Love Me for Me (7 page)

L
ibby felt
strange to be dressed down. Even her casual clothes were out of place there—as Jeanie had pointed out last night after dinner—so she’d gone to the local clothing store and purchased a simple pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of flip flops. She had needed some clothes to wear when she worked on the cottage. The new outfit was also fitting for trips to the hardware store.

With her gift card in hand, she’d decided to try again and see if she could find something to get that kitchen wallpaper off. It didn’t hurt matters that Jeanie had told her Pete was always in the hardware store and that he liked to take Pop there around noon before lunch. Since his dementia had worsened, Pop liked to build things, and he made Pete take him to Wentworth’s almost daily.

There were so many things she wanted to say to Pete, to explain herself more, to make the situation between them better. She hadn’t worked out exactly how she wanted to say it all, and she didn’t know if she’d have the emotional stability to do it, but she still wanted to see him. She stood, staring at the various brands of paper stripper, scrutinizing the benefits of each, when she heard a familiar voice that sent flutters shooting through her stomach.

“Wow. That’s an improvement.”

She spun around to find Pete, right on time. The sight stunned her. It hadn’t been Pete who’d captured her attention. It was Pop, who was standing next to him. Pop looked considerably older than the last time she’d seen him. His hair, now completely white, didn’t stay down quite as easily anymore, and he seemed smaller, thinner. It took her by surprise so much that she didn’t even speak for fear her mouth would gape open. Her strong and protective Pop had withered to this feeble old man. But his big, bushy eyebrows rose when he caught sight of her and his face lit up.

“Libby!” he nearly shrieked before wrapping her in a tight bear hug. He pulled back, his hands trembling with old age and covered in sun spots. With everything else in town, time had stood still, but not for Hugh Roberts. He had definitely moved along with the years. But upon closer inspection, his smile was the same and his eyes were still friendly. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too,” she said, her eyes glassy from tears. She’d missed so many good years with him. Seeing how he looked now made her wish she had at least called him. She wrapped her arms around him, noticing how her fingers met at his back. He’d been a broad, tall man when she was growing up, and she could barely get her arms around him, but now he was so much smaller. He didn’t smell the same or feel the same, but it was him. She leaned back to look at his face and smiled, blinking the tears out of her eyes. “I missed you,” she said again.

“Have you come back to see Pete?” he asked.

“Um,” she wavered. Clearly he was thrilled at the idea, and she didn’t want to disappoint him. Pete seemed to read her thoughts and nodded at her as if to say,
Say yes
. “Yes, I have.”

Hugh clapped his hands together in one loud motion. “Oh! That’s fantastic. Great news!” he said before turning down an aisle and heading toward the packets of nails.

“Pop’s making a bookcase today. He needed some supplies.”

Together they walked behind Hugh toward the spot where he had stopped to inspect a few small bags of nails. Being next to Pete made her knees feel loose and weak as if she couldn’t hold herself up. He wasn’t his normal friendly self, but he was pleasant instead of harsh, and she couldn’t help but notice it. Was his friendly demeanor because he understood how hard it was for her to explain herself and apologize for her actions? Or was it for Pop’s benefit? “What did you mean by ‘That’s an improvement?’” Libby asked, her arm brushing against his.

“Your outfit. You finally look like one of us,” he said, that familiar amusement hiding behind his eyes. “Not that I don’t like the other outfits. This just seems more you.” The corners of his mouth turned up, and his grin unleashed an unexpected swarm of butterflies in her stomach.

The problem was that it wasn’t her at all. Not anymore. She didn’t feel any more comfortable in these clothes than she had in the others, but for different reasons.

“You miss Pop,” Pete said. “Glad you’re not heartless at least.”

She could feel the sting of sadness, and she tried not to let it show. “I missed him so much,” she said. “I missed you
both
so much.” She wished she could sit him down right there and tell him everything she was feeling: how she’d cried about leaving him, how empty she’d felt for so long, how much she’d wanted to be with him.

Pete didn’t respond to her comment, but she could see his face become calm, his eyes moving in thought. His jaw wasn’t clenched anymore like it had been the other times she’d seen him, and the line between his eyes was gone. Perhaps she was getting through to him.

“Found them!” Hugh scuffled toward Libby and Pete, a small bag dangling from his fingers. Then he stopped and held the bag unusually far from himself and squinched up his nose. “How much are they?”

“It’s fine, Pop. I’ve got it.”

“Nope! No, no, no. I can pay for it, son. How much is it?”

“Three dollars and some change.” Pete gave Libby a conspiratorial glance, and they both had to hide their grin, for they both knew how stubborn Hugh Roberts could be. With all the other changes in him clearly, that trait had held on. The common ground gave her a floating sensation, as if all their issues were pulled from her shoulders in that one moment. Pete was smiling. At her. There was nothing better than that. Even if, once Pop wasn’t there, they still had the same problems, it gave her a chance to feel good, and she hadn’t had that in a long time.

