He grabbed his bag and headed to his car. He’d skipped countless parties and other events in Knights Bridge over the years given his schedule, priorities and, when he was on the road, the distance involved.
Always a reason.
He’d send a gift if called for, usually through Shannon. After a while, he assumed no one seriously expected him to attend anything short of something like his brother’s wedding, and invitations were a courtesy. He never took offense when he discovered he hadn’t been invited to something. More and more, even when he was fairly close, living in Boston, his hometown and his friends there were in his past, not a part of his current life. It’d been beyond him when he’d heard Felicity had returned to Knights Bridge, but she’d always been happier there than he had.
Gabe got in his car but didn’t start the engine right away. What if he did decide to move to California or somewhere else far from New England? Did Felicity ever consider a radical move? Did she ever dream of such a dramatic change in her life, or was she rooted now in Knights Bridge?
He’d traveled to countless places but never to Wyoming. Before Felicity had marched out of his life, he hadn’t wanted to go without her. Afterward, he hadn’t wanted to remind himself of her. He was only in his early thirties, though. He had time to travel to Wyoming and loads of other places he wanted to see.
He started his car, trying to ease the grip nostalgia—memories—had on him. Felicity used to run up her credit cards between jobs to take trips. “Might as well take advantage of the time off,” she’d tell him, despite knowing—she’d had to know, given her background as a financial analyst, even a failed one—that made no sense. Classic fight-or-flight. If she truly had gotten her financial house in order in the past three years, Gabe didn’t see how she would have had much money for trips. Paying down debt, managing living expenses, putting together an emergency fund, transitioning to being a solo entrepreneur, saving to buy a house—paying property taxes and upkeep, buying furnishings, saving for any upgrades. It was a wonder she’d managed all that in three years, given the hole she’d been in. But this was Felicity MacGregor. She usually managed to figure out how to get what she wanted.
As he started out of the parking garage, Knights Bridge might as well have been on another planet. It was definitely in a different world than the one he now knew.
Felicity belonged there, Gabe reminded himself. She wanted to be there. He had no business interfering with her life. He’d done that once before, and she’d bolted. It didn’t matter that she’d heeded his advice. He’d lost her as a result of his meddling, and she’d been figuring out that finance wasn’t right for her. She hadn’t needed him to cut into her process and tell her.
But he didn’t turn around and go up to his condo and talk to painters and figure out his life. He continued onto Storrow Drive and headed west, toward Knights Bridge.
Eighteen
Every morning, Felicity liked to identify three things for which she was grateful. She’d made it a habit after the second time she’d been fired. That morning, drinking coffee on the deck, her mind on Gabe’s impending arrival, sleep having eluded her most of the night, she’d written her three things in her journal.
I’m thankful Gabe let me know he’s on his way, and his visit isn’t a surprise.
I’m thankful he won’t have time to go swimming, and I therefore won’t be tempted to join him.
I’m thankful I put clean sheets on the bed in the guest room.
She glanced at her notes, still open on her coffee table. Thankful struck her as not quite the right word. Relieved better described her emotions. “I’m thankful I have enough work to keep me solvent,” she said with a smile, leaving it at that.
She took a shower, got dressed and headed into town. She parked on South Main and walked down the shaded, picturesque street to the library. With its dark wood, elegant fireplace in a cozy reading nook and small stage, the library had a distinct late-nineteenth century feel to it, but it was also modern, a place for patrons of all ages to come. The space lent itself beautifully to Kylie’s book party. She often led the children’s reading hour. Somewhat shy and reclusive by nature, she would come to life reading a story, whether a classic like Winnie-the-Pooh or a book by one of her writer friends. From what Felicity had heard, the kids loved her.
Clare Morgan, Phoebe O’Dunn’s capable successor as library director, greeted Felicity and took her into her office at the back of the main floor. Since arriving in town last fall, Clare, a widow, had made a place for herself and her young son. Over the winter, she’d met and fallen in love with Daisy Farrell’s grandson, Logan, an ER doctor. They were now married and had moved into his grandparents’ former house down the street from the library.
Clare sat at her oversize oak desk, probably original to the building. She and Felicity went over everything for tonight’s party and reviewed the library’s policies and guidelines for outside events. “A woman was just in and asked if Kylie’s talk is open to the public,” Clare said. “I told her it is and it’s free but she’ll need a ticket.”
“That’s right,” Felicity said. “Would you like me to speak with her?”
“No, I think I answered her questions. I explained we need an approximate head count because Morwenna Mills is so popular and she could attract quite a crowd, even here
