Libby remembered it. It was the shower game she’d wanted to play at her own bridal shower. The shower she’d booked at the 21 Club on West 52nd. The shower she’d squealed with delight about because she’d been able to squeeze in her reservation after another group had canceled. The shower that she’d had to call about and tell the event planner that, after all his hard work getting her an open banquet room for thirty-five people, she wasn’t going to make it after all.
“Sure. We can have that game,” she said. “Any other requests? I want it to be perfect.”
“I trust you. You’ll make it better than I can think up. You’re so good at planning these sorts of things. Just keep it classy—nothing too frilly—and I’ll be happy. You sure you’re okay to do all this?”
She wasn’t okay. The thought of making wedding plans after she’d just seen hers vanish into thin air made her chest hurt. It was another one-to-one. Then, as if something in her snapped, she didn’t want one-to-one anymore. She wanted her own happiness. Why should Trish get all the good luck? “Of course,” she replied. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it is here,” she heard herself saying. “It’s like being on vacation all the time! Renovating won’t be hard work at all with this gorgeous view.”
“Wow, that’s really nice,” Trish returned, causing the competition to take a turn. Trish hadn’t said anything about herself yet. Time to throw in an oh-for-two!
“I’m really enjoying it.” Inwardly squirming, Libby thought how she seemed, at that moment, an awful lot like her mother. It was official: she was falling apart.
“Libby, I’m so glad to hear that things are looking up!”
“I hope so.” What am I doing? she thought. Things aren’t looking up. If anything, they’re looking down, further into the abyss that is my life! She grabbed her towel to shake it out, the phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. The wind blew as if to spite her, sending a storm of sand from the towel into her face. “Hey, Trish. I need to go. I have something I need to do.” Wash the sand out of my eyes. “Can I call you later?”
“Absolutely.”
She ended the call, dropped her phone into her handbag, and then sat down on the shore. With sand still in her eyes that were now watering uncontrollably and causing her to blink in an effort to relieve the scratching feeling, she threw her head back and laughed at the absurdity that was her life. There she was, sitting on the beach with a ridiculously small bath towel (that had been in the one box of things that she had) and her Michael Kors tote. The designer handbag sat half buried in the sand. Just like her, that tote was made for city life; it was in the wrong place.
Libby missed New York horribly. All her life, her mother had groomed her to be successful. She’d been in the top five in her high school class, she was an accomplished swimmer, her memberships in school clubs and organizations were a mile long. Those things made her different in her small town, but once she got to Columbia, she met so many other kids like her. There, she felt normal. She wasn’t an overachiever anymore because the others had worked just as hard as she had to get there. Then, as she took her first job in the city, she fell right into place. Working in New York, she was able to mingle with people who had the same ideals, the same goals. She had friends there, friends just like her. There, she could be successful and driven—and not under the judging and boastful eye of her mother. She could just be herself. She felt a freedom that she could never feel back home.
The minute she’d returned to White Stone, that freedom had all but dissolved. She’d sunk a ton of savings into the cottage, she was still paying the loans for her Columbia education, she had nowhere else to live, and she was stuck where she’d never hoped to return. I’m turning thirty tomorrow, she thought, and what do I have to show for it? Her failures made her feel as if she were being held down and unable to move. Having felt the joy of success, coming back was unbelievably demoralizing, as if being so low, she’d never be able to get as high again. I will get through, she told herself, but deep down, it was difficult to believe, given how much had happened to her.
A pinch on the arm sent her hand slapping in that direction, and she remembered that as the sun went down, the mosquitoes came out. Unable to tell at that point if the tears were from the sand or the misery that she felt, she got up and started toward the house.
* * *
“Good morning!” her mother’s voice chirped through the phone.
“Morning.”