Love Me for Me (6 page)

Even though Libby knew that it was probably better that way, she still felt a little sad when she heard his answer to the boys. She shouldn’t have him around though, because it would just make leaving too hard if they became friends again before she left for New York.

“I have to help Miss Libby now. Can I catch you two later?”

The boys ran off, the lanky one waving at Pete and the little one tossing the football into the air. They ran down the gravel road adjacent to the cottage.

“Who were those boys?”

“They live down the beach. The next house up. I promised them a tire swing about a week before Nana died—like the one we used at Catherine’s house.”

She remembered him pushing her so far out over the water that the tickle in her stomach had almost made her lose her grip. It seemed like so long ago.

“But with Nana gone and Pop…” He looked down at the ground and scuffed his shoe along the loose dirt. Libby could tell by his demeanor that he was dealing with something. Seeing his face like that made her want to protect him, help him through whatever it was.

“Leave the boxes. Come in. Tell me about Pop. I miss him so much.” Why had she just asked him to do that? It went against everything she should do… By getting closer with him, she was making things more difficult than they had to be, and she was afraid it might hurt again when she left.

“I can’t. I really have to go,” he said, and she could tell that her concern for Pop had softened him a little. He knew as well as she did what Pop meant to her. “Let me get these boxes out of the car for you, and then I’m off. I have to check on Pop. He’s been alone all morning and sometimes he thinks he can take a walk when he’s been by himself for too long. He forgets…”

“He can’t take a walk?”

“Not when he doesn’t remember how to get home. He has dementia.”

Hugh Roberts, who had been so strong and so intelligent—she couldn’t fathom anything like that happening to him. He was a salesman—medical supplies. People said that he could sell
anything
because he was that sharp, that much on his game. So the thought that someone so bright could have a disease of the brain was tough to take. It seemed like such a loss. As if Anne’s death hadn’t been enough, now Pete was dealing with that.

“Does he… know who you are?”

“Yes. He remembers his family. He remembers Nana... It hasn’t progressed that much yet. He’s just a little forgetful right now.”

A cool breeze rustled the leaves in the trees, causing Libby to look up. The sky was a piercing blue with cumulus clouds that looked like bowls of whipped cream. She wondered if Anne could see the two of them standing there. What would she think about all this: Libby living in her house, talking to her grandson after so many years, Hugh being cared for by Pete? She could almost feel her presence.

“Can you help me? Let’s see if we can get the rest of those boxes inside,” Pete said.

Libby followed him to the truck and, together, they finished unloading the boxes, piling them in the center of the living room, filling nearly the entire floor.

“Thank you,” she said, wiping her hands on her trousers.

“You’re welcome.” He took a step toward her, and for that one second, she felt like time had stood still for those twelve years. It was as if she were the same eighteen-year-old girl she’d been back then when she looked at him.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted. She didn’t know what else to say. She was sorry she’d hurt him, sorry she didn’t get to see Nana, sorry she hadn’t spent time with Pop. She could keep listing the reasons for being sorry, and she felt like that one little word wasn’t good enough, but it was all she had. “I’m sorry,” she said more quietly, her eyes on the wooden floorboards by her feet.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

What did he mean by “okay?” Okay, he knew she was sorry? Okay, he wasn’t upset with her anymore? Okay, he didn’t care one way or the other? She looked for an answer on his face but his expression was neutral, his smile gone. She wanted him to smile. She needed his smile. It always made things so much better.

“Hey,” he said. “Happy birthday.” The corners of his mouth turned up just a bit, winding her stomach tighter than a nautilus shell. That slight glimmer, that infinitesimal look of happiness, took her breath away. “Get anything nice?” he asked, clearly chewing on some thought. Had she finally convinced him that she was truly sorry for what she’d said to him? He had to know that, regardless of her opinions of where he lived, she didn’t have the same opinion of him.

She had a strange urge to grab him by the pockets of his shorts and pull him toward her like she’d always done, but she knew better. “Yeah,” she nodded, thinking how good it felt to be near him. That was gift enough. “I did.”

L
ibby folded
some of the empty boxes and leaned them against the wall upstairs. She’d contemplated not even breaking them down since she hoped that she’d be filling them back up sooner rather than later. She opened the door of the last bedroom upstairs. Tucked away inside the room, on the ceiling, was the attic, accessible by a pull-down lever door, where she planned to store the boxes until she needed them again. Libby tugged on the rope and the door fell open on its hinges, revealing a folded wooden ladder. She unfolded it and stood on the bottom step, testing her weight. It seemed sturdy, so she grabbed a couple of boxes and climbed up.

