Halfway to you, p.13
Halfway to You, page 13
“Did he tell you that?”
“No, but I—”
“Things are not resolved with Todd. I thought you knew better than to keep playing matchmaker. How did you get him to agree to this?”
“He asked if he could host you,” Keith said, folding his arms. “He wanted to congratulate you. Celebrate you.”
That angered me even more—that Todd thought he could use my book tour as a way to repent. But the anger was short lived. My eyes traveled the block to the bookshop, where Todd was standing out front, watching us with obvious concern etched on his faraway features. Though he was out of earshot, I worried he could infer the wobble in my voice when I uttered a weak, “Yeah, well . . . ,” and dipped my chin. My heart was a sponge being squeezed of all its juices.
“What’s wrong?” Keith asked, stepping closer. “I thought you remembered our time in Greece fondly?”
“I do,” I said. “It’s just”—my voice cracked, but I talked through it—“I thought I was over him, but apparently I’m not.” Gaining steam, I added, “And my mother never came tonight—my own mother! And I’m tired, Keith. I just want to go home. I miss my stoop cats, and the markets, and my quiet life. I hate America. I hate being on display. I’ve been on edge for weeks, and—”
He drew me into his arms, cutting off my rant. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. I didn’t think of it that way.”
I tucked my face into his chest and let a few tears fall before forcing myself back into composure. I released him, cleared my throat, and wiped my wet cheeks. Todd was still watching us from down the street. “I know it’s wildly unprofessional, but I can’t do a reading there.”
“It’s okay, he’ll understand,” Keith said. “But I’ll have to go back to explain. Do you want to wait in the car?”
“Yes, please.” It occurred to me that Keith had not seen his best friend in a long time; he hadn’t been home since Christmas. “Will you have another chance to visit with him?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, handing me the car keys. “I’ll be right back.”
A big sigh rolled through me. I climbed into the passenger seat and turned the ignition, dialing up the air conditioning. In the side mirror, I watched Keith return to the bookstore. He clapped a hand on Todd’s back. As he spoke, Todd’s face sank, but I couldn’t tell whether it was disappointment or simply a trick of shadow. Next, they hugged, and then Todd retreated back into his shop and Keith returned to the car.
“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.
All jokes aside, I’m sorry I sprung myself on you when you visited Colorado. I truly was glad to see you in my bookstore, but Keith and I were naive to think you would take well to a surprise like that. I’m sorry I didn’t look at the situation from your side. I hope this letter is not unwelcome.
Speaking of letters: Keith said that you are fond of letter writing, but please don’t feel any obligation to reply. I merely wanted to offer my belated but sincere congratulations. You are sensational, Ann Fawkes. At the very least, I’m proud to be able to say, “I knew her when.”
—Best wishes, Todd Langley
My pulse was an ocean in my ears. I read the letter again, warmed by his praise, heated to see the word lovely written in his handwriting. Had anyone ever called me lovely? I couldn’t recall, but now that Todd had said it, no one could ever use that word again, not with the same meaning. I traced the indentation of his pen on the page, then touched my bottom lip.
I would be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about Todd in the year since my tour. I couldn’t blame myself for my anger and shock that night, but a part of me regretted how I’d treated him. Had I misplaced some of my frustration with my mother on Todd? That night might’ve had a much happier ending had I done the reading as Keith planned.
And what if I had turned my back on something important? After Greece, I hadn’t expected to ever see Todd again, but the tides of life kept bringing us back together—perhaps it was time to swim with the current.
Paramount to all those swirling thoughts: his letter made me happy.
I turned the envelope over in my hand, reading his Colorado address. Then I dropped to my knees, forearms, reaching for the picture under the oven. I knew what it was before I retrieved it: the photo he had taken in Venice.
In it, a young me stared into the camera with light in her eyes. Her mouth was parted in surprise, eyebrows arched high. A lock of hair streamed across her face. She was wayward, and sun kissed, and full of wonder. I realized that I’d never seen myself appear so free. I realized that my expression was a look of genuine love. Mere hours into our meeting, it was a look meant only for Todd.
Painfully as it ended in Greece, he’d brought out that romantic side of me. Why had I spent so much time hating this girl? At least she had dared to love.
And Todd had kept the photo all these years.
I raced to my desk, eager to respond, but when pen met paper, none of the words seemed right. I couldn’t put them into any sort of order.
Todd,
My goodness, is it wonderful to hear from you!
Todd,
Do you really think I’m lovely?
Todd,
I thought I had moved on from you, but
Too cheerful, too desperate, too clingy. Each failed attempt was the wrong sort of camera filter: saturated, sepia, black and white.
I stood and returned to the kitchen, where the photo still rested on the counter. I opened a bottle of Frascati and sliced the cantaloupe I’d just purchased. Nibbling the sweetness down to the rind, I stared at the photo. It was rendered with accurate color, as if I could reach through and touch the railing of that Venetian bridge. Unfiltered. Honest.
That’s what I had to do with my response to Todd.
Taking the bottle of wine with me, I sat in front of the fan and tried again.
Todd,
I would be lying if I said I was not happy to read your letter, not because of the praise (you’re too kind), but because I’ve missed you. I apologize for my behavior in Colorado—it was quite a shock to see you and I didn’t handle it well. Truth be told, I often think back on our time in Greece. I’m grateful it happened, even if I regret how it ended (did your wrist heal all right?).
I’m sorry about Keith’s smugness; there’s not much I can do about that.
Thank you for the photo—it’s nice to see myself all shiny and new. What a fun day we had in Venice.