Even though she still needed to get the wallpaper stripping liquid and a few things for the cottage, Libby walked with them to the register where Hugh paid for his nails. The same mustached man from the other day handed him his change. “So, my boy, should we leave Libby to her shopping?”

Pete looked straight at her, right into her eyes, and it was as if they were the only two there. “Maybe,” he said. The word had come out like
Maybe we should
, but Libby wondered if he really meant
their
maybe. Did he not want to leave her? She kept her face clear of any emotion just in case it was all in her head.

“You’ll have to stop by the house sometime,” Hugh said, embracing her to say goodbye.

Libby nodded and smiled, unsure of an appropriate response to that suggestion.

“Well, give her a hug then and we’ll be on our way!” Hugh said.

Tension zinged through her. Pete let out a nervous-sounding chuckle but took a step toward her, putting his arms around her. Then, to her surprise, he pulled her close just like he had so many years ago, his lips on the top of her head, her face nestled into his chest—it was only an instant, and then it was done. He’d pulled away before she’d even had a chance to really register the feeling. Unexpectedly, all the emotions from the last few weeks flooded her body, and tears surfaced in her eyes again.

Libby had so many feelings when it came to Pete: sadness because she missed his protective nature, the way he made her feel like nothing would ever hurt her; complete joy at seeing him again; anxiety because of how he felt about her now. She didn’t want him to hate her, but just that tiny glimpse of how he used to be with her made everything more difficult than it had ever been. The more he let her in, the harder it would be to leave. She wasn’t eighteen anymore, and this time she knew exactly what she was leaving. She didn’t want to repeat the feeling she’d had the last time she’d left, knowing that she’d never get to be with him again. She couldn’t bear it after everything else that had happened. She pushed her tears away.

“See ya,” he said. She could tell he had noticed her tears despite her effort to hide them. Hugh patted him on the back. The receipt for the nails floated off the counter and down to the floor where it rested, exposed on the empty concrete. Libby picked it up as Pete and Hugh walked through the door, neither one of them looking back. She folded it and slid it into her pocket. Pete wasn’t as angry anymore; she could feel it. That memory needed to be kept, so Pop’s receipt was destined for her memory box.

“
A
firm
” had been
a generous description of Marty’s business. The only people there were Marty, his receptionist called Janet, and Libby. Marty Bruin was shorter than Libby, had unmanageably curly hair, and twitched a lot when he spoke, making him appear nervous when he probably wasn’t. That was the great thing about accounting, however; one didn’t have to be a people person. He was pleasant and cheerful, and he’d given her a desk by the window, which was gracious of him since there were only two windows—the other being by the reception area.

“Here are your accounts, he said, handing her a small box of files. The coffeemaker is over by Janet…” The receptionist waved. “And the bathrooms are just down the hall on the left.”

“Thank you,” Libby smiled.

Marty stood by her desk in silence for an unsettling amount of time, his hand propped up on the wall behind her. She wondered if she should make small talk in an effort to move him along. Before she could offer anything, he said, “I’ll be just over there,” and pointed toward a small desk with papers haphazardly scattered over it. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I sure will, Marty. Thank you again for the work. I am very grateful for it. I think I’ll dig right in!” Libby slid the box toward her.

Marty clicked his tongue and raised his eyebrows—another one of his gestures. Then, he grinned and waved, heading over to his desk. Libby flipped through the files in the banker’s box in front of her. She had accounts for a handful of local store owners, a veterinarian, and a head of a construction company, but piquing her interest was a file labeled Peter Bennett. From his account details, it seemed that
her
Pete had his own web development business, and he was certainly doing well for himself. With a flush of heat to her face, she slapped the file shut and put it back into the box. It didn’t matter what their history was, she didn’t feel right looking at his yearly income summary.

By lunch time, she’d trudged through the numbers for a few of her clients and created reports reflecting their taxable income. Her stomach growled and she figured that it was as good a time as any to get some lunch, so she let Marty know, out of courtesy, and walked outside into the magnificent sunshine.

Two doors down was The Bay Café, which during the summer months drew in vacationers but today was only moderately busy. The floor was traditionally tiled in large black and white tiles, a handful of tables turned to look like diamonds rather than squares, were covered in red gingham cloths, and sitting in the center of each table was a shiny bucket of fresh yellow and white daisies. Following the note on the chalkboard sign to
seat yourself
, Libby found the table nearest the corner and sat down.

It wasn’t until she was settled in her chair and had ordered her iced tea that she saw Mabel Townley, Anne Roberts’s best friend, dining alone. She didn’t look exactly as Libby had remembered her, but it was clear that it was her. Like Hugh, her age had caught up with her: her light-brown hair was now almost completely silver, her shoulders rounded forward as if the weight of her own body were too much for her these days. Wire-rimmed glasses sat just a little too low on her nose, and she pushed them back up into place. Mabel spotted her and smiled, her lips pressed together. Libby waved.