The warm spring air filtered in through two vents on either end of the house, causing a plume of heat to envelop her the minute she got to the top. The old wood interior smelled of dust and rain. She pulled on the chain of an uncovered light bulb to illuminate the small space. The light clicked on, exposing a roll of old flooring and a few spare tiles from one of the bathrooms.

Libby pushed her hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ears. With a nudge, she thrust the flattened boxes over the flooring. They sent up a cloud of dust as they came to a rest on the other side. She turned around to go back down the ladder but stopped, noticing a yellowed envelope peeking out from under the linoleum flooring. Curious, she pulled it from its spot, wondering if it had old family photos or something the Roberts had left behind. The end had been torn neatly to expose its contents. She flipped it over in her hand, and saw the name “Anne” written in heavy script on the outside. Inside there was only a single sheet of yellowed paper.

The humidity had blanketed her with a sticky, wet heat, so she decided to take the envelope with her downstairs where she could investigate it further in the cool breeze of the bay. With it still in her grip, she left the attic and went outside onto the stoop where the sea air nearly chilled her sweaty skin. Inside the envelope was a letter addressed to Anne. As an impulse, she looked around to make sure no one was watching, even though she was isolated at the Roberts’ cottage. She was being nosy, and she knew it.

She chewed on her lip as she began to read the letter, and she wondered if she should read any further, since the letter had been written for Pete’s grandmother. Libby looked around one more time to ensure that she was alone. Just to be on the safe side, she took the envelope and its contents down to the beach where she could sit in the hammock and read with no interruptions.

She sat down and got comfortable, the old rope creaking beneath her in time with the rising and falling of the waves. The wind caused the letter to flap in her hands so she smoothed it out on her lap, pinning the envelope underneath it, and read:

M
y Dearest Anne
,

I hope this letter finds you well. Thank you for coming to dinner with the others to welcome me back home. I really enjoyed it. I wanted to pull you away and tell you all of this then, but I know that you are an honorable woman, and I would not put you in such a precarious position as to require an immediate response. So now on to the reason for this letter.

Anne, I am shamefully in love with you. My affections for you transcend duty and honor, and I am willing to take a knock to my reputation if it means spending the rest of my life by your side. While I know in my heart that you will not leave your husband, I wanted to put forth this gesture just in case you ever reconsider. Come to Chicago with me. We can live in the city, travel, do anything you’d like. I will buy you a ticket immediately should you want to come with me. You can just leave; I’ll ensure you have everything you need. You know where to find me. I will be waiting, whether you come or not.

Forever yours,

Mitchell

T
his was not
what she had expected to find. Nestling the letter inside its envelope, Libby folded down the jagged flap of paper at the end and pressed it down in her hands. She wondered what Anne had thought of this proposition. Had she considered it? What would her life have been like if she’d accepted Mitchell’s offer and left Hugh to move to Chicago? Indignation swam inside her as she processed Mitchell’s words in the letter. How could he think he could step in and try to ruin what Pop and Nana had together, she wondered? They’d always been the perfect couple, full of love for each other, completely happy. How could someone have tried to interfere with their relationship? She lay back on the hammock and closed her eyes.

She pictured Nana, and a memory of her and Pop one summer’s day came to mind. Pop had a pontoon boat—a big, flat, slow thing that inched its way along the bay. It had a row of seating down each side and a canopy above the helm. Nana always insisted on having a cooler for mixed drinks, her bottle of wine and a picnic basket full of fresh vegetables, crackers, and fruit. Pop dutifully hoisted it all onto the boat before every voyage. Pete had taken Libby along with Pop and Nana on a ride out into the middle of the bay so they could go swimming.

Libby sat on the boat, hugging her knees to keep the chill off her, her tank top coverall flapping in the sea breeze as the boat made its way out into the bay. Pete sat beside her with his arm around her bare shoulders. Occasionally, he toyed with the tie to her swimsuit at the back of her neck. His soft touch, the sun’s heat, and the lull of the waves against the boat were making her drowsy.

Pop came to a stop and lowered the anchor, the boat swaying on the water. Libby was too relaxed to swim, so she’d opted to stay on the boat and read a book. Pete stayed with her. Pop turned on the radio, beach music filling the air. Nana began unpacking snacks and drinks and setting them on the small table on the side of the boat. She had on a halter dress that fell past her knees, and sandals.

