Halfway to You(44)

Ann doesn’t smile, not really—her lips press together, turning neither upward nor downward. She seems slightly surprised. “Why don’t I brew more tea?” Ann leans forward out of the plush cushions of the couch.

A shaky sigh slips past Maggie’s lips. She’s moved, and she’s also surprised. The tragedy wasn’t just Todd’s, but he omitted those details from his letter. While Ann is in the kitchen, Maggie rereads his words, musing on the evasive truth.

The incongruous details of Ann’s story only add to Maggie’s other stressors. She brought the recorder into Ann’s home again today—hopeful after their conversation yesterday—but recording never came up. The letters were already on the coffee table, taunting Maggie with their humanity. Their honesty.

Maggie’s glance dips to her purse on the floor and the recorder inside. Like a screwdriver, guilt twists Maggie’s sternum, loosening her resolve.

Ann returns from the kitchen with the teapot and cups on a tray. Over the past few days, Maggie has come to admire the mauve, flowered porcelain set. Without asking, Ann prepares Maggie’s tea exactly to her liking.

“Before we continue,” Maggie says, and her voice comes out squeaky and tense. “We need to discuss our arrangement.”

The small sugar tongs in Ann’s hand hover over her mug in a near-imperceptible pause; then she drops a cube into her tea. She doesn’t look up when she says, “I’m sorry.”

The answer is plain. Mere days ago, Maggie had wondered at the many causes of the creases on Ann’s face. Now, Maggie is one of them: a frown. Ann still doesn’t look up from her task, and Maggie realizes there’s a thread she hasn’t yet pulled, one that’s been dangling between them this whole time.

“What are you hiding from me?” Maggie asks.

Ann’s amber eyes flick up, finally. “What do you mean?” A throwaway question.

“Over our time together, the thing I’ve admired most about you is your openness.” Maggie swallows. “Now, I realize you’ve been hiding behind half truths.”

“No, I haven’t,” Ann says, firm.

“Then explain to me why I’m here.”

Ann leans into the couch, as if not even her spine can hold up her words. “I’m sorry.”

Maggie’s time has run out. She has no option left, no way forward, but to practice the honesty Ann has spoken so highly of, the honesty that Ann herself can’t—or won’t—practice now. She bends, reaching into her purse, and holds up the recorder, her finger hovering over the power button: the pin in the final grenade.

She flips the switch.

Ann’s muffled, staticky words blare through the tiny speaker. She sounds tinny and far away, but there’s no doubt it’s her. Her words echo throughout the living room. Something about Italy, something about Todd.

Pure shock ripples through Ann’s usually stoic features, and Maggie pauses the recording.

“What was that?” Ann’s voice is resonant, harsh.

“Honesty,” Maggie says.





MAGGIE


San Juan Island, Washington State, USA

Tuesday, January 9, 2024

“You recorded me. In secret.” Her amber eyes are pure fire.

Maggie can only pray that this desperate gamble can douse the flames and set everything right.

“At first, I was just as horrified. It’s a new recorder, and my sound engineer didn’t warn me about the touchy buttons.” Maggie drops the recorder into her purse with the power switch still on; she shakes the bag and then retrieves the recorder, heart in her throat. To her great relief, the light starts blinking. She shows Ann, then turns it off. “When you asked me to put the recorder away, I forgot to power it down. The button was bumped, like a pocket dial.”

Ann waves a dismissive hand. “Why should I believe this story?”

“Why should I believe yours?” A pause. “Trust.”

“How can I trust someone who threatens me?”

“I’m not threatening you. I’m being honest with you.” Maggie hands Ann the recorder. “This is the only copy of that conversation in existence. Delete it.”

Ann brushes a neat, unpainted fingernail over the record button. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s a gesture.” Maggie smiles, hoping Ann can see her sincerity. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I’m not here for merely a job, not anymore. I’m here for you—because I admire you. I respect you. This is proof.” She points at the recorder, still cradled in Ann’s fingers. “If you respect me, you’ll reconsider recording. Because the fact is, while I’m here for more than just the job, I can’t stay here without it.”

Ann’s angular face appears unreadable—almost blank, if it weren’t for the slight tension in her upper lip and the tightening along her lower lashes. A whisper of an expression, faint as breath.

“You’re bold, you know that?” Ann says finally. “You’re sharp too. Perceptive. You wear your heart on your face; you’re probably terrible at poker.”

Maggie’s brows crinkle together, waiting.

“My point is, I like you.” Ann sets the recorder on the middle couch cushion—an offering—and gestures between them. “I like this.”