30. Sunday
CHAPTER 30
SUNDAY
M aggie was leaning up against the Blue Harbor sign at the Whippoorwill Hill trailhead. Wisps of copper hair had escaped from her ponytail to create a sort of halo effect around her face in the slanted morning sun. As usual, she looked like a Spice Girl fever dream — part Ginger, part Sporty, with a little Posh thrown in. (He’d apparently really imprinted on the Spice Girls.) But the thing that struck Daniel most, the very best thing, was that she looked like herself again.
Maggie raised her brows and tilted her chin up in greeting when she saw him approach. He wanted to kiss her. Or maybe he wanted to cry? Possibly both, which would definitely be worse than either impulse individually.
“You’re late,” she called out, when he was close enough for her inside voice to carry. It was still early, even if there were no cabins full of campers nearby to wake up.
“Well, I’d been planning on sleeping in.”
Her casual text that she was going for a run had startled him out of a doze. All week, he’d been struggling to fall asleep only to find himself wide awake again at three a.m. First, he’d been worried that Maggie was avoiding him. Then, he’d just been worried about Maggie, like, generally. The resulting sleep deprivation was causing him a number of issues.
First, he was exhausted. Second?—
“Are those new shoes?”
Second, marketing emails were suspiciously effective just before dawn.
“They are, thank you for noticing. I’m investing in my new hobby.”
She eyed the brightly colored trail runners suspiciously. “Have you broken them in?”
“As my competition, my strategic preparation for achieving peak performance is none of your business.” Also none of her business was the fact that his newfound enjoyment of running seemed not to extend beyond racing one particular redhead up one particular hill. The great thing about middle-of-the-night purchases, though, was that the part of his brain that would usually ask questions like “What are you going do with your shiny new shoes in a few weeks when that particular redhead has left the country?” was not quite awake.
“Alright,” she said, with a little shake of her head indicating that he was free to make his own poor choices. “You ready?”
Instead of hitting the trail, Daniel braced his palms against the Blue Harbor sign and began to stretch his calves. “How’re you feeling?”
“Fine,” Maggie responded, almost automatically.
Daniel turned his head to glance over his shoulder at her but stayed quiet.
“Better,” she amended, her tone softening. “No going easy on me, though. I can take an L.”
Daniel stood and grabbed an ankle for a hamstring stretch. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Maggie nodded, then rolled her shoulders and stretched her arms up over her head. Lowering them slowly, she let out a long exhale. Daniel would swear he could see tension he hadn’t realized she’d been holding on to leaving her body. He smiled and switched to his other hamstring.
Daniel did beat Maggie to the top of the hill, though by so little that he was worried she might suspect that he had, actually, been going easy on her. He needn’t have been. As they jogged back to the trailhead to cool down, he caught her frowning at the bags under his eyes, which, he was aware, looked like they’d been packed for an around-the-world voyage.
“Late night, Becker? You look awful.”
“If I haven’t told you yet, it’s good to have you back, McArthur.”
At the Blue Harbor sign, Maggie slowed to a stop, and Daniel followed suit. He hung back, awkwardly, near the large carved O. They’d gotten into the habit of going back to the cottage after a race — for a shower and some coffee. And, while they were in the shower, they’d gotten into the habit of one of them pressing the other up against the tile wall, or sinking to their knees, or making creative use of the handheld shower head. And Daniel was pretty sure that Maggie wouldn’t be up for that, all things considered. He wasn’t sure he was up for it either. But she also clearly didn’t want him tiptoeing around her. Which was fine. Because at this exact moment, what he was doing, was hovering. Which was completely different.
“Oh, my god, your face,” Maggie said, interrupting his decision paralysis.
The inner turmoil had been visible, apparently. He shouldn’t be so surprised. There was a reason he’d been banned from the poker table at Casino Night. He was too easy a mark.
“It’s extremely handsome, I know.”
“That, too.” Closing the distance between them, Maggie reached out and patted his cheek. “Look, you’re formally disinvited for post-run showers until further notice.”
“Is the coffee still on offer if I’m a little sweaty?”
An expression flickered across her face that he couldn’t quite read. “You missed my subpar drip coffee, Becker?”
He was supposed to say something glib. He understood the rules of the game. But you know what? Fuck that. Because how many mornings like this did they have left?
