Life, Libby, and the Pursuit of Happiness Read online

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Cover by Left Coast Design, Portland, Oregon

  Front and back cover illustration © Krieg Barrie

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  LIFE, LIBBY, AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS

  Copyright © 2007 by Hope Lyda

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lyda, Hope.

  Life, Libby, and the pursuit of happiness / Hope Lyda.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7369-1789-6 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-6045-8 (eBook)

  1. Public relations personnel—Fiction. 2. Life change events—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3612.Y35L54 2007

  813.’6—dc22

  2006035766

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  Acknowledgments

  The creation of a book depends on so much…familial support, inspiration, perseverance, caffeine, solitude, friends, the spirit of possibility, and kind words when deadlines loom. Special thanks to…

  Kim Moore—my editor extraordinaire—who catches gaps in my stories or lapses in my judgment without ever laughing at me. Your gift is a gift to me!

  Kimberly S., for your connection to the heart of this story and the “Regal Queen,” and for your quiet, constant encouragement.

  Beth Tallman, who so graciously agreed to meet a stranger (moi) for coffee at Caffe Ladro to talk about the Seattle music industry (and risk parking tickets).

  Marc, for your presence in my life.

  Many things are possible for the person who has hope. Even more is possible for the person who has faith. Still more is possible for the person who knows how to love. But everything is possible for the person who practices all three virtues.

  —from The Practice of the Presence of God

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  About the Author

  Other Books by Hope Lyda

  One

  The vacuum sound of skateboards approaching at Mach speed caused me to turn just in time for an onslaught of Seattle’s fine young citizens on wheels.

  “Lady, you look like a dork,” said the one wearing a stocking cap down to his eyebrows as he pointed at my head. The umbrella I held over my head served as a sound-intensifying alcove. Dork rang out at a very caustic and offensive range.

  “That’s a girl,” said another as he rushed by me, did a half-twist off of the angled sidewalk and landed with a thud onto the rough street. “Not a lady,” he yelled, finishing his move and his thought.

  The third charmer looked back over his shoulder and added, “No, that’s a creature.” They all laughed with adolescent enthusiasm and the surprisingly deep tone teen boys possess.

  My street linguistics were a bit rusty, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t a compliment. It wasn’t until later that I thought to shame them for their use of the word “dork.” Wasn’t that a put-down from before my generation?

  I pondered this as I continued toward my usual Sunday morning destination. Moments later I stood in front of familiar, worn, gray-teal doors and reached for the 1920s door handle. I had to pull hard against the force of the morning’s wind. I even leaned toward the street to create enough resistance force. Would I ever get used to this city? I wondered as the splintered edge of the door snagged the hem of my pants.

  “Today would have been a perfect day to sleep in,” I said to Nomad the hound dog as I entered the 80 Days used bookstore. I turned to detach my clothing and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the display window. The knotted, sci-fi cone of my curls shaped by a fall gust of wind from Seattle’s Elliott Bay hovered above my head like a foreign object. Young bachelor number three was right. I was a creature.

  Mr. Diddle, the owner of the narrow and musty establishment, spoke from somewhere above sight line. “What fun is sleeping when there are so many nooks and crannies in the world of literature to explore?”

  This was a typical remark from the optimistic man whose stature and attitude were that of a leprechaun. I passed three aisles, turning my head left and then right, and at last discovered Mr. Diddle’s lower half at the top of a rusty, standard ladder cleverly and dangerously tricked out with roller skates for wheels.

  “I brought you coffee and a jelly donut. If you’d serve coffee and pastries, maybe you would have more customers. And a sign would be helpful.”

  Nomad trotted behind me, talking a slow yawn chatter while his nails clipped the wood in a friendly rhythm. In minutes my lap and attention would be his.

  “My dear, 80 Days exists for those who stumble across a narrow, unmarked entry and have the joy of discovering a new destination. And real book browsers like to have both hands free so that they can reach for a frayed cover instinctively. So they can turn pages without juggling beverages. You found me, Libby. Wasn’t the act of discovery part of your fun?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. But I was trying to locate another bookstore, which does serve coffee and pastries. I was lost.”

  With creaks of old knees and ladder rungs, Mr. Diddle descended slowly while nodding. He about-faced to receive his Sunday sacraments and extended a finger past the grip of his paper cup and pointed at me. “You say lost. I say right where you
were supposed to be. I may have to wait for my clientele, but they are always worth waiting for. I bought 80 Days from old Mrs. McCready when it was just a travel bookstore, and now it is a little bit of everything. So, you see, a sign would confuse people more. Clearly 80 Days is the name for a travel book store. Which this is not.”

