Chapter Ten

The closet was a treasure trove.

The first rack of clothing when she opened the door was all hoodies, sweaters, flannel button-downs, fuzzy pajamas, jeans, and capri pants—the standard casual uniform of the Pacific Northwest—but when Maggie started removing those items and stacking them on the bed, she found layers of bohemian dresses and bell bottoms, decades worth of clothing that spanned several fashion eras, and several dozen boxes stacked in the back.

The closet stretched back deeper than she’d ever imagined.

Maggie had expected the closet to be a simple place to start. What was complicated about clothes, after all? But she found herself trying on dresses and shoes that were a little too big, playing dress-up—and wondering who Lolly had been when she wore these clothes. She tried on the clothes like the wardrobe for a part she was playing, trying to figure out the character from what she wore.

By the time Maggie had met her, Lolly had been in her sixties and already entering her flannel phase. As a kid, she hadn’t ever really considered who Lolly was before then. And when she got older, her idea of Lolly had already been fixed. But now she wished she’d asked more questions when she had the chance.

Cecil had long since lost interest and fallen asleep in a pile of pajamas, but Maggie only grew more energized as it grew dark, turning on every light and continuing her quest. She was wearing a cute little sixties-era sundress, wondering if Aunt Lolly had worn it here or somewhere else, trying to remember if Lolly had ever said whether she’d always lived in Long Shores or, if not, when she had arrived there.

She stretched to pull another stack of dresses off the top shelf and a folded envelope fluttered to the floor.

Setting aside the dresses, Maggie picked up what appeared to be a standard, letter sized envelope that had been sealed and folded in half. She unfolded it to check the address—and froze at the sight of four block letters scrawled on the front.

LORI.

No address. Nothing else. Just Lori.

Maggie dropped to the floor with a thud loud enough to wake Cecil. He lifted his head sleepily and stirred himself to pad over and flop down in a sprawl against her hip. She absently patted him as she studied the envelope.

“Do you think it’s for me?” she asked Cecil, who was already starting to snore again.

She’d been named Dolores after Aunt Lolly, who had always called her Lori. But what if Dolores Loraine Tully of Long Shores, Oregon had once gone by Lori as well? The letter could be private.

If Lolly had left a letter to Maggie, apologizing or explaining or even just saying whatever it was she wanted to say in her final days, why would she leave it wedged in the back of her closet beneath a stack of clothes where it was entirely possible no one would ever find it? It might not even be a letter inside.

Maggie felt the envelope, but there was nothing lumpy—like the safe deposit box key this would be if this were a movie. The envelope was a little stiff, like it had been sitting there long enough for the paper to dry out. So possibly not a deathbed confession after all. But that only made Maggie want to open it more.

When had Lolly written it? If she had been the one to write it. And if it was even meant for Maggie.

She hadn’t been back in so long. There could have been a dozen Loris in Lolly’s life in the last decade for all Maggie knew.

Ian would know.

Maggie scrambled to her feet, sliding her feet into a handy pair of clogs and grabbing a hoodie, not caring if any of it matched as she clutched the envelope in her hand and rushed toward the back door. “You stay here, baby,” she said when Cecil lifted his head.

It was dark along the path between the two houses, clouds hiding the stars and no moon in sight. She stumbled blindly, her eyes slow to adjust after she’d lit every lamp in Lolly’s place. A stray branch slapped her shins and she hissed softly as she tripped over it before finding her feet again, starting to wonder if this was an idiotic idea.

She’d completely lost track of time in the closet and had no idea how late it was. Every light in the Summer house was not lit in welcome, but there were a couple of lights on, so maybe it wasn’t too late to knock on Ian’s door. The house had been built on top of the garage, the living areas and bedrooms elevated to get the best views of the ocean over the dunes, and Maggie climbed the steps to the front door, the envelope clutched in her hand.

She knocked gently, in case it was late enough that Sadie was asleep, and a dog barked inside the house. The big, deep bark reminded her that Sadie had said her grandmother and her dog came out on the weekends—a fraction of a second before Allison Summer flung open the door.

