Homecoming - Christie Golden [17]
Libby Webber was even more beautiful than Harry Kim remembered. He was of course delighted to be [48] reunited with his mom and dad; Harry was an only child, born late to these elderly parents and therefore all the more precious to them. He loved them fiercely, but he was a man now, not a little boy, and although he tried to be the dutiful son and pay those who bore him the attention and deference they deserved, damned if his head didn’t keep swinging around as if pulled to the woman standing across from him.
Had her eyes sparkled so brightly seven years ago? Was her hair that curly and thick, her smile that wide? He desperately wished he could talk with her alone, ask her how she had been, really been. Was there anyone else? There was no ring on her finger, but that didn’t rule out a serious boyfriend. Or girlfriend, for that matter—Harry wasn’t narrow-minded in his distressing scenarios of imagining Libby attached. They laughed and talked, but it was all shallow, all surface. If only they could speak deeply, as they used to, speak to and from the heart.
His feelings for her surprised him. There had certainly been other women in the intervening seven years. And they hadn’t been flings, either. Unlike some men he’d known, Harry knew that where his body went, his heart followed. Recollecting some of the things he had done, had felt, even now Harry felt a pang of loss. Once, he had believed in the very romantic concept that there was only one Someone for everyone, one true soul mate. He knew better now. Love—real love, not infatuation or passion—could be shared with more than one person in a lifetime.
She was watching him keenly, and as the shadows settled on his heart, she cocked her head in a gesture [49] that was deeply familiar to him. Libby smiled, slowly, that wide, all-encompassing smile that had always made him feel like he was dancing on air.
“You’ve changed a lot, Harry,” she said softly. “I can see it in your eyes. You’ve really grown up.”
“Don’t I know it,” his mother sighed, seemingly unaware of the electric connection between her son and his former fiancée. “Just yesterday he was little Harry, singing in the sunshine with me. My baby boy.” She reached up and tousled his hair. Harry knew from experience that it was now standing straight up and he blushed, embarrassed.
“Ma,” he said, drawing the word out in exasperation as he tried to smooth his ruffled hair.
Libby laughed. “It is good to see you again,” she said.
Throwing caution to the wind, knowing he’d hear about it all through dinner and probably beyond, Harry turned to address his parents. “Excuse us for a moment,” he said, grabbed Libby’s hand, and pulled the startled woman toward a corner of the hall where they could talk.
“Harry,” she protested. “Your parents are going to be furious!”
“Let them be. They’ve got me for the rest of tonight and probably for a long time after that. I don’t—I don’t know how much time we’re going to have.”
He realized that he was still clutching her hand and released her. Libby clasped both hands behind her back. Not a good sign, Harry thought.
“Well, what do you want to talk about?”
He stared into her eyes. What did he want to talk [50] about? What could they, separated for seven years, even have to talk about?
He knew what he wanted to say and do. He wanted to reach out to her, grasp her hands, and say, Libby, there have been other women. I’m sure that you’ve been with other men. We didn’t know if we’d ever see each other again. I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done, but now I’ve come home. And I see you again, and it’s as if I’ve never been away, and as if I’ve been gone for a thousand years. Is there someone else now? Could you learn to care for me ... love me again? Is there anything left of love for me in you?
He said, “How’ve you been?” and hated himself.
She fixed him with a skeptical gaze. “I can’t believe you dragged me over here and annoyed your parents just to ask me how I’ve been,” she said, challenging him.
He said, “No, really, how’ve you been?” and