Halfway to You(9)

Charmed, I offered a small laugh. “It’s fine,” I said. “I’ve had my own similar moments.”

“It’s nice to feel understood,” he said, and his sincerity penetrated me like a bullet through glass, shattering my smooth facade.

I took a bite of pizza, made skittish by the intimacy of conversation. He seemed to grow self-conscious, too—the strangeness of connecting with a perfect stranger—so we both took a beat by pretending to have serious interest in an approaching vaporetto. It sat low in the water, bogged down with pedestrians, the engine thrgging as the waves slapped the prow.

“How has that boat not sunk?” he asked.

I giggled. “I have no idea.”

He kept staring at the ferry with those gentle eyes. He had a narrow face with an exquisitely straight nose and beautiful, full lips. His forehead was creased slightly, not with concentration or even present frustration, just a downcast quality that seemed to emanate from inside. His shoulders were square, tipped forward with a charming awkwardness that made me want to tuck myself into his arms. He had delicate, fidgety hands and tousled hair that begged to be pushed into place.

Talking to him, looking at him, I forgot all about the men who had broken my heart before. Like a wave slipping over footprint-laden sand, he erased the damage. My heart pattered anew. God, I was a hopeless romantic of the truest form. But it was hard to hate myself for that while sitting across from him.

He caught me staring, and my focus darted off, coy as a cat.

Thankfully, our new wines arrived, skirting us past the red-handed moment, and he lifted his glass in a toast. “To chance encounters.”

“To chance encounters,” I repeated.

We clinked.

“I’m sorry, talk about rude—we’ve been sitting here for ten minutes, and I haven’t even asked your name,” he said.

“Ann,” I answered, hoping he’d chalk my blush up to the warm sun on my face and not the warmer feelings under my skin. “Ann Fawkes.”

He smiled, and this time it made it into his eyes, just a little. “Nice to meet you, Ann Fawkes. I’m Todd Langley.”





MAGGIE


San Juan Island, Washington State, USA

Saturday, January 6, 2024

“Are you all right? You’re frowning.”

Maggie blinks. “I’ve read everything about you, and . . . I’ve never heard this story.”

Ann sighs, a soft sound that fills the quietness of her home. “I never told anyone about Venice because Venice was ours.”

Maggie leans back, digesting this. In addition to her enthrallment, she mourns the audio she’s forfeited . . . but recalling Ann’s infamous interview from 2000—and knowing that, even with her secrecy, Ann couldn’t prevent the public damage—Maggie can understand why Ann tried to keep her relationship with Todd to herself. The public eye can be cruel and invading.

Maggie used to resent Ann for being so aloof with her fans, but now she sees her with a newfound clarity. “Thank you for telling me this. The real story.” She sits forward, ready for more. “When you met him—did you sense that you had just met the love of your life?”

The corner of Ann’s mouth flinches. “I didn’t know anything back then.” She stands. “I’m sure you’re getting tired. Why don’t you come back tomorrow morning? Ten o’clock. I’ll order breakfast.”

“Oh—yes. Thank you.” Maggie gathers her things, worrying she hit a nerve. It’s probably hard not to hit a nerve when asking Ann about Todd.

Out on the porch in the bitter evening air, Ann touches Maggie’s arm, slender fingers squeezing. “I’m trusting you to keep what I’ve told you confidential.”

“Of course.” And she means it, not only because if Maggie repeated anything, Ann could easily discredit her, but also because Maggie wouldn’t want to share any of what she just heard without Ann’s consent. Ann gave her a gift today, and though she’s not entirely sure why, Maggie isn’t about to give it away . . . no matter how much she wants to. No matter how disappointed Grant will be.

When Maggie plugs her phone in at her B&B—it died hours ago, having wasted its battery trying to connect with Canadian cell towers—it erupts with notifications. Five calls, two messages, and six texts are from Grant; three texts are from Brit; and one text is from Tracey.

Maggie opens the text from her mother first.

10:17 a.m.: Good luck today. Be safe.

The texts from Brit are from this afternoon, all in the vein of Please respond soon, Grant is developing a stress hernia.

Maggie opens his texts, which are a series of short bursts increasing in intensity.

9:55 a.m.: Text me before you go in?

10:10 a.m.: I hope you arrived on time.

12:05 p.m.: Any word? Call me.

12:15 p.m.: YOU SAID YOU’D SEND UPDATES

1:44 p.m.: CALL ME BACK

3:32 p.m.: You better not be screening my calls.

Maggie sighs as she listens to his frantic voice mails. It’s six fifteen now—she grabbed some takeout in town and scarfed it down in her car before returning to the B&B—and she’s sure he’s still fretting. She despises his micromanagement. Before he hired her at SBTS, Maggie had known Grant casually, and it’s that unprofessional familiarity paired with his know-it-all self-importance that makes their working relationship so infuriating at times.