Halfway to You(6)

“A feeling?”

Maggie recrosses her legs. “I know, it’s stupid.”

“I don’t pretend to be enlightened or even very worldly, Maggie—at least not in the way most people seem to expect,” Ann says, setting down her cup and saucer. “Frankly, I don’t know much of anything. But there is one thing I’m certain about, and it’s this: having a feeling about something is not stupid. In fact, I think it’s the closest we get to divine intervention. I think we’re born with an innate ability to feel, and from childhood we’re trained not to listen, because it’s illogical. But I’ll tell you right now: all the most important decisions I’ve made in my life have been based on illogical feelings that I just couldn’t ignore.”

Ann spreads her hands, her bracelet tinkling faintly. “You asked why I agreed to the podcast. Well, it’s time I told my story—the whole story. Everyone I love is gone; I have no one left to protect.” Her eyes go distant for a moment, as if Ann is seeing someone in the room who isn’t there. “I agreed to the podcast because I thought that maybe telling my story out loud would help me organize my thoughts. There’s so much healing in the telling of things.” Her eyebrows crease upward, an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry it took me until today to realize that I just can’t be recorded. I know this is your job, but if you’re being truthful about this feeling of yours, maybe you need to hear my story, Maggie—and maybe the rest of the world doesn’t.”

Maggie unclasps her fingers and leans forward, placing her hands on the arms of her chair. “This is ludicrous.”

If she can’t fulfill her job’s requirements, she has no reason to hear the story . . .

. . . except her own burning curiosity.

Ann straightens her shawl. Her silver hair skitters off her shoulders like a river off rock. “Listen, I like you. You’re clearly a smart girl. You seem to have integrity. I think this could be fun, but I understand if you want to go. It’s entirely up to you.”

Maggie frowns. It doesn’t feel that way. Nothing is going the way Maggie wanted. Not her job or her bosses’ lack of faith in her, not this interview or having to name-drop Keith, not the many mysteries of her life. It’s entirely unfair.

Maggie takes a quick sip of tea, fully aware of Ann watching her, waiting for her answer. Temptation rises in her heart like the tide. If she can keep Ann talking, maybe she can eventually convince Ann to record some of her story for the podcast. It’s a start, at least. It’s better than admitting defeat right out the gate.

“All right,” Maggie says, “we have a deal.” It’s a plunge into glacial water; Maggie shudders with adrenaline.

“Wonderful.” Ann spreads her arms, grateful, inviting. “It’s still your interview. Where should I start?”

Maggie isn’t fooled. She’s not sure what this is, but it’s not an interview—not anymore.

She doesn’t fall for it.

But she’ll play along—play the long game.

Maggie pours Ann and herself more tea, letting the question hang in the air for a spell. Without her notes or the podcast guiding her, Maggie no longer has a road map. Where does anyone ever begin? Life isn’t made up of starts and ends—it’s a series of and thens. What’s important, she decides, is where Ann believes the story should begin. Her definition of the beginning is far more important than the actual moment.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Maggie asks finally.

Ann is nodding, thinking. Her face shifts, an expression passing under her skin like a hand beneath a sheet. Her mouth tightens, her brows lift, her eyes crease—and then all the tension disappears, making way for a sort of resignation that, even without context, Maggie interprets as significant.

Like a vast prism of story and secrets, the many fragments of Ann’s expression settle into a wistful smile: “It all began with one of those illogical feelings.”





ANN


Venice, Italy

September 1984

It was past dark and drizzly when I arrived in Venice, my heart pattering with the rain. As I carried my suitcase out of the train station, a sense of uncertainty bloomed in my stomach. I had spent the entire summer traveling through France with my new inheritance, but this was the first time I felt homesick. Perhaps it was just my weariness after a long journey or the fact that I didn’t know where my hotel was, or maybe it was because I was tired of having only myself to lean on.

I trudged into the increasing downpour, welcomed only by the wide cobblestone road. The ocean nudged the street, hissing with rain, sparkling in the low light. Boats bobbed on the soft waves. Even in the dreariness, Venice charmed me. Souvenir shops were closing for the day, and the shopkeepers huddled under awnings while they locked up. Tourist couples meandered beneath umbrellas, few and far between; I imagined most were in their hotel rooms, making love or watching the rain on their windowpanes with novels sprawled on their laps.

Romance. It penetrated my clothing like the rain, and seemingly everyone here felt it; we were all impervious to the bad weather and our sorry pasts because we were in Venice.

By the time I arrived at my hotel, I was soaked to the bone. But when the night manager showed me to my room, the last thing she said was “Buona notte,” and that’s when I learned that Italian is the most beautiful language on the planet.