Page 4 of The Comeback Summer

I turn the volume up on my podcast and quicken my pace, until all I’m thinking about is the burning in my lungs and the murder in my ears.

•••

BY THE TIMEI get home, I’m sweaty but more relaxed. I walk in to see Libby, sitting bleary-eyed at the kitchen table, her hair a messy tangle. I hand her the iced latte and muffin, as promised.

“Thank you, my sweet sister,” she says, and takes a sip.

After that, I take my medication, giving silent thanks to the chemists and pharmaceutical scientists who created the small white tablet that keeps a smile on my face (most days, anyway). Without it—and the coping skills I learned from a couple of years in therapy—I’d probably be curled in a fetal position after the Great UnderRooney Debacle.

Then I sit at the table and wait for Libby to be ready to talk. Caffeine and sugar are to my sister what running and murder are to me.

My eyes drift to the bookshelf, filled with Libby’s romance novels interspersed with pictures of our family. There’s one of Dad and his girlfriend on his deep-sea fishing boat down in Key West; another of Mom and her husband, George, in front of their cozy cottage on Martha’s Vineyard.

Our parents have been living their own lives for so long that they sometimes feel more like distant relatives. Dad left when we were still in single digits to follow his dreams of Florida sunshine, and Mom took off after I graduated from high school. They’re not bad people, just a tad self-centered and flighty. Our grandmother was the constant in our lives,the giver of advice, the purveyor of wisdom, the mentor and guide we always turned to.

“I love that picture,” Libby says, pointing to one of us with GiGi at the entry to the office, next to the big gold letters that saythe freedman group. “Remember how she’d always say, ‘This will all be yours when you’re older, if you want it’?”

“Every single time we visited,” I say, nodding.

We must be around twelve and fourteen in the picture, both of us at that awkward braces-and-pimples stage. GiGi looks glamorous, as usual, dressed in slim-cut slacks and a fitted jacket, her gray hair in her signature sleek bob.

My eyes prick with tears. “I miss her so much.”

“Same,” Libby says, sighing.

The office was busy and bustling back then, filled with professional men and women doing important work. I was always awestruck and tongue-tied when we visited, hanging back while my sister talked to everyone; even as a teenager, she carried herself like she already belonged there.

A wave of sadness comes over me thinking about how different the office is now. We haven’t had the funds to renovate it, so it still looks like it’s stuck in the early 2000s. We’ve had to let every employee go except for Scott. And now we’ve lost almost every client.

GiGi’s legacy deserves so much better.

“What are we going to do?” I say, turning to my sister, needing her reassurance. If Libby doesn’t know, we’re sunk.

“I have some ideas,” she says.

I exhale in relief and reach for a notebook. “Great, I’ll start a list.”

She shakes her head. “Let’s get ready and head to the officefor a brainstorming session.” Her eyes sparkle as she adds, “You can organize it all on the big whiteboard.”

And just like that, I know it’ll be okay. Our strengths—Libby’s creative energy, my analytical mind—balance and complement each other. As long as we’re working together, nothing truly awful will happen. This is just a bump in the road. A chance to regroup and rebuild.

You girls are unstoppable, GiGi used to say. And I believe her. I believe in us.

Three

LIBBY

Hannah left for the office an hour ago, but I’ve been piddling, mostly staring at the blank page in my notebook and feeling guilty. Sometimes, I wish I was Catholic so I could confess my sins weekly and get on with it. Instead, I have to wait until Yom Kippur to have my karmic slate wiped clean.

I know being late yesterday isn’t the biggest offense—it’s a lot less awful than murder or infidelity—but I dropped the ball. It was my job to lead that call with Mr.Rooney, and I left Hannah to carry the burden. Falling short on both my business-partner and big-sister responsibilities.

The year our parents got divorced, GiGi took Hannah and me to see a child therapist whose office was next door to an Italian restaurant. I don’t remember much about the sessions, but I do remember sitting with GiGi during Hannah’s appointment, eating my pasta con broccoli (with no broccoli) while GiGi sipped her red wine. And I clearly remember GiGi saying:You’re the one constant in your sister’s life now, bubeleh. She’scounting on you to be strong and brave and set a good example.I promised GiGi I would.

And I’m going to do my damnedest to keep that promise.

•••

TWO HOURS LATER,I’m on my third cup of coffee at the office, staring at the still-blank page in my notebook. Usually, I thrive under the pressure of a deadline and a good, juicy problem to solve—but there isn’t this much at stake when it’s a client’s problem.

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