MAGPIE (21 page)

***

We drove in silence for a good half hour listening to a smooth jazz station. I didn’t want to be tempted by lyrics that would regrettably expose Bill to my unpleasant warbling. Leaning my seat back, I stared through the sunroof, feeling calm and carefree. Glancing at Bill, I let go of my need to comfort him, thinking instead about how I’d grown fond of him over a few short hours and a shared tragedy. His face had changed since I last saw him. Haunting memories had etched new lines around his eyes and mouth; his eyes, dull and sunken. I wondered if I’d developed that look in the months after losing Jack and Michael.

Thinking out loud, I rambled, “When I was young—I mean like
way
back in high school—I was so uncomfortable with silence, the kind that keeps a girl from getting to know a boy. A few minutes would pass before I couldn’t stand it any longer, asking my date, ‘What are you thinking about?’ I’d impatiently wait for his answer, which was almost always, ‘Oh, nothing.’” Randomly, I asked, “What about the passage of time changes that?” Expecting no answer, I soaked in the stars, Bill’s smooth driving lulling me into a meditative mood.

Bill smiled and added, “I remember the same thing. And guess what? I was one of those boys who said, ‘nothing.’ But, Maggie, that wasn’t the truth. I bet I can speak for the boys you dated and tell you that their nerves kept them from saying anything more. Back then, boys—including me—didn’t know how to give a simple kiss, scared us to death.”

We both chuckled, then he continued, “When I first met you, Maggie, I felt the same way. You are so striking, so damn different from the rest of the man-eating pack. I stuttered and stammered my way through our first conversation. You probably didn’t notice, but I was sweating like crazy!” Bill and I were traveling memory lane like we’d been together for eons. It felt so…familiar.

Small talk kept the mood light; there wasn’t a need to talk about our dead sons. I hadn’t realized Bill had turned around until I saw Denver’s amber glow above the shrinking hills. About fifteen minutes before we pulled up to BurgerMiester where I’d left my car, Bill reached over and took my hand in his, lacing his fingers through mine. I didn’t protest, gladly accepting the gesture.

Bill pulled up right behind Beater, slid a high-tech gearshift into “P” and left the car running. Angling my body to face him more directly, I said with utmost sincerity, “Thanks for dinner and the drive, Bill. I know I was hesitant to go out with you tonight, but you have to know how much I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.”

“Me too, Maggie. Not the part about being hesitant, but that I’ve enjoyed it too. I’ve missed you, strange as that sounds—we only went out a couple of times.” Bill hung on to my hand and didn’t seem to have any plans of letting go.

“Well, I guess it’s time to head home,” I said, trying release his hand so I could open my door. Bill sensed the tension and let go, jumping out of his side to catch my door before I’d completely opened it. “Oh thanks, not sure if I’ll ever get used to that.” I said jokingly.

“You should Maggie. You deserve every courtesy a man has to offer.” Sadness crept into Bill’s eyes, though he tried to conceal it with a sweet smile.

Helping me out, Bill asked, “Can we do this again sometime soon?”

“I’d like that Bill, I really would.” I meant every word.

Though I didn’t look in my rearview mirror to confirm it, I knew Bill watched me drive off; he was just that kind of man. Before I made it home, he called, saying he wanted to make sure that I’d made it home safely. I said I hadn’t…because I wasn’t there yet. We laughed, and as I pulled into my driveway, I confirmed that I had, indeed, made it home in one piece. We laughed even harder, and then I asked him a question.

“Would you like to come to my house for Thanksgiving?”

***

Bill and I went out a few more times before the third Thursday of November. We’d agreed on simple dates, allowing us to get to know each other in a more authentic way. We joked, listened to music and found solace in the silence between us. We laughed a lot—just a few times, we cried. Work, politics, religion and other sensitive topics were left alone because they just didn’t matter.

Bill was actually a bit of a “softy.” He cared deeply for animals and was a member of ASPCA. I was amazed to discover that he volunteered at a local shelter that fed and housed the chronically homeless in Denver. Each time we got together, I discovered something new about Bill, a man I once wrote off as a “clueless chump.”

My earlier perception of Bill was based on nothing more than faulty assumptions. I’d forgotten dating could be clumsy and rushed to judgment. When he invited me to dinner in May, I’d dragged my bag of assumptions along, keeping it tucked snugly at my side, easily accessible. In truth, my bag was an emotional saber kept sharp with fear and pain, keeping at bay anyone who had the potential of hurting—or worse, leaving—me.

