Little Death by the Sea (6 page)

Maggie put her hand into her father’s. He
squeezed it.

“You did a fine job, darling.”

“Thanks, Dad. It was a pretty amazing
experience.”

“Did you hear anything about your sister?”
His voice dipped to prevent Elspeth from hearing.

“I...well, really, no, Dad. I mean, people
knew her and all...”

“Ahhh.”

“The French can be impossible,” Maggie said
with no real heat or conviction.

Her dad squeezed her hand again and then
released it. He rearranged his grip on the piece of luggage they’d
collected from baggage claim.

Maggie scanned the parking lot for Brownie.
The sky was bright and welcoming in the late afternoon. She began
to feel weary from the trip.

“What do you think of her?” Her father
appeared also to be searching the horizon for Brownie although
surely he knew what direction to look in if he’d parked the car,
Maggie thought.

“Well,” she said slowly. “She’s been through
quite a lot. I don’t know how Gerard treated her and he’s had her
for about four months now. If he’s as big a shit..er, jerk, as I
think he is, that’s plenty of time to put someone through some real
changes. Especially to someone who’s this vulnerable.”

“Do you think she’s your sister’s
daughter?”

Maggie opened her mouth to speak and then
shut it again. She looked at her father who continued to look as if
he hadn’t the slightest clue as to where Brownie and the car might
be.

Maggie searched his face and then stole a
look at the pair who walked ahead of them. Her mother was still
chattering to the girl—mostly in French, but occasionally in
English—while Nicole hobbled reluctantly beside her.

“Ah, well, I’m sure she is,” he said in
answer to his own question. “Doesn’t look very much like Elise but
then, I’m not sure you’d have been taken for my daughter
immediately.” His eyes sparkled, but Maggie read the soft doubt
behind them. The four trudged through the airport parking lot, the
heat of the Southern sun beginning to push Maggie down further into
her steps. She watched the little rigid back move ahead of her next
to her mother’s graceful one.

4

Maggie straightened the pillow on the bed in
her parents’ guest room, then allowed herself to fall into it. It
felt wonderful and yielding to sink into the soft bed, her long day
behind her. Is there a more satisfying feeling than falling asleep
in the bosom of your family home, surrounded by the special things
of your childhood, she wondered? She enjoyed this room in her
parents’ house even more than her own cozy little apartment on
Peachtree Road. It was decorated lovingly with memorabilia from
Maggie’s girlhood. A wooden framed portrait of Maggie, age eight,
on her pony, Snark, hung on the wall amid many such family
snapshots and framed postcards from past holidays. A gilded mirror
hung over an antique maple dresser.

The room was done in yellow and white eyelet
and smelled of rose potpourri. Maggie loved to sleep in this room,
even though it had not been hers as a child. Her own room,
downstairs, had been made over into a music room with an upright
piano, a guitar, a banjo (her father’s amusement one summer), and a
harp that went largely unplayed if not unstrummed.

Good ol’ Brownie, she thought sleepily. He
served, as she knew he would, as the distraction they all needed.
He’d hugged Maggie hard and pumped little Nicole’s hand, not having
the sense the rest of them had to be delicate and wary with her. In
any event, he’d caused even less reaction in her than they had,
proving, probably, that it didn’t much matter how they behaved with
the poor kid as long as they watered her and gave her food. Maggie
flushed briefly at her lack of charity and turned to burrow down
further into the cool cotton sheets.

“Never been to the South of France myself,”
Brownie had prattled happily, a shock of his thick brown hair
flipping down into his eyes as he drove them all home from the
airport in her dad’s Jaguar. “Wouldn’t mind catching the beach
scene, though.” He winked at Maggie in the rear view mirror and she
rolled her eyes at him, but lovingly. Brownie was always good to
have around. Merry and fun, he was the perfect foil for any even
slightly tense occasion. He used to be quite seriously in love with
her too, she knew—perhaps he still was just a little—and maybe that
was a prerequisite to being merry and fun and always handy when
you’re needed.

