Holly Jacobs - Do You Hear What I Hear?

Thinking of her daughter’s occasional wisecracks made Libby smile, despite her annoyance. Then a cold gust of wind made her remember why she was annoyed in the first place.

Well, she might have to wait, but she wasn’t waiting outside. November’s Canadian wind blew off Lake Erie and made things far too cold to do much more than hurry from one warm place to another. She crawled into her Neon and started it, cranking the heat up to the highest setting. She might as well be comfortable while she waited. Hopefully this wouldn’t take too long. At five o’clock the city pretty much shut down, so one of the cars would probably be leaving soon.

Just as she reached for her cell phone, she spotted a man coming out of Gardner’s Ophthalmology and headed for the green truck. She jumped from her car. “Hey, you.”

The man looked up. He was gorgeous. Drop-dead-drag-your-tongue-on-the-street gorgeous.

“Yes?” he asked with a smile—a smile that made him even better looking, though it shouldn’t be possible.

Good-looking or not, Libby’s anger didn’t fade.

“I don’t know how you park in Ohio, but here in Pennsylvania we at least give the other person a foot or so to maneuver.”

“Really?” he asked blandly.

“Really.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He opened the truck door and started to climb in.

“That’s all? No I’m sorry. No I won’t let it happen again?”

He sighed and stood beside his open door. “Listen, I’ve had a very long day and don’t need to have some shrew—”

“Shrew?”

“—yapping at me because she doesn’t know how to parallel park.”

“My car was here first. You’re the one crawling up my bumper, and yet you have the nerve to say I don’t know how to park?”

“Well, I don’t know how you do it here in Pennsylvania, but in Ohio we try to come within a foot of the curb.”

“I’m within a foot of the curb. Heck, I’m practically on the curb. And how close I am to the curb doesn’t affect how others park and, more importantly, get out of their parking spaces.”

He climbed into the truck. “So maybe next time you should park on the parking ramp at the corner of Eighth and Peach. It’s only a couple of blocks.”

Libby knocked on the window, and reluctantly the parking idiot rolled the glass down. “Or, maybe,” she said, “next time you should park there when you visit the doctor’s.”

“That’s a heck of a hike to walk to the office every day.”

“You need to see the ophthalmologist every day?” Right. The man didn’t have glasses; she’d wager not even contacts. No, Mr. Perfect’s eyes were probably twenty-twenty. Who did he think he was fooling?”

“I am the ophthalmologist.”

“Dr. Gardner?” This was Mabel’s Dr. Hunk? Well, he might be eye candy, but he certainly left a bitter aftertaste.

He nodded. “And you are?”

“Your new neighbor, Libby McGuiness.”

“You have an apartment here?” He nodded toward the apartments that topped a number of the square’s businesses.

“No, I own Snips and Snaps, the beauty salon right next door to you. And since it appears we’ll both be parking here frequently, maybe you should invest in some parking lessons.”

“Only if you join me,” he said pleasantly.

Libby resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at the man and attempted to sound mature. “Listen, sparring with you hasn’t been much of an exercise in wits, since you’ve only got half of yours, but I have to go. If you wouldn’t mind moving your truck…?”

“And I have to confess, this is the nicest welcome to the neighborhood I’ve had to date.”

A small shot of guilt coursed through her. After all, she might not want to go after Dr. Gardner in a romantic way, but she also didn’t want to alienate a neighbor.

Libby’s guilt totally evaporated when the parking-failure doctor shot her a snotty grin.

“With manners like yours, I’m sure you’re in store for even better ones,” Libby said before she stormed to her car.

Mabel wanted her to change her hair for hunky Dr. Gardner? Libby slammed the car door shut. The only thing she’d change was her parking space. She had a daughter to pick up and couldn’t wait on a daily basis for Dr. Gardner to move his truck.

The green truck slipped smoothly into Reverse then, and with the two feet of free space behind it, angled out of the parking space. Finally able to back up, Libby followed suit. It was time to go home.

A half hour later she stood in her kitchen with Meg, and the parking-idiot was all but forgotten.

“And then Jenny barfed, right there in the class. The janitor had to come clean it up. We had class in the cafeteria then because the room still smelled, but the cafeteria smelled almost as bad.”

Some things never changed. Bad cafeteria food was one of those things.

Libby glanced at her daughter’s brunette curls. Another thing that never changed, and never would, was the delight she got watching Meg. Every year she just seemed more wonderful. Her baby was ten years old. Where had the time gone?

“Do you have homework?” Libby asked to cover up the fact she was suddenly feeling nostalgic. Ten-year-olds didn’t appreciate being sighed over.

Meg frowned. “You ask me that every night. Maybe I did it at the Hendersons?”

Libby stirred the sauce and smiled. Her daughter was a normal ten-year-old girl in every sense of the word. She put the spoon down and said, “And maybe you didn’t. Which is it?”

“Fine. I’ll do my homework.” Meg’s hands moved much slower than when they recited Jenny’s barf experience.

“Dinner’s on in about fifteen minutes, so get to it,” Libby said as she signed.

Moving fingers. Dancing hands. Those signs were the only indication that there was something different about Meg.

She watched her daughter stomp away and couldn’t help but smile again. Meg groused about homework, had a room that resembled a pigsty and spent as much time as she could manage chatting with her friends on the Internet. Libby wouldn’t allow her to use public chat rooms, but they’d set up a private one where all Meg’s friends could meet. And meet they did whenever Meg could sneak some computer time on their antiquated model.

She’d be thrilled with the new model Libby planned to buy her for Christmas. Computers, sign language, lip reading—Libby encouraged anything that opened communication for her daughter.

She started slicing the Italian bread, visions of modems and mouses floating through her head. Like any other fifth grader, Meg would love a faster model.

Like any other fifth grader. That phrase summed up Meggie to a T. Well, maybe not just like any other fifth grader. Meg was special, and it wasn’t her hearing impairment that made her that way. She was just a very special little girl.

Too bad her father, Mitch, hadn’t stuck around long enough to see that he was right—their daughter wasn’t normal. No, Meg was spectacular.

Mitch’s loss was Libby’s gain. Raising Meg was probably the most wonderful thing she’d ever do. Getting dinner with her, nagging her about homework, seeing the world through her daughter’s baby blue eyes was a gift. And Libby tried not to let a day go by without reminding herself how blessed she was.

Fifteen minutes later the two of them sat down to their spaghetti and meatballs. In between bites Meg bubbled about her score on some new computer game she was playing with Jackie Henderson. “I beat her, big-time.”

“I suppose she’ll want a rematch, and she might win, so don’t get too cocky.”

“No way. My fingers are quicker than hers will ever be.”

After nine years of signing, Libby’s fingers were fast, but not nearly as fast as Meg’s. She was probably right—Jackie didn’t stand a chance.