Halfway to You(41)

“Was he . . . ?”

Keith buckled his seat belt and put the car in drive. “Understanding.”

“Thanks.”

“He’s a good man, Ann.”

“That’s the worst part.”

We drove the rest of the way in silence. Outside my hotel, Keith hugged me one more time, squeezing me until my muscles ached.

“Thank you for . . . all of it,” I said lamely.

Keith’s eyes crinkled. “I’m really proud of you, Ann. I hope you know the magnitude of what you’ve accomplished.”

“I couldn’t have done any of this without you,” I told him, and I meant it. He’d been the one to suggest I write short stories and articles to get my name into the world. He’d been the one to edit my novel and sell it and advocate for good publicity. He’d single-handedly launched my career. And though my mother wasn’t around to be proud, Keith was—and that meant the world to me.

“I’m very glad we met,” he said.

“I’ve made you a lot of money.”

He chuckled. “Yes, but I’m also glad about the friendship.”

“Me too.”

And with that, my book tour was over.

My flight to Rome was a red-eye the following night, and I slept that last day away, feeling lonely and sorry for myself, wondering why I wasn’t happy in the center of all that success.

I could have visited my mother before I left, Maggie. I had the time. But I didn’t. Why should I show up for her when she couldn’t show up for me? That was my logic. I was too preoccupied by my run-in with Todd and too angry with my mother to do the right thing.

I don’t have many regrets in my life, but not visiting her before I returned to Rome is one of them, because it would’ve been the last time I saw her.

But of course, life isn’t about knowing things ahead of time.





MAGGIE


San Juan Island, Washington State, USA Tuesday, January 9, 2024

Maggie wishes she could know things ahead of time—or at least know how this assignment ends. It’s Tuesday morning, and she has a lot on her mind—volumes’ worth, straining her shoulders, pulling her neck muscles taut.

Her conversation with Matt last night made seeing him this morning—delivering a small coffee cake for Ann and Maggie to share—rather uncomfortable. He’d fixed her with a weighted stare before he hugged Ann goodbye.

Then there’s Grant. When she checked in with him this morning, he said he could stall Joy a little longer—but from here on out, all expenses are out of Maggie’s tiny pocket. With her entry-level salary and steep student loan payments, just two more nights on the island will obliterate her personal budget. Then she’ll be forced to give up and potentially face unemployment for her professional failure.

And finally: Tracey. Maggie hasn’t heard anything from her since last night, though the Whitaker Family thread has continued to buzz with chitchat—a small buoy in Maggie’s sea of stress and doubt. But when things get quiet, Maggie can’t help but hear her mother’s warning, like a storm brewing in the distance, a static rumbling in the background of everything else. Be careful.

It’s all too much.

Ann pauses, seeming to sense Maggie’s distracted state.

Maggie pushes her thoughts aside and leans forward. “But you didn’t know,” Maggie says of Ann’s mother. “You can’t blame yourself for acting as you did if you didn’t know.”

“Regret doesn’t work like that, dear.”





ANN


Rome, Italy

July 1988

One year after my novel released—after the hubbub of the tour and the NYT Notable Book honor—I received a letter with handwriting I didn’t recognize.

I was carrying a basket of tomatoes, herbs, fresh cheese, and a cantaloupe, returning to my apartment from the market. It was summer, the streets muggy, and I was eager to duck into the shade of my home, strip down, and lie in front of a fan with a glass of chilled wine. I’d started writing a new novel, one that saw false starts and was really quite the problem child, but I’d been thinking about the story all morning and had planned to work on it as the afternoon heat rose.

But the letter.

I set my groceries on the counter along with the stack of other mail and kicked off my dusty sandals. I swiped a fingernail under the envelope’s adherence and slipped the letter out. A photograph fell from the folded paper and glided toward the floor, ultimately sliding under my oven. I followed its escape, letter in hand—then paused. I looked down at the letter—really looked—and there at the end of a long cursive paragraph was the name Todd Langley.

Not possible, I thought.

I read from the beginning.

Dear Ann,

I’ve thought about writing you many times but kept talking myself out of it—that is, until just now, upon finishing your book. I hate to admit that I avoided reading it this long. I can’t say why, except perhaps because I knew that it would be as lovely as you are, and I’ve spent a lot of time trying to forget your loveliness.

But I’ve read it now. And I was blown away. And I thought perhaps I ought to tell you that I think you deserve all the success in the world. Of course, Keith has kept me up to date, always with an air of pride and—to my annoyance—smugness. You were right to stay in Rome; Keith is insufferable.