“Lori!” she exclaimed, her round face lighting, before she checked herself with a broad smile. “Or rather, Maggie. Sorry. Old habits. Dolores always called you that.”

“Of course,” Maggie murmured, the letter suddenly heavy in her hand. She hadn’t heard Aunt Lolly called Dolores in…well, ever.

A gangly reddish brown mutt with droopy jowls tried to shove around Mrs. Summer for a sniff and she grabbed onto his collar, straining to hold him back. “Edgar, quit. Anyway I’ll try to remember. Maggie.”

“You can call me Lori, Mrs. Summer. It’s okay.”

“And you can call me Allison. You’re all grown up now.” The dog gave another lurch forward and made a hacking noise as he choked himself on the collar Mrs. Summer was holding. “Unlike this idiot. He still thinks he’s a puppy.”

“He’s sweet.” Maggie reached out her free hand to the dog, who went into extreme panic mode in his eagerness to snuffle her fingers.

“He’s a dolt, but we love him. Come on in. Ian’s out and Sadie’s asleep, but you’re always welcome.”

“Oh. Right…” Maggie hesitated halfway across the threshold, suddenly feeling awkward. Sadie said her grandma came over so Ian could go out, but she hadn’t put the pieces together. Hadn’t even really thought about the fact that it was Friday night and Mrs. Summer would be here until the woman herself opened the door.

“It must be so hard, being alone in that house,” Mrs. Summer went on, her attention half on the dog she was shoving away from the door. “Dolores used to come by so often it was like she lived here.”

“I, uh, I can’t stay,” Maggie stammered, suddenly uncomfortable standing in Ian’s entryway when he wasn’t here. “I was just wondering if anyone had ever called Aunt Lolly anything else. Besides Lolly and Dolores, I mean. I thought you or Ian might know.” She slid the folded letter into the pocket of the hoodie, something holding her back from simply handing it over and asking if Mrs. Summer knew anything about it.

“Not that I know of, but Ian might know of some other name. Why?”

“No reason,” she lied without even knowing why. “I was just wondering if anyone ever called her Lori.”

“Dolores? I don’t think so. But you never know. She had quite a past.”

“I’m starting to realize that,” Maggie murmured under her breath.

“What was that?” Mrs. Summer looked up from her wrangling of the dog and Maggie shook her head.

“It’s nothing. I’ve just been going through her things and she has some pretty eclectic stuff. I wanted to, um, find out if you or any of Lolly’s friends wanted some of it. I didn’t want to send things to Goodwill that should be going to other people. People who knew her.” Since Maggie was feeling more and more like she never had.

“Oh, how sweet,” Mrs. Summer’s smile was fondly maternal, making Maggie feel like she was eight years old again. “Dolores already took care of giving folks things with sentimental value when she was in hospice, but I can ask around. See if there’s anything else you might want to set aside.”

“Thank you. That’d be great.” Maggie sidled toward the door and Mrs. Summer seemed to take the hint that she was leaving, smiling gently.

“Any time dear. And I do mean that. You come by any time. Don’t let Ian scare you off. He’s never here on Fridays anyway.”

Maggie nodded, awkward even in the face of Mrs. Summer’s kindness. She’d always envied Ian his family. His prim, every-hair-in-place mother. His larger-than-life, always laughing father. They were the freaking Cleavers to her. “I was sorry to hear about Mr. Summer,” she murmured as she hovered in the doorway. “He was such a great man.”

Sadness shifted beneath the surface of Mrs. Summer’s cheer, her smile softening with the ache of grief. “Yes, he was. Thank you, dear. He always liked you. We both did.”

Maggie had a hard time believing that. During those teenage years she’d always been pretty sure they thought she was a bad influence on their upwardly-mobile son, encouraging him to chase his dream of being a rock star rather than following the college path laid out for him.

Did Ian still play the guitar? He’d once been just as passionate about being a musician as she’d been about being an actress. On rainy days the summer she turned sixteen, they’d listen to music for hours on end while he fingered the chords on the neck of his guitar, always practicing—and there had been a lot of rainy days that summer. It seemed like the sun had barely ever come out—and she’d loved every second of it.

