“I’m not…” Maggie swallowed, knowing she just had to speak the truth. “I’m not…I’m not a good driver.”
How was that for an understatement?
Maggie hadn’t driven more than an hour alone in nearly a decade. Highways made her palms sweat and that was the reason she wanted to live with Crista—so her daughter could do the majority of the driving.
She merged like a mouse coming out of hiding and any distance made her feel disoriented and panicked and like something terrible was going to happen the second she hit sixty-five miles per hour.
She wasn’t a good driver. Sheknewthat. Admitting it out loud, though? That would be like admitting she was one step from assisted living.
Jo Ellen was clearly undaunted by Maggie’s confession, shaking her head like she had all the arguments covered by her stupid computer with a name.
“We’ll take it slow, Mags. No more than three or four hours each day. We’ll stop at flea markets and antique stores. We’ll eat pie. We’ll talk and listen to playlists—Oscar can make us one from our college years—and laugh and maybe scream a little when we miss an exit.”
“I already scream when Idon’tmiss an exit,” Maggie muttered.
“We need this.Youneed this.”
“I need…” She turned away, looking out the window and rooting for the words that would make this argument end.
But something bright orange coming out from one of the stores or offices in the strip mall caught her eye. She hadn’t seen a color quite that hideous since…the last time they were with Betty and she had that same top on.
“What is she doing all the way out here?”
Jo Ellen followed her gaze and sucked in a breath. “Is that Betty?”
“Yes, and we’re a long way from Santa Rosa Beach.” She watched her friend, deep in conversation with another woman who had a scarf on her head, then the two of them hugged.
“People can drive places, you know,” Jo Ellen said, her voice barely above a whisper as they watched Betty wipe beneath her eyes with the back of her hand as they parted.
“Is she crying?” Maggie murmured.
Betty waved to the other woman, then walked off in the other direction, dabbing her eyes again.
A familiar dented truck rumbled into the frame. “Oh, no,” Maggie groaned. “It’s Frank and the clunker.”
The truck squealed slightly as it stopped beside Betty. Frank got out slowly—like his knees were catching up with the rest of him—and came around to open the passenger door.
Betty stepped in with care. He reached for her hand, held it. Then, without saying anything, he leaned in and pulled her close.
It wasn’t a casual hug. It was the kind of hug you gave someone when you didn’t want to let them go.
Maggie felt something inside her go still as the truck drove away.
Neither of them said a word about it, but they hefted their purses and got out of the SUV with almost as much care as Betty had used getting in that truck. They walked toward the restaurant, which took them right past the door of wherever Betty had been.
Slowing their steps, they read the small sign:Emerald Coast Infectious Diseases Medical Group/Chemo patients please check in next door.
“Oh.” The sound slipped out from Maggie’s lips. Without thinking, she reached for Jo’s hand, and they held onto each other as the truth hit them.
“Itisher dying wish,” Maggie whispered.
Jo Ellen could only nod, her eyes filling with tears. “Let’s go back home, Mags. I’m not hungry.”
Maggie almost agreed. Almost. But her head was spinning, and her heart was pounding, and a big black ball of guilt was pressing on her chest.
Guilt and fear. Was there any worse combination?
“Well, I want to go in that restaurant,” Maggie said, tugging her along.