  “You could change the name,” I offered, but then we both shook our head simultaneously and Nomad howled. I sighed my resignation and began to wander.

  “What’s on the agenda for today? Portugal? Cambodia?”

  “Mr. Diddle, you offend me. I do not come to a bookstore with an agenda. That is unconscionable.”

  “You do research for your travels.”

  “I explore random possibilities for my travel itineraries. Big difference. My notes are for fantasy trips I’ll never take.”

  “Some day you will. That is why I like that you come here to do your research and type the itineraries. Someone should get use of my computer!”

  “I hope your other regulars actually purchase books from you, because I’m indeed a browser, not a doer.” Sadly, this was true for every area of my life.

  “Not yet, maybe.” Mr. Diddle held up his jelly donut and motioned me toward the back of the store, where a crooked door cut in half and fitted with deadbolt locks on the top and bottom halves served as his receiving dock for occasional boxes of used books and even fewer boxes of new texts. He stopped just shy of the last row of shelves and nodded to a stack of white boxes in the far corner. “You’ll have fun with those. Good thing you came today. I have a third-party buyer planning to take a peek at this collection tomorrow. These are early 1900s travel guides for England and Spain. Beautiful treasures.”

  My eyes grew wide. “Maybe this day is shaping up. And to think I almost went elsewhere—”

  Mr. Diddle shook his head to cut me off. “Tsk, tsk.”

  “Not the other bookstore. Just somewhere else,” I said, purposely vague.

  With a slap of a hand on my thigh, I motioned for Nomad to follow me. I pulled one of the courtesy rag rugs from a pile at the end of the book aisle and carried it to a corner, where I sat down cross-legged and waited for the mass of Nomad to fill and form to my lap.

  “You will be here until you need to be elsewhere,” Mr. Diddle said, winking and tapping his temple with his finger.

  With mock sincerity, I bowed my head slightly to the grown man with a smear of raspberry jam on his forehead. “Such a lofty statement of nothingness, O Wise One.”

  “Do you want first dibs or no?”

  “Yes. As long as they’re free,” I said while I rubbed Nomad with one hand and retrieved books from the box with other. Taking my time, I opened up the leather covers and let my eyes fall with anticipation onto the ornate title pages: Travels in Paris, Sophisticated Voyages, Every Ladies’ London. Exquisite line art depicted images of proper women wearing large-brimmed hats, with eyes that looked demurely off the page while they sipped tea from a full-service set. All I could think was, These women had only a smidgen of the rights and freedom I have now. Yet they saw the world. They experienced the adventure of travel and the warmth of a foreign shore.

  Would I ever go anywhere?

  “What have you learned?” Mr. Diddle called out from his back room.

  I had seen this so-called office, which housed a typewriter table dwarfed by an old black-and-white television and a roller chair that allowed the sitter to recline on the spring spine to a fifty-degree angle before tumbling backward.

  I dropped a book about proper packing for an African safari back into the box. “I’m just starting to look at these.”

  “No.” Mr. Diddle’s voice and then body emerged from the office full of self-importance. “About your…um… sticky job situation. You find out this week, right?”

  “I find out tomorrow, as a matter of fact.” I rubbed Nomad’s ears vigorously to avoid further discussion.

  “Do not let them roll over you. Your job should not be at risk. You, Libby, are a precious commodity.” Mr. Diddle pointed his finger into the air to emphasize his point and returned to his media den. “Let me write you a reference.”

  I paused as if giving this careful consideration and then broke into my Mr. Diddle impersonation. “Dear Friends and World Rulers at Reed and Dunson Public Relations. Libby frequents my shop. She is a lousy consumer but a nice gal. Her time spent in the travel section is pretty much a waste because she never has the guts to go anywhere. Please give her a job that will finally afford her the time and money for the vacation of a lifetime because I like her and my dog likes her. Sincerely, the Man Who Does Not Know What PR or Advertising Is.”

  “I know what it is. I just don’t like it,” he hollered from the cave. I think I heard his finger stab the air once again above his bald head.

  Maybe the reference wasn’t a bad idea. It would never get me a raise, but it could get me fired. And I was hoping and praying for one of two things to happen: 1) I would get a pink slip and the subsequent severance package and unemployment would allow me to go on a short-term trip to Italy with pay and benefits or 2) I would get the promotion I have deserved and been denied for three straight years and use my five weeks of vacation to go on a short-term trip to Italy with pay and benefits.

