The sound of Gibson’s truck in the lane signaled Nicole’s return from school. Libby ran downstairs to the kitchen, where she splashed her face with cold water to erase the evidence of her crying jag, knowing the action was too little, too late.
While she waited for Nicole to come in, the horn of Gibson's truck blared once, then again. Peering out the living room window, she saw Nicole, Gibson and Allie by the truck, obviously waiting for her. Resigned, she practiced a big smile, then stepped out onto the veranda. Maybe, if she didn’t get too close, Gibson wouldn’t notice.
“Didn’t you pass, Mom?” Nicole bounded over to her and flung her arms around her neck, then stepped back to examine her face. Gibson’s hand was on Allie’s shoulder, his expression almost as anxious as Nicole’s.
Libby smiled. She’d forgotten about the good part of the day. “Yes, I passed. I’m going to be your new school bus driver.”
“Hooray!”
Gibson took a few steps in her direction. “Congratulations. That’s great news.”
“No more carpooling,” she said, as if it were a good thing, when the truth was she would miss seeing his truck pull up in their drive.
“No more carpooling,” he agreed. Then, struck by an idea, he snapped his fingers. “Hey, we should celebrate.”
“We should?”
“I’m not a great cook, but I can throw together a decent barbecue. What do you say?”
The girls had been trying to pet the old tabby that lived in the barn, but tuned in quickly to the prospect of a party.
“Great idea, Daddy,” said Allie. She faced Nicole. “He makes the best burgers—with no little bits.”
Libby glanced at Gibson. “Little bits...?”
“Onions.”
She should have known. Distrust of all things vegetable in nature was a universal trait in kids.
Allie, impatient at the interruption, began speaking again. “We’ll have lots of time to play and—say, Dad, could Nicole sleep over tonight? It is Friday.” Both girls turned pleading eyes to their respective parents. Libby couldn’t help feeling apprehensive. Nicole had never spent a night away from home. But clearly from the longing in her daughter’s eyes she felt no concern about doing so.
“It’s fine with me,” Gibson said. “How about it, Nicole? Would you like to stay the night?”
She nodded shyly and smiled at Allie, who was by this point dancing wildly around the truck. “Yay! Yay! We get to have a sleepover!”
“Thanks, Gibson,” Libby said, warmed by her daughter's quiet happiness. This was just what she’d wanted for Nicole. Friends and sleepovers and the feeling of belonging.
‘‘They’ll have a blast. And I’ll try to make sure they spend at least a portion of the night sleeping.” He moved closer, touching a finger to the collar of her blouse. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the other day. I was out of line—”
“No.” Libby shook her head. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have said—” she hesitated, then began again “— that thing about not needing another brother. I’m really sorry....”
“Hey. Forget it.”
She was very aware of his fingers—so near her skin. And she wanted to touch him, too. To put her hand over his, pinning it against her body. She knew it didn’t make sense. She’d been so angry with him earlier. And he’d been so angry with her.
But his offer of a celebration party had caught her off balance. It was neighborly and thoughtful—she didn’t dare read more into it than that.
“Can I bring a salad?”
“That would be great.” Gibson let his hand drop, then moved back to his truck. “Come on, pumpkin. We better go home and start getting organized. Six o’clock okay?”
“Perfect” Libby put one arm around her daughter’s shoulders and waved at the departing truck with the other. A celebration party. For her. Whatever Gibson’s motives, she was looking forward to the evening. A lot. And that scared her almost as much as it made her happy.
Moira Plant was in the kitchen, whipping cream for strawberry shortcakes, when Libby walked into the house with her bowl of potato salad. She’d left Nicole outside, by the barbecue pit with Gibson and Allie.
“Hi, Moira,” she said, speaking loudly over the motor of the hand beater. She slipped her salad into the spotless fridge. “Need any help?”
Moira turned off the mixer and put the whipped cream in the fridge beside the salad. “You could clean the strawberries.” She handed Libby a knife. “I hear you’re going to be the new school bus driver.”
“That’s right.”
“Better you than me. I couldn’t take the screaming and yelling....”
Libby shrugged. She was sure it couldn’t be worse than the noise levels at some of the factories she’d worked at in Toronto.
“So how are you enjoying being back in Chatsworth? I bet your dad is glad to have you back again.”