There was an ease to the way Pop and Nana communicated. Watching them move about the boat together was lovely. Libby had tried to read, but they were more entertaining. They’d done it so many times that they knew exactly what the other needed. One moved, while the other leaned, back and forth, as they laughed together, helped each other, and set up for the day. When they were finally settled, and Nana was sipping her Chardonnay, Pop gently took it from her hands and set it down next to the picnic basket. He pulled her close to him, placing a hand on her back and holding her other hand out to the side, and he started to dance with her. He spun her around, making her laugh, and then swayed back and forth in time with the waves. Nana lay her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, a smile on her lips. The sight had made Libby lean toward Pete, and he wrapped his arms around her, intertwining his fingers at her shoulder. She thought how she’d like to be that happy one day.

The breeze in the pines above the hammock brought Libby back to the present and she opened her eyes, the feel of the envelope registering under her hand on her stomach. She wanted to find this Mitchell person, tell him how wonderful Pop and Nana were together and how nothing should have ever come between them. Had Nana considered his offer? The mere question made her shudder.

Libby swung her legs over the edge of the hammock, the sea grass tickling her, and tried to clear her mind of the shock of the letter. She was feeling uneasy because of it, and she already had enough making her uneasy. She needed to get up, get on with things, and try to put one more day in that town behind her. She walked back to the house to put the letter in her handbag when she heard her phone ringing through the screen door.

“
W
e miss having
you out with us,” Trish said on the other end of the line as Libby finished hanging up the last of her clothes. They looked out of place in the cottage closet. “I had my first pineapple cocktail the other night. It was fantastic!”

Going out after work in New York was a regular occurrence. Libby wondered if this trend of having dinner and drinks any night of the week had started as a result of the stressful occupations many New Yorkers had. Most of her friends worked for big-name businesses, and with a big name came big demands. Libby’s job had been the same. She usually started work before eight o’clock in the morning, worked through her lunch, and finally finished up after seven thirty. By the time she was done, she was ready for a drink.

“Who went out last Friday?” she asked, although she really didn’t want to know; it was too depressing. The fact that her friends could still have drinks because they were all working and perfectly successful in their own lives only sharpened the edge of her failures, making her feel miserable. She opened up a small box containing jewelry and other accessories and fished through it, untangling her necklaces.

“Sonya and Babs. It was a small crowd.”

She took each necklace and stretched it out along the oak dresser of her new bedroom. There wasn’t a whole lot of storage in the cottage, so she’d have to get creative as to where to put things. For now, she was just focused on unpacking so as not to use up the entire evening. She wanted to try and send out a few more applications.

“Anything interesting happen?” she asked.

Trish sighed. “No, same old thing.”

“Apart from the new cocktail.”

“Yes! Apart from that. What have you been up to? Lots of sunbathing, I hope.”

She rested the phone between her shoulder and ear as she tugged at two more necklaces. “A little.” On vacation, one can lie around in the sun and enjoy it, but in her current situation, she saw it as a sentence for her shortfalls, a prison to keep her away from the successes she knew would make her happy.

“Well, I didn’t want to bombard you after the last phone call, so I waited until you were a little more settled… I was wondering if I could offer some possible dates for the shower and the brunch? It looks like we have a few parties on Kevin’s side to attend.”

Everything sounded so festive—so many celebrations. She wanted to be happy for Trish. She was trying very hard despite the sinking feeling that she’d ruined her own chance. But, if Libby was an expert at anything, it was planning. All her life, she’d been a planner. As a girl, she’d always been
that
person who did all the inviting and organizing whenever she went out with her friends. She had meticulously structured her courses in high school to ensure the most attractive transcript for colleges. Her entire life she’d spent fine-tuning her years down to the last detail to ensure her success.

Sometimes, however, even the best plans went south. Look at where all of that planning had gotten her. But this would give her a project of sorts, which she welcomed. “Of course! What are the dates?” she asked, dragging another moving box toward her with her free hand.

While Trish told her the days to work around, she pulled a wooden container from the moving box. It had been sanded down until the surface was as smooth as glass, the grains evident under the clear varnish. On one side of the lid were two brass hinges with curling details, and on the other side, a brass latch. Her memory box. She set it down next to her necklaces and opened the lid. “Other than the dates you can’t,” she scooted the moving box to the side with her foot, “do you have any particular days you’d like better, or do you want me to pick?” she asked.

“Could you fit them in during the next month or two? I know that’s probably a lot on you, given that you’ve just moved and you’re trying to do renovations.”

“It’s fine.”

