MAGPIE (4 page)

Soon after our wedding, Jack enrolled in the geological engineering graduate program at Mines, which happened to be located in Golden, just twenty minutes from our home in Denver. I’d applied for a job at a mid-sized tech firm that developed software for telecommunications companies. I wasn’t tech savvy and feared I wouldn’t make the cut. Nevertheless, the position was administrative in nature and I successfully convinced the hiring manager I could make my way around an office. Over time, I proved to be an exceptional project manager. I earned my Project Management Professional certification, courtesy of the company, and later became a Six Sigma Black Belt. As the director for a unit within the innovation division, I led a team of brilliant PMs, all of whom were Type A personalities. Possessing the same personality type, I nevertheless appreciated down time and often stole a few extra minutes on sunny mornings to soak in early spring’s splendor.

It was Friday, and I’d decided to take the day off and head to my favorite spot for shopping: Home Depot. But first, a latte, made perfectly at an eclectic coffee house operated by a charming Lebanese man whose eyes were brilliant green, flecked with gold. Sometimes I wondered if I stopped there for no other reason than to gaze into his exquisite pools.

“Hey Adnan, ready for a day of sunshine and brilliant blue Colorado skies?” I asked.

I didn’t know what was more hypnotizing, Adnan’s eyes or the flash of his perfect white teeth as he welcomed me with his genuine smile.

Earnestly, he said, “Maggie, even if it was snowing, you’d brighten my day!”

“How’s Jamie? I hope to see more of her this summer now that she’s out of school. Has she found a job yet?”

Jamila was Adnan’s wife, a real beauty with smooth, honey-colored skin and golden eyes. Aside from her striking looks, she was quite intelligent, having recently defended her dissertation—something to do with bioengineering. I loved talking to her about Lebanon, strife in the Middle East, and life as a Muslim woman in such a male-dominated field.

“Yes, she did! A start up contacted her and offered her a very attractive deal. They are in Boulder, so the commute may be rough, but the work is exciting. It’s a biomimetics firm that does artificial intelligence stuff. Anything more, you’ll have to ask Jamie.” Adnan was proud of his wife and beamed whenever I asked about her. I couldn’t wait for them to have babies.

I hadn’t needed to place an order since becoming a regular the day Adnan opened his place; half the time my caffeine fix was on the house. On those occasions, my tip more than covered the cost of the steaming beverage.

“Thanks, Adnan, heading out to Home Depot to begin my spring ritual.” Already with another customer, Adnan nodded and flashed his mesmerizing smile.

I jumped into Beater, placed my latte in the cup holder, and adjusted my rearview mirror to make sure I hadn’t been talking to Adnan with a crusty nose. Dad always said God played a practical joke when he made me. I loved the outdoors, gardening especially, but my immune system reacted violently to pollen. He urged me to “muscle through it,” which I did, never looking back. Mom, less of a Catholic and more of a realist, said that it was no practical joke, but flawed genes. When I got older, I often reminded my mother that I took after her side of the family more so than Dad’s.

My phone buzzed just as I started the engine,

Today, 8:12 AM

DANIEL: Betcha I know what u r doing

MAGS: Ya?

DANIEL: Slowly tracing your swollen pussy, thinking of me

MAGS: Nope, not even close

DANIEL: :(

MAGS: Betcha I know what u r doing

DANIEL: Ya?

MAGS: Stroking your incredibly engorged cock

DANIEL: Yup

MAGS: W/o me??

DANIEL: Yup

MAGS: U will have to finish w/o me, I’m on the road

DANIEL: Latr then

MAGS: Latr

What had started as late-night exploits now trickled into our mornings, days and afternoons. We were so comfortable with each other that choosing not to play wasn’t a sign of rejection, but simple postponement of something delicious. Daniel worked from home and could step away at almost any time, which electrified me. I never knew when I’d get a text and what kind of text it would be. The thrill of our “arrangement” seeped into every moment of the day.

There were times when I wanted to share my on-line fling with Katie. I struggled keeping it to myself because we shared almost everything—always had. I’d begun to feel guilty when we hung out, so I minimized those occasions. Her new position was demanding, making it somewhat easier to keep our distance, thankfully. Worked for me, otherwise I’d worry that she’d detect my secret that could have easily been teased out with a glass of wine or two.

