The house was quiet. Gina was out somewhere with Lauren. Aunt Lottie had fallen asleep on the couch while crocheting. Maggie set down the book she couldn’t concentrate on.
She should call Reece, tell him that Gina now knew the deep, dark secret.
With a shake of her head, she reworded the thought, erasing the angry tone. I told Gina about Rosie and we’re fine. Yes, they were fine. Her daughter’s mature compassion amazed her. The upheaval of the past few months had drawn them closer together, more as equals, as friends even. While Maggie’s unpredictable emotions tore down stoic walls of perfectionism, Gina had been able to tease her and, in more serious moments, confess that her mother was much easier to relate to these days.
As this new relationship blossomed, hers with Reece deteriorated. Marsha had asked if he traveled more. He could scarcely be gone more than he had been in recent years unless he simply moved out of the house. On the surface their marriage appeared the same, but she knew they weren’t connecting on a deeper level. Yet at times she wondered if it were all in her imagination, simply a result of this unstable time.
He needed to hear what happened yesterday, and she needed to apologize for mentally stomping her foot and snapping at his suggestion. She thought again of what she would tell him. This was positive news. Why the angry tone?
Maggie went to the kitchen, lifted the phone receiver from the wall and carried it through the back door, stretching the cord to its limit. It was a pleasant evening without last week’s stifling humidity. The sun was almost hidden behind the garage. She sat on the top step and dialed Reece’s cell phone number.
It rang and rang and rang. She disconnected and tried again. After ten rings she cut it off. If he didn’t answer, the stupid thing was supposed to automatically roll into voice mail. She glanced at her watch and subtracted two hours. Evelyn, his secretary, might still be at the office.
Someone else answered. Before she could ask for her husband’s voice mail, she was on hold, a Vivaldi concerto assaulting her eardrum.
Her internal thermostat did its spontaneous overheating number. Perspiration seeped through every pore. Her heart pounded, resonating in her head and chest. She rested her elbows on her knees, blinked back tears, and bit her lip. This had nothing whatsoever to do with summer, absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with anything except pure frustration and anger at not being able to reach her husband when she needed him. She wondered if years and years worth of bottled-up frustration now flowed.
Evelyn got on the line. Maggie had always liked the woman and tried now to keep up her end of the polite chitchat. Reece was in New York, probably at a restaurant at this hour. Unavailable. At last she was connected with the voice mail.
“Reece, it’s me. Margaret.” She coughed a self-deprecating laugh. “Guess you could figure that out. Your cell number didn’t work. I don’t know why.” She wiped her brow, steeling herself to drop the complaining tone. “I took Gina to Rosie’s grave yesterday. She’s fine with it, of course. Just as you knew she would be. She is a darling, isn’t she? Call me so I can apologize for snapping at you.” She paused. “I miss you.”
She did miss him, had been missing him for a long time, but suspected the feeling wasn’t mutual.
She ran her fingers through her hair, then dialed another number, fully aware that she had promised not to, fully aware that sometime between the unanswered ringing of the cell phone and the Vivaldi concerto she had decided to break that promise.
The answering machine clicked on. The soothing, professorial voice stated simply, “Please leave a message.”
She waited through the beeps. “Don’t pick up. I just need to talk one-sided.” To someone who will listen, she added silently. “I told Gina yesterday. She was so precious about it all. Are all my fears this unnecessary? I don’t think she’ll hold it against me. She seems to appreciate seeing all sides of me—”
“Hi.”
She closed her eyes. “You weren’t supposed to answer.”
“You weren’t supposed to call.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” There was a smile in his voice. “I wanted you to call, remember? But we did agree it would be best for your sake to go it alone.” He paused. “How are you?”
“Not very well at the moment. Actually, I’m doing a thoroughly good job of botching my going it alone.”
“Sounds as if things went well with Gina.”
He was coaxing her thoughts to focus on the positive. She knew his deep brown eyes would be twinkling pools about now, subdued by thick black lashes and wire-rimmed glasses. “They call me Maggie here.”
“Maggie?”
She let him ponder that for a moment.
“Maggie,” he repeated. “Hmm. It suits you, I think. The ‘you’ that you let me in on sometimes. Do you like it?”
“Confession time.” She smiled softly. “I do, I really do.”
“Ah, the beginnings of an authentic identity?”
“Just a baby step.”
“Two baby steps. Authenticity with Gina as well as yourself.”
“I miss you, John.”
“Margaret,” he breathed.
“I’m sorry.”
He didn’t reply for a moment. “You need a friend there. Tell your sister.”
She bit her lip.
“It’s the next baby step. Pretty soon you’ll have taken one giant step in authentic relationships and, I suspect, found a large piece to the identity-slash-future puzzle. Nothing to lose, right?”
She exhaled sharply. “No. Nothing to lose.”
He waited, patiently, politely. She knew he would let her end the conversation.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you, John.”
“You’re welcome…Maggie.”
She heard the grin, imagined the crinkled crow’s feet behind the glasses. “Bye.”
“Goodbye.”
Maggie held the phone against her forehead and blinked back tears. If only—
“Who’s John?”
She looked up, over her shoulder. On the other side of the screen door stood Marsha.