MAGPIE (3 page)

Feeling frisky, I wrote, hoping he’d get the reference,

Daniel my brother, you are older than me…

I couldn’t help it, it’s late! But you really are older than me—I was born in ’59. Never took you for a fool, BTW. Not a real sports person, though I can appreciate the athleticism (is that a word?) of tennis. Actually, I was glad to see something about you that is so different from me—makes the point that there never will be an “us” easier to swallow. Would I care to meet if sixteen-hundred were actually 16? Good question—may I sleep on it?

Sweet dreams,

Maggie (not short for anything, it’s really my given name)

I hit the “send” button and realized I was flirting with a man who lived hundreds of miles away, yet I’d set him up for a response. Giggling quietly, I felt my face flush with a heat I hadn’t felt in years. I closed the Match tab on my iPad and set it down. Calmly, I turned out the light and dozed off to sleep, an impish smile brushed across my face.

***

For the next few weeks, Daniel and I traded messages. I continued to flirt, and he volleyed back. I didn’t tell anyone about him. I lied to Tony when he asked about setpnt58, explaining that I hadn’t heard from him since that first day. When Katie asked how my online dating was going, I’d shrug and tell her I rarely checked the site, too damn busy. In reality, I checked the site daily, looking for Daniel’s sweet, clever messages.

“Good morning, buddy! Want your bunny basket?” I asked Cody, making my way into the bathroom.

It was Easter Sunday and the weather was going to be fantastic. I planned an early morning walk with Cody followed by brunch with Katie. It was our tradition. Our folks lived on the Western Slope in the same house we grew up in. We attempted to go back home every few months, but not this Easter. Snowfall in the mountains had reached record numbers, and we didn’t want to get caught in a spring storm that could render I-70 a parking lot.

I threw on some yoga pants (none of the four pair I owned had sullied a studio), fleece jacket and my “outside” sneakers. Cody knew the routine and was dancing in circles.

“Hang on, Cody! Just wait, let me get your leash.”

I’d made an effort to keep his eighty-five pound frame in good shape, hoping like hell he’d live a long, healthy life. I snapped the leash to his loose collar, and we headed out. Cody lived for his walks, and I delighted in giving my pooch what he longed for.

I was happier than I’d been in years, thanks in part to Daniel’s fun and flirtatious messages. We hadn’t traded personal contact information yet; I’d learned to be cautious after a few crazy online-dating experiences that had ended before I met the weirdoes in person. Daniel’s messages had become a little more suggestive but not in an obnoxious way, like those I’d received from so many other guys. He had a way with words that made me think he was a writer, either professionally or as a hobby. He excited me, what can I say. Unfortunately, our budding romance made it difficult to concentrate at work and I’d missed a few deadlines, a rarity during my professional career. Damn, it was easy to daydream about Daniel…

Before I knew it, we were back home. Cody made a beeline to the sofa, while I jumped in the shower.

Katie and I agreed we’d make reservations at a new place every year for Easter. Mom and Dad loved Village Inn and ate there on Easter Sundays when we weren’t visiting. They would call afterward, excited about running into friends who shared similar beliefs and opinions, most of which were straight out of the fifties. Pinkies interlocked, my baby sister and I vowed never to grow old minded, though we knew age was beginning to take a toll on our bodies.

Thank God and all the Holy Ones for Spanx
.

I made my way to the restaurant and, spotting Katie, called out, “What a cool place!” I gave her a bear hug and held on for a few extra seconds.

Sensing the shift in my affection, Katie said, “What’s up with the mongo hugs Mags? You get laid?”

She always went
there
. Though she rarely shared details, I knew Katie had a healthy sex life. So did I. Before Jack died, I recalled. Sexually, I’d shut down since then. My grief had robbed me of my youthful passion and I’d boxed it up. Until now.

“Nope. No man in my life. I just love spring. It’s gardening season, and when, pray tell, will you be joining me for a day of tilling?”

“Why do you need to say stupid stuff like ‘pray tell?’ It sounds uppity,” she scolded.

Katie had earned a degree in marketing, which consequently didn’t require much reading or writing. She often chided me for my word choices or references to current events. Simply put, Katie’s world involved more socializing and less critical thinking. Strangely, our differences were the stickum that kept us close; had we been more alike, one of us would have strangled the other long ago.