  “I have it all planned out,” I said quietly.

  Howl.

  Nomad knew how well that worked for me.

  Two

  Outlook Not So Good.

  Dang.

  Don’t Count On It.

  Crud.

  My Sources Say No.

  Conspiracy!

  I tried to shake my Magic Eight Ball into submission as my mind stumbled along a rabbit trail of questions. Would my reality ever reflect the potential my seventh grade English teacher had seen in me? Could a thirty-year-old declare a different life major? If I end up begging and praying to keep a job I loathe…will I still have a soul?

  Very Doubtful.

  Shut up, you seventies has-been.

  If Wake Up and Smell the Inevitable had been in my icon-turned-paperweight’s repertoire, it would have surfaced frequently. For more than six months I had ignored talk of a corporate merger circulating the Seattle offices of Reed and Dunson Public Relations. It should have occurred to me that such an event could disrupt my professional game plan. But I was so focused on my personal objectives that I did not read the blatant warning signs—Yuban served instead of Starbucks House Blend at staff meetings, the design department’s refusal to reorder business cards, the replacement of annual bonuses with a gift basket of smoked salmon and chocolate-covered hazelnuts.

  I had coasted along on my private ship of denial until the day I saw Mave Storm strut her stilettos across the polished maple foyer. She was a high-priced mediator from New York with a reputation for creating the best win-win situation possible. She redecorated her villa in Brazil and the corporation cashed in big on her guillotine tactics.

  Visions of my long-overdue promotion drifted toward the unreachable horizon.

  Anyone who read the corporate obituaries in the trade publications knew that employees rarely saw a payoff or a paycheck after Mave entered the scene. Her philosophy was to start from scratch, reasoning that those who remained resented the restructuring. She was right. I already felt seething contempt, and I was still in the running to stay on board with the company I complained about frequently to friends and unfortunate baristas.

  So here I was, drowning my denial with consecutive Diet Cokes while watching my corporate fate battled out. I pretended to peruse Bacon’s Media Directory at the research desk, but I was really angling for a clear view of Mave facing off with Cecilia Mitchum, vice president of Reed and Dunson (and—if my keen observations proved to be correct—the devil’s daughter).

  I tried to interpret their body language. I wanted to know if I should:

  a) defer my student loan for a second time

  b) return my recent immediate-gratification purchases

  or

  c) jump
off the Space Needle and eliminate a need to mess with options a or b

  “Libby, reception keeps buzzing your office. And you have a call on line four.” Rachel, Cecilia’s assistant, tapped my shoulder with her hazelnut biscotti in passing.

  “Not now.” I brushed the crumbs off my new, bright red, velvet-is-back, DKNY sweater—my recent “light deprivation cure” purchase triggered by the smell of autumn in the air.

  I knew the persistent caller was my sister, Cassie, and I felt guilty for not reciprocating her communication efforts of late. But not guilty enough to take the call. In my neurotic haze of self-absorption, I saw Cass’s married-with-children life as the antithesis to my imperfect, single, career-challenged existence.

  But did I really want to ponder my position in the success vs. failure equation right now?

  Outlook Not So Good.

  My mind echoed the piece of junk Eight Ball.

  I reflected back on the past five years of caffeinated, long hours slaving for Reed and Dunson. I had ignored my dating clock and spent countless weekends either working, worrying about work, or doodling fantasy escape maps in case I ever ran for the exit instead of the copy room. Shamefully, I put my creative nature aside and accepted the demands of the account executive training program, certain that my obedience would pay off in the form of a promotion.

  Of recognition.

  Of validation.

  Years passed.

  Trainee after trainee departed with either promising alternative jobs or depleted bank accounts and plans to move back in with their parents. For me, the latter would be the equivalent of the aforementioned option c.

  So I remained.

  Inertia was sucking me into the vortex of likely failure. And yet some voice, sounding a lot like an overzealous cheerleader, told me that if I stayed long enough the promotion would be mine. The scene I conjured up of my turning point included me using my in-the-moment phone call to contact a very handsome man. A man who was eagerly, supportively waiting for news of my great job offer…and who had a diamond ring waiting in his sock drawer and an offer of his own. How these miracles would happen, I didn’t know. But it was the order of things. At some point I convinced myself this myth was true.