A few hours later I was loading Beater with flats of alyssum, baby blue eyes and African daisies for sunny spots, and a few flats of impatiens and begonias for the shady areas. I grabbed a few bags of potting soil for my containers, and mulch and soil amendment for my perennial gardens. Sweat was beginning to drip down my neck; guessing the temperature to be around seventy-five degrees, it was only 10:30 in the morning. I predicted that by midday, it’d be eighty to ninety degrees.

Properly hydrated, I unloaded my garden essentials and worked non-stop until a quarter to five, or thereabouts. I’d left my phone inside, freeing myself from the ties of technology, and dedicated my full attention to my botanical world—except for the side of my brain that processed the steady stream of ’60s and ’70s folk music blaring from my iPod.

Finished for the day, I schlepped up my deck steps and remembered about dinner with Katie. I drank a glass of cucumber water before picking up the phone to call and cancel, when I decided not to; I didn’t want to deal with her disappointment. I texted instead,

Today, 4:53 PM

MAGS: Hey

KATIE: Hey

MAGS: Been in the yard all day – can’t even move now, rain chk?

KATIE: God I forgot! Sure, that’s fine cuz we have tix to Adelle!

MAGS: Oh I forgot – why did we even plan tonite? LOL!

KATIE: I know, right

MAGS: Will call next wk?

KATIE: Sure

MAGS: xxxooo

KATIE: x 2

Before I could text Daniel, my phone buzzed with a call. It was Bill, Match Date #2.

Fuck
.

“Hello?” I answered with an uninterested tone, hoping he’d catch on.

Normally, I didn’t play games, but this guy was clueless. Not long into our date, I’d shared my view that we didn’t have much in common, hoping he’d agree. He didn’t; blowing past my comment like a lead NASCAR driver, Bill went on to brag about having an autographed copy of Ann Coulter’s
How to Talk to a Liberal
, followed by a detailed description of his mission experiences in Indonesia, including a proud moment where he and his church fellows had managed to “save” the indigenous people who’d graciously hosted their trip. I’d shared a few highlights of my political, social and religious beliefs, certain they would scare off this clueless chump. At the end of dinner, awaiting the check, I’d added a closing remark, hoping to underscore our mismatch:

Bill, thank you for dinner. But I’m not sure we’re a “match,” as they say.

I thought we had a great time tonight, Maggie. What did I say or do to put you off like this?

Almost everything, really.

Ha! Such a joker. Can I see you again?

No, Bill, I don’t think so. Hope you can understand.

Disbelief had pooled in Bill’s eyes. Had he really not understood?

Shaking my head back to reality—and Bill’s call—I listened for a response, “Hi Maggie, it’s Bill. How are you?”

Pissed that you don’t fucking get it, Bill. How the hell are you?
I so wanted to say.

“Oh hi, Bill. I’m whipped, been in the garden all day. How are you?”

Please read between the lines.

“Well, it sounds like you could use a nice dinner and glass of wine. I know it’s last minute, but I’ve been thinking about you lately.”

Uh huh…

“I know we got off to a rocky start, we probably shouldn’t have talked about the things they tell you not to talk about on the first date, right?” He chuckled, amused with himself. I couldn’t get a word in, before he said, “Look, no strings, no hidden agenda. I seriously like your company and find you so damn interesting. Nothing like the twits you get on Match.”

‘
Twits’ you get on Match?

“What do you say, Maggie? My treat, of course.”

Even Cody begged with more style. Still, I could sit through a conversation with him if it meant a great dinner at one of Denver’s premier steak houses.

“Well, Bill, you make an interesting offer. No strings, just dinner? No convincing me to convert?”

Don’t poke the bear, Mags.

“You make me laugh, Maggie! No, just conversion, I promise…this time anyway.” He was completely in love with himself. No wonder he had no need for a twit.

Just an interesting broad like me
, I silently concluded.

I rolled my eyes like Katie used to do when our mother directed her to clean her room. I rarely employed that tactic, and was surprised at my reaction. With a tone of indifference, I said, “On one condition, then. We go to Del Frisco’s. How we get in on a Friday night is your problem, deal?”

A few seconds lapsed before Bill pronounced, “Deal!”

Bill had suggested that we meet at seven-thirty and it was already half past five. Del Frisco’s was a good thirty minutes away, which meant I had to feed Cody, shower and find something decent to wear in ninety minutes. Utterly do-able.