Seeing Mabel, she wondered if Anne’s best friend knew anything about Mitchell or his letter. She sat at her table engrossed in her own thoughts. Could Nana have been unfaithful to Pop? Certainly she hadn’t seemed like the type of person who would stray, but then again, was there a
type
for those people? She wondered if Nana had ever been unhappy living in White Stone, if she, too, wanted something more. The letter bothered her considerably, but she knew why. Pop and Nana’s relationship had always seemed so easy, so comfortable. It was an unsettling feeling, thinking that their relationship may not have been as perfect as it seemed. Every time she looked over at Mabel Townley, she wondered what she knew. Libby traced the square pattern in the table with her fingernail.

“Libby!” Celia Potter came clacking through the small dining area, flinging her hand up at Mabel in a quick hello. “Why didn’t you call me, honey? I’d have met you for lunch.” She looked down at her silver bangle watch and twisted it on her wrist to see the time. “Did you just get here?”

“Yep,” Libby leaned over and pulled out a chair, trying to sit up a little straighter so she wouldn’t have to hear anything from her mother about it. She realized what she was doing and immediately relaxed her body. She didn’t have to please her anymore; she was a grown woman. It was time she started thinking like it. “They haven’t gotten my drink order yet, so you’re just in time. You can join me now,” she gestured to the chair she’d pulled out. That was the trouble with a small town; with only one main street and a handful of places to go, running into people was inevitable.

“What a pleasant surprise!” she said, sitting down. “I was just going to pick something up but now we can have lunch together.” Celia dropped her handbag under the table and spun around toward Mabel. “Are you by yourself too, Mabel? Come over here and join us if you’d like.”

Mabel carefully hoisted herself up, steadying her legs by holding on to the table. Then she ambled over. Watching her mother’s ease of conversation there only made Libby wish again for her old life in New York. She didn’t feel comfortable at all. People there didn’t seem as driven as they did in New York, their pace was slower. It had never worked for her as a kid, and it still didn’t work. In her small town there was nothing. And there never would be anything. Just the same thing, day in and day out.

A waitress appeared, transported Mabel’s lemonade over to Libby’s table, and filled their water glasses with a pitcher of iced water. “Can I take your order?” she asked. “Or do you need a minute?”

“I’m ready,” Mabel said, still wriggling herself into a comfortable position. “I’ll just have the southern fried steak and potatoes.” She looked over at Libby and Celia. “I get the same thing every time I come!” she chuckled. She pulled off the paper band from the silverware and draped the napkin in her lap.

“I think we’re probably ready too,” Celia said, smiling in Libby’s direction. “I’ll just have a salad. Do you have Ranch dressing?” The waitress nodded, and Celia turned toward Libby who, until that very moment, hadn’t given a second thought to what she was going to eat. She scanned her menu quickly. What should she get? The choices seemed almost foreign to her now: Chicken and Dumplings, Fried Catfish, Pulled Pork Barbeque. “I’ll have the same, please.” she said in defeat.

“Libby, it’s good to see you,” Mabel said, squeezing the juice of the complimentary lemon wedge into her lemonade and stirring it with a spoon. “You’re living in the Roberts’ place, right?”

She nodded.

“It has a lovely view of the bay from the screened porch. Anne and I used to sit out there all the time. I just don’t get that kind of breeze on my porch.”

“You’ve known Anne a long time, haven’t you?” Libby asked. Had Mabel been at the dinner with Anne and Mitchell that night, she wondered? If Anne had feelings for Mitchell, might she have shared them with Mabel?

“I’ve known her all my life. We lived next door to each other growing up, and we went all the way through school together.” She moved around in her chair, her face showing discomfort as if her sitting position were giving her pain. “We didn’t go away to a fancy college like you, Miss Libby,” she smiled.

Libby broke eye contact and looked down at her lap, but she could feel that her mother and Mabel were both still looking at her. She didn’t want to make things uncomfortable so she pretended to notice something on the napkin in her lap. Heat rose up her neck and onto her face. She hoped they couldn’t see it. Did Mabel think she thought herself high and mighty like Pete had? Did she think Libby was just like her mother, too? Libby offered a counterfeit smile and then took a sip of her water to alleviate her drying mouth.

“I’m glad we stayed here, got married here, and lived out our years here… It gave me more time with my best friend,” Mabel said, her expression thoughtful. “I remember when Anne and Hugh bought that cottage of yours.”

“You do?”

Mabel nodded.

As a kid, Libby hadn’t ever considered the lives of Pop and Nana as young people; she’d only seen the end result of their young choices. From her perspective, they seemed happy, settled. They enjoyed their family and each other. What must it have been like for Nana when she’d decided to spend her life with Pop and move into a home they’d bought together?

