Page 16 of The Summer We Kept Secrets (The Destin Diaries #4)

T he interior of the Toyota SUV smelled faintly of Vivien’s perfume mixed with Jo Ellen’s drugstore hand sanitizer and…fear. That last one was all on Maggie, who tried not to grip the wheel and say very unladylike things at the horrific traffic and really stupid drivers.

“It’s like maneuvering a school bus,” she muttered to Jo Ellen, who, of course, was clutching that bar above her window like they were chasing tornadoes instead of looking for a decent place to have lunch after a shopping excursion at TJ Maxx.

“I still don’t understand why you didn’t drive here from Atlanta. You’d have your own car,” Jo Ellen said. “It’s a pain to borrow Vivien’s every time we want to go anywhere.”

“I had my reasons,” she said, although chief among them was Maggie’s bone-deep terror of interstates. “I had to rush down here to get to the event where my granddaughter was the star. Flying made more sense.”

“Yes, the wedding fashion show,” Jo Ellen recalled. “But then you stayed. Couldn’t someone have gotten your car here? Meredith or Eli? Maybe Crista could drive it down and fly back?”

“Crista’s pregnant and everyone wants their own car and I’m fine borrowing this one.”

“But Vivien’s so busy and we so rarely get out.” Jo Ellen leaned forward and pointed. “By the way, that was the turn the GPS said to take.”

“It’s left,” Maggie replied. “Without a light. Not a fan.”

She felt Jo Ellen’s piercing gaze and knew Maggie’s fears were about to be discussed—no doubt in the context of that inane road trip she still wanted to take.

“But you skipped the last turn, and it was a right.”

“I didn’t like it.” What she didn’t like was the truck in the other lane that looked…big. She could have sideswiped the thing.

“I’m happy to drive, you know.”

“That’s worse,” Maggie muttered.

“Worse than you, who never met a turn signal she could use or a yield sign she…yielded?”

Maggie tsked. “No one pays attention to turn signals, and I had the right of way on that last merge. Trust me, you want me to drive. I’m not a good passenger.”

“Oh, but you’re a great driver.” Jo Ellen rolled her eyes, then inched closer. “It’s why you won’t go on our road trip, isn’t it?”

Maggie hated that this woman could still read her mind—even after a thirty-year hiatus.

“Please, a road trip with you?”

“You love me!” she exclaimed defensively.

“I do,” Maggie assured her. “But you are a very nervous passenger and that puts me on edge.”

“Well, your driving puts me on edge.”

“And, Jo, you know our kids would be furious if we pulled a stunt like that. And that…vehicle—if you can call Frank’s truck by so lofty a name—looks like it’s held together with rust and spit.”

Jo Ellen just shrugged. “Betty’s Thunderbird’ll be ready soon. Frank’s called me twice, and I just don’t know what to say to him.”

“The word is ‘no,’ Jo Ellen. No. It rhymes with…slow and whoa !” She pressed the heel of her hand on the horn. “Stay in your own lane, buddy.”

“He was. You were the one swerving.”

Maggie sliced her with a side-eye.

“And it also rhymes with go,” Jo Ellen said. “Which is what I think we should do. In fact”—Jo Ellen pulled a stack of neatly printed pages from her oversized straw tote like a magician producing a rabbit—“I made this. Just a little itinerary. With help.”

“You told someone? Kate? Tessa?” Maggie tapped the brakes as they neared an intersection. “We agreed that we’d?—”

“First of all, does it matter if you won’t go?”

“No, but I like secrecy.”

“You always have,” Jo Ellen agreed. “But I only told Oscar.”

“Who is Oscar?”

“What I call my ChatGPT. He’s so smart.” She sighed heavily. “And he just knows me like no man except Artie.”

“Wait… what ? You chatted with Oscar? What are you talking about?”

“ChatGPT. It’s a robot. Actually, artificial intelligence. Very high-brow stuff, Maggie. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.”

“I’ve heard of it,” she snapped. “I just…I thought you needed a big IBM computer or something.”

“Honey, it’s on your phone.” She waved hers. “You type in stuff—or, if you get really good like I have, you can dictate—and it helps solve all your problems. I mean, the ones that have answers. Oscar’ll never bring Artie back, but he makes a mean itinerary. Do you want to hear it?”

Maggie continued driving, glancing side to side for a suitable restaurant but everything looked like a greasy spoon to her or a treacherous left turn without a light. “I don’t trust robots or that fake stuff,” Maggie said. “I don’t like computers.”

“Well, then you’ll die in the dark, my friend. This is the way of the future. All I did was ask Oscar to write me up a plan for two old ladies driving from Destin to Miami Beach.”

“We’re not?—”

“Yes, we are. I told him no highways, if possible, and no more than three to four hours a day on the road with plenty of stops at tourist places and gardens. You like gardens, I know.”

Maggie just narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t trust robots. They don’t know anything. They don’t know how hot the pavement gets in August.”

“Oh, but they do, and Oscar will tell you in Fahrenheit, Centigrade, and what are the best shoes to wear.”

“I don’t need?—”

“Just listen to this.” Jo Ellen flipped through the pages. “Day One—depart Destin on scenic highway 30-A. Very famous, as you know. We’ll drive through Grayton Beach, Seaside—which looks like a postcard—and lunch in Rosemary Beach.”