“G’night, Mrs. Summer,” she murmured.

“Allison,” Mrs. Summer reminded her. “Good night, dear.”

Maggie walked back toward Lolly’s house, through a darkness that didn’t seem quite so dark this time, or maybe she was just moving more slowly, giving her eyes more time to adjust to the lack of light. She emerged from the trees at the edge of the fire pit and sank down on one of the Adirondack chairs. Another night rose up in her memory from decades ago, when she’d come out of the trees hours after the curfew Lolly had set for her, and found Lolly waiting, a fire crackling in the fire pit, casting light and shadows on her aunt’s face.

“I’m sorry,” she’d mumbled, not actually sorry for a second. “Ian and I were hanging out and I fell asleep.” Which had been one hundred percent true, but she’d fallen asleep after her curfew had already passed.

“S’more?” Lolly had offered, holding up the marshmallow Maggie hadn’t even noticed on the skewer. She’d taken the treat, suspicious of the offering. “I wasn’t mad,” Lolly had gone on when Maggie sank down onto the empty chair beside her. “I was worried. I worry about you, Maggie May.” The nickname had just taken hold that summer, teasing and light, and in that moment it seemed to say Lolly hadn’t completely washed her hands of her yet. “I know you’re having a hard time with things back home, but I’m here for you. I will always be here for you. I will love you and worry about you until the day I die. So try not to give an old woman high blood pressure wondering where you are at night, all right?”

Maggie had apologized again, more sincerely this time, and Lolly had given her another s’more.

As she stared at the fire pit now, those words seemed to echo.

I will always be here for you.

Except she hadn’t, had she?

Maggie pulled out the envelope, running it through her hands. Lori. To Lolly? To her? Lolly wasn’t here anymore and she’d left everything in the house to Maggie. She must have known that eventually she would find the envelope. She had to have meant for Maggie to see whatever was inside, right?

She tucked a finger beneath the flap. The glue was old and the envelope came open without a single tear. She gently tugged lose the paper inside, a few sheets of stationary, folded and faded. It was too dark to make out the words and she could easily have gone inside where the lights in the house were still blazing, but instead she tucked the sheets back into the envelope, the envelope back into her pocket, and set about building a fire in the fire pit.

There was something so perfect about the idea of reading Lolly’s letter from the grave at the fire pit. Cinematic, almost. If this were a movie, the letter would be powerful and significant and she would read it by firelight, tears glistening in her eyes.

She hadn’t built a fire in years, had never had much practice at it, if she was honest, but she remembered the basics. Kindling, logs in a teepee. There was a bottle of lighter fluid leaning against the log-pile and Maggie grabbed it. Had that always been Lolly’s secret for how she could build a fire so fast? She popped the top and squeezed the bottle, surprised when a much longer jet of liquid shot out than she’d been anticipating, coating the top logs.

Maggie had a fire pit at her house in Hidden Valley, but it was gas. Push a button, instant fire. That was more her speed, but she found a book of matches that looked older than she was and peeled one off.

She struck the first match—and it died in a tiny puff of breeze she barely felt. She flicked the dead match on top of the fire and tried again. And again.

By the time she figured out how to shelter the match from even the slightest whisper of a breeze with her body, she’d gone through half a dozen of the little buggers. Lucky number seven sparked to life and Maggie held her breath, slowly lowering it toward the logs—having learned that if she simply tossed it down the dang thing would go out on the way. She silently cheered on the tiny match flame as it grew closer and closer to the waiting logs—

Until it caught with a whoosh and a flare of heat.

Flames roared upward and Maggie yelped, leaping backward, her feet tangling in the borrowed clogs. She landed on her side, one hand bracing her fall, as the flames shot toward the sky. It had to be an optical illusion because she was lying on the ground. The column of flames couldn’t actually be as tall as the house.

Then she noticed the sparks dancing on the breeze. Swirling in the air. Little motes of fire.

Heading straight toward the tree line.

“Oh shit.”