She watched as, in the distance, Colton strode into a large barn and seconds later drove out in a burgundy Model T car. Smoothly shifting gears, he pulled up in front of the steps. There was something about a man who could drive a standard. The engine rumbled, and the hood shook a little as he shut off the engine. On the back was a large sign that read JUST MARRIED.
Libby caught Colton’s eye as he came around the front of the car. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you yet. You were a lifesaver.”
“Glad to help.”
“Nice getaway car,” she said.
He had changed into jeans and a white shirt. His black hair was slicked back and damp from the earlier rain. “The car is part of the estate. There are several more vintage cars in the garage. How much longer before the big send-off?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Great. I’ll be right back. Forgot to tie the cans to the back.”
“You’re going all out.”
“Big day for my big sister.”
She was smiling as she watched him jog off and did not notice anyone approaching until she heard, “Libby?”
The familiar deep voice had her turning her head toward the set of wide stairs. Her ex-husband, Jeremy, approached her, his smile a little sheepish.
“Jeremy? What are you doing here?” The half-whispered words were tinged with curiosity and dread.
“I went by your house. Your neighbor said you were shooting a wedding here. I took a chance you might have a break.”
Jeremy was an inch shorter than her. He had an athletic build that he kept lean by running and lifting weights several times a week. His light hair was starting to thin a little, and the frown lines around his mouth and brown eyes were deeper.
She almost leaned in to kiss him, but she caught herself. Their divorce had been civil enough, but divorce was divorce.
“I wanted to bring you some of your things you left behind in the Dale City house. I’m cleaning out the spare room and painting it and came across these.”
The spare room had been earmarked as the nursery. Made sense now to turn it into something more practical. When she had moved out of the trilevel in Dale City, he had bought her out. The cash had sustained her through the temporary move to Richmond and helped her purchase faster computers and more camera lenses.
“Getting that home office you always wanted?” she asked.
He shrugged and dropped his gaze to his hands and his naked ring finger. “I’m getting married again.”
“Oh.” She waited for the punch of sadness, but it felt more like a soft slap even though she had seen the pictures online. “Good for you.”
“Her name is Monica Peterson.”
“Right. The paralegal in your office.” She compared the image of an athletic woman with short black hair and a keen gaze to her own current state, which could only be described as a drowned rat. Jeremy and Monica had been in an office running group, and Libby had crewed for their team at several races.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Good for you.” She repeated the words like a scratched record album.
His gaze roamed the large front porch and the lavish arrangement of flowers. “Pretty different than our wedding.”
“Yeah.”
They had eloped, but a month after the wedding her father had held a dinner for them at the country club along with family and friends.
“I was sorry to hear about your dad,” he said.
“I appreciated the flowers and nice note.”
“I liked your father. He was a good man. Your father seemed happy for us when he toasted us at our party.”
“He was happy for us.”
That had been a perfect weekend. They had left the party close to midnight and taken a car to a historic bed-and-breakfast, where they had made love. It had been one of the few times neither was pressed by work or deadlines. Once her father had commented that the divorce had robbed him of a son.
“You didn’t have to come all this way,” she said. “You could have mailed it to me or even chucked it. If I haven’t missed it by now, I doubt I would have.”
Jeremy had always been considerate. He had tried not to be disappointed when she had lost the babies. But his kindness had only fueled her rage. How could he not have been furious?
“I wanted to tell you about my marriage in person. Didn’t want you to see it on Instagram.” He shifted his hands to his pockets and rattled loose change.
She still followed him and from time to time checked in. She had hoped his life was still stuck in neutral like hers. Guess not.
“Go on; show me where you’re parked,” she said with a smile. “I can transfer it to my car.”
“Great.” As they walked over the gravel pathway dotted with puddles, a silence settled between them. She had never minded the quiet, and neither had Jeremy when they were married. Now, it seemed to bother him. “The Heckmans finally moved.”
The Heckmans were their elderly neighbors. They were vegan, and Mrs. Heckman drank so much carrot juice she’d actually turned orange. “How long were they in their house? Thirty, thirty-five years?”
“Forty. They moved to Tennessee to be closer to their children.”
“Good for them.” Mrs. Heckman was a health nut who had religiously delivered freshly grated carrot juice to Libby each time she had been pregnant.
Jeremy glanced back at the main house as the guests started to spill outside. “Your work looks like it’s going well.”
“It is. Booming, as a matter of fact.”
As soon as she and Jeremy had decided to get pregnant, she had had to stop administering chemo to her patients. After two lost pregnancies, her resolve to deal with the sick or dying had vanished. With Jeremy’s blessing, she had then started her photography business.
“You said you hated the weddings and fancy affairs,” he said. “Now you’ll be at events like this all the time.”
That coaxed the first real laugh she’d had in weeks. “They’re starting to grow on me. There’s something comforting in tradition.”
As they reached the Volvo sedan he had purchased after she had become pregnant the first time, she sensed he had something to say and was screwing up the courage.
“Out with it,” she said.
He looked up, shaking his head. “With what?”
“Please. You look like you could explode.” It was not charitable to take pleasure in his discomfort, but she did.
“You know me too well.”
“Three years of marriage. What gives?”
More coins jangled. “Monica is pregnant.”
And there came the punch to the gut that wiped away any smugness she might have mustered. Memories of lost babies swirled in her brain, and all the old pain, locked so carefully away, hammered to be released. For several seconds, she could not speak, fearful her tone would betray her sadness.
“I know it’s a hard subject for you,” he rushed to say.
It had been their hard subject. Their losses. Their pain. Now it was all hers.
“I should have told you months ago, but I knew you were dealing with the loss of your dad.”
“Months ago? When is she due?”
“A few weeks.”
She cleared her throat. “Wow. That’s really wonderful.” Had he saved the pint-size Nationals T-shirt?