Halfway to You(105)

Maybe. “I still have a lot of feelings to process,” Maggie explains. “But I want to work through it—with you.”

Her parents, for all their faults, blessed Maggie with a childhood of warmth and love. And while she wouldn’t have chosen the deceit for herself, she knows that love was at the heart of their decisions. Maggie always believed that forgiveness came at the end of a long repenting road—but now she thinks forgiveness is a beginning. It isn’t a signal that the healing is done but an invitation to heal together.

There’s a lot to rebuild—but for Maggie, this family is worth the effort.

“We have no expectations,” Bob says. “We only want what’s best for you—even if you decide that distance is best.”

If Maggie has learned anything from Ann, it’s that while distance can provide perspective, it doesn’t solve trials of the heart.

Now it’s her turn to squeeze Bob’s hand. “I want to figure it out together.”

Outside the coffee shop, Maggie gives Bob the address of her friend’s apartment where she’s staying; she’s not ready to stay in her old bedroom just yet, but they agree to a family dinner the following night.

When he hugs her goodbye, it feels as if he might never let Maggie go. It doesn’t fix the damage done, but it does ease the pain. And for now, that’s enough.

“I love you, Dad,” Maggie says.

“I’m not sure I deserve that title.”

Maggie steps back. “Are you kidding? You’ve been here for me since before I was born,” she says, staring into his red-ringed eyes. “You forgave Mom and stepped in one hundred percent. You’re Bob McCallum, and I am Maggie Whitaker-McCallum. The truth doesn’t change that.”

Her father pulls her close again, weeping, but Maggie knows his tears are, ultimately, filled with gratitude.





MAGGIE


San Juan Island, Washington State, USA

Thursday, February 1, 2024

When Maggie pulls up to Ann’s house on San Juan Island, she isn’t surprised to see the bakery’s delivery van parked out front. Gathering her purse, voice recorder, and notebook off the passenger seat, she slides out into the sunshine. The now-familiar brine of the ocean wafts through the trees, mingling with the sweetness of pine sap. The sky is bright and feathered with clouds, and the steam of her breath curls around her face.

“Afternoon,” Matt says, walking toward her from Ann’s porch.

“What did you bring us?”

The masculine angles of his face widen into a big smile. “Ann’s favorite. It’s a surprise.”

“Just out of curiosity, how much does Ann spend on pastries per year?” She holds up her notebook. “I’d like to include the figures in my exposé.”

He leans closer to stage-whisper, “She doesn’t pay.”

“Now there’s a scoop.”

“No, seriously. You know she owns the bakery, right?”

“She what?”

“Well, co-owns.”

“Hold on—”

Matt’s walking away now, back toward his van. “Ask her about it.”

Maggie rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling as she takes Ann’s porch steps two at a time.

Ann opens the door before Maggie can knock. “Finally,” she says, opening her arms, and Maggie realizes—awkwardly—that Ann is going in for a hug.

The embrace is light and airy but warm—sincere.

“How was your flight?”

Before Maggie left Washington, she called Grant and explained her predicament. She apologized for the sudden hiatus from work and, at Ann’s insistence, agreed to return to Washington in a couple of weeks to complete the interviews. Maggie flew into Seattle from Denver the previous night; this time, she didn’t take any wrong turns on the drive to San Juan.

“Easy enough,” Maggie replies, following Ann inside. “Matt said you own the bakery? How did I miss that?”

“I never told you,” Ann says with a smirk. “It’s part of the last chapter in my story.”

“Should we get started?”

“Gosh, no, not yet. We have to eat first.” Ann hurries into the kitchen and presents Maggie with a plate of doughnuts. “My favorite.”

Maggie chuckles. “Why was I expecting ‘Ann’s favorite’ to be something more . . . sophisticated?”

Ann carries the tray over to the wingbacks. Outside the big windows, the sea glitters gold with sunlight, rippling like satin.

“You’ve been fooled by my glamorous stories of French pastries and Italian espresso. You forget that I am an American. A poor American, by origin. My mother and I used to eat doughnuts every Sunday morning. She’d buy us two each with her tip money.”

Maggie selects a big swollen chocolate-topped doughnut and takes a bite.

“Good choice,” Ann says.

Custard spills out, dripping onto Maggie’s chin, and she grabs a tea saucer from the tray to catch any globs before they fall into her lap. Ann hands her a napkin.

“Fabulous, right?”

Maggie nods, wiping her smile free of custard.

She can’t believe she’s back in Ann’s living room. The last time she was here, her whole life story was rewritten. The past three weeks in Colorado were intense. Her first dinner with her parents was volatile, but after two more awkward visits and a family counseling session, Maggie finally felt her heart ease and warm toward her mother again. They still have a long road ahead, but Maggie knows they’ll get there together.