Inside the restaurant aptly called, “Above Bored,” I counted nine tables: a mixture of four tops, two tops, and several tall tables where a few couples stood, a new dining trend in which I was seriously uninterested. I waved at Katie and we were seated at a small table near the front window facing a beautiful greenbelt across the street.

Minutes into our brunch, Katie asked, “So, what’s the deal, Mags? I can see that something’s going on with you. Plus, you’ve lost your winter weight and I
know
you haven’t been going to the gym.”

My sister was on a roll, and I lowered my eyes, scanning the menu to avoid her stare.

“Did you meet someone? Online? Who is he?”

I raised my eyes, locked onto hers, and told the truth, just not all of it, “Katie, I haven’t met a man. I’m just happy, and I think I’m finally moving on after Jack and Michael.”

“You’re lying, Mags.”

God, I hate my sister sometimes.

CHAPTER 2

Budding Things

M
y phone buzzed, stirring me from a wonderfully deep sleep. I could identify a few “4’s” on my digital clock, but had no idea what time it really was. I knew Katie wasn’t up yet—too damn dark outside—and no one from work would dare. Finally putting two and two together, I smiled, knowing the author of the text before I looked at the screen,

Today, 4:45 AM

DANIEL: Thank you

MAGS: For what

DANIEL: A great night’s sleep

MAGS: Me too

DANIEL: Sorry its early

MAGS: Well, what puts us to sleep could work the other way

DANIEL: Hmm

MAGS: Ya

DANIEL: :( can’t – meeting in 15

MAGS: Effin time zones

DANIEL: Tonight?

MAGS: Tonight

***

Less than a month into it, Daniel and I had agreed to share our phone numbers and email addresses. We’d been swapping Match.com messages several times a day and decided logging on to an awkward dating site stymied our getting to know each other. Once direct communication lines were made, my intuition about Daniel being a writer was confirmed. He worked for an online sports rag, writing about tennis, soccer and lacrosse. He was also a talented creative writer. We used email for lengthy discussions about work or current events and, though we knew a bit about each other’s personal lives, we avoided delving too far; didn’t want to be bogged down with details that had the potential to interrupt our carefree virtual world.

Daniel hadn’t missed a beat; within minutes after swapping phone numbers, he’d called,

“Hello, Maggie Garrett.”

“I knew I’d love your voice.”

“Hi Daniel, what took you so long?”

“You intimidate me, what can I say.”

“Aw, you’ll get used to me.”

It felt like we’d known each other forever; in just a few weeks, he’d managed to peel back layers most of my closest friends couldn’t. Strangely, sharing the loss of my husband and only son came easily. I explained that I lived alone and hadn’t seriously dated for some time. I worked very hard, I told him, which was true, leaving little time for romance. My family, I said, were extremely important to me. My folks were still alive and living in the house I grew up in, while my sister, my best friend and part time nudnik, lived right around the corner. Most importantly, Daniel understood that I was a Colorado girl and had no plans to move. Ever.

Likewise, I came to know Daniel had been divorced for five years and was married twice; his adored teenage daughter, Sami, a product of the first. His second marriage was a mistake, a rebound that didn’t last a year. Unlike me, his parents were gone. Like me, Daniel had one sibling, an older brother named David who lived and worked overseas. Most importantly, I knew Daniel was a Southern man who had no plans to move. Ever.

“So, I know what you look like, how you write, and now I know what you sound like—the only thing left, really, is to know what you feel like.”

Twelve words from sixteen-hundred miles away, and I’d become instantly aroused. He’d known I’d react that way, and secretly I’d hoped his voice would have the same effect as his texting, which it had…and then some. His voice, radio announcer smooth, had sent me over the top, reeling with thoughts of fucking his brains out. Out of control and my mind spinning, I couldn’t form an adult sentence,

“Yeah, uh, I have to go…have a meeting in a few. Talk later?”

“You got it, Mags! Have a splendid day.”

I adored how Daniel used the word “splendid.” My online thesaurus showed alternatives like, grand, superb, impressive, marvelous, wonderful, and magnificent. Half of the selection would have sounded ridiculous, the other half, unimpressive. “Splendid,” on the other hand, was…Astaire like. How did Daniel know I was a word junkie? Words that weren’t in full circulation tickled me; those that were bored me.
Like
people
, I thought.

