“Excuse me?” I say.
Her smile deepens her crow’s feet. She looks every bit like a woman in her sixties, and all the more striking for it, in a woodsy, sun-beaten way.
“The play,” she clarifies. “Or when it’s a ceramics show, or a craft market, or whatever else: We pretend it’s good. At least until we’ve had a couple rounds.” She pats our shoulders and moves off, calling, “Make yourselves at home!”
“I’m gonna need everyone to make it through a couple rounds real quick,” Libby says.
“What I was saying outside, Lib—”
She squeezes my arms. “I’m good, Nora. I’ve just been off because I’m having this restless leg thing that interrupts my sleep. Stop worrying and just—enjoy our vacation, okay?”
The more she insists everything’s fine, the more sure I am that it’s not. But as has been the case for years, she’s just shuttered at the first sign of worry.
This is how it is. She never asks for help, so I have to figure out what she needs and how to get it to her in a way she feels okay about accepting.
Even with her wedding dress, I had to pretend to track down a sample sale and get a damaged dress at a discount, when actually I put it on a card and smudged some concealer inside the bodice myself.
But with this—I don’t even know where to start.
Oh god.
A sudden, terrifying clarity hits me like a sandbag to the stomach. The list. All these homages to Libby’s almost-futures: building, baking, bookstore . . . marketing.
Is this all some foray back into the working world? Or a way to prove she could survive on her own if she needed to? Three weeks away from her husband. I should’ve thought that was strange. Especially with how strange she’s been acting. Especially more than five months along in her pregnancy.
She loves Brendan, I remind myself. Even if they’re going through something, buckling under the stress of a new baby, that can’t have changed.
My clothes feel too tight, too hot. I look around, searching for something to focus on, to ground myself with. My gaze catches on Clint, standing with a walker across the crowded kitchen, then over to the equally tall, though far younger and brawnier man beside him.
“Wooow,” Libby says, clocking Shepherd at the same time I do.
His green eyes find mine, and he murmurs something to Clint before extricating himself and sauntering our way.
“Oh my god,” Libby says. “Is that archangel coming toward us right now?”
“Shepherd,” I say, distracted by the hamster wheel of worries spinning inside my skull.
Libby asks, “Is that a shepherd coming toward us?”
“No, his name is—”
“Ohhhh. Shepherd,” she says, realization dawning, right as he stops in front of us.
“See,” he says, beaming. “This is why you’ve gotta love small towns.”
20
DIDN’T SEE YOU at the play,” Shepherd says. “You must’ve slipped out quick.”
Libby gives me a look that reads: You forgot to mention your date was Adonis?
“My sister had to pee,” I say, which only magnifies her put-out expression. “This is Libby. Libby, Shepherd.”
Libby says only, “Wow.”
“Nice to meet you, Libby,” he replies.
She shakes his hand. “Strong grip. Always a great quality in a man, right, Nora?” She looks at me pointedly, simultaneously trying to be my wingwoman and to embarrass me.
“It seems to come in handy in James Bond movies,” I agree. Shepherd smiles politely. No one says anything. I cough. “Because of all the people dangling off buildings . . .”
He nods. “Got it.”
The temporary madness or magic of the other night has worn off. I have no idea how to interact with this man.
He says, “Can I grab either of you something? Beer? Seltzer?”
“I’d have wine,” I say.
“You know what?” Libby grins. “This darn bladder! I already have to pee again.”
Shepherd gestures down the hall. “Restroom’s right down that way.”
“I’ll be back in a sec,” Libby promises, and as Shepherd turns to pour me a glass of wine from an open bottle on the counter, she makes a break for it, mouthing over her shoulder, NO I WON’T.
Shepherd hands me the glass, and I tip my chin at the— approximately—fourteen thousand bottles of wine on the island. “You all really want to forget that play.”
He laughs. “What do you mean?”
I take a big sip. “Just joking. About the wine.”
He scratches the back of his head. “My aunt runs this informal wine exchange. Everyone brings one, and she puts numbers on the bottom. At the end, she raffles off whatever doesn’t get drunk.”
“Sounds like my kind of lady,” I say. “Is she here?”
“Course,” he says. “She wouldn’t miss her own party.”
I almost inhale my wine and have to cough to clear my lungs. “Sally? Sally’s your aunt? Charlie Lastra’s your cousin?”
“I know, right?” he says, chuckling. “Total opposites. Funny thing is, we were pretty close as kids. Grew apart as we got older, but his bark’s worse than his bite. He’s a good guy, underneath it all.”
I need to either change the topic or scout out a fainting couch. “I promise I was going to call, by the way.”
“No worries,” he says, a bashful dimple appearing. “I’ll be around.”
I say, “So your family owns the horse farm?”
“Stables,” he corrects me.
“Right.” I have no clue what the difference is.
“It’s my parents’ place. When construction stuff is slow for me and my uncle, I still help them out sometimes.”
Uncle. Construction. He works with Charlie’s dad.
Shepherd’s phone buzzes. He sighs as he reads the screen. “Didn’t realize it had gotten so late. I’ve gotta head out.”
“Oh,” I say, still on a snappy dialogue hot streak.
“Hey,” he says, brightening, “I hope this doesn’t sound too pushy—because I understand if you’re not interested—but if you want to go on a trail ride while you’re here, I’d love to take you.”