She picked up her phone for the first time in hours and found several messages waiting for her.
One from Tina: Hey, looooong drive. But finally in Cape Town. Happily checked into my hotel and ready for bed.
Another from Harris: Flight just landed. Glad to be home.
Her mother had sent her a typo-riddled message: Spmthin wrpng wiyh new phne.
Followed by one from her father: Ignore your mother’s last message. I put the predictive text on for her.
The messages had prompted a small smile from Libby. Her mother couldn’t wrap her head around smartphones, and the new phone Libby had sent her for her birthday last week seemed to be particularly hard for her to master. Thankfully her father was a bit more tech savvy.
Libby missed her parents and felt a fierce longing to just pack Clara up and go home to them for a bit. Maybe it was childish, but she always felt like none of the bad things in the world could touch her when she was with them.
There was one more message. From Greyson: Are you home safe?
She stared at it for a while before typing her one-word response.
Yes.
She swallowed down her tears and brought her mother’s number up on the screen. Needing to hear the older woman’s voice.
“Hello? Libby? Roland! It’s Libby.” She raised her voice to call for her husband.
“Hello, Mum.” She could barely keep her tears at bay, and her hands tightened on the phone as her mother’s warm voice enveloped her like a comforting hug. “I miss you . . .”
It was hard to go into work the following morning, knowing that Greyson would be there. He didn’t make eye contact with Libby while he gave the expected “carry on as you normally would do” speech to the staff. After that, he retreated to the office, and she thankfully didn’t see him for the rest of service.
The morning and afternoon passed pretty uneventfully, but Libby was still a bundle of nerves when she collected Clara from day care. She was desperate for a relaxing session of mummy-and-baby yoga, which had become part of her normal Monday-afternoon routine. She walked into the community center, smile at the ready for the crochet club, who liked to fuss over Clara. Sam Brand wasn’t sitting with them as he usually did, and her eyes tracked over to the self-defense class . . . only to see Greyson chatting with the group of teens. He was wearing a pair of low-riding gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt. He had his arms crossed over his impressive chest, and his legs were spread shoulder length apart as he nodded and listened to what a boy of about fifteen was telling him.
It came as a nasty shock to see him there. Why was he here? How could she relax with him just meters away?
Lia spotted her and waved. “Hey, Libby. How’re you doing?”
Greyson’s head shot up at the sound of her name, and his eyes immediately found her. His gaze raked over her, taking in her black yoga pants, off-the-shoulder top, and high ponytail in seconds. His attention switched to Clara, and a small smile played about his lips as he took in the baby’s matching outfit. Libby had even managed to scrape together enough curls for a tiny, loose topknot.
He raised a hand in acknowledgment, and she nodded before deliberately dismissing him and making her way to the stage.
“Hey there, Auntie,” Libby greeted Lia with a grin. Daff had given birth to a bouncing baby boy just a couple of weeks ago. He had been nearly two weeks overdue, and toward the end, Daff had been cranky and almost impossible to be around. “When will Daff and Connor be joining us for yoga?”
Lia rolled her eyes. “She’s complaining about everything right now. Especially the stitches.” Connor had been quite large, and Daff had required an episiotomy. An unfortunate fact that poor Spencer had not yet heard the end of. “When I suggested she join us for yoga, she practically kicked me out of her house. So . . . I doubt we’ll be seeing her anytime soon.”
The other women laughed.
“Right, time to get started . . .”
“Wait, Lia, you have to tell us,” one of the other women, a pretty, blonde single mother named Alix, called out. “Who’s the hunk teaching Brand’s class today?”
Lia’s eyes flew to Libby; she looked like a deer trapped in headlights. Clearly not sure how to answer the question.
Libby had thought most of the town was aware of their relationship. It seemed that Alix was a little out of date with her gossip.
“He’s my husband,” Libby stated curtly, putting Lia out of her misery. Alix’s eyebrows flew to her hairline, and her speculative gaze raked over Libby and then Clara.
“Oh. I thought you were a single mum, like me,” she said bluntly, her eyes dropping to Libby’s bare ring finger.