Page 4 of The Summer We Made Promises (The Destin Diaries #3)

M aggie Lawson sat stiffly at the outdoor dining table after Peter left. But the echo of their conversation hung in the air, as thick as the Florida humidity with the sickening smell of a broken friendship.

For the past two days, Maggie and Jo Ellen managed to either avoid each other or be surrounded by their kids and family. But this conversation had to happen if they were to achieve their goal of finding the missing pieces of the Roger and Artie puzzle.

Still, it was shocking to realize that, all these years later, they had plummeted to this level after being the best of best friends. Well, Artie did it, of course. If he’d have kept his big ethical mouth shut…

Maggie tamped down the thought, far too intelligent to think that Artie was alone in carrying the blame. Obviously, Roger had a part, too. He’d committed the criminal acts and, more importantly, had ordered Maggie to never speak to a Wylie again.

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair and finally looked across the table at a woman she’d once called a soul-sister, and not just because they’d lived in a house together with the same Greek letters on the door.

Jo and Mags were the proverbial peas in a sorority pod.

And then they’d met their husbands at the University of Georgia. First, Roger, a frat boy who’d come to a Tri-Delt party and swept Maggie right off her feet. Then, a few months later, Jo Ellen met Artie, the senior nerd who’d tutored her when she was struggling with a political science class.

The four of them were close right up until they graduated and married. But Jo Ellen longed for her cold and miserable Ithaca, so Artie applied to Cornell Law School.

Even a thousand miles apart, expensive phone calls, handwritten letters, and Christmas cards kept Maggie and Jo Ellen connected.

When they were both pregnant at the same time with Vivien and Jo’s twins, they shared the experience.

All along they exchanged baby stories, recipes, life updates, and grade school pictures as their families grew up.

Then one winter, Maggie heard about a beachfront cottage that they could rent for a whole summer and she had a wild idea for the Wylies to squeeze in that house with them.

Roger had to go back and forth from Atlanta during the week, but Artie was a professor with the summers off. They all came from Ithaca for one whole summer, which turned into seven summers and the best memories with two families joined like one.

Once. Long ago.

Pushing the memories away, Maggie lifted her gaze to meet Jo Ellen’s soft brown eyes, rimmed with sadness. Grief? Probably. Artie had died less than a year ago. But that sadness was surely because of what had become of their once great and mighty friendship.

Jo looked downright weary, though she’d aged pretty well. Some deep lines, some soft jowls, but still that sweet, pretty Yankee girl who showed up in Maggie’s dorm room in the fall of 1965, carrying a suitcase full of optimism and kindness.

Right now, she was composed, with her delicate fingers curled around the handle of her coffee cup. She stared back, not with anger, but with something far worse—pity.

Maggie bristled at it.

“I don’t know why I thought this would go any differently,” Maggie muttered, keeping her voice low. “You defend him like it’s your personal crusade.”

Jo Ellen sighed, shaking her head. “Because it is both—a crusade and personal. Good heavens, he was my husband. I loved him, and I can’t believe he ever did anything to hurt anyone.”

Maggie felt her lips press into a taut line before she leaned forward. “Then what do you call turning in a man he swore was his best friend? He knew what would happen to Roger. He had to. And he still did it.”

“Artie was a man of integrity,” Jo Ellen said. “He believed it was the right thing to do when he learned Roger broke the law. He was laundering money and defrauding investors. You didn’t know, Maggie. But Artie did. And he couldn’t just… let it slide.”

Maggie scoffed. “Ah, the great, noble whistleblower. Or could it have been he was just jealous because he was a college professor and Roger owned a thriving architectural firm?”

Jo Ellen gave a soft laugh. “As if Artie cared about money. He loved his job, his family, and any time he got to fish. But you have to know that Artie loved Roger, too. That’s why I want to understand what changed, and why he did this.

I want to figure out why they both ordered us to stop being friends.

And, for heaven’s sake, I want you to stop demonizing my perfect husband. ”

“A perfect husband?” Maggie gave a wry smile. “I believe they call that a unicorn.”

Jo Ellen started to laugh, then stopped, as if she realized they weren’t supposed to laugh together anymore.

As if any kind of lightheartedness fell under that umbrella order each of their husbands had delivered: Don’t talk to each other ever again .

“Okay, not perfect,” Jo Ellen conceded. “He snored. And had a weakness for donuts and dumb jokes. Oh, and toward the end, all he ever did was watch the news and that got annoying.”

Maggie shot her a look. “That’s the worst thing he did?” She wished she could say that about her husband who…well, yes, willingly broke the law. “At least you had him twenty-nine years longer than I had Roger.”