Even though I’d enjoyed our dinner that night, I hadn’t really given Bill a chance, and I felt bad about it. I hoped like hell I was making up for it, not just by helping him through his grief but being open to
all
of him, revealing much of me at the same time. I shared my recent dating disasters but not my long distance affair with Daniel. It was difficult to explain, even to myself. I had little doubt that I’d figure out a way to weave it into our conversation at some point.

The week of Thanksgiving was cyclonic—I cleaned the house on Monday and shopped all day Tuesday, stopping first at Tony’s Meats for the turkey, then a giant discount liquor store for the booze, ending at a local market for the rest of the fixings. Before I headed home, I picked up several bunches of fresh-cut flowers from Lucy’s, a lovely flower shop set in a tiny bungalow a stone’s throw from mine.

By Tuesday night, I was dead tired but pleased that I’d gotten everything done. I smiled in anticipation of the next day then realized I hadn’t thought about what to wear. Causal most of the time, I took the role of “hostess” very seriously and usually dressed to the nines. Perhaps I’d break with tradition and don something comfortable. I was pretty sure my guests would accept me in just about anything, so I closed the debate on the matter of attire and went to bed.

Bill arrived at nine o’clock the next morning, excited to spend a day in my kitchen, listening to music, sipping Prosecco and creating epicurean delights that would later delight dear friends and family. I’d been up for several hours, having prepared the kitchen for our culinary marathon. A silly mood overcame me, and I pulled out a dated Christmas sweater, hoping to encourage the spirit of the season. Knowing the kitchen would become too hot for a sweater, I hung a crisp white blouse on the door handle to my bedroom for a quick change.

Bill’s arms were brimming with brown paper bags and a huge bunch of flowers when he arrived, so I quickly ushered him into the house and helped unload the bounty. The flowers were nothing short of spectacular; I’d have to rethink where to place mine. One bag contained three bottles of wine and another held several brightly wrapped packages.

“What’s this?” I asked demurely.

“Oh those? Just a little something for Cody,” he joked as I moved in to slug his arm. “Ouch! What was that for?”

I stepped in a little closer and kissed him on the cheek—an apology of sorts. He held my chin and stared into my eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Saying nothing, his kissed me on the mouth with a mixture of heat and tenderness.

“Wow, what was that for?” I whispered with my eyes half shut.

“Does a simple boy need a reason to kiss a beautiful girl?” Bill turned on his heels and put the bag of presents on the dining table. He stacked the wine on a small, artsy rack Tina had given me a few years back, and asked, “Have any coffee?”

I was miffed by the way he brushed off the beautiful kiss we shared, but I quickly decided not to dwell on it. Overthinking had always gotten me into trouble, and I wasn’t going to let it spoil the day.

“Of course I do, I’m a java junky.” Passing over my green mug, I grabbed one from my earthenware set and poured him an almost full cup. I knew he took cream and sugar and left enough room for his liking.

The breakfast bar had been transformed into a Thanksgiving War Room, holding the primary menu, with a scattering of recipes from foodie websites I’d printed out the week before.

“Holy cow, Mags.” Bill was nothing short of impressed.

I smiled, having conquered the first of many prep day battles.

I mixed a couple of mimosas, adding interest with a splash of pomegranate liqueur and topping the concoction with plump blackberries.

Clinking our glasses, we said in unison, “Cheers!”

***

Bill and I didn’t stop until the last dish was dried and put away. We’d done very well for a day’s work and had completed everything on my list: A perfectly executed vat of butternut squash soup; twelve baked sweet potatoes that would be twice baked and properly dressed tomorrow; roasted red and yellow beets, the main ingredient for an arugula, goat cheese and roasted beet salad; two dozen honey-glazed whole-wheat dinner rolls (from scratch, of course); and a huge loaf of bread that we left out to dry for the stuffing we’d prepare tomorrow. Bill demonstrated his expertise with a knife and chopped all the remaining vegetables, storing them in plastic containers for the final product the following day.

Satisfied with our work, we plopped on the sofa; herbal tea had replaced Prosecco, and we sipped in silence. I hadn’t noticed that Bill was holding my free hand until I got up to feed Cody.

