Chapter Two

After discovering alcohol her junior year of high school Libby deemed the inventor of the coffee pot timer a humanitarian genius. Feeling her way into the not-quite remodeled kitchen, she began her day with fresh brewed perfection and enjoyed the first cup in silence.

Silence was fleeting.

Bob’s squeaky wingtips shuffled up. “Show of fingers, babe,” he whispered “how many cups?” He implemented the no-one-talks-to-Libby-before-the-second-cup directive early in their marriage.

“Two,” Libby said. “You are safe. Are Cain and Abel up yet?”

“I heard the shower running but didn’t knock. Learned that lesson.”

Two weeks prior Bob innocently knocked on Shannon’s door in an effort to spur her along for school. Unfortunately, the teen’s morning personality resembled a hibernating bear and his nudge was a poke from a hot stick. As an only child, Bob often made horrendous errors in hormone swing prediction.

“Did you hear any movement from Charlie?” Libby asked

“I heard the faint rustle of plastic fenders,” Bob answered. “We know he’s conscious.”

Model cars were Charlie’s oxygen. If pieces went missing or someone innocently picked up a single section and applied it wrong, all hell broke loose. Vacuum detail required three days warning, ensuring no critical element sucked into the upright. Stump, a true chewer, ingested a hubcap and Charlie’s sobs escalated to projectile vomit level. Bob searched dog feces for days until the plastic auto part resurfaced.

Placing her mug in the microwave for reheating, Libby gave Stump a firm belly rub and headed toward the stairs. “Come on buddy, time to get the troops moving.”

On the staircase, she admired family portraits of generations gone by. The last on the left caught her eye. Her parents’ wedding photograph was nothing remarkable, a black and white formally posed photo taken by some unnamed relative, but the couple’s eyes told a love story. The handsome, Irish immigrant dipped his blushing bride into a dramatic kiss; two crazy kids wildly in love, and dirt poor, mugged it up for the camera.

Bernie McGinn brewed his wife Mae’s coffee every day for forty-five years. In the early days, the lovebirds lived in Brooklyn. The shoebox-sized apartment over the deli was not a palace, but all theirs. On the night of their second anniversary, Mae, eight months pregnant with Sean, suggested the pair go out for dinner at their favorite restaurant, Giuseppes. In a rush to get home and be alone with his wife, Bernie ran a red light, and the couple’s car collided head-on with a bakery van.

When Mae regained consciousness, the soft-spoken doctor held her hand and explained in order to stop her hemorrhaging they delivered her twins prematurely. Their girl, Meghan, did not survive, however the boy, Sean, was holding his own in the neonatal intensive care unit. Bernie was doing well after required surgery to repair a fractured pelvis.

In the long months that followed, Mae struggled to raise a newborn alone while shuttling back and forth to the hospital to visit Bernie. With the help of her mother she managed to get through the difficult time. However, each trip through the busy city streets brought horrible flashbacks. Familiar noises, once her nighttime lullaby, left Mae unable to sleep. Each car horn and siren brought fear and forced her to reevaluate the safety of her longtime home for a small child.

A week prior to Bernie’s discharge, Mae came to a difficult decision. Wanting a fresh start, far from the city commotion, once he was out of the hospital the couple packed the little they owned and moved to Rhyme—a quiet town ideal for raising a family.

Bernie and Mae thrived as their family grew. Their public displays of affection embarrassed Libby as a child. As an adult, she envied them. Until the day he died, Bernie referred to Mae as his bride.

Libby touched the photo and said, “So what’s this blip with your bride, Daddy?” Pulling back to the chore at hand, she reached the top of the stairs, greeted by a half-naked Charlie. “Hey bud, no pants today?”

Charlie justified the wardrobe. “Sam and I need to wear our soccer shorts today, but I can’t find mine.”

“They’re in the wash.”

His freckled face crumpled. “But I need them! Sam said this is the only way our plan will work.”

Libby loved Charlie’s best friend Sam. Common sense, however, was not the boy’s strength. The prior year, Ms. Stapleton, the boys’ kindergarten teacher, decided to retire after her experiences with Sam and Charlie. She was thirty-seven.

“Charlie, I know I’m going to regret this, but what plan?” Libby asked.

“Sam was online last night and found out our soccer shorts are made of the same stuff as parachutes.” Charlie dutifully explained. “All we have to do is get real, real high on the swings, jump off, and float down. Cool, right?”

Ivy League colleges, Libby thought to herself, would not recruit Sam anytime soon. “Very cool,” she said, “but the air show is going to have to wait another day.” Or never. “We don’t have time to dry the shorts this morning. Throw on something else and hustle down for breakfast.”

“Fine,” he stamped a foot in frustration. “Sam’s going to be mad.”

“He’ll forgive you on his way to the orthopedic surgeon. Get dressed.”

Charlie stormed off in search of substitute pants. Looking at the hardwood floor, Libby noticed droplets of water forming a trail from the bath to Shannon’s closed door; the sound of pounding bass competed with the hum of the hairdryer as the teen primped and prepped.

