Season of Sisters (37 page)

Maggie had not felt such a sense of accomplishment in years. She hadn't ordered anything off the shopping network for the past two weeks.

That reminded her of the stack of packages waiting in the dining room to be opened. Now would be a good time to tackle that task. If she worked steadily, she might get through half of them before she left for the beauty shop.

Picking up her shoes, Maggie walked to her bedroom, where she changed out of her business suit into shorts and a cotton blouse. With a mind to the job before her, all the paper and cardboard and packing, she pumped a bottle of lotion on the bathroom vanity and slicked up her hands. The pleasing fragrance of lilacs drifted over her, and she was reminded that this particular bottle had been another gift from Grace and her granddaughter.

Sadness melted through her and she consciously shifted the direction of her thoughts. She'd wear her red power suit to the luncheon, she decided. Black pumps. Clear nail polish and understated jewelry. She'd be the consummate professional, no PTA bowhead, and the audience would take her seriously. Respect her and her ideas.

Mike had regularly attended chamber meetings like the one taking place tomorrow. What would he think if he were in the audience? He'd be proud of her, she bet. If they were still together, she'd want him to be there.

Just like he wanted you to be in the audience for his keynote at that Chicago conference, only you chose the track meet instead.

"Oh hush," she grumbled aloud to the voice in her head. She'd been hearing way too much from her conscience of late. Ever since Holly had called her everything but a controlling bee-witch, she'd been defending herself from herself a dozen times per day.

Maggie marched into the dining room and ripped open the first package she laid hands on. A set of embroidered golf towels. Oh, joy. No one in her family played golf. Maybe she'd send them to John. He could use them to wash his car. Or maybe he would pass them on to Mike. He could use them to polish the teak on his boat.

"
The Second Wind,"
she muttered softly. Funny, but the name didn't bug her as much as it once had. As ironic as it was, the past few weeks Maggie felt like she'd gotten a second wind herself.

Putting together the Golden Goals program had proven to be just the ticket to pull her from her doldrums. She felt useful for the first time in months. Taking an idea from conception to implementation was rewarding in a way she'd never before experienced. This must be similar to what Mike felt in his professional life every time he designed something new.

In a way, that put the two of them on an equal footing. Maggie smiled ruefully at the thought and reached for another package. She'd yearned for a sense of equality for years, and now that she could legitimately lay claim to it, he wasn't around to see.

He'd be happy for her, though. She knew that. Mike wasn't competitive that way. He never begrudged another's success. No,
he just didn't tike it when you dated.

"He dated, too," she grumbled as she shoved aside foam packing worms to reveal a set of bar glasses etched with the letter P. Lifting one from the box, she frowned at it as a treacherous little thought snuck in.
You can't blame him. You were a total witch to live with.

Sighing, Maggie wondered if the neighborhood Presbyterian church might have a use for the glasses. She certainly didn't.

She checked her watch, then reached for a fourth package just as the doorbell rang. She peeked out the dining room window and groaned. An overnight delivery truck waited at the curb.

Maggie opened the door to a too-familiar face. "Hi, Gary. I'd hoped I'd seen the last of you for a while."

He grinned. "Mrs. Prescott, you wound me. I haven't been here for three days. I'd hoped you'd missed me."

"Don't take it personally, sugar. I say that to all my deliverymen. Now, what do you have for me?"

Signing for the package, she waved Gary off and closed the door behind him. Moseying back to the dining room, she picked at the shipping tape bonding the envelope flap, finally ripping it away. The small padded envelope contained a black velvet ring box and a note. Curious, she read the note first.

Dear Mrs. Prescott,

I have enjoyed working with you these past weeks to develop a security plan for your Golden Goals project. You are doing a very fine thing.

Enclosed, please find my donation to your cause.

These rings belonged to myself and my late wife, Sarah, who lost her fight with breast cancer three years ago. We had been married seventeen years.

Thank you for providing me with this opportunity to honor my beloved wife.

Sincerely,

Jack Harris

Lumas Security

The diamond was a one-carat emerald cut, the matching his-and-her wedding bands simple gold rings. Maggie looked at them and burst into tears. These were the first donations to Pink Sisterhood' Golden Goals program which would fund scholarships for children who had lost a parent to breast cancer.

