MAGPIE (17 page)

I started with the day Steve had his accident and Katie’s questions flowed immediately. “He just walked into your house? He didn’t knock?” She looked like a kid listening to one of Andersen’s fairy tales for the first time.

I explained that he’d noticed the door ajar, and wanting to make sure I was okay, he walked in without my invitation. I went on to explain that Greg made himself at home, preparing a wonderful tea tray that he brought to me as I soaked in the tub. Then, the details—how he touched and kissed me, making me feel like there was no one else in the world but the two of us. Transfixed, Katie strained over the bar, and this time she wasn’t after guacamole.

“You’ll never guess what was playing when Greg came over: ‘Diamonds and Rust.’” Staring into my glass of wine, I replayed the afternoon in my head, pairing Greg’s persona with Baez’s lyrics.

My sister pierced my day dream with a much too practical comment, “Holy shit, Mags, I hope it’s not an omen. Dylan treated Baez like shit!” Spell broken, I shoved a guacamole-covered chip into my mouth.

I hesitated divulging details of the snow day I spent at Greg’s house, exploring each other’s erotic desires, curiosities and limits. I choked at the thought of having to describe the fuckfest we had that day because Katie didn’t know that side of me. She’d been an integral part of my family since Jack and I married, witnessing all the joyous moments then standing by me through all the tragedies. She’d marveled at our unconditional love for Michael and how easily the two of us became three. I wondered if my baby sister’s perception of me as a wife and mother would keep her from knowing me as another man’s lover. Not really sure how she would react, I skipped to the time Greg and I, completely spent from our ravenous lovemaking, slept like babies, waking in the same spot where we’d dozed off the night before.

Twenty minutes of filler passed before I revealed Greg’s “Wicked” invitation, requiring another bottle of wine.

“So, he just asked to you go see ‘Wicked’ in New York, just like that? What the hell does he do again, Mags?” Katie’s innocent nosiness shifted to an ever-growing sisterly suspicion.

I hesitated a few seconds before answering Katie because, quite honestly, I didn’t know precisely what Greg did.

“He dabbles in the stock market.” I answered tentatively, hoping that would suffice.

Katie wrinkled her face and asked, “What does that mean exactly?”

I let out a little harrumph and began, “Well, I know he doesn’t trade. He says he buys and holds companies that seem promising.” It was obvious that I lacked any authority on the matter.

“What does
that
mean exactly?” Her eyebrows arched as she emphasized her question.

Exacerbated, I barked, “I don’t know Katie, you’ll have to ask Greg!”

“I’d love to, Mags. When do I get to meet the mysterious market manipulator?” She was poking fun, and I didn’t like it.

“Come on, Katie, it’s not like he’s a mobster. Shit. Do I know everything about the ass wipes you date?” I stomped off to go to the bathroom. I was pissed. Sitting on the john, I scrutinized Katie’s question:
What does that mean exactly?
I had no fucking clue.

I heard my sister rustling around in the kitchen, and when I came out of the bathroom, she’d already put on her coat.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Katie. Really? Don’t leave. You just triggered something in me that’s actually been festering all morning. Please stay.
Please
?” I rarely pled like this, but I wanted to walk through a few things with her. I needed a sounding board now that Greg’s shadowy career had moved to the forefront.

Katie dropped her purse, stripped off her coat, and plopped back down on the barstool. “I worry about you, Mags. You haven’t been dating long, and there are creeps out there.”

So Tina says...

“Yeah, I know. And I appreciate it, sis, I really do.” I reached for my laptop and opened it so both of us could see the screen. I Googled, “dabble in stock market” and was surprised to see the volume of sites that came up. I scrolled to see if there was a more formal looking site, rather than the ehow.com or answers.yahoo.com types.

“Hey, hit that one,” Katie said with a much perkier voice than before. She pointed to a blog written by a thirty-seven-year-old guy who appeared to be successful, or so his picture suggested. He’d written an article that outlined criteria for buying companies. The article highlighted topics like purchasing strategies, goals and methods. The content was way over my head, but its seeming legitimacy bolstered my confidence in Greg.

Reassured, I said, “See, it’s a real business. This guy has done very well for himself!”

“It’s a blog, Mags. He could have written anything. It’s not like it’s a
Wall Street Journal
article vetted by layers of editors.” Before I could protest, she went on, “But I’m okay with it for now. I’m going to dig a little deeper when I get home and talk to a few buddies at work, just to be safe.”

