Page 36 of The Summer We Made Promises (The Destin Diaries #3)

“Whoa, there,” Maggie said, snagging her sleeve. “They don’t let just anyone walk in and open a safe deposit box. One of us would need ID. Proof that we’re the spouses of the owners. Maybe a death certificate?”

“I have that,” Jo Ellen said. “It’s with the ashes.”

Maggie drew back. “Well, don’t bring those. But get the certificate and our IDs and…whatever else we might need. I guess we’re going clue hunting, Nancy Drew.”

“Woohoo!” Jo Ellen bopped out of the room and suddenly Maggie was transported to the Tri-Delt house when the two of them were young. Oh, how she longed to feel that friendship, free of old guilt and vows she wished she’d never made.

“I still feel bad for lying,” Jo Ellen muttered, adjusting her sunglasses as Maggie steered Vivien’s stupidly oversized SUV through Destin traffic.

Maggie huffed, keeping her eyes on the road. “We didn’t lie. We just wrote a note that said we’re going to Publix to buy…something. We’ll go to Publix. We’ll buy something. But first, we’ll go to the bank.”

Jo Ellen shot her a look, the matching keys clasped in her hands. “Oh, sure, after we crack open our dead husbands’ mutual safe deposit box like a pair of geriatric detectives.”

Maggie allowed herself the faintest smile. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

As they pulled into the modest bank parking lot—a small, nondescript building tucked between a nail salon and a real estate office—Maggie’s heart beat just a little faster.

“Let me handle this, Jo,” Maggie said as they walked toward the bank. “I know how to get people to do what I want.”

“You sure do.” Jo Ellen elbowed her. “But why are you expecting them to not let us see our husbands’ safe deposit box?”

“Because there are rules and laws for this kind of thing,” she said. “You don’t waltz in like you’re in an episode of Colombo and demand to get into someone’s safe deposit box. You have to prove who you are and they’ll probably want someone to go with us.”

“No!”

“Oh, you’re so na?ve,” Maggie said as she pulled the door open. “Just let me take the lead.”

They walked in together and straight to the first teller, a young woman about the age of her granddaughter, Meredith.

Only instead of put together and on top of her game, like beautiful Meredith, this girl had one of those ridiculous rings in her nose and a purple flower inked on what would have otherwise been a lovely arm.

Who told her that was attractive?

Maggie lifted her chin and looked down her own— unpierced —nose, knowing how powerful her expressions could be.

“We would like access to a safe deposit box.”

The woman looked up. “ID and key, please.” She turned to the computer and tapped. “What name is the box in?”

“Uh, Roger Lawson.”

Her fingers froze. “I take it that’s not you, ma’am.”

Maggie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “It’s my late husband.”

She snapped her gum—honestly!—and it took everything Maggie had to stay quiet.

“We’ll need written permission to access the box, your ID, a death certificate, and/or a signed and notarized affidavit that says you have permission or the power of attorney to…” Her gaze shifted to Jo Ellen. “Are you okay?”

Maggie turned and looked at Jo, who was… bawling . Her face was red, her nose slobbery, and her shoulders shook with a silent sob.

“It was my husband’s, too,” she managed to mumble.

“They shared the box. It hasn’t been a year since he died and I came all the way from Ithaca, New York, just to get in this box so please, please, please let us in there.

Alone. Please. We mean no harm, but my husband asked me on his death bed to get what’s in that box. ”

Her whole arm vibrated as she held out the envelope containing the death certificate. With a tentative look, the young woman pulled out the certificate, glanced at it, then turned to tap her pointed acrylic nails on the computer keyboard.

All the while, Jo Ellen sobbed. Literally ugly cried into a used Kleenex. Maggie didn’t know whether to laugh, scream, or dig for a fresh tissue.

“Arthur Wylie?” the woman asked. “Here it is. Wow. That box is…” She counted on her fingers. On her fingers . A girl who worked in a bank . “Thirty years old!”

“Yes, we know.” Maggie lathered condescension on the words, but Jo Ellen muscled closer.

“Please, honey,” she sniveled. “What’s in there is the last piece of him I have. Do you have a father? Maybe a dead grandfather? Can you understand?—”

“I’ll need your ID,” she said, unmoved but maybe a little terrified of Jo.

“Oh, of course.” Jo Ellen flipped open her wallet and struggled to slide out her license, too overcome with grief to manage—or her acting skills were in overdrive.