“I missed you , you schmo.” He bumped Maggie’s shoulder affectionately before setting off in the direction of the cottage.
He had missed her. More than he probably should have. And this was only a temporary reprieve. She was leaving again, too soon, and for good. The thought pressed hard on a bruise he’d been trying to ignore, but something about the pain felt like a relief.
* * *
When her mother called that evening after dinner, Maggie took a deep breath and answered. Her mother loved her. She was worried about her. She was reaching out.
“Hey, Mom.”
“M&M how are you? How is everything over there? You haven’t been answering my texts. Did the cell tower go out? Your father and I were about to just drive down, which, by the way, we might do anyway, because it’s almost the end of July, and you haven’t told us when you’d like us to visit.”
Maggie made her way over to the couch and nudged Parton over to make room. He looked over his shoulder at her, then went back to chewing the fancy new veggie chew that she’d bought him. “I’m fine. Everything is fine. Actually?—”
“Your father said he emailed you with the latest on the probate. Did you see that?”
“Yeah, I’m just a little behind?—”
“Of course, dear. I’m sure you’re very busy. Your Aunt was always working herself to the bone down there to keep that camp running.”
“Actually, speaking of keeping Blue Harbor running, I don’t think you should sell it.”
Her mother, for once, seemed to have been rendered speechless. Maggie took the opportunity to make her pitch. She explained what she’d learned about the property value and corresponding tax increases, how it didn’t make good business sense to keep Blue Harbor running as a summer camp, that no buyer in their right mind would, and that she’d been ok with that.
Until she’d been back. Until she realized how lucky she’d been to have this place to just be a kid, to grow into herself for seven weeks every summer, away from all the grocery store tabloid headlines screaming about cellulite and beach bodies, away from all the pressure to be the perfect student and (no offense) the perfect daughter and, god, imagine how much worse it was being a middle schooler in the age of social media. Maggie understood why Aunt Peg had spent so much of her life ensuring that Blue Harbor could be that place for as many kids as possible. And she’d made it a place worth the trouble of saving. They had to at least try.
So Maggie proposed her solution: Hire a new Camp Director, yes, but also hire a second person, an Events Director, someone who could oversee the use of the property in the fall, winter, and spring. If Blue Harbor could make enough money during the “off” seasons with weddings, retreats, glamping, whatever, they might even be able to spin the camp off into a non-profit and offer free tuition.
“I talked to Teddy?—”
“Our Teddy?” It was the first thing her mother had said in maybe ten minutes.
“Yes, our Teddy. I was surprised, too, but he’s actually…pretty competent.”
“Of course he is, Margaret,” her mother chastised somewhat unconvincingly.
“Anyway, he had some rough plans sketched out. I’ve run some numbers. I think it could work. Given time.” Maggie reached over to scratch Parton behind the ears. “And Aunt Peg would have wanted that. I think she’d have liked it. I mean, not the hosting corporate retreats part but keeping Blue Harbor open.”
“Well, it sounds like you have a lot of ideas?—”
“I can help hire on the new directors, maybe even while I’m still here,” Maggie interrupted, before her mother could think too much about the magnitude of the undertaking.
“Mmm maybe. Of course, I would be remiss if I didn’t just mention that in addition to the vision itself, you also happen to have a degree in business, a background in consulting, and an extensive knowledge of Blue Harbor.”
Was her mother suggesting that she should be the new events director? Hurricane Kathleen, stirring up chaos. “I also already have a job.”
“Yes, of course, dear. If only that were the sort of thing you had the privilege of changing at will.”
“I like my job!” Maggie said it so forcefully (maybe a little too forcefully) that she startled Parton into dropping his artisanal chew on the floor. He looked at her mournfully from his perch on the couch until she bent to pick it up and put it back between his paws.
“Nor did I mean to suggest otherwise, M&M,” her mother said in a soothing tone. “I just thought you seemed happy at Blue Harbor.”
“How do you know how I seem?” She knew she sounded petulant. There was something about talking to her mother that aged her backwards into a teenager.
“I have my ways,” her mother said, affecting an air of mystery.
Kathleen Sullivan-McArthur’s network of informants would put the FBI to shame. Maggie had fled the country to escape it at twenty-one.
Although, in this case, she’d probably just been talking to Miss Lucille.