“Deal.” I said as I poured two more glasses of wine, polishing off the second bottle.

***

I went shopping with Katie the next day for some clothes appropriate for New York theatre—hell, New York in general. I was struck by the holiday apparel and accessories draping emaciated mannequins in all the major department stores; it wasn’t even Halloween yet. I despised shopping malls, and my sister knew it. She, on the other hand, could roam the endless stretches of polished tile, peering into shop windows as if she were in a museum.

As promised, I’d prepared a list of “must haves,” which was scribed next to a list of “can’t stands.” Katie inspected it, grabbed my arm, and headed toward Nordstrom.

I dreaded trying on fancy dresses. The sales ladies (rarely men) groped and prodded almost as intimately as my gynecologist. What kind of person considers a career that requires manipulating women’s breasts for ideal positioning in an overpriced garment made in China?

Like a mother hen, Katie scolded me when I protested such dressing room antics. “Mags, stop it with the faces. You have to go through this to find the right dress, okay? Let her feel you up, it’ll make your time with Greg that much better.”

Shirley, a stout grey-haired woman who looked to be my mom’s age, brought in several choices, but my eyes closed in on a simple, black sheath dress with a cut-out yolk, stopping just above the knee. I tried it on and fell in love with it. Both Shirley and my bossy sibling insisted that I try on more, but I knew this was the one. I paid for the dress, and we drifted to the shoe department, where I found a simple pair of heeled sandals with an ankle strap; I was betting on motorized transportation, not strolls through New York’s bitter cold. We rounded our shopping adventure at a specialty shop that sold interesting and unique accessories. I was looking for a wrap and my eyes landed on a gorgeous turquoise and gold jacquard shawl. This treasure would bring out my eyes, I knew, and would help me stand out from all the other women in black.

Pleased with my goodies, Katie and I stopped at
California Kitchen
for a quick salad before heading home. My excitement stirred, and I silently imagined what it was going to be like traveling with Greg to one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world.

***

I woke early Sunday to the buzzing of my phone. It was Daniel; he’d never texted at three in the morning. I was curious,

Today, 3:02 AM

DANIEL: I know it’s late

MAGS: Early

DANIEL: Thinking bout your pussy, so much sweeter than the one I fucked tonite

Funny, Daniel could always wake my libido, regardless of the hour. A shot of guilt ripped through me knowing I’d be on a plane with Greg in a few days. Oh, what the hell…

MAGS: You don’t know that – she any good?

DANIEL: Sorta

MAGS: Trying to make me jealous

DANIEL: No, just horny, wanna fuck u 2

MAGS: Gotta lick me first

DANIEL: With pleasure

MAGS: Squeeze my tits

DANIEL: My cock is rock hard, need u to suck me off

MAGS: God I want to 69 with you, ur entire cock in my mouth while u suck my clit

DANIEL: Baby, I hate to say it but im gunna cum!

MAGS: me 2! cum for me - oh fuck, of fuck, oh fuck!

I dropped my phone and came hard, screaming unabashedly. Normally, Daniel took great pleasure in hearing me cum; then I’d tease him through his orgasm, savoring his guttural moans. Our near simultaneous climax tonight was one of the best I’d had with Daniel—it dismantled the emotional barrier I’d carefully constructed. Was sex better with Daniel when we were detached from each other? Had Daniel become an emotional vibrator that I manipulated according to my own selfish desires?

“Shut the hell up, Mags,” I said with resignation and turned to pick up my phone. Two texts from Daniel,

Today, 3:19 AM

DANIEL: Amazing

MAGS: Ya

DANIEL: For u 2?

MAGS: For me 2+

DANIEL: ??

MAGS: Really good

DANIEL: Worried u had someone there

MAGS: Ha! He wouldn’t get us

DANIEL: Does he know?

MAGS: About u?

DANIEL: Ya

MAGS: No

DANIEL: Why?

MAGS: Not sure, don’t want to mess it up

DANIEL: That’s not nice!

MAGS: U know what I mean

DANIEL: Yes, sadly

MAGS: ??

DANIEL: Sometimes I hate the distance

MAGS: I know, me 2, wonder what u and I would be like together

DANIEL: Really?

MAGS: Really

DANIEL: But it’s not real

MAGS: No it’s not

DANIEL: This has been a good night

MAGS: Morning

DANIEL: LOL, ok morning

MAGS: It has

DANIEL: Really?