"It's going to work," she spoke aloud, her words echoing in her empty house. "It's going to be a success."

She wanted to call someone, share the news. She rushed to the phone and automatically dialed a number. "Cody and Prescott Engineering," came the operator's voice.

Oh, shoot.
She'd called Mike's office. "Sorry. Wrong number."

She slammed down the phone, thought for a moment, then dialed the Pink Sisterhood Foundation office. Charlene wasn't in.

Maggie hung up, then paced the kitchen. Who could she call? Who else would appreciate her news? Not the boys, certainly. She'd love to call Grace or Holly, but she couldn't very well do that when they weren't speaking to her.

Mike was the one she really wanted to tell. Mike.

Her traitorous gaze drifted back toward the phone.

"Oh, you couldn't reach him even if you tried," she scolded. "He's gone. He's sailing the ocean blue. He's out of touch." Even as she said it, Maggie walked to the phone and dialed his cell number.

Darned if the man didn't answer, sounding distracted and impersonal. "Hello?"

"Uh, Mike?"

Following a dead silence, he asked, "Maggie?"

"Yeah. Um. It's me. Hi."

"Are the boys all right?"

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry. The boys are fine. As far as I know, anyway. They're not why I called."

Silence stretched. Eventually, she figured out he wasn't going to fill it. "Can you talk, Mike? Is this a good time?"

Again, he paused. "I guess."

"Good." Maggie wound the phone cord around her finger and wished she'd used the portable to call. "You're not going to sail out of the cell's reach anytime soon?"

"I'm moored."

She wanted desperately to ask where, but a note in his voice warned her not to do it. "Are you enjoying your trip?"

"What's this about, Maggie?"

She was quiet for a moment, searching for words. "I've done something really neat, Mike, and I wanted to tell you about it."

When he coughed, Maggie couldn't tell if it was real or fake. He excused himself to get a glass of water, and she waited impatiently, gripping the handset hard, wondering if someone was with him. She didn't take a good breath until he returned and said, "Okay. I'll listen."

Her back against the yellow-striped wallpaper, Maggie slid down the wall and sat on the floor. This would be easier if he didn't sound so removed from her. Nervous, she began to tell her husband about her idea.

At first, she rattled on a bit, but when he started interrupting her with questions that indicated interest, she settled down. The awkward pauses disappeared and the strain stretching across the line eased. Eventually, Maggie forgot about the tension and trouble between them, and simply spoke with Mike, the man to whom she'd been married for twenty-five years.

Hearing admiration at her accomplishment in his tone, she puffed up with pride. The conversation continued for almost an hour. Only when the topic turned personal did the uneasiness return. Maggie wished she'd never asked him where he was moored.

Mike cleared his throat. "I'm still on my way to the Caribbean."

"Oh." It told her nothing she wanted to know, not his location or whether he was traveling alone or with a young and supple companion. She didn't want to delve any deeper because she feared he'd end the conversation. She wondered if he might feel similarly when he quickly changed the subject.

"So what do your new friends think about Golden Goals?"

Leave it to Mike to choose a sore spot.
"I haven't told them about it. We've had a... well... I guess you could call it a falling-out."

"Oh? Over what? Did the young one try to poach on your dates?"

Great. Just great. Maggie closed her eyes. This conversation was sliding downhill fast—and yet, to her surprise, she didn't want to hang up. Didn't want to give up.

"We had a big fight because I planned a surprise party for Grace."

Maggie told Mike about the vow renewal debacle and her row with Holly. To her utter shock and surprise, he rose to her defense. "Your heart was in the right place, and they shouldn't be so judgmental. Not if they're true friends."

His words warmed her, filled a place within her that had felt empty for too long. At the same time, it stripped her down to honesty's bare bones. "They have a point, Mike, and you know that too well. I've recognized that about myself. Finally. I do like to be in control."

"You're a leader, Maggie."

She blinked, taken aback. It was a far cry from calling her stupid.