“It’s nice to be home. Nicole is settling in all right”
“Having a friend close by is a good change for Allie. I often worry about her. This farm’s so isolated. If only she had her mother, even a brother or sister...but I guess you know what raising an only child on your own is like.” Her shrewd gray eyes assessed Libby knowingly. “Owen been gone a long time?”
Libby’s fingers slipped, and she hacked off the end of one of her fingernails. She should have known better than to offer to help. Should have known Moira would seize the opportunity to subject her to more questions.
“Yes...yes, he has,” Libby replied. He’d been gone as long as she had, hadn’t he? It wasn’t really a lie. She sliced out the green top from the strawberry in her hand, then dropped the red berry into the glass bowl on the counter.
Of course it was a lie, Libby’s conscience asserted. Here she was, letting the whole of Chatsworth believe that she’d run off with Owen, that he was Nicole’s father and that he’d deserted them both, when the truth was Owen and she had been nothing but friends.
So it was a lie. No one would be hurt by it, least of all Owen. He and his parents were gone; they had no ties left to the community. She doubted Owen would care what anyone here thought of him.
That still didn’t make it right.
Moira rinsed the sink and hung up the dishcloth. “Spoon those berries onto the biscuits, will you, Libby? I’ve got to get going. It’s bingo night, and I’ve still got to feed Fred. I’ve got the stew all ready to be heated in the microwave, but do you think he can transfer the bowl from one place to another and press a few buttons?”
Libby sat in one of the plush, swivel kitchen chairs, relieved at the sudden quiet once Moira left. Was this what the next few months were going to be like? Everywhere she went she was met with questions. Some well-meaning, others less so. How long could she continue to dodge the issue of Nicole’s parentage?
Gently she removed the tea cloth and split the golden biscuits into halves, then spooned berries generously on each. As she worked, she glanced around the kitchen. Rita had remodeled, all right, and she’d done a good job of it. Libby admired the pale-oak cupboards, butcher-block counters and blue and yellow decorative accents. The kitchen was both attractive and practical, though it bore little resemblance to the cluttered, homey room she remembered from childhood. All the appliances were supersize, and the stove even had a wood-burning component that added to the farm atmosphere. Maybe Rita hadn’t been much of a country girl, but she’d certainly nailed the look.
The kitchen door opened again and in came Gibson.
“Time to put on burgers. Would you like a beer?”
She covered the dessert and accepted a can, refusing his offer of a glass.
Gibson had changed out of his work clothes into a fresh pair of jeans and a yellow cotton T-shirt. The yellow contrasted nicely with the blue of his eyes and drew out the gold highlights in his hair. The jeans suited him, too, molding his lower body and legs like a comfortable second skin.
“How are the girls doing?”
“They’re feeding the bunnies. I told them the burgers would be ready in about twenty minutes. Do you mind grabbing that for me?” He nodded toward a large wooden tray laden with fresh buns, condiments, napkins and utensils.
“Sure.” She followed him to the back patio and set the tray on the outdoor table, then joined him by the fire. He was carefully lifting the patties, which sizzled as he placed them on the freshly cleaned grill.
“You've always had a way with flames, haven’t you?" She sat on a chair near the pit, enjoying the heat radiating from the red-hot coals. “Didn’t you and Chris start a little grass fire one year down by the slough?"
“You would have to remember that, wouldn’t you? At least we had the sense to start it close to a good source of water."
“Yes, very thoughtful of you."
“That’s just the kind of kids we were." He pulled up a chair next to hers and popped the tab on his own can of beer. “Thoughtful, considerate..."
“Fortunately you could run fast, too. As I recall you and Chris made it home in record time, yelling for water and buckets."
“At least we didn’t need the fire department"
“Only because Dad called half the neighbors."
“True. Chris and I had to work a month of Saturdays to repay them." If he’d resented the punishment then, he sure didn’t now. She hadn’t seen him looking so at peace since she’d returned.
The sound of the girls’ laughter floating from across the yard added to the air of relaxation. “Seems like they’re having fun," Libby said.
“They always have a good time together. Just like—"
He didn’t say, but Libby knew he was thinking of Chris.
“Hell, it’s good to see Allie happy. I don’t know about you, but this being a single parent—it’s a lot of pressure. I keep worrying I’m screwing up somehow.”
“It is tough. At least Allie talks to you. Nicole is so quiet I never know when she has a problem.”