Jo Ellen exhaled, quiet as if Maggie had effectively put her in her place. Finally, she lifted her coffee, but plunked it back down as if she knew it would be cold and bitter.

“Can I ask you a question, Mags?”

Maggie braced for something harsh and personal and annoying.

“Why are we really here?”

“I thought we agreed that together we had a better chance of finding out the whole story.”

“But who are we doing it for?” Jo Ellen leaned closer. “For us? Please—we’re both seventy-eight. Our days are dwindling, our lives are lived. Our families are what matter now.”

“I just enjoyed a month in Europe,” Maggie replied. “My days are certainly not dwindling .”

“But we’re here for them.” Jo Ellen pointed to the house. “For our kids and grandkids.”

“I gave mine a multimillion-dollar house to keep or sell,” Maggie said dryly. “I’ve done enough for my kids.”

“Well, I haven’t,” Jo Ellen said. “And the reason I’m here is because my Katie’s eyes sparkle when she talks about Eli.”

Oh, this again . “She’s had a crush on Eli since she was twelve, Jo. That’s no reason?—”

“This is different,” Jo Ellen said. “This is adult and real and I want her to be happy. And Eli can’t stop smiling when she’s in the room. Did you notice before they left?”

“Yes.” She looked skyward. “Kind of hard not to.”

Jo Ellen chuckled. “You don’t have to make that face that looks like you sucked on a lemon. We used to joke about our kids getting married.”

“ Tessa and Eli,” Maggie reminded her, losing the fight not to smile. “But Kate? No, I didn’t see that coming.”

Jo Ellen reached out her hand across the table again, her touch feather-light—but it still burned. “That’s why I’m doing this. One of the reasons, anyway.”

Maggie eyed her. “What are the other reasons?”

“Well, I want his name cleared. You want to be angry at me forever? Fine. But Artie deserved better than to have you hate him in death for something he might not have even done the way you think he did.”

Maggie swallowed, her throat tight, but before she could respond, Jo Ellen added pressure and continued in a whisper, “And I would like the break in these two families to heal. Wouldn’t you?”

Maggie looked down at Jo Ellen’s hand, counting a few age spots, seeing the older woman’s slightly protruding knuckles tighten over hers.

Something slipped in her heart. A feeling she didn’t know or like or even remember. That longing for…more. More laughter, more wine, more adventures, more gossip, more secrets and confidences and ways to figure out life.

More… friendship .

But Roger had forbidden this friendship, and she couldn’t break her promise to him.

She slowly pulled her hand out from under Jo Ellen’s. “I want to talk to Crista before she leaves,” she said.

Jo Ellen smiled up at her. “Okay. But I’m not going anywhere, Mags.”

“Don’t I know it,” Maggie quipped, purposely making her voice light as she walked into the house, searching for her dog. “Pitty, darling? Where are you?”

The tiny Yorkie answered with a bark from upstairs but didn’t come running like she normally did when Maggie called her.

Had she lost Aunt Pittypat, too? On a sigh, she trudged up the stairs.

There, she found Pittypat tucked into Nolie’s cross-legged lap, being adored by her “other” mistress.

“Grandma,” Nolie said, her bright, seven-year-old eyes lifting at Maggie’s approach. “Pittypat’s upset.”

“Suitcases do that to her.” She stepped into the room and gestured toward the open one on the bed. “She thinks you’re going to leave her.”

Nolie stuck her bottom lip out. “I am.”

“How did the meeting with Peter go, Mama?” Crista asked as she folded a top and placed it in the suitcase.

“Pffft.” Maggie waved her hand and sat on a chair by the window. “Do you want to take Pittypat home, Nolie?”

Her brown eyes widened. “Could I, Grandma? She’s your dog and Mommy says you’re staying here.”

“I am and she is, but right this minute—” She lifted a brow and smiled at Pittypat, who was currently on her back, four paws in the air, enjoying a never-ending belly rub from Nolie. “I feel like there’s yet another traitor in our midst.”

“Mama!”

“Grandma, I’m not…whatever that is!”

“Of course you’re not, honey.” Maggie reached both arms out, touched when Nolie abandoned the dog and ran to her.

“I’m just tired and old and bitter. I love you, Nolie, and I actually think taking Pittypat home with you is a good idea.

I’ve got my hands full at this house and if she wants to go out in the middle of the night, I’d probably fall down the stairs. ”

“Oh!” Nolie squeezed tighter as if the very idea was unthinkable.

She sighed and put a hand on Nolie’s cheek. “Will you walk her in the rose garden every day?”