he was scared.”
“You gonna give it another shot with him?”
Libby shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“There are plenty other fish in the sea. This sea in particular,” she winked. “Well, honey, I’m gonna head out.” Jeanie opened the screen door, the porch swing still swaying from her exit. “You need to check on our boys anyway.”
* * *
After Jeanie had gone, Libby had a chance to be alone in the cottage. The reality of leaving finally hit her. Her plans were coming together and she was heading for the life she’d spent so long building for herself, but there was so much here she could still do. She would miss the new friendship she’d started with her mom, Jeanie’s wit, Helen’s kind nature, and she still felt she could help with caring for Pop. Then there was Pete. She felt it in her soul: he could make someone so happy. If only it could be her.
She wanted to spend every minute with Pop and Pete until she left so, after much consideration, she’d decided to go over to see him. It was an odd feeling, wanting to be there for Pop. Nothing had changed. She still wanted to move on with her life, but it was as if the past were creeping up on her, pulling her in. It muddled her thoughts and made her chest ache.
She pulled the car up the drive and parked it next to Pete’s Bronco. He opened the door before she could even get up the steps.
“Hey,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.
“Hi.” She noticed the gold flecks in his hair. His hair had always turned golden in the summer, and, as the weather got warmer, the gold was showing up again. He had a heavy stubble today—she’d never seen him unshaven like that before—and he had his glasses on. It made him look older.
“How’s Pop?” she asked.
“He’s okay today. He’s taking a nap. He’s been awfully tired lately.”
“As are you, I’m sure.”
“Ah, I’m fine.” He waved a dismissive hand in the air. “I just have to keep my head on a swivel with him around.”
“How long has he been like this?” she said as he shut the door behind them and led her to the living room.
“A few months. I’ve noticed it coming on gradually. It started when, one day, he couldn’t do the math to settle his checkbook. He was at the desk, punching numbers over and over on the calculator. That was the first thing. That same week, he was out of his favorite pancake mix—the blueberry kind. He’d gone with me to the store to get more, and that afternoon he didn’t remember going.”