My Dearest Robert,
I have so much to tell you and so little time to tell it.
Ha! I didn’t realize until after writing that sentence how morbid it sounds. Especially considering recent events. No, I’m not dying. Though there was a moment on a cold Friday night a few weeks back . . .
As I said, I’m short on time today. (There, a much better way to phrase things.) It’s Thanksgiving and already the lawn is beginning to fill. Patti Brighton-Smythe was the first to arrive. OF COURSE. I think she might still be in shock over my decision to host the community dinner.
Truthfully, I think the girls are, too. Not Neil, though. Oh no, he exists in a cloud of pure contentment these days. Sydney’s back, you see. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Are you wondering why I decided to revive the Muir Farm Thanksgiving Dinner? I’ve wondered myself plenty often in the past few days. After all, I am still recovering from a major health event. That’s how Lil keeps phrasing it—a major health event. Is it just me or is that hilarious wording? I think the dear girl simply can’t handle saying the reality of it out loud. I almost died. That’s the reality of it.
And that’s the why of it, too. I almost died, and somehow when I didn’t, I knew it was time . . . time to stop hiding from the world. I went to church on Sunday. I’ve gone to the grocery store, made Trinna smile by stopping at the teashop and buying a bundle of some herbal thing I’ll never drink, and I had supper at the Brunch Barn two nights ago.
And today, I’ll host half of Muir Harbor on a gorgeous autumn day. Indi has decorated the yard to the point that it looks like a fall-ish fairyland—so many lights, so many pumpkins, so many strings of fake leaves hanging all over the place. Lilian has taken charge of the organizing committee. All I had to do was bake pies—although the girls hovered the whole time, worried I’d strain myself, I’m sure.
And Neil . . . well, as I said, he walks around in a daze of happiness. I’m certain he’s contributed something to this day, but mostly he has eyes only for Sydney. She was gone all of two weeks and two days, and if she’d waited one more day to return to us, I do think he might’ve keeled over out of sheer lovesick impatience.
She’s currently staying at the Carters’ place. Though, if you ask me, it won’t be for long. Neil came to my room last night and asked for the ring. And, of course, I in turn asked him what’d taken him so long.
He laughed and then, oh, Robert, you would’ve loved what he said next. He said, “Maggie, I went on a walk with Syd tonight and we stood for the longest time just looking at the sea. The same sea I’ve stared at a thousand times on a thousand different days. But it’s like tonight it was deeper and wilder and a million times bluer than I’ve ever seen it before. And that’s how everything is now that she’s back.”
I know what you’re thinking—that I’ve paraphrased and prettied up his words. But no, that’s what he said. And with a look in his eyes that could make a person cry. Fine, I DID cry.
In other words, my Neil is in love and I wouldn’t be surprised if Sydney’s wearing that ring by the end of today.
Speaking of which, I need to get outside. It’s not fair to leave the children to deal with Patti Brighton-Smythe on their own. But there’s one more thing I need to tell you, Robert.
This will be my last letter.
Because as it turns out, my sea needs to get deeper and wilder and a million times bluer, too. And yet, I’m afraid with every letter I write to you, with every memory I lose myself in, I’m only wading. Staying at the shore of the past.
I’ve hidden away in this house, Robert. It started with Diana’s accident and progressed through the years to the point that I’m not sure you’d even recognize me if a miracle happened and it turned out you were alive and you returned to the farm and . . .
This is why I have to stop writing. I need to live in today. I need to get to know my neighbors. For instance, Tatum Carter will be here today. He’s accepted Sydney as his granddaughter. He understands why I won’t be selling the farm.
I’ll always love you, Robert. Always. But it’s time to swim.
Although, I suppose I should note that Wilder hasn’t given up on unraveling what happened to Diana and whether Cynthia might still be alive. Something new is driving him. Strange happenings at the farm, for one thing. But also, there are things I’ve remembered . . . it took a treehouse with a spyglass and a heart attack to jog my dormant memories and I still don’t know if they mean anything, but . . . well, Wilder thinks it’s all connected. I won’t ask him to stop pursuing answers.
But nor will I push him as I’ve done before. Because my life is here and now and it’s a good one.
And so, my dearest Robert, I must go help with dinner and enjoy my children and my community (I can’t wait to see Patti’s face when she realizes we’re serving blueberry pie instead of pumpkin—perhaps her wig will fall off!) . . . perhaps we’ll even celebrate an engagement. (Knowing Neil, he’ll most likely steal Syd off to someplace private—the seaside or maybe that treehouse he built—and propose away from prying eyes. And he won’t tell the rest of us until every last guest leaves.)
Can you tell I’m procrastinating? I don’t know how to finish this letter. I suppose I’ll simply sign off the same as always . . . one last time . . .
With all my love,
Maggie
P.S. I’ve met Indi’s fiancé, by the way. Only briefly, but it was enough to know there’s a story there. But then, isn’t there a story everywhere?
THE END