He had taken gentle control of the mundane
and boring activities no one else wanted to be bothered with:
unloading suitcases, greeting servants with jollyness and feeling.
Maggie realized in the midst of her gratitude to him that she felt
a dull pulse of guilt too. Because she did not care for Brownie in
the way he hoped that she someday might. And because, as uplifting
as it was to hear his big-man’s laugh and to react to his silly
jokes, he only reminded her that he was not the one she loved.

She’d known him since they were ten and
thirteen years old. He’d taken her to almost all her high school
prom dances, had always been present in one way or another at
Christmas get-togethers and birthday parties, he’d even come along
on a few family vacations. Although he was closer in age to
Maggie’s older brother, Ben, there was never any mistaking whose
friend he was. Brownie had loved Maggie from the beginning. He took
no refuge in the Newberry clan, his own family had money and loved
him dearly. If he had known that his very presence would make her
miss another man to the point of physical pain, he would probably
have removed himself from the Newberry’s home and never
returned.

Maggie turned over and caught a whiff of her
mother’s roses, growing in profusion right outside her window.
Several had been captured in a crystal Waterford vase on her
bedside table. She loved her mother’s garden. Even Elise had
counted it the best thing about Brymsley. Everyone called the
Newberry house “Brymsley” and no one was quite sure how the name
got started. The people who had lived in the place before—almost
forty years ago now—their name hadn’t been named “Brymsley”
either.

Maggie watched the sheers on her window puff
towards the bed and then go slack as the gentle Georgia night
breeze cooled the house. It seemed to waft the lovely rose scents
right into the bed with her.

She thought back to the moment earlier that
afternoon when they had all pulled into the long drive. She loved
that moment the best, always savored the first sighting of the
house. Maggie guessed correctly that there would be little visible
effect but it was still hard to resist looking at Nicole to see her
reaction to the estate. As for herself, she felt the same happiness
and belonging that she always did when she came home. Not too
large, certainly not by the standards of the neighborhood which
showcased the biggest and the best in Atlanta homes, Brymsley was
covered in a tangle of magnolias, weeping willows and oak trees
that gave the mansion a feeling of intrigue, even masquerade.

Maggie smelled the bedside roses and closed
her eyes. She remembered so many late night, under-the-cover
giggles with her sister in this house, teasing and conspiring
together as they never did in the daytime. And as sleep began to
claim her, Maggie found herself wondering if Elise’s little
foreign-born daughter—sleeping now in Elise’s old room—had ever
heard her mother laugh.

Chapter 4

1

The parking ticket dispenser stuttered
abruptly then stopped without the tongue-like flick proffering the
needed ticket to park for the day. The machine simply burped to a
halt. Gerry leaned out of his BMW and smacked the machine with his
hand. It whirred and spat out several tickets at once. He grabbed
one while the orange-striped arm at the entrance barricade lifted
to allow his car into the garage. He glanced at the mangled ticket
in his hand as he drove through. It was dated a year ago. Great, he
thought. And these bloodsuckers will probably try to collect from
me when I leave tonight. He smiled pleasantly at the parking garage
attendant who was busy ticketing some poor unfortunate who had no
doubt overstayed his welcome in one of the “visitors only”
slots.

Gerry parked his car, hopped out and wriggled
into the coat jacket he’d tossed onto his back seat. It was a fine
day. Last night’s pitch to Huffy Tractor Lites had gone very well.
He’d been in his best form, anticipating questions, offering
suggestions in an “even-if-you-don’t-hire-us-as-your-agency”
manner—ingratiating and fluid. He had felt only a little nauseated
in retrospect. It used to help that his wife didn’t take his
business seriously, even if he had to. Darla was a light touch in a
feverish world, gorgeous, bright, witty, and—odd for this day and
age—devoted to him. He knew, in his own defense, however, that the
feeling was absolutely mutual.

Darla had always teased him about the amount
of “servicing” his clients required. Lately, her teasing was
becoming laced with less humor and more irony.

“You hate being a slimy weasel, Gerry,” she
had said this morning before his lips had even touched his coffee
cup. “Why do you do it?”

“Oh, that’s nice. Please, let’s bring the
children in to hear this, shall we?”

“We only have one child.”

“Thank you for that information, Darla.”

“Gerry, I’m just teasing you, but it really
is a nasty business.”

“Darla, do you mind? It’s still what’s
putting the curl in your coif, the Oil of Olay on your dermi, you
know?”