“She’s a serious little girl.”
Libby nodded. It was true. She’d tried to keep the worries of managing as a single mother to herself, but she’d obviously failed. So often when she looked at Nicole’s face, she saw every one of her own insecurities reflected there. It wasn’t right, but Libby didn’t know how to fix it.
“My deepest fear,” Gibson said, “is that something will happen to Allie when I’m not around to protect her. Even letting her go off to school was a struggle for me. Dumb, right?”
“Maybe a little overprotective. But understandable.” Especially given the way he’d lost his wife. “What was Rita like? I can hardly remember her.” Gibson’s gaze shifted to the field he’d just finished seeding that morning. “She was pretty. And talented. You saw what she did with the kitchen.”
“Nice enough to be in a magazine. But comfortable, too.”
“Yeah. And practical the way a farmhouse ought to be.”
“I must admit I miss that old wallpaper of your mother’s.”
“The vegetables?” Gibson grinned. “Chris used to complain that seeing all those carrots and broccoli dancing on the walls ruined his appetite.”
“I thought they were cute. I especially liked the little radishes.”
Gibson flipped the burgers. “Cute wasn’t the word Rita came up with.” He glanced back at the house, hesitated for a moment, then said, “Sometimes days would pass without Rita coming outside except to water her flowers or put out food for the cats. She never did get the hang of gardening, wasn’t keen about farm life in general. That’s what was so maddening. Why did she have to wait until I wasn’t around?”
Libby didn't want to hear the details of the accident, but she thought maybe Gibson needed to talk about it “What happened?” she asked quietly.
“I was out combining in the northeast section.” Gibson’s eyes traveled across the fields, as if he could actually see himself there. “I’d left the truck loaded with grain in the yard, and I guess when Rita got Allie down for her afternoon nap she decided she’d unload it into the granary for me. She’d seen me work the auger many times before, although she’d never done it herself.”
Gibson ran his hand over his face. “She was wearing a loose dress—sort of a granny style, which she favored because she still hadn’t lost all the weight from her pregnancy.”
Libby shuddered. Loose clothing and an auger. She was enough of a farmer’s daughter to know it was a deadly combination.
“Later they figured her dress must have caught and she hadn’t been able to slip out of it fast enough.”
Libby had known it was coming, but that didn’t make it less dreadful to hear. “Oh, Gibson...”
“When I came home, I could hear Allie crying as soon as I got out of the pickup. I gave her a bottle, then called for Rita. There was no sign of her inside, which was strange enough. So I went out in the yard....”
Libby stared at the grass by her feet, knowing what he must have seen. His wife’s body, mangled and bloody.
An auger was just a machine; it wouldn’t have reacted to Rita's screams. Without someone to throw the switch, it would have pulled on Rita’s dress, then on her body, the blade curving like a corkscrew, driving whatever it held in its grasp upward, until finally, overloaded, the engine would have broken down and stopped.
Rita had probably died from loss of blood. It wouldn’t have been quick, and would definitely have been painful. The poor woman.
“Harvest was slow that year. We’d had a wet fall and I was getting desperate to get the crop off. Rita was feeling bad that she wasn’t much help. She knew most wives worked hand in hand with their husbands during combining.”
“But you never asked her to unload the grain.”
“Of course not. I guess she wanted to surprise me. To prove something.”
He blamed himself. Of course, someone like Gibson would. Just as his mother blamed herself for the pressure she'd put on Rita. Poor Connie. No wonder she was so reluctant to offer her opinions to her son.
Finally, it seemed that the space between Gibson and her was intolerable. Libby went to stand by him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself, Gibson. I know you feel it’s your fault, but Rita used really poor judgment, and you can’t hold yourself accountable for that.”
Gibson pressed her hand against his cheek. “Thanks for listening, Libby. I’ve missed Chris for many reasons over the years, but when Rita died, that was when I almost went crazy.”
Somehow Libby was pulled into his arms, her cheek tight against his chest as he buried his face in the softness of her hair. Libby allowed her hands to wrap around his broad back. Gibson was so big, tall and thick around the chest that she almost felt lost in his arms. It was a nice feeling. Safe and warm.
“Libby.”
His breath was in her ear, and suddenly she wasn’t sure who was doing the comforting anymore.
