Halfway to You(109)

“You might like it there too,” she said.

I continued the conversation in Italian. “I like staying in one place, though.”

“No, you don’t. You’re Ann. You love travel. You love to explore new places.”

“I’m not sure I’ll like Washington.”

With her hands on her hips, she asked pointedly, “Have you visited Washington?”

“I have not,” I said.

“Then you can’t say you don’t like it,” she reasoned. “You will go.”

So I went . . .

. . . and I stayed.

Damn it if Carmella didn’t know me so well by then. I immediately fell in love with Washington’s moody skies and regal evergreens, and the whales that feed just off Lime Kiln Point. I enjoyed the seclusion from the rest of the world, the tight-knit island community. I liked that everyone knew everyone—by the end of my first summer house sitting, I knew everyone too. It gave me a sense of belonging to walk into a coffee shop and know the barista by name, to recognize people’s cars and wave at them as they drove past. I’d experienced some of this in Trastevere, but on San Juan, the community was a way of life.

The trip reawakened the true source of my wanderlust: my romanticism. The change of scenery reminded me that the world could still feel new and exciting. Rome would always be my first love, but maybe it was time to branch out again. To start anew.

I was elated when Carmella’s in-laws decided to retire in Italy. They’d fallen for Rome as I had fallen for San Juan Island. I told them to stay in my apartment and feed my stoop cats until they found a more permanent place; they sold me their house. By New Year’s Eve, they had shipped my meager possessions from Rome to Washington, and I started a new chapter.

Amid opening another restaurant, Carmella tried her hand at letter writing with me, and we spent a lot of money on overseas calls. I continued to write and maintained an email correspondence with Keith. I didn’t ask after Todd, and Keith didn’t mention him.

I was forty-six when Keith offhandedly shared your photo with me, Maggie. It was a family photo from your fifth birthday party. I recognized Todd’s likeness in you immediately, and, well, Tracey explained the rest. The only thing I’ll add is this: Todd deserved to know about you. And, despite everything, I knew I would never stop caring about Todd. So, I intervened. And despite the rift it caused between me and Keith and the rest of the Whitakers, that is one thing I don’t regret doing.

But that was my only interaction with the Whitakers regarding you. I had recently started dating a nice divorcé who had a sweet seven-year-old son. Scott owned the bakery downtown and made fresh bread with my initials scored on the top. He’d never read my book, didn’t care for travel, and didn’t think I was particularly interesting for being a nomad most of my life. He loved me for the woman I was in Washington—the woman who no longer smoked, who instead had a garden, walked on the beach, read by the fire. The woman who had lived a whole life before him yet was happy having his companionship now. It wasn’t a passionate or furious love—it was a simple, contented, straightforward love.

Scott was exactly what I needed.

We spent seven wonderful years together before he passed away of a heart attack in 2012. He left his business and his estate to me and his son, Matt. He left me feeling empty but deeply grateful for the time we’d had together. I was there for Matt in his grief, and then I went back to living alone.

I continued to write with enthusiasm. Whenever I was alone with my thoughts, the words began to flow like a spring from a mountain. When I was younger, my relationship with my work had been so unhealthy; I thought that I was capable of creating great work only if I was in pain, but in reality, I’d been using my writing as a form of cathartic wallowing. It was in the years after Scott’s death that I realized I could write away the pain—and keep going, even in bliss. I no longer reserved my creativity for times of suffering; my work gained depth by acknowledging joy.

So did my life.

It was a chilly day in March 2015 when everything changed again. I opened my mailbox to find a single envelope, and it was like receiving a letter from the past. I recognized the handwriting immediately and tore it open while I was still standing in the driveway. A crisp winter-frost wind ruffled my hair; I wore only a thin pair of leggings and a sweater, and I shivered as I unfolded the letter.

Dear Ann,

I’ve been thinking about you lately. I know it has been a long time since we last spoke—a decade, is it?—and I’m sure this letter seems out of the blue. Did you notice we just surpassed the thirty-year anniversary of our first meeting? I thought about calling you last fall but didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.

Then, last month, Keith came home to Colorado for his mother’s funeral, and after a few beers, your name came up. Keith mentioned that you two have all but lost touch, and this news saddened me. I know your role with Maggie is to blame; I’m sorry to have come between you two. I’m also sorry that I never properly thanked you for bringing Maggie’s existence to light. I can’t imagine it was easy for you to advocate for me like that; in fact, your act of compassion astounded me. I wanted to thank you then, but I never found the right words—I hope these painfully late ones will do.

Reminiscing with Keith brought a lot of feelings back to the surface. Feelings I should’ve shared with you way back when. I’ve always been afraid of how much I love you. Afraid of losing you. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but that fear made me want to push you away. That night in Bangkok . . . I was so afraid, Ann. I was downright terrified that history would repeat itself. I was wrong to imply that I couldn’t love you like I loved Penny—the truth is that I loved you more. I knew that if I lost you, there would be no coming back.