Jo Ellen followed, practically vibrating with joy.
“Isn’t this amazing, Mags?” She eased down on the sofa next to Maggie. “It’s truly like old times with our kids at the Summer House.”
“Only no Roger and Artie.”
Jo Ellen’s smile disappeared. “Well, no. Thanks for that bucket of cold water. Can’t you be happy for once?”
“Me? You’re the one who mopes every time Artie’s name is mentioned.”
“Well, I feel better now. Here.” She put a hand on Maggie’s arm. “With you.”
The comment made her soften inside, and she smiled, jutting her chin toward the sound of all those footsteps on the spiral stairs to the beach level, punctuated by laughter and chatter.
“It’s good to have a full house,” she admitted. “But I’m still so torn by guilt.”
“If it’s because my daughter and your son like each other, then let it go.” Jo Ellen nudged her. “I haven’t seen Kate this happy in years. I’m sure it’s the same for Eli.”
Maggie couldn’t argue with that. It was true—her son had been a hollow version of himself after Melissa’s passing. He’d powered on, raised the kids, and built a business. And, of course, he’d found faith and church.
But love? That put a whole different glimmer in his blue eyes.
Still, Roger’s age-old warnings echoed in her mind.
You promise me, Magnolia...no Wylies. Never, ever. You cannot talk to them and neither can the kids. Ever.
Talk? Eli and Kate looked like they couldget married.
Jo Ellen leaned into her. “Kate brought some of Artie’s things down, including his ashes.”
“Speaking of happy topics.” Maggie rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry, Jo. I know this whole weekend is important to you, but…”
“You still won’t come to his Celebration of Life?” She looked truly disappointed.
“No,” she said simply. “But Eli put that case of Roger’s belongings in my room.”
“Artie’s stuff is there, too.” At Maggie’s look, she laughed. “Not theashes. They’re in my room.”
“Don’t trust me with them, do you?” Maggie joked as she pushed up.
“I’d trust you with my life,” Jo replied softly, the kind words like a balm on Maggie’s bruised heart.
“Come on. Let’s see what we can find, Jo.”
As they climbed the stairs to her room, Maggie felt anticipation building, along with dread. She never liked going through Roger’s things. It hurt so much. And now? Guilt would make the pain worse.
She shut the door behind them and regarded the two boxes on the window seat. Roger’s was a sturdy metal box, clasp closed and secure. Artie’s was a battered old storage bin, the plastic top buckling and fragile.Maggie unlatched Roger’s first—grateful she’d never locked the box and had to worry about finding the key. She pulled out a stack of papers bound together with an old leather strap. Architectural sketches that included some of his earliest designs.
Jo Ellen leaned over and looked on as Maggie unfolded some of the papers. “He really was talented, Mags.”
Maggie traced a finger over the lines, memories tugging at her. “Yes. But he didn’t trust that talent.”
Jo Ellen didn’t respond, sliding Artie’s bin to the floor and dropping to the carpet like a kid opening Christmas presents. Pulling back her long hair, she snapped a cloth tie from her wrist to make a ponytail.
Silent, they dug deeper—finding a mix of mundane keepsakes and forgotten relics. A cracked pair of sunglasses Maggie remembered Roger wearing on the beach. An old cigar box filled with bottle caps from some silly collection Artie had started one summer.
Jo Ellen, rifling through Artie’s box, let out a soft laugh as she held something up. “Look at this.”
Maggie glanced over to see Jo holding up a photograph of the four of them—Roger, Artie, Jo Ellen, and Maggie—sitting on apicnic blanket, wine glasses in hand, the Gulf behind them, circa 1990 or so.