“Okay,” the girl finally said after checking it and comparing it to the name on her computer screen. “My manager is at lunch and he’s supposed to go in with you.”

Maggie inched closer. “We don’t need?—”

Jo Ellen cut her off with another extended, quivering hand. “Please, honey. Please let us be alone with our memories.”

Nose Ring looked from one to the other, then shrugged. “Okay. But be warned, ladies, the room has cameras.”

“What do you think we’re going to?—”

“Maggie.” Jo Ellen shut her up with a wave of her hand. “It’s fine. We’ll be in there crying.”

The woman escorted them to the back of the bank and unlocked a door, showing them into a cold hallway lined with small boxes.

“You can leave anytime you’re done. Please don’t remove anything from the box without legal authorization or power of attorney. And you are under observation and surveillance.”

She left and silence settled over them like a weighted blanket.

“On his death bed ?” Maggie asked.

Jo Ellen gave her a harsh glare and surreptitiously pointed to a camera in the corner. “Just find Box 237, Mags. You’re not the only one who can sway people to do things.”

“Apparently not.”

They found the box, pulled it out, and placed it on a table in the middle of the room. Jo Ellen produced one of the keys and held it aloft.

“May I?” she asked.

“After that Oscar-winning performance, yes, you may.”

“Okay.” Jo slid the key and twisted it. “Thirty years, Mags. What could be in here?”

“Just open it,” Maggie pressed, anticipation stretching over her and snapping at her nerves.

Very slowly, Jo Ellen turned the key and lifted the lid, both of them leaning over to peer in to see…

“Nothing?” Maggie choked.

“Just…” Jo reached into the corner of the utterly empty box and pulled out a small blue piece of cardstock that Maggie hadn’t even noticed. “This.”

“What is it?”

They almost knocked heads trying to look at it.

“A dry cleaning ticket,” Jo Ellen said with dismay. “Sunny Shores Cleaners 167890.” She flipped it over. “A. Wylie. Suit. Pick up August second.”

Maggie felt the blood whoosh from her head. “That’s it? A dry cleaning stub from God knows when? For a suit?”

No! This wasn’t possible.

“That’s it.” Jo flipped the tiny piece of paper over and over as if it would magically reveal something.

Maggie gripped the edge of the table, her whole world tilted and crashing.

“I can’t take this anymore, Jo.”

“I know, I know.” She bit her lip and looked up. “I mean, I know Roger was laundering money, but did he actually take it to the dry cleaners?”

Maggie sliced her with a look. “Do you think this is funny?”

“I think it’s…frustrating.”

That it was. Maggie gave a shove to the box, as if that was the thing that had betrayed her—and not Jo Ellen’s deceased husband.

Fuming and shaking, she turned and walked out, leaving the box, her friend, and this crushing defeat behind. She powered through the bank without so much as a look at Nose Ring, then walked outside, dropping onto a bench beside the main doors like some kind of vagabond without a home.

She’d never felt so lost or frustrated or confused in her life.

A few minutes later, Jo came out, sitting down next to her.

“I took it,” she said in a breathless whisper. “I’ll probably get arrested, but I took it anyway. I don’t think it was caught on camera, but I don’t care. It had to mean something or they wouldn’t have put it in that box.”

She eyed her friend with begrudging, but genuine, respect. “Great. Now we can go pick up Artie’s suit. Expect a late fee.”

“The cleaners went out of business years ago. I Googled it.”

Maggie sighed noisily, that respect growing. “I don’t know what we were expecting to find.”

“We found something,” Jo Ellen said with her eternal optimism.

“What?”

“We found each other.” She put her hand on Maggie’s arm. “Please, Mags. Break your promise. I’m willing to break mine. I don’t know why our husbands wanted us separated but they are dead, and we are both more alive than ever when we’re together.”

Maggie just looked at her, feeling her eyes fill. She was right. She was so right. But…

“I gave him…my word.” Her throat thickened.

Jo Ellen’s shoulders dropped. “Yeah. I know. And I don’t want to spend one more minute on this. Let’s go back to the Summer House and be with family. That’s what matters.”

Yes, it was. But Roger was family, too. She was still connected to him. If she broke her promise…did she break that connection?

She wanted to throw her head back and howl. Instead, she pushed up and somehow held it together. “We have to buy something at Publix since we said we would.”

“I vote for chocolate,” Jo Ellen whispered. “Maybe a bottle of wine or three.”

Maggie smiled, but her heart hurt in a way that she couldn’t describe.