Libby knocked. “Shann, are you about done?” No reply. It was time for reinforcements. “Okay, Stump,”—Libby bent to the dog—“you’re going in.”

Shannon, the only O’Rourke capable of overlooking the odor, was Stump’s champion. The abandoned dog had joined the family as Shannon entered an awkward, and yet to pass, pre-teen phase; the pair bonded instantly. The pooch worshiped her at a time Shannon most needed worshiping.

Libby nudged Stump through the cracked door.

“Hi buddy!” Shannon gushed as the dog’s entire body vibrated in delight. “How’s my baby boy?”

“Success,” Libby whispered before raising her voice over the music. “Stump, where are you? It’s time for breakfast.”

“He’s in here, Mom!” Shannon bellowed.

Libby entered the purple and zebra print refugee camp. “Aw, you love your Shannon, don’t you, boy?” Mission accomplished. “Are you about ready to go, kiddo?”

Shannon double-checked her reflection in the mirror and rubbed on a dab of lip-gloss. “I have to do my eyebrows.”

Eyebrows? What eyebrows? “Okay, five minutes. We have oatmeal or toaster thingies. Which one do you want?”

“Thingy.”

Back in the kitchen, Libby fed Stump, digestive medication included, and packed lunches for the kids. Bob scurried about grabbing up paperwork and gulping orange juice. Libby grinned. Bob was sexy in lawyer garb with his chestnut hair and pewter eyes. He projected the competent hero of the common man. Little did opposing council know underneath the stern exterior lay a Worlds Best Daddy T-shirt and accidentally pink boxers.

He landed a quick kiss on her before bolting for the door. “Got to go, home around five. Pizza okay tonight?” Wednesday was Bob’s night to cook; he rarely did.

“Pizza is fine, Cicero’s, okay? Last time we had Tony’s I had heartburn for a week.”

Bob defended Tony’s no-good son-in-law on a regular basis; the result, gratis pizza.

“No problem.” He grabbed his briefcase and opened the door. Familiar hydraulic brakes echoed down the street.

“Bus!” he yelled. “Move it, or miss it!”

Storming the kitchen like a heard of sneaker-clad buffalo, Shannon and Charlie grabbed their respective toaster thingies and made a dash for the bus stop.

“Bye, Mom!” They hollered in unison.

Libby followed as far as the front porch. “Learn lots. Make our outrageous taxes worth it!”

Taking her coffee out to the front porch, Libby looked around the yard. October was beautiful in Rhyme—bright foliage, doorstep pumpkins, and brisk autumn breezes coming in off the water. Appreciating a moment of quiet, she sat down on one of the two dark-stained oak rocking chairs crafted by her father only months before he died.

Often she and Bob rocked away stress with morning coffee or evening wine. And someday, when they were old and gray, grayer than they were now, Libby imagined soothing grandbabies to sleep in the same spot. The sound of a shovel breaking ground pulled her from the daydream.

“Morning, bella.” Dominic Genovese, the O’Rourke’s next-door neighbor greeted her from his knee-deep spot in his end-of-season tomato garden. “You’re doing some deep thinking over there?”

“Hey Dom.” Libby smiled. “Didn’t see you down there, how’s the crop? Any more rabbits saddle up to the buffet?”

“No serious casualties that I can see, but I may borrow Stump again for a few more deposits.”

Dom read a gardening blog that suggested letting dogs mark a vegetable garden kept small animals away. Images of tomatoes speckled in Stump urine ruined Libby’s love of Caprese salad.

“Glad he could be useful. Did you get any feedback from the Society on your trim colors?”

Dom’s 1890 Saltbox-style home was in need of painting, and his color choices were up for review by the Society. “They have a tentatively approved Hunter Green as authentic to the period,” he groaned. “Spruce, however, is still under discussion.”

“Well of course,” Libby teased. “Spruce could upset the historical balance of the entire neighborhood.”

Bob and Libby hit the neighbor jackpot with Dom. A widower and retired police officer, he had no children of his own and patience for thirty. His tall, imposing stature gave the impression of authority, but beneath the gruff exterior was one of the kindest people Libby had ever had the privilege of knowing.

After Bernie’s death, Dom stepped into the role of surrogate grandfather, spoiling Shannon and Charlie accordingly. Fortunately, for Stump, Dom had a deviated septum and loved to take the gassy canine on afternoon walks. A blessing in all regards, Dom was a tremendous addition to the O’Rourke extended family.

Checking her watch, Libby sprang. “Shoot, have to make a move. Don’t need to be late for work.”

“Hurry, Libby,” he teased. “Dolores may give you a tardy note!”

Libby’s boss, Dolores Watts, was many things, including Dom’s unrequited love.

“Wouldn’t want that,” Libby laughed. “Feel free to grab Stump anytime. Word of caution, he stole coleslaw last night, take a lot of pooper scooper bags. It could get messy.”

Waving a goodbye, she popped inside for a quick shower and toaster thingy and headed to work. Although it was her day to open the library, Libby knew Dolores would arrive first.