“Okay! Then you pick the dates and I’ll be there!”

“Will do.”

After jotting down a list of possible times and dates for the shower and the odd detail about the brunch, they said their goodbyes and Libby stopped unpacking. It was time for a break. The sun was setting, painting the sky a vibrant pink. On the side of the cottage, off the kitchen, there was a small screened-in porch. It had a paddle fan and a comfortable porch swing. When Wade had mentioned buying furniture, the only piece that she argued over was that swing because from it, one could look across two acres of lawn, straight out to the sunrise over the bay in the morning, and the moon casting its glistening light in the late evenings.

She’d been on that porch with Pete enough to understand the necessity of a solid piece of furniture for that location, but her memory hadn’t done it justice. The photos didn’t let in the light breeze coming off the bay or the shushing sound of the waves as they kissed the sand during high tide, the rustling of the pines, and the almost electric sounds of the insects in the woods. All those sounds, together with the
clap, clap, clap
of the paddle fan, were more like silence than anything she’d had in a long time.

She just sat, gently rocking, her long strands of blond hair moving ever so slightly with the wind. The silence, while calming, made her more homesick. She wanted the velocity of the city, to be back in her reality where she could make progress toward her goals. But she was stuck in a place where nothing moved forward. If anything, it yanked her backward in time, like quicksand. Tears swelled in her eyes as she thought of it all. She tried to steady her breathing by matching her inhales and exhales with the tide.

A knock at the screen door behind her sent her leaping to her feet. She hadn’t even heard anyone walk up.

“Sorry, hon. Did I startle ya?” Jeanie stood with a covered dish in mitted hands.

“It’s okay.”

She held out her dish, the steam escaping from under the foil. “I brought you some supper.” Libby held the screen door open, allowing her to enter. “It ought to last you a few nights… You been cryin’?”

“No, I think it’s just the salty air.”

“You’ve been away too long if your eyes are tearin’ up from fresh air!” she said, shuffling up the three wooden steps. She knocked her feet against the boards on the porch, Libby guessed to get the stray sand off her shoes. “You need some good chicken casserole to reacquaint ya with this part of the world, Miss Libby!” She left Libby on the porch and headed inside toward the kitchen.

Libby had known Jeanie all her life, and she was more mothering than her mother had ever been. With her big bear hugs, concerned eyes and loving smile, she was one of Libby’s favorite people. Once, when her mother had been telling a group of shoppers at the local supermarket all of the top universities she’d planned to visit with Libby, Jeanie caught Libby’s eye, pursed her lips, and rolled her eyes. That had been the first time it had occurred to Libby that perhaps her mother’s way wasn’t always the right way.

She could talk to Jeanie.

“It’s still hot so come and dish yourself some,” Jeanie said as Libby pulled a chair out at the wicker dinette she’d put in the small nook in the kitchen. “Mind if I have some too? I’ve got some apple pie out in the car, but I couldn’t get it in one trip.”

“Not at all.” She pulled out a second chair and then went to the cabinets to get dishes. She set them down on the counter and grinned at Jeanie who had already found a serving spoon in the drawer and was dishing out their servings. “Thank you, Jeanie, for thinking of me. You didn’t have to do all this.” She was so grateful to have Jeanie and so thankful that she had brought her dinner. No one had ever brought her a fresh-baked pie in New York. More than the food, she could tell that Jeanie cared, and it felt good to be cared for.

Jeanie waved a dismissive hand as if it were nothing, but Libby knew she’d taken a lot of time to prepare it, even if she didn’t want to admit it. “You don’t have an apron hangin’ around here,” she noted.

Libby shook her head. “Nope. Don’t cook much.”

“Hmm. Well, I’ll help you out for now, but you’d better get to practicin’ because no cookin’ ’round these parts means no eatin’!”

Libby allowed a little huff of laughter to escape at that remark. Jeanie was right. If Miller’s even did takeout, it would probably start to get really old by the end of the month, considering the limited menu, and the other few places around also served mostly seafood which would wear out its welcome after a while.

Jeanie set two glasses of tap water onto the table, pulled the chair across from Libby out a little farther, and lowered herself down. Draping a paper towel in her lap, she asked, “How are you
really
doin’?”

“Not great,” she said, looking at her steaming chicken and pasta.

“Thought so. That’s why I stopped by tonight. I could tell when I saw you last.” They ate in silence for a moment. Libby knew that she was waiting for her to say something, but she just didn’t know what to say. She didn’t even know where to begin. Jeanie took a bite of chicken and followed it with a swig of water. “Wanna talk about it?”

