Halfway to You(22)

“So do I,” Ann says.

Maggie’s throat narrows, and she gulps the rising sadness, changing the subject. “Your story is so . . . different from the public version.”

A soft huff of a laugh. “I faced a lot of misrepresentation.”

“That’s horrible.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Ann says, her eyes trained on the ground, navigating the rocks and kelp. “Would I trade my fame to undo the years of hurt caused to the people closest to me? Of course. But few authors experience my level of popularity, the translations and special editions and film deal. I’m grateful for this life of privilege.”

“What about Todd?” Maggie asks.

Ann’s amber eyes lift to something in the far-off distance. A bird, perhaps. “What about him?”

“The press dug up his past pretty bad.”

“You’re getting ahead of the story, but yes.”

“Did he think the spotlight was worth being with you?”

She’s quiet for a while. “I’m not sure.”

“Is the popularity why you stayed away? Why you lived overseas?”

Ann snorts a small, dismissive sound. “I’m an author, Maggie, not a movie star. My career—and by career, I mean that flash in the pan that followed me around forever—wasn’t explosive enough to run from. I mean, don’t get me wrong, people pried. They loved the idea of a jet-setting author. They loved the romance and adventure of the book, so of course that was also projected on me. But the book was peripheral to much of my life. I wasn’t running from that.”

“What were you running from?”

Her nose—red and dripping from the cold—scrunches. “I was running from who I thought I would become.”

It’s strange listening to Ann discuss the feelings Maggie harbored as a teenager when she read the book. Not just the glamour of romance and adventure but the melancholy angst and betrayal that ribboned under the surface of the main character’s story. Chasing Shadows had a nostalgia about it—a nostalgia for things that hadn’t happened. The book resonated because it spoke to that sense of delicate longing for times that never were, a wistfulness that all people experience at one time or another.

No wonder it touched so many readers. No wonder those readers (Maggie included) wanted to pry into Ann’s life and know her better. They drank up the juiciest rumors because the truth wasn’t as important as what the facade evoked.

To know that Ann was navigating such demons under the guise of this public caricature is a sad rewrite of the author Maggie imagined. It changes her recollection of adolescence: nagging Uncle Keith for a signed copy, overhearing Barbara’s concern for Ann’s well-being, even Tracey and Bob’s disdain.

Who was Ann, to all of them? Who were they to her?

Maggie must have a strange look on her face, because Ann stops and says, “You’re the one who wanted to see the woman behind the curtain.”

Maggie stops too. “You’re just rewriting some memories, that’s all.”

“Good memories?”

“Some.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Ann’s expression is heartfelt. “Later in life, good memories are all we have.”

Is that why Maggie has never found the courage to push her parents about where she came from? Aside from that one burning question, Maggie had a happy childhood—a doting father, a supportive mother, a close family. What if, in digging for her own answers, she unearths something she should’ve left buried? The irony is not lost on Maggie: she might be pursuing a career in truth seeking, she might want to know her family’s secret history, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t terrified of what she’ll uncover.





ANN


Mykonos, Greece

September 1984

The next morning, I carried my notebook down to the western waterfront. The bars were shuttered. Cigarette butts littered the street, the only sign of last night’s festivities. A single sleepy café was open. Tiny tables had been set up along the raised walkway; a high tide threatened to slosh over the cobblestones.

I sat with my back to the café. To my right was a curved stretch of blue-and-white stucco buildings built up against the sea; the waves splashed against their grimy foundations, while colorful laundry fluttered on balcony railings above. To my left was a rocky hill crowned by ancient-looking windmills, their wheel-spoke blades silhouetted against the bright backdrop of the sky. In front of me, the sea was dressed in the pastels of early morning.

I enjoyed the view for a while, then bent my head toward my notebook. I wrote with urgency. Keith’s words the night before had permeated my creativity. Suddenly, the things in my story that hadn’t been working, worked. The fresh perspective had opened a side door into new ideas.

The sun rose steadily, and more people came to occupy the café chairs. I finished one coffee, then two. The tide went out a little. Voices filled the street. Some were clearly hungover, but there was an easy pleasantness in the air. We were all glad to be here, in this beautiful place; we were all running from the dangers and doldrums of our real lives.

A shadow crossed my table, paused. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Joy blossomed in my chest when I glanced up. “Keith.”