"That's a nice way to say it," she said finally, a slow smile spreading across her face. She unwrapped the phone cord from around her finger, then entrapped it again. "I appreciate your support. The fact is I'm a control nut who freaked out when she couldn't control the passage of time. My boys grew up and I couldn't stop it. I felt useless and I took it all out on you. I wasn't a good wife to you after Mother died, Mike, and I'm sorry for that."

The telephone line hummed a one-note tune without words. Maggie held her breath, her mouth dry, though she wasn't quite certain why.

Finally, Mike said, "I need to go now."

Maggie's heart sank below her stomach. "Oh. Okay."

"Um, thanks for calling."

"Thanks for listening."

"Yeah. Well. 'Bye."

" 'Bye."

Maggie climbed to her feet, but didn't hang up the phone. Neither did he. "Mike?"

Click.

She sighed heavily and hung up the phone. It rang almost immediately and she grabbed it, her heart pounding. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Prescott? This is Prestige Salon. You are late for your two o'clock and Maurice asked me to call and see if you still wanted color this afternoon."

"My roots." Maggie groaned. "I'm so sorry. Tell Maurice I'll be down in ten minutes."

She made it in eight and blew into the salon streaming heartfelt apologies. She patronized Prestige Salon because they made it a point to run on time, and she felt terrible about causing her hairdresser to run late. "Skip the cut if you need to make up time, sugar, and just do the color. I'm so sorry."

He rubbed the bridge of her nose with his thumb. "Don't fret, love. You'll get wrinkles. You've never before been late to an appointment, and I was worried."

"It's been a rough day."

"Sit in my chair and relax. I'll give you a quick neck and shoulder massage before we get started."

After his magic fingers loosened the knots in her neck, he went to work on her roots. Maurice had half her head wrapped in foils Maggie's cell phone rang. Her breath caught. Mike?

"Hello?"

"Maggie? It's Holly."

The call caught her totally by surprise and for a moment, she couldn't respond. Then the bitterness, the loneliness, of the past weeks welled up inside her and emerged in her words. "Well, if it's not Miss Pretend-to-Be-a-Friend."

"Save it for later. Justin just called. He's making afternoon rounds at Harris and he told me. Maggie, Grace has been admitted to the hospital."

* * *

Holly's hands trembled as she worked the buttons on her shirt. She'd been changing out of her work clothes when Justin called and she'd placed the call to Maggie while standing in only a pink bra and panties.

The sound of Maggie's hello had been welcome to her ears, and she'd felt an immediate sense of relief. But instead of comfort and support, Holly heard snotty remarks from her former friend. The fact she'd been dressed in underwear at the time somehow made it worse. Embarrassed, she retreated into snotty thoughts of her own.

Fashion-plate Prescott had probably answered the phone wearing her little black dress and diamond earrings while drinking a martini before her date took her to the symphony. Never mind that Maggie didn't drink and the Fort Worth Symphony wasn't performing tonight.

"Of course, if she wants to go to the symphony, all she needs to do is whip out her checkbook. She can rent out Bass Performance Hall and hire the musicians for a night."

Holly fumed about Maggie while she pulled on socks and tied her sneakers. Her mutters continued while she grabbed up her keys and dashed for the door.

Deep inside, Holly sensed she focused on Maggie as a coping mechanism. She'd heard the defensiveness in the woman's voice, and despite all her faults, Maggie wasn't ordinarily catty. But if thinking tacky thoughts about Maggie Prescott helped to get her through the next few minutes and hours, then she'd just be tacky. Holly didn't care about being fair at the moment. She needed something, anything, to help her to avoid worrying about Grace. Otherwise, it might not be safe for her to drive.

She backed her car out of her driveway and gunned the gas past Mr. Crankpot's house. As she braked at the stop sign at the corner and waited for traffic to ease, her gaze fell upon a row of beaded irises in the yard across the street. The blooms were all gone, the leaves wilting toward brown. Tears welled in Holly’s eyes.

Grace is going to die.

All Holly's doubts, her insecurities, her fears came rushing toward her like a West Texas dust storm. Grace would die. Ben and her children and her grandchildren would be devastated.