Clearing her throat, she glanced around, hoping they weren’t making a scene. “Okay, Jo. Go find the pancetta.”
“Come with me.” Jo grabbed her arm. “You know you can’t trust me alone.”
“I’ll stay here,” she said, forcing the smile off her face.
Jo Ellen instantly looked crestfallen. “It’s okay to laugh,” she said softly. “Artie used to say laughter was oxygen for the soul. And you, Mags? You’re suffocating.”
Maggie just nodded, unable to muster a response while Jo shrugged and walked away.
Tears, unwelcome and unwanted, stung her lids. Desperate for a distraction, she shoved her hand into her purse to double-check the list. There must be something she could go buy.
She tugged out the wrinkled page and opened it, squinting at Vivien’s rather poor penmanship.
Oh, wrong side. This wasn’t the recipe, it was?—
P.S.#2. Mom is so different here!
She froze at the words written at the bottom of the page. Everything in her wanted to turn it over and look at the recipe, but she couldn’t help herself and kept reading.
Why is that? When she cooks at home, it’s a little scary. She has so many rules and things have to be done a certain way and it just isn’t fun. But with Aunt Jo Ellen, all she does is laugh and do what she calls “back up support” which apparently means pouring wine. I wish she were more like she is here when we are at home. It’s like having a different mom.
Maggie stood still, staring at the words. A lump formed in her throat before she even realized she’d stopped breathing.
Vivien had written that at fourteen, but somehow the feeling cut with more precision now—when there was so little left to do about it.
She folded the page carefully and slipped it back into her purse.
Was it…Jo Ellen? Didshemake Maggie different or better? Yes, at least in fourteen-year-old Vivien’s estimation.
“Guess what?” Jo Ellen called as she returned, lifting the pancetta like a trophy. “I charmed the butcher into slicing it paper-thin. Betty would be proud.”
“She would,” Maggie said, clearing her throat. Then added, quieter, “I think Vivien would be proud, too.”
Jo Ellen gave her a confused look, but Maggie ushered her toward the front of the store.
As they unloaded the cart, Jo Ellen eyed Maggie and looked like she wanted to say something but just couldn’t.
“Did we forget something?” Maggie asked.
“No, no. I just…I, um, want to tell you something.”
“Please, Jo. I know I’m all uptight and no fun and not breathing your laughter or whatever. I made my husband a?—”
“We’re having a Celebration of Life event for Artie,” she said quickly. “Tessa and I decided we’d like to honor the promise we made a long time ago to put his ashes in the Gulf. We thought we’d make a party out of it. I mean, a celebration. Not a wild party, but…you know. A thing. On her boat.”
Maggie felt her fingers curl gently around the edges of the deli-wrapped pancetta. “All right.”
“I’d like you to be there,” Jo Ellen added softly.
“Is plastic okay, ma’am?” The question pulled Maggie and she turned, happy to look away.
“Yes, please. Thank you.”
“Will you be there?” Jo Ellen pressed. “Could you…please?”
Silence stretched between them before Maggie shook her head. “I can’t,” she said.
“Can’t or won’t?”