—Ann
I waited and waited for his response.
The first week, I spent a great deal of time translating menus and taking long walks along the river. The next week, I called Keith to “check in on sales” and tiptoed around the subject of Todd before chickening out and hanging up. I then cleaned my whole apartment and went out on the town with Carmella and two of her cousins, who were visiting from Sicily.
Eighteen days after I mailed the letter, I dug into the back of my closet, searching through a box of knickknacks from my early travels. I found it wrapped in its original newspaper: the glass horse Todd had bought for me. Unfolding the wrapping revealed its glinting, translucent delicacy—the thin and still-intact legs, the crooked ear, the animated mane flicked up as if by wind. That evening, I set it on my bookshelf next to the hardback of Chasing Shadows.
Twenty-two days after I mailed the letter, I was certain he wasn’t going to write back. I must’ve said something wrong, something awkward. Or perhaps the international postage system had lost my letter? Of course, that was the day—the day I grew despondent—that I finally received his reply.
Ann,
Thank you for writing back. The wrist was merely a sprain, but that was the least of my concerns in the days after you left Santorini. I’m sorry for the hurt I caused you. I was hurting too. I know that doesn’t excuse my unkind words, but perhaps it helps you understand them.
I thought back to that night in Santorini.
I had been so wrapped up in my own feelings. I’d overlooked Keith’s cut-short caution; I hadn’t taken Todd’s confession—I lost someone—seriously. Todd hadn’t broken my heart—I had. I had pushed him too hard, and therefore he’d pushed me away completely.
But now, it seemed, he was back.
Let’s not live in the past. Tell me: How are you now? Aside from the booming career, I’d love to hear more about Ann. How is Rome? Keith said your address has stayed the same for a while, so I assume you love it.
—Todd
P.S. Apologies for my delayed response—I am buried in endless home renovations and lost track of time and mail.
A silken breeze came through the window, billowing my curtains. It streamed across my face, through my hair. The muscles in my neck uncoiled. I smiled to myself. Todd wanted to talk—to me. Not only had he written me a letter, but he’d written a second. An apology. A bid to move on, move forward, and reconnect.
I plunked down at my desk, pushed my new novel aside, and penned a response.
Todd,
Rome is a dream. The food, the architecture, the energy . . . it all conspires to seduce me. I’ve fallen hard for this city—
My pen paused above the paper. I remembered Todd’s attentive expression—the one that had captured my heart in Venice and made me feel like I mattered. His letter was the paper embodiment of that expression. It compelled me to be honest.
—but truth be told, it can be lonely at times. I have friends and local acquaintances, a community of market vendors and butchers and baristas whom I know by name. I’ve even gone on the occasional date—but I find meaningful companionship difficult.
Steady romantic relationships seemed too risky. I hadn’t even been intimate with a man since before my book tour.
Rome is a dream, but sometimes I feel like none of it is real. My life here is an uncomplicated stasis. Growing up, I never had security; here, I have so much stability that I find myself yearning for more. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve walled myself off from something truly great. Does greatness always require risk?
By then, my pen was moving of its own volition.
What do I have, outside my career? The answer to that question frightens me. The stories and articles keep me relevant, but to what end? The book tour was a good distraction, but now I feel an immense pressure to write another knockout. Chasing Shadows took so much from me—I wonder if I have anything left.
This is all probably more than you wanted to know, but there you have it. That’s how Ann is doing. Ann is as complicated as ever.
How is Todd?
—Ann
P.S. For the record, I’m sorry about Greece too.
P.P.S. I recently rediscovered that glass horse you bought me. I still haven’t seen water that blue, but it’s a wish of mine to someday find the same shade of teal.
His next letter came swiftly.
Ann,
I am touched that you’d share your feelings with such openness. I won’t pretend to have answers for you, but I do hope our correspondence is a balm to the occasional sting of loneliness. I still maintain that you are the bravest person I know.
How is Todd? I’m still figuring that out.
Two years before I met you, my heart had been shattered by a tragedy from which I don’t believe I will ever fully recover: my parents, wife, and newborn daughter died in a hospital fire.
A small sound of anguish escaped my lips, like a bird escaping a cage. Instinctively, I cupped a hand over my mouth as I read further.
The only thing I have left of any of them is my childhood home and the bookstore. The trauma of that loss still grips me much of the time. The man you met in Venice was lost, heartbroken, and selfish. And—in the interest of honoring your honesty with mine—my attraction toward you was too much to bear.
Since Greece, I have tried to heal. I’ve attended therapy in earnest, which has helped me process my grief. I still have a long way to go, but I’m improving, and the progress gives me purpose.
Perhaps this is too much for a mere letter, but all this is to say: I understand what you mean when you say you feel like you’ve walled yourself off from something great. I recognize that inclination because that’s what I’ve been doing for the past six years.
We’re all works in progress, aren’t we? I hope you consider me a friend you can turn to when you’re feeling uncertain.
As for companionship: put yourself out there. You deserve to feel cherished.
—Todd
P.S. I once heard that Tahiti has blue water like that.
I sank to my mattress, clutching his letter to my chest.
His entire family had died. The word had been penned in an off-kilter, slightly shaky cursive—a reflection of how hard it must’ve been for Todd to write it. I’d spent much of my life mourning the family I never had—I couldn’t imagine possessing my dream family only to have them torn away.
I had been careless in Greece. I hadn’t known the whole story, hadn’t listened when he said he needed friendship. After that letter, I vowed never to push Todd like that again.
