He whistled. “My wife just had our fifth, and I thought you look awfully close to the big day. Know what you’re having?”
“A girl.” Libby forced her usual smile. “I’m excited to finally meet her, but also a little scared.”
“You’ll be fine,” the kindly man said with a wink. “Although, my wife would smack me if I went so far as calling labor easy.”
Laughing, Libby said, “Honestly? That’s the least of my worries. It’s what happens once I take my baby home that has me spooked.”
Even thirty minutes after the man left, Libby couldn’t resume her interest in the romantic comedy she’d borrowed from Gretta’s extensive library.
Libby’s perch on the desk stool unfortunately afforded an excellent view of the landline phone.
It stared at her, taunted her, made her feel like a fool for not having long since dialed her parents’ familiar number.
She’d always heard about the evils of pride, but lately, she felt at constant war with the emotion. Was it pride keeping her from crawling back to her folks in her current defeated state? Or self-preservation? With a baby on the way, did she even have the right to put her own desires ahead of her child’s basic needs and protection?
Pressing the heels of her hands to her forehead, she willed an answer to come, when clearly this wasn’t a simple black-and-white decision, but one shaded with a myriad of grays.
At her high school graduation dinner, when her parents told her that to pursue a career in art was ridiculous, that after college she was destined to spend a few years in a low-profile advertising position, then settle into a life as a society wife and mom—just like her own mother—Libby had initially rebelled by running with a bad crowd.
That summer, a protest rally gone horribly wrong had landed her in jail for vandalism. Her father had bailed her out, but basically handed her the edict that from here on out, it was either his way or she needed to hit the highway. She’d chosen the highway, and with him calling her a disappointment and loser on her way out his front door, she’d never looked back.
In the five years since leaving her prestigious Seattle address, she’d spoken only to her mother, and only on Christmas. Each time, her mother had begged her to come home. When Libby asked if her father’s opinion of her lifestyle had changed, and her mother reported it had not, Libby politely ended their conversations and prayed that by the next year, her father would come around.
The fact that she was now broke, knocked up by a man who’d left her and she didn’t even own a running car proved that everything her father had said about her being a loser was true. Was she destined to become a bad mom, as well?
* * *
“I DON’T FEEL comfortable leaving you.”
“Go. I’m fine.” Heath crossed his arms in a defensive posture. For the past two hours, he and his mom had crisscrossed the family land, looking for his dog. When they had no luck, she’d turned chatty, which only pushed him deeper inside his own tortured thoughts. Was Sam dead? Lying hurt somewhere?
Images of the dog led Heath’s mind’s eye to Patricia’s dark last days. She’d been in such pain and he’d been powerless to do anything to help, other than demand more meds. To feel such helplessness for a woman he’d loved so insanely, deeply, completely had been far worse on him than any physical pain he might one day endure.
Having loved the deepest, and now hurt the deepest, what else was left?
“Great,” his mom said. “You’re fine—again. Only, clearly you’re not, so whether you like it or not, I’ll get Uncle Morris to look after the motel tomorrow, then I’ll be out to help search for Sam.”
“For the last time...” Heath cocked his head back, staring up at the stars. Common sense told him he needed all the help he could get in looking for Sam, but a sick foreboding got in the way. If the worst had happened, Heath would somehow have to deal with it in his own private way. “Thanks, but no thanks. I just want to be left alone.”
“Duly noted.” She took her keys from her jeans front pocket, then kissed his cheek. “See you first thing in the morning.”
* * *
“RUN INTO ANY TROUBLE?” Gretta asked Libby the next morning from behind the wheel of her forest-green Ford Explorer. The fog had been as thick as it was the day before, but by nine, warm sun had rapidly burned it off.
“Nope. Everything was quiet, just like you’d expected.” It’d been late when Gretta returned from Heath’s, so they hadn’t had much time to talk. It had been a long day, and Libby had struggled to keep her eyes open.
In her cozy room, she’d changed into pajamas and reveled in the luxury of indoor plumbing. When she’d slipped between cool sheets and eased her head onto not one, but two downy pillows, for the first time in months, she’d happily sighed with contentment.
Cupping her hands to her belly, she’d closed her eyes and smiled. But then her eyes popped open. All she could think of while drifting off to sleep was Heath.
The kind of warmhearted, honorable man she’d always secretly yearned for, but knew a broken mess like her would never deserve.
“Thanks for riding out here with me.” Gretta turned onto the desolate road leading to Heath’s dirt lane. “I’ll have to introduce you to my brother when we get back. Morris has been married four—maybe five times?” She scratched her head. “After three I lost count. He’s a hopeless romantic. He retired from the navy, made a fortune in the private sector and now I swear his only goal in life is making me crazy, asking for love advice.” She paused for air. “He is a doll about helping out with the motel, though. He loves to cook, so the diner’s his baby. The motel and restaurant have been in our family for generations. The two of us grew up in the little house behind it. After Heath’s dad died, I moved back.”
“It’s good you and Morris are close.” Libby angled on the seat as best she could to face Heath’s mom. “I’m an only child, but always wanted a brother or sister.”
Gretta snorted. “Be careful what you wish for. Having a sibling hasn’t been all sunshine and roses. Morris and my husband—God rest his soul—used to get into horrible rows.”
“Oh?” Libby didn’t bother asking why, since she assumed chatty Gretta would soon enough fill her in with the details.
“My Vinnie—Heath’s father—was a no-nonsense man. I guess twenty years in the military will do that to a person. Not long after he took retirement, we moved back here to take over the motel from my parents. Heath was such a moody teen in those days. He’s named after Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights. Never did I think he’d turn out to have the character’s same brooding disposition. Did I curse my own son?”
“I’m sure not.” Although Libby had been curious about Vinnie and Morris’s feud, anything about the elusive Heath was infinitely more entertaining. “Has he always been quiet and gloomy?”
“Not at all. In high school he was homecoming king, and made quite a splash on the basketball team. Everyone loved him—but he had his occasional spells when he enjoyed going off in the woods for fishing and hunting. In the navy—did you know he was a SEAL? He was all the time earning medals. But when he lost Patricia, he just gave up. Breaks my heart. Really does.”
“I’m sure.”
“Another thing that gets my goat is...”
Libby politely acknowledged Gretta’s latest monologue, regarding her neighbor’s refusal to plant an appropriate amount of potted flowers for the upcoming Independence Day festivities. But mostly, she stared out at the wall of green on either side of the road, wondering at the vast, remote stretch of land and the odds of Heath ever finding his dog.
Funny,