“That’s nice,” Libby replied on autopilot, mainly concerned with filling the space where a reasonable person might begin to question Jean’s Lucky-Charms-by-way-of-Outback-Steakhouse accent.
“He doesn’t like to be cooped up. It’s all about the great outdoors with Jefferson. Just a man and his camera. That’s not bad, is it?” Hildy shook her head. “Look at me, talking business. Plenty of time for that, after we get to know each other better.”
No, please, let’s talk about work,Libby thought, as a knock sounded on the front door. She waited for someone to answer.
Oh right.This was supposed to be her house.
“I’ll just get that,” she said, angling her thumb at the door like a totally normal person who hadn’t learned human behavior from sitcoms. Her footsteps were silent against the satin smoothness of the floor, drowned out by the pounding of Libby’s heart. Because a terrible suspicion had taken root in her brain, throbbing like the beginning of a migraine.
Maybe she was wrong. Hundreds of tourists arrived every day, giant planes disgorging passengers from all over the world. What were the odds? She paused with her hand on the heavy iron knob, taking a deep breath before adjusting her expression to a serene smile.
He looked up at the sound of the door opening. A spark of recognition lit his eyes, a warm flare of pleased surprise that said,It’s you.Like that was a good thing.
Libby had no idea what her face was doing, but her brain was stuck on a single thought:I was right.Iceman was hot—in a lean, serious, wolf-eyed way.
Then again, he was also the guy from the beach, which waspretty strong evidence that Libby’s intuition sucked. Because she could not possibly have been less Lillibet with him.
She drafted a silent letter of complaint to the universe:When I said I wanted to meet someone like him, I didn’t mean the exact same person!Especially since he already had a charming, young, successful girlfriend.
“What do you say, JJ?” Hildy stuck an arm between them, wiggling her fingers. “Is she gorgeous or what?”
He looked startled, less by the question than by the presence of other humans. His gaze flicked to Hildy before sliding back to Libby. Did all his friends call him JJ, or was that a pet name, just between the two of them? Not that Libby was a friend, as evidenced by the fact that all traces of warmth had fled his expression. It seemed unlikely he was looking to expand his social circle with a thirsty phony who accidentally hit on people who were happily coupled up.
“I don’t just mean superficially,” Hildy continued. “Your inner beauty shines through. Lillibet, it is my very great pleasure to present the one and only Jefferson Jones. Winter warrior, savior in the storm, my personal guardian angel, et cetera.”
“Hildy.” His voice was a grumble of warning. Libby tried not to feel it in her bones, but it was a losing battle. He didn’t have a drawl, exactly, but the low-and-slow thing was undeniably sexy.
“Fine.” Hildy rolled her eyes. “JJ, this”—she twirled her hand like the ringmaster at a circus—“is Lillibet. Who by the way isexactlyhow I pictured her.”
Libby waited for him to say something like,Did you also picture her snarfing an entire bag of shrimp crackers while wearing shorts that should have been thrown away ten years ago?But he only held out his hand, like a civilized adult. The palm-to-palm contact should not have seemed too intimate for a public setting, and yet the slot machine of Libby’s nervous system was flashinglights and making dinging sounds so loud she worried everyone could tell she was losing it. Sensory overload.
“Pleased to meet you,” she mumbled.
“Likewise.”
“He thinks you’re great,” Hildy translated. “We both do.”
“Oh, well. You, too.”Both of you.Libby kept that part to herself, but her face flushed anyway.
“Is it time to do the centerpiece?” Hildy asked, glancing at the dimly lit dining room behind them. “I was hoping we could watch. If that’s okay?”
“Certain and sure,” said Jean, rolling eachrlike a bowling ball. She made a flicking motion at Libby. If that was supposed to be a hint, it flew right over her head. And it wasn’t like “Lillibet” could ask someone else for pointers. Aesthetics were her bread and butter.
Libby walked to the approximate middle of the table, which appeared to have been carved from the trunk of a massive tree. The surface was lacquered to a glossy shine, but the edges dipped and flared like a coastline, still rough with bark in spots. A river of translucent blue glass ran from end to end.
One by one, Libby unfolded her fingers to reveal the damp fistful of crushed shells. Some of them were probably embedded in her skin. How hard could it be? She’d watched Jean make art out of scraps plenty of times. After quickly discarding the idea of scattering them like glitter, she dumped the whole thing at once.
“Minimalist,” Hildy said, staring at the grayish white mound.
“Mmm.” Libby debated sticking her finger into the center of the pile to make a hole. Like what, a salty donut? “It’s an iterative process.”
“She’ll be pickin’ up bits o’ this and o’ that,” Jean chimed in. “Like a birdie buildin’ its nest.”
Hildy turned wide brown eyes on Libby, clearly expecting more.
“Because a lot of people only choose the perfect shells.” As opposed to the ones that had been ground up for landscaping. “But someone has to love the broken pieces.” She ventured a glance at her audience to see how this was going over. Hildy gave a solemn nod.
“I like to think these shells have been through things,” Libby continued, confidence growing. “There’s a story there.”