“You know all about heartache, don’t you, Libby? You were crying this afternoon.” He tipped her head up. Gently his thumb stroked her chin, then glided down her neck to rest at her collarbone. “Did Owen hurt you very badly?”
She closed her eyes, tired of the lie. She couldn’t be in Gibson’s arms like this and continue to pretend that she’d run off with Owen Holst.
“Gibson, I never—” Words died on her lips when she saw the way he was looking at her. She felt a pressure in her chest that had nothing to do with the strength of his arms around her but was more of a yearning for something she wasn’t even aware she wanted.
How long had she known Gibson? All her life. And although there’d been a period—quite a long period, between early adolescence and Gibson’s engagement—when she’d daydreamed of Gibson falling in love with her and the two of them getting married, she’d never seriously believed she would one day be in his arms, wanting nothing more than for him to kiss her. And having him look at her as if that were all he wanted, too.
Kissing Gibson Browning was beyond the realm of possibility. Yet it was happening. His head was lowering, his mouth moving toward hers. She could feel her heart ballooning, and the impulse to tilt up her face and close her eyes was undeniable.
Gibson was a strong man, but he touched his lips to hers gently. The scent of his skin was subtle, sunshine and prairie wind rolled together. She nuzzled her face against his cheek and smelled the charcoal in his hair, the fabric softener in his shirt
He whispered her name, so quietly she could hardly hear him.
And then, from the corner of her eye she caught a movement from the barn. And in the next second, the cry of a panic-stricken child. “Mommy!”
In an instant they were apart.
“Gibson! Mommy!” Nicole called. “Allie fell off one of the ponies!”
Fear flashed across Gibson’s face in the split second before he turned to dash for the barn.
They found Allie lying in a mound of straw on the barn floor, alternately crying and yelling at the ponies to stay away from her. The two gray Shetlands seemed in no danger of doing otherwise. They were huddled in the far corner of the stall, looking just as unhappy as Allie about the whole situation.
“Are you all right?” Gibson jumped the wooden gate and bent over his writhing daughter.
“Sporty bucked me off! All I did was slide onto her back from the side of the stall, and she started rearing!”
Libby glanced at Nicole and could tell that there was, perhaps, a different version of the story, but both of them stayed silent, watching as Gibson gently probed his daughter’s limbs.
“You aren’t supposed to ride the ponies unless I’m around to supervise.”
“I know, Daddy. I’m sorry.” Allie held out her arms and her father lifted her and carried her outside.
They were halfway toward the house when the smell of burning meat rose up to meet them. “The hamburgers!” Gibson ran, but it was too late. Four charred black disks sat on the grill, obviously inedible.
“Never mind. More where those came from.” Gibson settled his daughter comfortably in one of the chairs, then scraped the burned burgers off the grill and added four fresh patties.
He glanced sympathetically at Allie. “Feeling any better?”
She shook her head, bottom lip thrust out, eyes red with the threat of more tears.
“Next time you want to ride the ponies, please remember to call me for help, okay?"
Maybe the scare of the fall would be enough to teach Allie her lesson, but something in the little girl’s expression when her father turned back to the grill made Libby doubt it. She was only seven, but Allie knew how to pull her father’s strings in order to get her own way. Which was exactly what Gibson’s mother had been talking about the other day at the soccer game.
Libby checked out her daughter, who was sitting quietly at the patio table, legs swinging, hands folded neatly in her lap. What must she think of these ploys of Allie’s? Or of the little girl’s wealth of possessions?
Maybe this new friendship was not as ideal as Libby had initially supposed.
Just then, Allie piped up with a new line of conversation. “Can Nicole come to my birthday party, Daddy?”
Gibson was just flipping the new batch of perfectly cooked burgers onto a platter. “Well, of course she can. It’s next Saturday.” He looked at Libby questioningly. “If it’s okay with her mom.”
“Oh, yes!” There was no doubting Nicole’s excitement. “Can I, Mom? Please!”
Libby couldn’t say no; it would be Nicole’s first party. So she nodded assent, but in her heart she had grave reservations. For Nicole to see all the gifts Allie would get, the fuss and celebration, when her own birthdays had always been such quiet affairs, would be hard. Libby sighed, thinking that if Allie had been overindulged by her father, the exact opposite was the case for Nicole.