MAGS: Really

DANIEL: I gotta go to work

MAGS: Ugh, me too

DANIEL: Sorry I woke you

MAGS: I’m not

DANIEL: Ta-ta

MAGS: :)

***

Greg booked two first class tickets on United for the evening of October 29
th
. I was able to get a decent amount of work done that day, and per Katie’s recommendation, I’d packed the weekend before. I was ready and full of childlike anticipation when a town car pulled up in front of my house at four o’clock. The driver stood by the open trunk, while Greg collected my bags and escorted me to the car.

Handing the bags to the older man who afforded VIP-like courtesy, Greg said, “Here you go, Edward.”

A string of questions formed in my head, when Greg asked with genuine interest, “How was your day?”

Successfully distracted, I replied, “Good. I got a lot done, actually.” Fully situated in the car, I looked around the interior and noticed leather—lots of it. Other than that, it looked like any other sedan I’d been in, except for the wooden console in the front, revealing high-tech navigation and audio equipment. I doubted seriously that Greg hired this car.

“Is this
your
car, Greg?”

“No, it’s not. Not really. It’s my company’s car. We all use it.” For the first time since I’d met Greg, he struggled to get his words out. I flashed back to my conversation with Katie, and heat briefly rose in my face.

“Oh,” I said, taken aback by his nonchalant manner.

“Mags, I’m a successful businessman, that’s all.”

No shit.

“I see that,” I said, not intending the sarcastic inflection that escaped anyway.

“Here’s the deal, Mags, we can do this, quarrel over the specifics of my work and why we’re headed to DIA in a town car. Or we can enjoy the ride, metaphorically
and
literally.” Greg’s serious side was beginning to show, and it caught me off guard.

Forcing myself to cheer up, I agreed, “Of course. Yes, let’s enjoy the ride.” I wondered if the commercial flight (albeit first class) was just a smokescreen to give Greg time to introduce me to his private jet.

I sat back and enjoyed the rest of our comfortable ride to the airport. By five o’clock, I’d surrendered and was appreciative of our first-class security screening. When we were finally called to board the enormous Boeing 777, I delighted with our first class “pods.” The flight alone could have been a vacation for anyone in my crowd. Apparently, this was business as usual for Greg.

We took off around seven, but before we even started moving, a handsome flight attendant offered us a drink. I asked for white wine, and Greg had a Maker’s Mark, neat. His social rank becoming more apparent, I squirmed, my self-consciousness rising like bile.

Sensing my mood, Greg asked, “You good, Mags?”

“Yeah, just get a little nervous taking off.” I lied. I had nerves of steel.

Greg took my hand, laced his fingers in mine, and closed his eyes as he sipped his bourbon.

I slept most of the flight; Greg having to rouse me so we could collect our things and deplane before the main cabin did. We didn’t say much to each other—I was tired and so was he. This time, I asked no questions when we got into a waiting town car that ushered us to our hotel. I was pleased when we didn’t pull up to the Ritz; rather, the sign read The Greenwich Hotel, which was a simple, red brick building just blocks from the Hudson River.

The lobby was fashioned with comfortable leather sofas and plush velvet chairs. The subdued lighting played off the buff-colored walls with seductive warmth. Dark wood framed the windows and doorways, and I felt like I’d been transported to an entirely new world; one in which people lived cheerful, carefree lives and never had to pick up dog shit themselves.

Greg checked us in as I gazed wide-eyed at my home for the next few days. I hadn’t noticed, but our bags had been taken to our rooms as if by magic. Greg took my arm, and we walked—luggage free—to the elevators. He pushed the “PH” button, and it took me a second or two to figure out what the two letters meant.

We walked into a suite that looked like something you’d find in Europe, or so I imagined; I’ve never been. Thirty-foot atelier windows framed a fantastic view as we made our way to the sitting room, a handsome brick fireplace off to one side. Behind us, a fully stocked kitchen stood next to an open dining room that looked out to the city’s skies. I left Greg in search of the bathroom and came to a dead stop when I stumbled across it. Marble slabs covered the walls, and the floor was tiled in delicate white squares of the same stone. A giant tub cut from a solid piece—all white with veins of light gray—called out to me. Lovely brass fixtures and towel racks added much-needed warmth to the room, though I wasn’t complaining. I turned the nobs on the monolithic basin and ran a steamy bath; I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more. The whole room was simply exquisite.