Book Lovers(96)

“Okayyyy,” I say, following her into the next room.

“A dark blue velvet couch,” she says, “and, like, a small canvas tent in one corner for the girls. Something we can leave up, string some lights inside.” She leads me down a narrow hall and then I follow her through another doorway as she flicks on the lights to reveal a butter-yellow bathroom: yellow fifties tile, yellow wallpaper, yellow tub, yellow sink.

“This . . . needs some work,” she says. “But look how huge it is! I mean, there’s a tub, and there’s a whole other bathroom with a walk-in shower. That one’s already been redone.”

She looks to me for some sort of confirmation that I’m hearing her.

And I am, but there’s a dull buzzing rising in my skull, like a horde of bees growing more and more agitated by the uncanny sense of wrongness creeping up my spine.

“There’s an en suite. Three whole baths—can you imagine?” She gestures toward a smear of lipstick on the carpet, beside a full-pot-of-coffee-sized stain. “Ignore that. I already checked and there’s hardwood under it. There will be some damage from the spills, probably, but I’ve always loved a good rug.”

She stops in the middle of the room and holds her arms aloft at her sides. “What do you think?”

“About you loving rugs?”

Her smile wavers. “About the house.”

The blood rushing through my eardrums dims my voice. “This house? In the middle of Sunshine Falls?”

Her smile shrinks.

The buzzing swells. It sounds like No, like a million miniature Noras humming, This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. You’re misunderstanding.

Libby’s hands cradle her stomach, her frown lines firming up between her brows. “You wouldn’t believe how cheap it is.”

I’m sure I wouldn’t. I’d probably fall down dead, and then my ghost would haunt this place, and every night when I rose out of the floorboards, I’d scare the shit out of the owners by asking, Now, how many closets did you say it has?

But I don’t see how that’s important.

I shake my head. “Lib, you couldn’t live somewhere like this.”

Her face goes slack. “I couldn’t?”

“Your life’s in New York,” I say. “Brendan’s job is in New York. The girls’ school—our favorite restaurants, our favorite parks.”

Me.

Mom.

Every last bit of her. Every memory. Every spot where she stood, in some other life, a decade ago. Every window we looked into, our mittened hands folded together, the three of us in a row as we watched Santa’s animatronic sleigh arc over a miniature Manhattan skyline.

Every step across the Brooklyn Bridge on the first day of spring, or the last of summer.

Freeman Books, the Strand, Books Are Magic, McNally Jackson, the Fifth Avenue Barnes & Noble.

“You’ve loved it here,” Libby sounds uncertain, young.

All those veins of ice holding my cracked heart together thaw too fast, broken pieces sliding off like melting glaciers, leaving raw spots exposed. “It’s been a great break, but Libby—in a week, I want to go home.”

She turns away. Right before she speaks, I feel this throb in my gut, a warning, a change in barometric pressure. The buzzing drops out.

Her voice is clear. “Brendan got a new job. In Asheville.”

I felt something coming, but it didn’t prepare me for this missed-step weightlessness, the sensation of falling from a great height, hitting every stair on the way down.

Libby’s looking at me again, waiting.

I don’t know what for. I don’t know what to say.

What is the correct course of action when the planet’s been punted off its axis?

I have no plan, no fix-it checklist. I’m standing in an empty house, watching the world unravel.

“This is what Brendan kept checking in about,” I whisper, the roar of blood in my ears starting anew. “He was waiting for you to tell me.”

The muscles in Libby’s jaw flex, an admission of guilt.

“The list,” I choke out. “This trip. That’s what this was all about? You’re leaving and this whole elaborate game of Simon Says was some fucked-up goodbye?”

“It’s not like that,” she murmurs.

“What about the lawyer?” I say. “How does she fit into this?”

“The what?”

The world sways. “The divorce attorney, the one Sally gave you the number for.”

Understanding dawns across her face. “A friend of hers,” she says feebly, “who knew about a good preschool here.”

I press my hands to the sides of my head.

They’re looking at schools.

They’re looking at houses.

“How long have you known?” I ask.

“It happened fast,” she says.

“How long, Libby?”

Breath rushes out between her lips. “Since a few days before we made the plans to come here.”

“And there’s no way out of it?” I rub my forehead. “I mean, if it’s money—”

“I don’t want out of it, Nora.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I made this decision.”

“But you just said it happened fast. You haven’t had time to think about this.”