As much as I enjoyed talking with Daniel, I cherished our secret virtual world of texting. It had started innocently,

DANIEL: Hello Mags

MAGS: Hi!

DANIEL: Nice not to have to log on

MAGS: Indeed

DANIEL: What r u doing?

MAGS: Fixing dinner, u?

DANIEL: Reading

MAGS: What

DANIEL: Boring work stuff

MAGS: Like what

DANIEL: Rafa, a tennis pro

MAGS: Oh, not “Raffi?”

DANIEL: The children’s songwriter?

MAGS: Ya! u know him?

DANIEL: What parent doesn’t

MAGS: Hmmm

DANIEL: Hmmm what?

MAGS: Just Hmmm

DANIEL: Guess what

MAGS: What

DANIEL: U r making me a better texter

MAGS: Don’t u text your daughter

DANIEL: Yeah, like “how r u” then, “fine, u?” then “good”

MAGS: That’s it?

DANIEL: I think she’s embarrassed her dad texts her

MAGS: I wish I saved Michael’s texts

DANIEL: I can only imagine, Mags

MAGS: Ya, kinda sad

DANIEL: Let’s call it a nite and talk tomorrow ok

MAGS: Sure and thanks

DANIEL: For what?

MAGS: For not feeling sorry for me

Without speaking, we’d cut through all the bullshit that typically plagued a new relationship, romantic or otherwise. Texting had become our regular form of communication and it felt like we’d known each other for years. Was it easier with Daniel because of the geographic cushion? Could people be more real in an unreal world?

I didn’t know and didn’t care. It was fun and seemed harmless, so I was just went with it.

No one knew about the steamy virtual affair I was having with a guy some would call a complete stranger. After all, what did I know about Daniel? I hadn’t run a background check on the man. Why would I? I didn’t find him threatening, and, even if he were an ax murderer, he’d have to travel a long way to knock me off.

***

I’d dozed thinking of our first call and text. Coming to, I tried to shake off a terrifying scene that popped up: Me, alone on a class-five river, frantically navigating jagged boulders with no end in sight. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping it was my ridiculous imagination and not a premonition.

A quick glance at the clock showed more than fifteen minutes had elapsed, consumed by imagined portraits of Daniel. Welling from my gut, they became the main ingredient in an emotional soup expertly spiced with guilt, regret, doubt and fear. Guilt seasoned everything I did, said, touched and felt; regret coated my throat, making the future hard to swallow; and doubt soaked through every layer of my skin, impossible to rinse, no matter how hard I scrubbed. Over time, however, the strength of those spices waned. They were nothing more than epicurean bungles best concealed with sugar.

Fear, on the other hand, burned the inside of my mouth. Its vapors stung my eyes and scorched my nasal passages. If not perfectly balanced, fear would ruin every attempt at sensory satiation.

Mags, focus! Big presentation today, remember?

Hoisting myself out of bed, I made my way to the kitchen.

***

I love the month of May. Snow long gone (with the exception of a freak storm), my gardens begin to form, mostly green foliage with tulips and iris scattering brilliant colors in between. Chilly nights force me to keep the furnace going, but during the day, I open the windows for long-awaited fresh air. This time of year challenges my professionalism. I struggle to leave home in the morning, usually taking a few extra minutes to enjoy a third cup of coffee, listening to the birds and watching Cody frolic from my perch on the back deck.

Thankfully, things had begun to slow down at work. My last big project had ended a few weeks earlier on May 1, “May Day.”

Out with the old, in with the new…how fitting
, I thought.

The first quarter of every year generated more projects than my team should have been able to handle, yet we’d always managed to execute on time and within budget. Still, by the middle of the second quarter, we all were ready for a break. For Christmas the year before, Tony crafted bumper stickers for everyone, poking fun at project managers: “PM’s: Perpetual Maniacs.”

I didn’t even know what a project manager was when I was in college. I thought about going to law school after I graduated, but I met Jack, who was two years ahead of me studying engineering. When it became clear we were meant for each other, I decided one graduate student in a young marriage was enough. Jack resisted, saying I’d make a great lawyer; I said I’d probably make a better wife.