“Fake town,” Maggie said. “They just lifted it up out of nowhere, I heard.”

Jo Ellen flipped her hand. “After all that, we’ll take an easy drive to Panama City Beach.”

“Great. Spring breakers. We can enter a wet T-shirt contest and chug beer.”

Laughing, Jo flipped the page. “Actually, we can stay at the Driftwood Lodge, which Oscar says is a classic?—”

“Travel agent-speak for ‘it has bugs and mold.’ No, thank you.”

“Mags!” She gave a playful slap on Maggie’s arm with the paper. “It’s two and a half hours in the car on Day One.”

“At that rate, we’ll get to Miami in September.” She gave a soft look to her friend. “I appreciate your—and Oscar’s—work and enthusiasm, but I’m not going.”

“But we can stay at a waterfront inn in Apalachicola,” she said, undaunted. “It has a wraparound porch and rocking chairs. The owner’s got a one-eyed cat named Crabcake and serves key lime pie for breakfast. I mean, come on, Mags. Let’s live.”

“Or die…in Frank’s bucket of bolts we take to a town named after a soft drink.”

Jo Ellen dropped back with a sigh of resignation. “You’re doing it again.”

“What? Being reasonable, sensible, and wise? I can’t help it.”

“Covering your deep fears with sarcasm and dry wit.” Jo Ellen folded the papers and slid them back in her purse. “You did it the day I met you, in the dorm at the University of Georgia. You decided my name was Sue Ellen, not Jo Ellen.”

“A nod to Scarlett O’Hara’s sister.”

“The plain one,” Jo said. “But what you were doing was covering your fear that you wouldn’t like sharing a room with a stranger. A Yankee, no less.” She fake fanned herself. “I do declare, Captain Butler!”

“Will you stop?”

“Will you?” Jo countered. “Don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing, Maggie Lawson, when you use your intelligence and rapier wit to get what you want.”

“Look, there’s a little diner that doesn’t look too bad. Should we try it? I’m very hungry.” She gave Jo a side-eye. “Don’t make me pull out my rapier wit, whatever that is.”

“It cuts to the core and, yes, let’s go there.”

Maggie pulled into the parking lot of a strip center, finding a spot close to the restaurant. Parked, she turned off the engine and looked at Jo Ellen.

“All kidding aside, I’m not going, Jo, even if it is by way of Apa-coca-cola. I’m not risking my life—or yours—on some highway adventure in a rolling death trap with more miles than the space shuttle?—”

“Speaking of, we can make a day trip to the Kennedy Space Center.”

“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. She knew that. 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 I don’t miss an exit,” Maggie muttered.

“We need this. You need 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.

“It is her 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.

“How can you eat?”

“I don’t want to eat,” she replied, bringing Jo with her into the upscale diner.

She hadn’t understood. Not really. Not until now.

Betty wasn’t just sick. She was dying .

That trip in the Thunderbird was more than some nostalgic lark. It was the thing Betty had clung to while she still could. One more ride. One more beautiful dream. And Maggie—stubborn, scared, prideful Maggie—had nearly stolen it from her by saying no.

The fear didn’t go away. It sat in Maggie’s chest like an anchor, pressing down on every bone.

But something else had shifted. Maybe not courage—at least not yet—but clarity.

They slid into a booth and instantly Jo picked up the paper napkin to wipe tears from under her eyes.

“Give it to me,” Maggie said.

With a question in her expression, Jo Ellen held out the napkin.

“No! The itinerary from Roscoe or Oswald. Whatever you call him.”

Her eyes flickered, a hint of brightness returning. “Oscar.” She fished in her tote. “It’s here. Right here.” She shoved it across the table. “He made a printable version with cute little clip art and?—”

“Hush. I can’t read and talk at the same time.”

Jo Ellen instantly closed her mouth, staying silent while a waitress brought them water and menus as Maggie skimmed the ridiculously detailed itinerary. Oscar was clearly an over-thinker.

But it looked…doable.

Apalachicola. Cedar Key. The Villages? She’d skip that one or Jo Ellen would have them condo shopping. But mostly it was tiny towns, back roads, ice cream shops, antiquing, and pie.

It wasn’t the trip that scared her. It was what it meant: letting go of control. Admitting fear. Being vulnerable enough to say yes to life, even when it terrified her.

Because Betty Cavallari was dying.

She blinked away tears as she put the stack of papers next to her. “We’ll do it.”

Jo Ellen gasped. “You mean it?”

“For Betty,” Maggie said, her voice rough. Then, quieter, “And maybe for me.”

Jo Ellen reached across the table and took Maggie’s hand. “It’s the right thing to do, Mags. And we’ll have fun.”

Maggie took a shaky breath. “God help us,” she muttered.

Jo Ellen smiled. “He already has. He gave us Crabcake the cat and a robot travel assistant. What more do we need?”

“A miracle,” Maggie said. “And good weather. I hate to drive in rain.”

“Of course you do.”

“And we will not tell anyone where we’re going,” she added.

“Do you think that’s smart?”

“They’ll never let us leave,” Maggie told her. “And we have to get that car. For Betty.”

Jo Ellen picked up her water glass. “For Betty,” she said.

They toasted with water—which was probably bad luck—and decided they were hungry after all.