“Surely, I could afford to get my hair permed
if you worked as an accountant or something. In fact, I know a
woman whose husband works at the hardware store down here on
Edgewood? And she always has great looking hair.”

“I like my job.”

“You don’t like having to make like a vacuum
cleaner, do you?”

“Very pretty, Darla. Very nice. And besides,
you don’t know anything about it. It’s called ‘value-added,’ and
it’s what makes the difference from one ad agency to another.
Anybody can whip up an ad and call up the right TV and print
people. But it’s service that keeps your clients coming back for
more.”

“You used to like your job when you came up
with ad ideas and stuff. Now that you own the company, all you do
is kiss people’s bottoms and smile in the spots that used to make
you yawn.”

“Whatever you say, Darla.”

She’d gotten right up his nose this morning.
Why was she pulling all that crap? Did she want him to quit his
job? Give up the business?

“I know!” he’d said to her, “I’ll start a new
business concept in advertising! I’ll call it the Fuck-You school
of client servicing.”

“Don’t be vulgar.”

“It’ll be great! When a client asks if I can
get him tickets to a Braves game, I’ll just say: “What do I look
like, you grubby-fingered slime-bag? Like your baseball
pimp?!?”

“All right, Gerry...”

“And besides, ball-bearing face, what does
baseball have to do with your product, anyway, you sleezoid,
blood-sucking, filth-ball...?”

“Perhaps there’s a happy medium...”

Gerry entered the elevator and punched the
floor button. Didn’t he make a good living? How many thirty-two
year old guys owned their own company? Sometimes he didn’t
understand Darla. Did she think he was unhappy? He wasn’t unhappy.
He was very damn happy.

He marched off the elevator and nodded curtly
to the receptionist positioned like a marine in her guard box just
inside the foyer of Selby and Parker’s.

“Maggie in yet?” he called over his shoulder
as he thundered down the hall to his office.

“Yes, Gerry,” the receptionist chirped. “She
signed in an hour ago.”

Gerry stopped at one of the offices, his
briefcase dangling from one hand. He pushed open the door and put
his head inside.

“You’re back?”

Maggie turned in her chair and swiveled away
from her computer screen. She was wearing a deep, emerald green
suit that dramatically accentuated her coal-colored hair pouring
off her shoulders. He was surprised to see her looking so pretty.
Usually, as fond of her as he was, he neglected to notice her in
the physical sense. Today, she seemed to radiate allure. He found
it quite unsettling. She smiled up at him.

“I’m back.”

“You look good. What’s the deal?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’s the deal?’ Oh, I’m
getting married at lunch, that must be it.”

“No kidding, you look really good. Did
something happen?”

“Will you stop being so offensive? Do you
mean, did I have a religious experience or something that’s given
me an extra glow? Or, am I pregnant?”

“You met somebody over there.”

“You’re amazing.”

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“You’re incredible.”

“So, what, did you... like, meet some frog,
boff him, have his child, win over a small village and then think
you could just show up for work like I wouldn’t notice or
something?” He moved into her office to get a better look at her.
“Who is he?”

“He’s a Frenchman.”

“No shit. And I was gonna ask if he was
Iranian, but then I’m no good at guessing games. I figured he’d be
French, Maggie.”

“He was really something, Ger. Do you want to
hear about him?”

“Yes, yes, how about lunch? You can tell all.
Just remember, nothing gross or anything that involves describing
the swapping of body fluids while I’m trying to eat, okay?”

Maggie rolled her eyes at him.

“Noonish, okay?” Gerry smacked a rolled-up
sheath of papers against his thigh. “Meanwhile, let’s do traffic.
Would you get Dierdre or Jenny to call the meeting over the PA? I
haven’t even had coffee yet.” He hurried on down the corridor to
his office while Maggie dialed the front desk to talk with
Jenny.

She’d stopped at her apartment on the way to
work that morning from her parents’ house to see if Laurent had
called. He hadn’t. There had been a couple of hang-ups on her
answering machine that she chose to believe were Laurent’s refusals
to talk to a machine. She was irritated with herself that she
hadn’t insisted he write her in French. She could always have
dragged her College French textbook off the shelf and figured it
out.