“Don’t look so sad.” Gibson was speaking. He’d given the girls their burgers, and they were eating together happily on a small plastic picnic table made for children. “I didn’t burn them this time.”
Libby gave her head a mental shake. “They smell great” She loaded a bun with tomato, lettuce and barbecue sauce, listening as the young girls chattered about the details of the upcoming party. There would be a birthday gift to buy, she realized, and her heart sank as she wondered how she could ever meet the expectations of a little girl who already had everything she could possibly want.
“Pass the lettuce, would you, Libby?”
She slid the plate across the table and Gibson reached out at the same time, his tanned, work-roughened fingers brushing against hers as she let go. The touch reminded her of what had been happening between them earlier, before the incident with the ponies. She raised her eyes, to find him watching her, his gaze on her mouth as she bit into her burger. She chewed self-consciously, aware of the smile teasing his lips.
When she swallowed she noticed he hadn’t even started eating yet “Aren’t you hungry?”
“To be honest, I’m having a difficult time thinking about food right now,” Gibson admitted, his voice too low for the girls to hear.
Libby focused on her burger, feeling her cheeks redden. Gibson Browning had kissed her, and it was the most amazing thing she’d ever experienced. Who would have guessed being kissed by a man could be so gentle and warm, yet totally engulfing? She could have been standing on hot coals and not even have noticed.
“Eight years’ difference isn’t so much at this stage of our lives. It seemed unbridgeable when I was fourteen and you were only six. Do you remember me walking you off the bus to the classroom your first day of grade one?”
She laughed. “Chris was too cool to be seen with his younger sister. Yes, I remember.” She had a lot of memories of Gibson. And just a few minutes ago they’d made another one. She knew Gibson’s kiss was something she’d never forget
“This is so strange. Only the other day we were so angry at each other,” she said.
“I know. But you’ve got to admit, the argument was all your fault.”
“What?”
“Just kidding. I’m sorry I allowed myself to get so worked up.” He paused, watching Nicole as she scooted up Allie’s wooden playground center. Then he focused back on Libby. “But it wasn’t idle curiosity. I care about you, Libby, always have.”
“Like a brother, you mean?” She slapped away a hovering mosquito—they were always worse in the evening—and waited for his answer.
“How can you say that after what just happened? Libby, I still care, but it’s different now.”
She knew exactly what he meant.
Gibson brushed his hands down her shoulders, along her arms. “What’s happened to you, Libby, these past eight years?”
She shook her head. The impulse to tell him the truth about Owen was still there, but she had to be careful. After all, if he knew Owen wasn’t Nicole’s father, his first question would be, then who was? And what would she say to that?
Gibson’s mouth tightened. He was frustrated by her silence and she didn’t blame him. He’d been so open with her, and she hadn’t reciprocated. But she really wished she could.
“Gibson, can’t we be...friends...without all these details? The past isn't something I enjoy talking about I’d like a chance to think of the future for a change.”
“I’m interested in the future, too. But is friendship really all you want from our relationship? Personally, I think the potential is there for something a whole lot more.”
Libby was so caught up in his words she almost jumped when he suddenly swatted her arm. Lifting his hand, he revealed a squished mosquito. “These critters are getting bad,” he said. “Let’s move inside for dessert.”
Libby returned from the barbecue alone and went straight to the kitchen table to work on her first mathematics assignment. She felt lonely without Nicole, and kept thinking of Gibson, wondering how he passed the time while the girls snuggled into their sleeping bags, laughing and talking.
His wife had been dead five years now. He had to be lonely. Just like her...
Libby read the first problem, then frowned over the fact of two trains on the same track, racing toward each other from opposite directions. The object of the exercise was to determine, based on the distance and speed of each train, the exact moment that they would collide. This type of question had always annoyed her. What kind of twisted mind had thought it up?
She tapped her pencil on the notepad in front of her, then got up to make herself a cup of tea. Math had never been her favorite subject. It was easy to allow reliving the moment of Gibson’s kiss to distract her.
She knew her feelings were dangerous, but that didn’t stop her heart from lifting every time she remembered Gibson saying he was attracted to her.
It seemed so impossible. She didn’t feel like a woman who would be attractive to a man, especially not one as handsome and appealing as Gibson. Instead, she felt that every worry and concern she’d ever had were etched in lines across her face. And even though she knew men didn’t pay as much attention to clothes as women, by now he’d undoubtedly noticed she always wore the same pair of jeans—and they were barely hanging together. The bottom line was, she didn’t feel twenty-five. She felt forty-five.