Groggily, Bill asked, “Where you off to, honey?”

“Poor Cody has been drooling over the smells coming out of the kitchen all day; if I don’t feed him soon, he’ll really begin to protest, probably aimed at you.” I kidded. After I poured the kibble, I noticed Bill was up from the sofa, looking for his coat.

Joshing, I said, “Oh no you don’t! Sit back down, we haven’t discussed the contents of the bag that has been sitting in full view of me all evening.”

“Mags, I’m afraid if I stay, I won’t be able to control myself. Seriously, the time we spent in the kitchen today might as well have been time spent in the bedroom. If I may say so…I’ve been horny as hell since walking through your front door.” Bill was more animated than usual, and I sensed an intensity that hadn’t surfaced until now.

A slow sigh escaped my mouth as I recalled how we navigated the small kitchen, pressing against each other as we slipped by to get to the other side. I closed my eyes, visualizing our hands kneading the bread dough, and inhaled deeply.

Shaking me from my suggestive trance, Bill asked, “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, everything’s fine. I just hate awkward moments like these.”

I moved to fetch Bill’s coat when he took my arm and pulled me back. He kissed me hard, and I returned it. We stayed locked right where we stood, kissing deeply and exploring each other’s bodies, as much as we could through our heavy clothes.

Pulling back just a bit, I murmured, “Stay, Bill, please.”

With no further words, Bill led me to the bedroom, where he slowly began undressing me. I’d wanted to shower after a hot and sweaty day in the kitchen, but the urge to remain in Bill’s arms outweighed anything else.

Devouring my naked body with his eyes, he began to undressed himself. I attempted to unbutton his shirt, but he moved me to the bed, standing over me while removing the rest of his clothes. The full moon shining through my window, I traced his muscular body with my eyes. Bill was exceptionally handsome and, as expected, built to perfection. He moved confidently and gently eased himself on top of me.

Lost in the moment, we kissed softly, exploring each other. Bill’s mouth moved from my neck to my breasts, tickling my nipples with his tongue. Moaning and twisting, I was unable to hold back. His tongue traced a line to my navel and continued in a straight line to my very wet and swollen pussy. I spread my legs with anticipation and lost all control when he found my throbbing clit. With amazing proficiency, he flicked, sucked and licked me until I came with a ferocity rarely experienced. I shuddered with a mixture of ecstasy and pleasure, verging on pain. Before I could catch my breath, his stretched cock found me, moving with a masculine grace I’d never experienced.

Bill’s orgasm mirrored how he made love—assertive and to a degree, refined. Our relationship transformed that night: Formerly agreeable companions, we’d turned a crucial corner, converting to red-hot lovers.

A few minutes passed when he leaned up and smiled, saying nothing. I smiled back and, in one swift move, flipped me over, so I was sitting on top of him. Still wet with his cum, I rubbed against his spent cock, slowly at first, feeling it harden with each motion. He made no attempt to move; he was my sex toy, and I played freely. I came for a second time, collapsing on top of him. Moments later, I slid off to one side and lay there, extremely satisfied—sexually and emotionally.

Stroking my hair, he instinctively began twisting a few curls, and whispered, “Good night, beautiful Maggie.”

I nuzzled into his chest and said, “It has been, hasn’t it?”

My feelings of appreciation and affection welling, I remembered it was the day before we’d be celebrating Thanksgiving with my closest friends and family.

BOOK 4

Winter

CHAPTER 10

Winter’s Solace

A
s children, Katie and I drove our folks crazy for the month between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Their tolerance for our restless antics withered like December’s daylight. By the time winter break rolled around, Mom and Dad had given up on any semblance of household structure and played along with our childish enthusiasm. We drove around surrounding neighborhoods every night in search of the best Christmas lights and front-lawn decorations. When they dried up, Dad trolled country roads looking for old barns outlined in soft, off-white lights and brightly lit Christmas trees framed by large farmhouse windows.

Katie and I anticipated the end of those outings almost as much as Christmas morning. Mom made hot cocoa and topped each mug with mini marshmallows, while Dad set out to decorate our own house, and though we never won any prizes, we delighted in his creations. Looking back, Norman Rockwell could have found his inspiration for his holiday art from our small, Western Slope town and all the genuine people who enriched its charm.