Halfway to You(36)

lol you mean the time he was being a sore loser? Iris replies.

Keith had challenged his daughter to a snowmobiling race and, when she was clearly in the lead, had tried to cut through a stand of trees and crashed.

He was constantly giving me frights, Barbara adds, and Maggie grins at her reply.

When the family group text had gone quiet, it was Barbara’s message—Maybe another time—that had been left there at the bottom of the thread. It had been her last-ditch effort to plan a barbecue without her beloved husband, and she’d been met with noncommittal replies.

To revive this thread, even for a few minutes, feels like a small victory, sweet as rain after a drought. And to think a stupid memory about Keith’s antics was the only thing standing between the family’s silence and reconnection. And perhaps time too. Time to heal.

He was always young at heart, Maggie writes.

Aunt Natalie’s son, Barrett, sends a link to “Forever Young” on YouTube.

You know, he broke the other clavicle when we were teens, Natalie says.

how?? Iris asks.

A typing bubble pops up from Tracey, and Maggie’s heart skips. It disappears, then pops up again, pending, pending, and then: Sneaking out of Barbara’s window the night before his high school graduation.

Iris sends a series of surprised, laughing, and horrified emojis.

Maggie sips her beer, watching the replies continue, the memories and jokes at Keith’s expense, the love pouring out.

In a one-on-one text, Tracey sends Maggie an old photo of herself at twelve, on that same Breckenridge trip, clad in navy-blue snow pants and leaning against a snowmobile between Keith and Bob. You and your favorite guys, Tracey says.

It’s the first thing she’s received from her mom since their argument about Ann. Maggie takes a moment to dig through the Favorites folder on her phone and sends along a picture of herself and her parents making snow angels. Bob had been the one to drive Keith down the mountain to receive medical help, and when Keith was discharged, he’d taken this photo of Maggie and her parents on the snow-covered lawn outside the hospital.

Tracey replies with three heart emojis, and Maggie is staring at them when she’s interrupted: “Ann’s friend.”

She lifts her head. “Ann’s bodyguard.”

“Pastry chef, actually.” Matt smiles, revealing a set of straight teeth, save for one slightly out-of-place canine—a charming imperfection. “May I hold you captive for a moment?”

She pockets her phone and gestures to the seat opposite her. He sits, resting both elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together over his pint.

“Let me guess,” Maggie says, “this is about Ann?”

His lips pinch. “I just wanted to say that Ann is very special.”

“I agree,” Maggie says slowly. “She’s very talented and kind.”

“No,” Matt says. “See, that’s exactly my concern. All you people—”

“‘You people’?”

“Reporters, fans,” Matt says, waving an irritated hand. “You don’t see Ann as a person.”

“Excuse me?”

His oaky eyes are hard-focused. “I know she’s telling you her story . . . and you shouldn’t take that for granted.”

“What makes you think I am?”

“I’ve known Ann a long time,” Matt says. “She’s not as tough as she seems.”

“So, you’re her emotional bodyguard.”

A smirk plays across his mouth. “I’m like a son to her.”

Maggie finishes her beer. “Is that all you came over to say?” She stands, gathering her things, suddenly so tired from the emotions of the day that she could pass out.

Matt stands too. “Look, I don’t know you—”

“That’s true.”

“—but I know Ann. And I love Ann. The people on this island . . . we’re a tight-knit community. We look out for her. That’s all I’m trying to do here. Keith and Todd . . . they’re sensitive subjects.”

Maggie isn’t blind—of course Ann is hurting. Reliving her life like this must be hard for her to orate—even if it is therapeutic. Still, Maggie finds it difficult to believe that Ann is as fragile as Matt claims. “It’s very sweet of you to be concerned, but if you knew anything about this, you’d know that the person most likely to be hurt at the end of all this isn’t Ann—it’s me.”

Matt’s concern, while endearing, is ill placed. Even in grief, Ann will remain unscathed in the telling. If anyone stands to get beat up by the truths Ann has been hiding—and Ann’s unwillingness to be recorded—it’s Maggie. If this doesn’t work out, it’s Maggie who stands to lose everything.

Matt frowns. “What did you say your name was?”

“Maggie.” She moves past Matt, stepping up to the bar to pay her tab. The bartender takes her card.

Matt sidles next to her and spreads his hands. “Maggie . . . ?”

“Whitaker.”

Matt’s forehead creases, a pair of vertical lines forming between his eyebrows. He straightens and steps back ever so slightly, as if to look at her from a wider angle. “You’re . . . related to Keith?”

Her phone is still buzzing in her pocket, a reminder of that relation and the love and grief and secrets attached to it. Poor Ann, to have been cast out from that connection. One of Keith’s very best friends, left by the wayside. What had severed the ties between Ann and Uncle Keith?