Page 81 of Ebbing Tides
“Not that any of us know of, no.” He shifted his weight and gestured toward nothing with a flip of his hand. “Now, of course, my wife—Patty—passed away some years ago, and Lilly's been gone now for, oh, twenty … no, twenty-one …”
“Twenty-two years,” I corrected with a weak smile. “She was twenty years older than me, and I'm forty-eight. She died when she was forty-six.”
“Forty-eight,” Maxwell said, wonder in his tone as he looked at me once again. “Forty-eight years, and will you look at you now?”
I sniffed a laugh, and my phone vibrated. “Yeah.”
“Can I ask if you're married?”
I sighed and lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Widowed actually.”
“Ah, sorry to hear that,” Maxwell replied sadly. “Any children?”
“A couple of stepdaughters I haven't seen in a decade,” I admitted easily, though it broke my heart. “But apart from that, no.”
“Hmm,” Maxwell grunted with a nod. “You should. Reach out to them. They would love to see you again.”
I couldn't help but laugh. “You don't know that. You don't know me.”
“Yes, I do, Max,” he replied with a smile so sad and kind that I stopped laughing on the spot. “Yes, I do.”
My phone buzzed with life, and this time, I pulled it out of my pocket with a muttered apology. There, glowing bright on the screen, was a text from Melanie.
Melanie:Hey, I'm not sure what's going on, but I hope everything is okay. Are we still down for dinner with your family tonight? Give me a call when you can.
I swallowed and looked back at Maxwell, still standing there on a cold walkway in the middle of the cemetery I'd worked at for years.
How many times had our paths crossed? Had we ever seen each other? Had we exchanged pleasantries, unbeknownst to either of us of the shared blood we had flowing through our veins?
“Have somewhere to be?” he asked with a nod toward my phone.
I nodded. “Yeah. My, um … this woman I've been seeing … I'm supposed to bring her to dinner to my, um, my sister's house, but I can—”
“Go,” Maxwell said with a smile and a wave of his hand. “We can always meet another time.”
“Can we?”
He nodded reassuringly. “There's so much to catch up on, and we will. So, go on. Have your dinner. But let me give you my number first, and promise me you'll call.”
I was already opening my Contacts to put him in when I said, “Maxwell, you have my word.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I couldn't in good conscience let an old man walk alone in the cold and snow back to his car, so we traveled together to the parking lot in near silence. That was fine though. I didn't take it personally. There was a lot to unpack in the short time we'd spent together, and I knew that my thoughts at least were too loud and crowded to welcome casual conversation.
Beside my truck—where Lido slept, awaiting my return—was a car sitting idle; a woman sat behind the wheel, reading on an e-reader. It brought me great relief to find that Maxwell hadn't driven himself, but the sight of this woman only brought on more questions.
“My chariot awaits,” Maxwell announced, opening the passenger side of the four-door sedan.
The woman in the driver's seat leaned down to ask, “Can I take you anywhere without you making friends?”
“Oh, Carrie, this isn't a friend,” the old man replied, climbing in much easier than I would've expected. “This young man and I share a name.”
Young man. I smiled at the sentiment, though I felt anything but young.
I crouched to peer into the car, squinting my eyes to brace against a sudden burst of wind. Lifting a hand, I waved for the first time at the woman I now realized was my aunt by blood.
She smiled, an expression so open and kind. “Another Max. It's nice to meet you. Thanks for walking my dad—”