She wanted to say “no,” but with Jeanie, she knew that her secrets were safe. She took a deep breath and let it out like a burst pipe, the tension in her shoulders pinching her neck—and tried to figure out how to verbalize her thoughts. “It’s hard coming back… hard to see everyone.”

Jeanie nodded and took another bite. Through the glass in the door, a swarm of tiny bugs circled the porch light outside the kitchen window. “By ‘
everyone
,’ you mean Pete?”

There it was. Jeanie just laid it all out there. But she was right. Libby couldn’t lie to Jeanie. “That’s a big part of it, yeah.”

“Have you two had a chance to talk?”

“Some. I don’t think he hates me anymore. Now he just doesn’t like me,” Libby smiled.

“I’ve heard of married couples worse off than that. Maybe you two can work things out then.”

“Maybe,” she smiled, knowing that she meant Pete’s “maybe” and not the real one.

“If you did work things out, would you stay?”

“No.” Her shoulders were tightening with the complete misery of her predicament. She could feel the stress welling up. Why did she even have to have dated Pete Bennett? They’d been friends for so long. Why had they taken that next step? It made everything so complicated. He was a fantastic person, just not the right one for her, and now it left them in a very odd place.

“You might surprise yourself. Not everyone wants to leave this town. There’s a lot of good here, you know. Some people like it enough to spend their whole lives here.”

Jeanie’s comment brought to mind Anne’s letter and the choices that she’d had before her. Regardless of what may have happened,
she’d
stayed. Libby wanted to tell Jeanie about it, but she knew it wasn’t her secret to tell. She wondered if Jeanie knew anything about the man named Mitchell or if she had heard any stories about trouble between Pop and Nana. They had been so perfect together; it seemed unthinkable that anything could have put a wedge between them, yet the point crept into her mind that Nana had been given the chance to escape that town for something bigger.

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” Jeanie asked.

Libby set down her fork and put her hands in her lap. She took a moment to look around the kitchen, the old wallpaper still there where Nana had hung it. “I think about Nana and Pop a lot since coming home,” she said. “Being here brings back so many memories.”

Jeanie took a sip of her water and nodded, following Libby’s gaze as she looked around the room once more. Jeanie had known Hugh and Anne Roberts quite well. During so many of the times she sought a retreat from the demands of her mother, and she’d come to the Roberts’ place with Pete, Jeanie had been there. Libby had never said a bad word to anyone about her mother, but whenever she’d shown up, it was as if Jeanie already knew.

“Do you remember what they were like when you were young?” she asked, trying to ascertain how Mitchell could have even gotten into the picture. “They were always so happy. As a kid, it never occurred to me, but now, I wonder about their life together.” She scooped a bite of casserole onto her fork. “Didn’t you say that you’d attended their wedding? I’ll bet it was wonderful.”

“I did go to their weddin’,” Jeanie smiled. “I was seven.” The paddle fan clacked outside as it spun the warm air around on the porch. “I remember her dress so well because I was at that age where I still thought it might be possible to be a princess one day. And that’s exactly what Anne looked like.”

Libby leaned on her fist, her elbow propped on the table. “Tell me what she looked like.”

“She had a long, ivory dress. The top was a mixture of lace and satin. It went right up to her neck and down her arms. She had a large sash of satin at her waist, and a train—I swear—the length of a football field. At least that’s how I remember it.” Jeanie stood up. “Come on out with me. Let’s get the pie from the car.”

The crickets hummed outside as they walked into the late evening air. The sun was still resting on the edge of the horizon, casting enough light into the night sky to make the trees look like silhouettes against the sapphire-blue background.

“I’ll bet Nana was a pretty young woman,” Libby said, opening Jeanie’s car door and allowing her to take the pie off the passenger seat. With the open car windows, the smell of cinnamon and apples wafted up toward her as if it were just out of the oven.

“She was. I’ve heard she was the catch of the town when she was a girl.” Jeanie stepped to the side, holding the tin while Libby shut the car door. “In her—I suppose—thirties, she always had red lips and her dark hair rolled up on the sides in pin curls. So pretty.”

“How long had she known Pop before they got married?”

“I’m not sure. That was before my time. But I’ve never known a happier couple,” she said as they went inside.

Libby opened a drawer and pulled out a knife. It was all she had for serving apple pie. As she dished the dessert, she was left to ponder the man named Mitchell and how he’d offered to take Nana away from Pop.