Halfway to You(58)

“Ann? Maggie? Are you still there?” Grant asks.

Ann is nodding. “All right.” She unmutes her phone and says, “Grant, I’d like Maggie and Brit to do the first pass, the first whittled-down edit, and then you may get involved. I want confidentiality agreements from all three of you.”

“I—”

“That’s my offer.”

For a moment, the phone is silent, save for the sounds of Grant’s breathing and the slight crackle of winter island wind and quivering cell towers. Finally, he says, “I’ll take it.”

Ann smiles, straightens, brightening from within. “Splendid. Maggie and I will resume recording today. Is there anything else?”

“No, I’m all set. We’ll get the contracts prepared and send them over this afternoon. Thank you for your flexibility.”

“Thank you.” Ann reaches for the phone, ready to end the call. “Bye now—”

“Wait,” Grant says. “I’d like to speak with Maggie—privately.”

Ann looks up, worry on her face. Maggie is heartened by her concern, but it doesn’t buoy her feelings. She’s about to be chewed out—she can hear it in Grant’s taut words.

Breaking eye contact with Ann, Maggie grabs the phone and slips out the kitchen’s side door, onto the back porch. The weather is cold and blustering.

“All right, it’s just me,” Maggie says.

“Brit? Brit? I love the girl, but fuck, Maggie, what were you thinking?”

“I was being honest.” Maggie glances over her shoulder, through the window. Ann is washing a serving platter in the sink; a teapot rests on the stove, already steaming. “Ann was staring at me, I couldn’t lie.”

“She’s not a mind reader,” Grant says. “And besides, why wouldn’t you honestly think of me?”

Because you would take over.

Because your micromanaging shouldn’t be rewarded.

Because Brit truly is a better story editor than you.

Maggie doesn’t voice the angry answers swirling in her head.

Grant sighs, a forceful breath that seems to go on forever. “Do you understand what an absolute shit show this is, Maggie? Do you understand the level of—”

“Todd Langley is my father,” Maggie says, a whisper that feels like a shout, the way it erupts from her throat. She glances back again, but Ann isn’t visible anymore—she must’ve gone into another room.

“Todd is—what did you just say?”

“My biological father,” Maggie says, realizing that—of all people—Grant is the first person she’s told. “I found out last night.”

“Ann said so?”

“No,” Maggie says. “God, no. My mother”—she trips on the word—“Tracey told me.”

His voice has lost its scolding staccato when he says, “Do you . . . I’m sorry to ask, but . . . do you know who your mother is?”

“Not Ann, according to Tracey.”

“Do you think Ann knows about Todd?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You can’t mention this,” Grant says. “Maggie, the podcast is finally back on track. You can’t tell Ann about Todd—it would change everything about these interviews. It might skew the way she tells her story.”

A cold wind ruffles Maggie’s hair. “I know.”

“All the more reason why I should be involved in the first edit,” Grant says. “Damn it!”

Maggie balls her fists, bracing against the cold and the conversation. She’s a stalk of grass blown free from a beach, her roots grasping at nothing. The sand that once kept her sturdy has eroded away. “I know my relation to Ann complicates things. I know this isn’t ideal—”

“—not ideal, it’s worse than—”

“—but you need to trust me. You need to trust that I care about this project too. I care about its integrity. I care about the story. I care about Ann. I’m determined to stay on track. I need you to allow me the space to do that.”

“I’ve been very forgiving here, Maggie.”

“You have.”

“You can’t tell Ann about Todd.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. And Maggie?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

She frowns. “About what?”

“It must be hard for you . . . this news.”

“Oh. Yes, it is. Thanks.”

“But you understand why you shouldn’t mention it, right?”

“You’re not the only one who values this job, Grant.” She hangs up before he can hear her voice break.

Maggie stands on the porch another couple of minutes, letting the wind pulse against her. She sniffles and wipes her eyes, hoping her face isn’t too red, too revealing. When she slips back inside, the warmth of Ann’s home envelops her. She closes the door, then sets Ann’s phone on the kitchen counter. Ann appears from the hallway, her own face a little blotchy.

“I hope he didn’t scold you too harshly,” Ann says. “But I think that went well?”

“You didn’t make it easy on me.”

“I’m sorry.”