Her mother nodded, then said quietly, “Because of Debbie.”
“Did they—were they an item, anything like that?”
“It wasn’t like that. He stopped at the library for a do-it-yourself book on plumbing, and she was there. She introduced him to poetry. He couldn’t concentrate on a novel back then, but he could read a poem. He especially loved Robert Penn Warren’s poetry.”
“I remember,” Phoebe said.
“He went on to reading novels. Robert Parker, Tom Clancy, Ross McDonald. He had so many favorites, but he continued to read poetry, too.” She blinked back tears. “He was a wonderful man, Phoebe. I had him—we had him—for the time we did because of Debbie Sanderson and the library. They helped him heal. They saved his life. There’s no question in my mind.”
Phoebe felt her throat tighten with emotion. “Do you know why Debbie came to Knights Bridge?”
“She chose it because of her great-great-grandfather, but I think she came here to heal, too. I didn’t realize she liked to sew as much as she must have, or that she was so good at it that she could copy Hollywood dresses. I knew very little about her. Just what I’ve told you.”
“Did she say goodbye when she left town?” Phoebe glanced around her small kitchen, wondered if it’d been much the same forty years ago. “Did anyone notice she was gone?”
When her mother looked away, focused on the darkening night out the window by the table, Phoebe could see a glimpse of Elly Macintosh O’Dunn at twelve. “It was summer,” her mother said. “I didn’t even realize Debbie had left until I started school in September. I should have taken more of an interest. She was invisible, in a way.”
“Mom, you were twelve.”
“When I think back, I realize how young she was, too. Maybe twenty-one. She was such a dreamer. I could see it when she tutored me. She wanted a life that Knights Bridge couldn’t give her.”
“And all Dad wanted was Knights Bridge,” Phoebe said quietly. “He read poetry to us as kids.”
“Poetry helped him cope with his experience in combat,” her mother said. “He didn’t have a long life but he lived longer than many of the young men he served with. He took each day as it came and lived in the moment. Maybe that meant he wasn’t as good with money and planning as some.”
“But we have the land because of him.”
Her mother turned from the window. “I have a good life, Phoebe. I like my job. It gets me out every day. What would I have done with a big insurance policy?” She smiled, a spark coming back into her eyes. “Blown it on horses instead of making do with goats.”
Phoebe smiled, too. “Now the goats are coming in handy with Maggie and Olivia’s soap making.”
“Who’d have ever thought?” Her mother laughed, but her lightheartedness didn’t last. She leaned forward, took Phoebe’s hand. “Honey, I know you’ve helped me and I appreciate all you do, but I don’t want you to worry about me. I don’t want you not to live your life—to feel tied to Knights Bridge—because of me.”
“I’ve never felt tied to Knights Bridge because of you or anyone else,” Phoebe said. “I like my life.”
Her mother didn’t seem to hear her. “Change is a part of life. Even if I knew deep down it was a delusion, I thought I’d grow old with your father. Instead I became a young widow with four teenage daughters. You have a big heart, Phoebe. Sometimes you ignore it so that you can be quote-unquote sensible. Don’t ignore it now, okay? Not because you’re worried about me, or your sisters. Open up your world if that’s where your heart takes you.”
Phoebe shot to her feet, uncomfortable. She and her mother seldom had deep conversations and she didn’t know what to make of this one.
“You have things to do,” her mother said, rising. “And I have more tomatoes to can tonight. I might turn them into sauce. I’ll decide on the way home.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Phoebe said as she followed her through the living room. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“Phoebe…”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about me, either, okay?”
“I’m your mother. It’s my job to worry.” She laughed, and became her bouncy self again as she left.
Phoebe returned to the kitchen and threw out the rest of her Diet Coke. She poured the last of a bottle of pinot grigio, took it out to the front porch and sat on the steps. So much for not drinking alone. It was quiet on Thistle Lane, but it always was. She sipped her chilled wine and smelled roses in the night air. A half moon created shadows that stirred in a gentle breeze.
She’d brought her cell phone out with her and stared at it in her palm. She had Noah’s number memorized. That was a clue to her feelings, wasn’t it? She debated just texting him but instead dialed the number.
He picked up right away. “Phoebe.”
His voice was calm, deep and made her heartbeat quicken. “Hi. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time—”