“She’d spent the whole first month decorating,” Mabel smiled. “I wasn’t married yet, but I longed to be as happy as she was. I helped her sew the curtains for every one of the rooms. She and Hugh barely had enough money to scrape by, but Anne hadn’t let that discourage her. She wanted to make the little cottage into a home, and she certainly did,” Mabel chuckled. “Anne had wanted an oriental rug in the living room, I remember—that was the only thing she couldn’t make herself—but she never complained that she didn’t have it. Never once. We’d look at them at the furniture store in town. Whenever she’d admit that she wanted it, she’d always follow with, ‘Ah, it’s just a thing. Things don’t make us happy; people do.’ She and I made table cloths, draperies, and linens… everything we could. Hugh built a lot of the furniture himself.

“Then Hugh’s sales picked up and he started making a good living. A great living, actually. Anne and I had gone out to lunch one day, and when we returned, sitting under her living room furniture was the oriental rug that she’d always wanted.”

Libby knew that rug. She’d played card games on that rug. She’d watched movies as a girl, on her belly, her head propped up with her hands as she leaned on her elbows on that rug. She’d sat on that rug with Pete as she opened a birthday present that Pop had given her, a birthday present that she still had. Her memory box. The recollection of it caused her fondness for Pop to bubble up.

Mabel’s story was a perfect description of Pop. He always tried to make everything better, make it all okay. Nobody wanted for anything when he was around, if he could help it. He’d made Libby the memory box after he’d found out that her parents hadn’t been getting along and her dad hadn’t been staying at home much anymore. Libby escaped with Pete to Pop and Nana’s cottage a lot. She’d spent her birthday that year amidst a broken home, her mother crying, her father absent. With red-rimmed eyes, her mother had baked her a cake, given her a present, and together—just the two of them—they’d sung the birthday song. Celia had tried to keep it together, but it was clear to Libby that their life wasn’t together at all.

She looked at her mother across the table now, the lines in her face like battle scars from those trying years, and she felt guilty suddenly for not asking her to lunch. For not trying harder in adulthood to make her happy. Libby had done everything her mother asked of her: She’d worked hard to be successful, to get out of her small town and do something with her life, but it had only occurred to her right then that perhaps she should have shown her mother affection, hugged her a little more. Celia had never been openly affectionate with Libby, and she wondered now if, maybe, Celia didn’t know how.

“I’m glad I got to have lunch with you two today,” Libby said. She was thankful that Mabel had shared Anne’s story with her, and she was glad that she’d had a chance to understand her mother a little more. She wasn’t just saying the words. She was truly grateful.

W
ork had been relatively
monotonous the entire week. The only excitement Libby had was Pete’s file that she still hadn’t opened. She knew at some point she’d either have to ask Marty to take the account, or she’d have to let Pete know she had it. She left it on her desk until Monday.

The weather had warmed up just enough by the weekend that she found herself dozing on the hammock under the intermittent shade of the pines, the gentle lapping of the water toying with her consciousness. Her Saturday had been uneventful until the roar of a boat engine pulled her right out of her slumber, the speed of it causing waves to roll in, smacking the shore. The sound of the engine got so loud that Libby sat up, shielding her eyes to make out a white speedboat coming toward her. It slowed as it got closer to the shore. Finally the engine stopped and the boat floated in, right onto her beach.

Is that Pete?
she thought to herself, squinting at the all-too-familiar figure walking around on the boat deck. He tossed a tire through the air and it landed with a thud in the sand. Then a very long ladder inched its way along the edge of the boat until it fell free onto the shore below. Libby got off the hammock and made her way toward the boat. The wind picked up closer to the water and she held her hair back with her hand to keep it out of her face. She reached the boat just as a coil of rope came flying at her and hit the beach only a few yards away.

“You almost hit me with that!” she called up to the boat. Happiness fizzled inside her at the sight of him. She couldn’t help it. Pete looked over at her, his hair blowing, sunglasses on. Even when his expression was neutral, it looked as though he were almost smiling, as if a smile were the natural resting position for his features, his eyes always dancing, the corners of his mouth turned upward. She walked a little closer toward him just so that she could see it again. As she neared him, it made her feel light and jittery. He moved to the front of the boat and hopped onto the sand.

“What are you doing on my beach?” she asked.

“I’m hanging a swing.” He tugged the boat farther onto the shore to keep it from floating away. The water, still rippling angrily from the boat’s arrival, rushed in around his ankles. “For Thomas and Matthew. Don’t worry. I’ll be gone in a few minutes.” Behind his sunglasses, his expression was different when he looked at her; it was more rigid, as if he’d pulled his face into a straight position just for her benefit. She willed him to smile at her, to let her see that grin, but it wasn’t there.