Stephens, he replies, for us, it’s all the fun part.
It hurts, but I let the dream go on awhile longer.
No one will ever convince me that time moves at a steady pace. Sure, your clock follows some invisible command, but it feels like it’s randomly spouting off minutes at whatever intervals suit it, because this week is a blip, and then Friday night arrives.
Another heat wave breaks, ushering in fall weather, and we set up the tent and air mattress again. While Libby and Brendan walk into town to pick up quattro stagioni pizza, the girls and I lie on our backs, watching the sky darken.
Bea tells me about everything she and Brendan have baked over the last few weeks. Tala regales us with a tale that is either the nonsense ramblings of a toddler or a faithful retelling of a Kafka novel.
After we’ve eaten, Libby suggests Brendan take the king bed to himself tonight, and he says, mid-yawn, “Oh, thank God.”
When he kisses the girls good night, they’re so sleepy they hardly react, except for Tala reaching her little arms up toward his face for a second before letting them flop down on her tummy.
He kisses Libby last, then gives me a side hug (world’s worst hugger), and I feel a bigger crush of love for him than I did the day he married my sister.
“What the hell,” Libby whispers, laughing. “Are you crying?”
“Shut up!” I toss a pillow at her. “You broke my eye muscles. I can’t stop it now.”
“You’re crying because you love Brendan so much,” she teases. “Admit it.”
“I love Brendan so much,” I say, laughing through the tears. “He’s nice!”
Libby’s laughter escalates. “Dude, I know.”
Tala grumbles and rolls over, her arm flinging across her eyes.
Libby and I lie back side by side and hold each other’s hands as we study the improbable number of constellations.
“You know what?” Libby whispers.
“Probably,” I say, “but try me.”
“Even if you can’t see them back in Manhattan, all of those stars will be over you too. Maybe every night, we look up at the sky at the same time.”
“Every night?” I say, dubious.
“Or once a week,” she says. “We get on the phone, and we look up at the sky, and then we’ll know we’re still together. Wherever we go.”
I swallow a rising lump. “Mom will be with you too,” I say. “Just because you’re leaving New York, it doesn’t mean you’re leaving her behind.”
Libby snuggles closer, resting her head on the divot of my shoulder, the smell of crushed blackberries still lingering in her hair. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Just,” she says, “thank you.”
For once, I don’t dream about Mom.
35
THE CENTER OF town is a wonderland of string lights and bunting, long tables covered in pretty gingham cloths and loaded with pies. A dance floor sits in the square, and a branded Coors truck sells beer behind the gazebo. Next to it, Amaya and Mrs. Struthers hawk donated wine, every glass poured with a heavy hand. I doubt they have the permits for most of this stuff, but then again, Libby made it sound like just about everyone at that town hall meeting was involved in one way or another in making this happen, so there’s a small chance this is all aboveboard.
Brendan, Libby, the girls, and I stop by Goode Books to catch Dusty’s event, but the place is packed and we don’t linger long. Charlie and Sally arranged all the new furniture — along with the old folding chairs — into rows in the café, with Dusty’s videoconference projected onto the far wall and her audio playing through the shop’s speakers so that even the overflow of visitors could hear while they shopped.
The girls are bouncing off the walls, so we take them over to Mug + Shot’s pop-up soda shoppe for frothy pink cows.
“This is a huge mistake,” Libby notes as she passes the red-soda-and-ice-cream-plus-whipped-cream concoctions to Bea and Tala.
“A delicious one, though,” I point out.
“And,” Brendan adds, dropping his voice, “they always crash after a sugar blitz.”
Back in the town square, we gorge ourselves: on popcorn, on chocolate pie and rhubarb, on sugar-dusted pecans that make me think of cold mornings in Central Park, and on one local wine that has to be the worst I’ve ever had, along with another that’s actually pretty good.
We dance with the girls to pop songs Bea somehow knows better than Libby or I, and as the night wears on and total darkness falls, bringing a slight chill with it, Tala falls asleep in Brendan’s arms while he and Clint Lastra are talking about catch-and-release fishing spots.
Brendan’s never fished in his life, but he’s determined to try, and Clint’s happy to get him started.
Libby’s going to be happy here, I think as I watch them from a distance. She’s going to be so fucking happy, and that will make the distance bearable, almost.
She and Bea slip off to see if they can find some sweatshirts or blankets in Brendan’s rental car, but I hang back, watching Gertie and her girlfriend, the bickering couple from town hall, and a dozen other pairings sleepily sway on the dance floor.
I spot Shepherd in a gap in the crowd, and he gives me a sheepish smile and wave before ambling over. “Hey there,” he says.
“Hey,” I say. After an awkward moment, I begin, “I’m sorry about—” right as he’s saying, “Just wanted to say—”
He smiles again, that handsome, leading-man smile. “You go first.”
“I’m sorry if I misled you,” I say. “You’re a great guy.”
He gives another warm, albeit vaguely disappointed smile. “Just not your kind of great guy.”
“No,” I admit. “I guess not. But if you’re ever in New York and you need a tour guide — or a wingman . . .”
“I’ll look you up.” He stifles a yawn with the back of his hand. “Not used to being up this late,” he says apologetically. “I should turn in.”
Of course he’s a morning person. Life with Shepherd would be a lot of slow, romantic sex with intensely loving eye contact, followed by watching the sunrise over the valley. He will, no doubt, be part of someone’s happy ending. Maybe he belongs to someone already, in a way that can’t be explained.
For someone else, he will be easy in the best way.
As if the thought has conjured him, Charlie appears a few yards behind Shepherd, and my heart lifts, warm and reliable as Old Faithful.
Shepherd catches me looking away, a sunflower finding its light source. He follows my gaze straight to Charlie and smiles knowingly. “Have a good flight, Nora.”
“Thanks,” I say, blushing a little at my own transparency. “Take care, Shepherd.”
He walks off, pausing for a moment to talk to Charlie on his way to the edge of the town square. Smiles are exchanged, Charlie’s a bit wary but not so guarded as that day outside Goode Books. Shepherd claps him on the shoulder as he says something, and Charlie looks toward me, that geyser of affection erupting in my chest again at his faint smile.
With a few more words, they part ways, Shepherd making his way to the fringes of the crowd and Charlie coming toward me with his smile tugging wider.
“I heard you might be cold,” he says quietly. He holds out a bundled-up flannel shirt I hadn’t noticed him carrying. I glance toward where Libby and Bea have rejoined Brendan, and Libby flashes me a quick smile.
“Wow,” I say. “Word does travel fast here.”