“Congratulations,” she said, feeling genuinely happy for her friend.
Libby walked down the aisle, holding a bouquet of roses, the stems wrapped in wide, white satin, an Austrian crystal broach holding the whole thing together. As she walked to the front of the church, she thought about the meaning of the day. She was struck again by the fact that it wasn’t about the dresses or the flowers or the church. It was about celebrating that one person that you love more than anyone else in the entire world. She turned, walked to the right and took her place next to the center of the church where Trish would stand with Kevin to say her vows.
* * *
It seemed as though the entire room were made of glass. Windows stretched from the floor all the way to the three-story ceiling, the flickers of candles reflecting off their surface. The tables were covered in white linen, and summer blooms cascaded down vases the size of baseball bats. Everything about Trish’s reception, down to the hand-calligraphy on the place cards, was perfect. The reception was in full swing by the time she had finished her bridal party photos, and Libby was ready to relax.
She sat alone at her table as the other couples meandered onto the dance floor. She wondered what Pete was doing at that moment. Was Pop okay? Was Pete tired, or had he managed to have a good night’s sleep? With no one to talk to, she pulled out her phone from the tiny clutch that had been her bridesmaid’s gift, and checked to be sure there weren’t any messages. Nothing. Would he text her if Pop was having trouble?
“Libby!” she heard Trish’s voice and turned around. Libby had helped her remove her veil and pin up the train of her dress before the reception, so Trish was swishing toward her easily, an unfamiliar man on her arm. “This is Clyde Williams. He works with me. I told him that you may like to dance.” She winked at Libby. “Clyde, this is Libby Potter, the girl I told you about.” Trish dropped his arm, smiled at both of them, and swished away into the crowd, leaving Clyde in front of Libby.
“Hi,” he smiled, sitting down next to her.
“Hello,” she returned weakly.
“How do you know Trish?” he asked, clearly unable to come up with something better. Weddings were full of that sort of conversation. Libby had already had it about five other times that day.
Clyde seemed like a nice guy. He had a genuine smile, and his face showed interest, but she didn’t even want to give it a shot. Normally, she’d have perked up, smiled bigger than usual, crossed her legs at just the right time, gotten a drink, and made light conversation. She didn’t want to do that right then. The idea of it was exhausting.
“I’m just a friend of hers,” she said with a smile. It wasn’t Clyde’s fault she was in the state she was in.
“Would you like to get a drink?”
“Actually,” she feigned a tired look—although the conversation was making it a reality—“I’m really tired and I don’t feel well. I’m going to head out soon. Sorry. Thank you, though.”
“No problem. Maybe we’ll meet again sometime.”
“Maybe,” she said and smiled to herself, knowing which “maybe” she meant.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Libby’s alarm clock went off, the sound registering, but she kept her eyes closed. It was still strange being back in New York. She was finally getting settled, but she kept thinking about White Stone and the people in it. It was strange the way going home had changed her. She wondered about Pop and how he was doing, if Catherine was feeling okay at the start of her pregnancy.
She wondered about Pete, about what he was doing, about how he spent his day... She’d never be able to feel his arms around her on the boat, watch her toes dangle off the edge of the pier next to his, lie on a hammock as the weight of the two of them rolled them into one another, forcing their limbs to intertwine. She looked around at the stark walls, the gray of the buildings outside casting the only color in the room, as tears clouded her vision.
Pete had said she could text any time, so she decided to type a text to him: Hi. How are things? Her finger hovered over the word send. Did he care to hear from her? Would she be bothering him? She could feel the weight on her shoulders as she pondered it all. She’d never had to think so hard about sending a simple text before, but she wanted to be sure that Pete was okay and that Pop was managing. Without thinking anymore, she hit the button, and it was done.
The coffee pot had just finished percolating, so she poured herself a cup and sat down at the tiny table she’d set up in a corner of the living area. Her phone was still quiet, so she opened the newspaper and started to read the In Style section.