Libby sat back at the table, cradling the warm mug in her hands, suddenly aware of the sound of the television from the other room. She could readily picture her father reclining in his favorite leather chair, watching the Friday-night programs. Libby tried to imagine eight years’ worth of evenings spent exactly the same way, night after night. Alone in that room. The idea was depressing. No, more than that. It was pathetic. Maybe even tragic.
But most of all it was confusing. She didn’t know what to think of her father anymore. With the perspective of an adult, she could understand how her mother’s death had derailed her father. But as a mother, she couldn’t understand how a parent could abandon a child the way he’d abandoned her.
She’d always suspected her pregnancy had been just an excuse. The truth was her father couldn’t stand to have her around the house. He’d simply wanted to be alone. And that was exactly how it had turned out
She wasn’t going to feel sorry for him.
And she wasn’t going to feel sorry for herself, either. What was the point? It was too late to change anything. The future demanded her concentration now. This high school diploma meant everything to her and Nicole’s chances of making it on their own again. She had to keep her thoughts focused, her energy on track.
Now how fast were those trains going again...?
Since Rita had died, Gibson had found nights tough to face. He didn’t like lying alone on the big queen-size bed, tossing and turning on the 280-count cotton sheets that Rita had made such a fuss about. Recently, he’d begun to think he should marry again. But the task of choosing the right woman nearly scared him to death.
Because he hadn’t chosen the right woman the first time. It hurt him to admit it, especially since Rita had paid the price for his mistake. In exchange, the least he could do was keep a loving memory of her in his heart. And it wasn't hard, because she’d had wonderful qualities. She’d been lovely to look at, talented and fun to take out to a party or a dance.
Yet she hadn’t made him a partner in the way he’d hoped. She’d come into the marriage with an idealized concept of country life, but the reality had been so much harder. Grittier. Smellier.
They’d both learned the hard way that you couldn’t take a woman used to town life and pleasures, a woman who didn’t particularly like animals or have any feeling for the land, and transplant her into hard, isolated country life, expecting her to dig in her roots, deep and strong.
He thought of a lawyer from Yorkton he’d dated for a while a year ago. She’d been attractive, smart and good company. Despite himself, he’d been tempted. For several months he’d ignored the differences in their backgrounds and interests, but finally the relationship had progressed to the point where he’d been forced to make a choice. He’d broken it off, and even on his loneliest nights, he knew he’d done the right thing.
Not that he necessarily assumed a woman who lived in town wouldn’t love living in the country. No more than he would assume a woman who lived in the country took the same delight and fulfillment from it that he did.
Libby, for instance. She’d grown up on one of the most prosperous farms in the district, but that hadn’t stopped her from running off to the city. He still didn’t understand why she’d left, but then, he’d never been able to comprehend the lure of city life. It had never held any attraction for him.
Libby Bateson did, though. There’d always been something a little bit untamed about her. As a child she’d gravitated to the outdoors, just as he and Chris had. Sometimes she’d been a pest; often, however, she’d been content to play on her own, with her animals, or to help her mother in the garden.
In those days he’d felt a fondness for her, as well as a sense of obligation to look out for her. Now he found it difficult to reconcile those protective instincts with the desire she brought out in him.
She’d been an attractive child, but who could’ve guessed her beauty would explode so lushly? It was hard for him to imagine any man could look at her without wanting her—he sure couldn’t.
The impulse to kiss her had been undeniable. The way she’d responded proved the attraction wasn’t one-sided. So much for his plans to only be friends.
He supposed he could pull back, try to pretend that kiss had never happened and just avoid being alone with her again. But it wouldn't be easy. Not when all his instincts were driving him to spend more time with her, to explore the attraction between them and break through that wall of reserve she’d built around herself.
Her stubborn silence about her past was driving him crazy. Was she afraid he would judge her and blame her for her mistakes? Probably. He’d given her every reason to think exactly that.
Maybe he needed to be more sympathetic. After all, she’d only been seventeen, still suffering the loss of her mother and brother. He knew firsthand what grief could do to a person.
If only Libby would talk to him. He felt certain that was the next step. But would Libby cooperate?