My skin tingled with a slight burn as I showered and shampooed my hair. Thankfully, I had my mother’s coloring that tanned easily. Her folks were French, while full-blown Irish was Dad’s claim to fame—as much fame as one can claim in western Colorado. Poor Katie got the Irish tones: pink and pinker. When I get a little sun, my skin turns golden, a color people try and replicate in tanning booths.
Bons genes
…touché, mom.

I didn’t need much time to get ready. I’d quit straightening my hair years ago, and I wore very little make up—none on the weekends. My parents thought I was pretty, in a natural sort of way. Jack’s nickname for me was “beautiful;” not just for my outward appearance, so he said. If asked, I’d probably say I was “nice looking,” probably adding “for a fifty-five year old.” On the other hand, Daniel insisted that I was gorgeous.

“Gotta love the limits of technology,”
I snickered to myself.

I found a black sleeveless maxi dress in the back of my closet and pulled it out. I’d worn it only once, having scored it from a 75% off rack at H&M last fall. It hung nicely on my body, unlike most straight skirts and dresses. I was curvy, always had been; my ass attracting more glances from ethnic men than white. I’d come to appreciate my looks, pitying women who had body-image issues. Fretting over a couple extra pounds was too damn exhausting, and I simply had better things to do with my time.

It was a cool May night, so I grabbed a teal knit shrug and paired it with a scarf of similar shades. I chose a necklace and matching earrings that Michael had picked up for me in Milan when he was stationed in Italy. He said they matched my eyes, the color of shallow Caribbean waters. I hadn’t thought of Michael lately, though my eyes instantly brimmed with tears. He’d be twenty-nine years old now; his children are seven, twins. They look so much like their papa, a bittersweet pill because every time I see them, I see Michael. They’d come to Colorado every year since Michael died, except that first year. I could have gone to California; Carrie’s invitation was open ended. But I never took her up on it…some things I just couldn’t do.

It was almost half past six according to my phone, which buzzed with a text from Daniel,

Today, 6:27 PM

Daniel: You sore?

MAGS: Terribly

DANIEL: Sorry

MAGS: It’s ok – love gardening

DANIEL: It’s fri nite, do you know what that means?

MAGS: Ordinarily

DANIEL: ??

MAGS: Going out – on a date

DANIEL: Oh

MAGS: Not a real date tho

DANIEL: Do tell

MAGS: A ‘match’ guy thats not a match at all

DANIEL: ED?

MAGS: No, never got that far

DANIEL: Good to know

MAGS: Can’t be possessive, Danny boy

DANIEL: Not, just protective

MAGS: LOL!

DANIEL: Want a nite cap later?

MAGS: Indeed

DANIEL: Will await your command

MAGS: :)

I left the house a little past seven, thanks to my text binge with Daniel. Still, rush hour had long passed; worst case, I’d be five or ten minutes late. I glanced in the rearview mirror, noting my clear nose, and smiled at the color on my face.

“Lookin’ good, Mags…for a fifty-five year old.” Sighing, I steered Beater southward.

The parking lot was full so I drove up to the valet stand. Ignoring the stares of patrons whose kids owned better cars than my relic, I focused on the attendant who cared only about his tip…and whoever was texting him on his blinking cell phone. I got out, smiled and thanked the young man.

Del Frisco’s was a strange place. Located in the Denver Tech Center, it attracted swanky folks. Of note were the barflies, women who tried very hard to look several generations younger by way of bleaching their hair, leatherizing their fair skin, and dieting to maintain their boyish figures. A few of these gals stared as I entered the foyer. Unlike the male attention I seemed to arouse, the females at the bar checked me out as if I were competition.

Don’t worry, ladies. I am not interested in your prey
.

“Maggie, you are radiant!” Bill appeared from nowhere and took my arm.

“It’s called overexposure to the sun,” I said wryly, but with a smile.

“Then I’ll be careful. Please, let me take your sweater.”

“No thanks, I’m fine with it on.” In truth, I was chilled—the air conditioning didn’t relieve my slight burn; rather, my tender skin recoiled from the cool air.

A young hostess seated us, and Bill’s eyes lingered as she walked away. So did mine—she was exquisite. I couldn’t make out her ethnicity and deliberated with myself for a moment or two.