Maggie Moves On(41)

They left the block of single-family bungalows behind them and crossed the street into a quiet section of the downtown. Brick row homes in cute paint colors and tidy front stoops crowded close together.

“Kevin has a very smart approach to life. Figure out how to get yourself what you want,” she mused.

Silas gave her shoulder a squeeze, and she refused to acknowledge how good, how right, it felt to be touched by him. “You can’t get yourself everything you want,” he told her. “Otherwise you end up trying to do the jobs of a dozen people and running yourself ragged.”

“Maybe I just need to simplify. Make my wants fewer,” she hypothesized. She could do a whole year on tiny homes or smallish homes. Less square footage meant less to renovate. She could double the number of properties she normally did in a year.

“Or maybe,” he said, interrupting her thoughts, “you should honor your wants as they are and accept the fact that no woman is an island. Get some help. Take a damn break once in a while.”

“I see what you’re doing here,” she warned him.

“The metaphors about you letting people in or that I’m using your food drive to reinforce positive behavior?”

“Oh, you suck, Wright!” Another shop window caught her eye. “What’s with all the gold bars and coins?”

Silas stopped in his tracks. “Are you telling me you don’t know about the Dead Man’s Canyon Stagecoach Robbery?”

“Maybe?”

“Maggie, as a property owner in Kinship, Idaho, you are required by law to know that, way back in 1865, a coach left Kinship on its way to Boise when it was robbed by three bandits about twenty miles south of here. The bandits took the coach and everything in it—except the people, of course.”

“Of course,” she said.

“They were gentlemanly bandits and didn’t shoot a soul,” Silas promised. “Anyway, the bandits took off. And a couple of hours later, the passengers and driver were found walking in the canyon. Turns out there was gold on board—a lot of it—heading to a bank. It was never seen again.”

“So Kinship’s claim to historical fame is a hundred-and-fifty-year-old-plus robbery that happened not here?” she clarified.

“It’s the West, Maggie. Every drop of history is important.” He guided them across the street and around the corner to the sunny yellow awning of Frosty Peaks.

The memory—her own drop of history—hit her hard and fast. Cones, chocolate-vanilla twist. The melt and drip, the race to not waste a single drop. Her mom’s laugh, brighter than the summer sun. Being here, walking down these memory lanes, made her feel closer to her mom than she had in years.

“Do they still have the lemon cheesecake hand-dipped?” she asked.

Silas stopped and looked down at her. “You’ve been here before?”

“Once,” she admitted. “When I was a kid. And that’s one of the things I don’t want to talk about.”

“Then I guess I won’t be pointing out the fact that that’s one of those signs I was telling you about.”

“Guess not,” she said, fighting a smile.

He leaned in and peered into her eyes. “You didn’t used to be a pretty eighteen-year-old snowboarder named Sun-mi, did you?”

“I think I would have remembered if I were.”

“Best winter break of my high school life,” he reminisced.

“Bet it was pretty great for Sun-mi, too.”

“I like to think so. Anyone catch your eye when you were in town mysteriously?”

“Not that first time, but this time around there’s someone I can’t stop thinking about.”

“Maggie Nichols, I swear to God, if you say Travis, I am going to ship him off to summer camp.”

She laughed her way into the shop.





15



Maggie drove herself home with Poison and then Pearl Jam blaring. It had been one hell of a night. She wondered if Silas and his siblings were texting about it. Then wished she had someone to text about getting recognized at the restaurant, learning what finger steaks were, and that kiss. Or was it kisses? Where did one kiss leave off and another begin?

Feeling philosophical, she gave thought to what it meant that one “almost fight” left her with zero people to talk to. Maybe Dean was right. Maybe she did need to make more of an effort to make and keep friends.

But real friends were so much work. And her followers and subscribers, well, they were happy with a like or a response. Something that only took a second. What kind of friendship could survive on that?

She parked the truck on the side of the house, wishing she had remembered to leave a light on. Or at least check the bulbs in the exterior lamps. It wasn’t that she was afraid of the dark. It was more that few things cemented loneliness like coming home to a dark house. Knowing that there was no one there waiting, excited to talk.

Was it odd that she was thirty-four years old and, besides that brief attempt at marriage over a decade ago, she didn’t know what it was like to come home to someone? To swap stories about the day, to fight over who cooked or who ordered out.

Maybe I should get a dog, she mused, getting out of the truck. She thought of Kevin and his couch-crashing affection. Then again, maybe not.

The night air was crisp. The wind was stronger up here on the bluff, making the trees creak. Maybe she was lonely. Or maybe she was happy. Either way, she didn’t really have time to delve into her psyche. Lonely or happy didn’t matter when up against deadlines.