It was Monday morning, exactly one week (minus a couple of hours) since Maggie’s home had fallen to the latest British Invasion.
Saint Just and Sterling Balder were still in residence, very much in residence.
Sterling was a real cutie, tried to be helpful in the kitchen, made the bed every morning, and had the most delightful giggle as he plunked himself down in front of the television in her bedroom, watching the Nickelodeon Station for at least eight hours a day (Gilligan’s Island had some special appeal for the man, probably because he highly identified with Gilligan).
Sterling was lovable, huggable, silly, and had only one bad habit—Saint Just. He damn near worshipped the man, which just went to prove that, although she thought she’d created two really neat characters, she had rather short–changed Sterling in the commonsense department.
Then there was Saint Just. Oh, God, was there ever. He didn’t hang up his clothing—Sterling had taken over the role of valet. He saw no need to carry his dirty dishes to the sink. He pleaded innocence—haughtily—when she accused him of leaving the top off the toothpaste. He called out for pizza twice a day, and ate in front of the TV in the living room, having taken custody of the channel changer—just like any man.
In one week, he’d become a CNN junkie, when he wasn’t watching The History Channel, The Discovery Channel, PBS, MSNBC, ESPN, A&E, and two home shopping networks. It had taken until last Saturday to realize that he’d lifted her Mastercard and run rampant through yet another credit limit, because Saturday was the day Socks had called her down to the lobby to pick up twelve—count ’em, twelve—packages.
She was now the proud owner of an electric shoe-polishing kit, a George Foreman grill with built-in bun warmer, a laptop computer, a gas motor powered sidewalk scooter, a six foot tall “cat tower” for Wellington and Napoleon, an autographed jersey from one-time Mets star catcher, Mike Piazza (Five hundred bucks!), and a rather stunning piece of Joan Rivers jewelry.
The scooter and shoe-polishing kit were for Sterling, the grill for Saint Just, because he was now convinced that, yes, men can cook, as long as it’s meat and it’s grilled, and the necklace was for Maggie—obviously a gift meant to keep her from killing the viscount, just on general principles.
The remaining five boxes contained videos of various programming on the History Channel and other channels. He’d gotten the full set of Horatio Hornblower from Arts and Entertainment, plus several editions of Tales of the Gun, as he admitted to being “fascinated with firearms.” Now there was a thought to send her stumbling, screaming, into the night.
He’d shown absolutely zilch concern when Maggie grabbed the kitchen shears and cut the Mastercard in half in front of him, probably because he’d already memorized the number. But, then, as he’d told her (taken right from dialogue in The Case of The Overdue Duke, blast him), “A gentleman of means has a responsibility to support tradespeople with his custom.”
Pointing out that he didn’t have a damn cent of his own meant nothing to him. In his mind, he was rich, had always been rich, and spent accordingly.
Still, Wellie and Napper were happy in their new “tower,” and Sterling was well on his way to mastering the scooter—although she’d have to have the nicks in all her doorways spackled and repainted. So how bad could it be?
Pretty bad. And all because of Saint Just.
Bernie had stopped by twice, on the flimsiest of excuses the first time, and saying only “you know damn well why, sugar,” the second time. Saint Just kissed the woman’s hand, poured her drinks for her, and complimented her hair, her skin, the way she held a cigarette, you name it. The next time Bernie showed up, Maggie half expected her to bring along one of those blow-up air mattresses, so she could give up any silly pretenses and plain move in. Saint Just could probably get her one for a good price on one of those home shopping networks.
But, over rough spots and even rougher spots, the week had passed. Saint Just and Sterling were still in residence and Maggie, although still harboring moments of doubt (“Am I nuts? Definitely nuts.”), was actually beginning to get used to them. After all, she’d been living with both men for close to six years.
“Now, here’s the drill, boys,” she said as she addressed the two men that Monday morning at the breakfast table. “I’m going out, and you’re not. Got that?”
Saint Just frowned at her and sat back, brushing nonexistent toast crumbs from his Mike Piazza jersey (you had to see it to believe it, but the man actually looked good). “So sorry, Maggie, but I’ve already promised to take Sterling to the park, to practice on his scooter. You’d be devastated to have to postpone your outing, wouldn’t you, Sterling?”
“Well, if Maggie says not to—” he began, then looked at Saint Just, who had quietly cleared his throat. “Brokenhearted, definitely. I’d really been looking forward to it, Maggie.”
“No, no,” Saint Just protested. “It’s quite all right, Sterling. I had wanted to stop by the shops, select a few choice cuts of beef for dinner tonight, but it’s of no matter. Up for another pizza, old boy?”
“Again?” Sterling said, sighing. “I’d really prefer the beef. Don’t have a shirt left without tomato stains on it.”
Maggie watched the two men as they went back and forth, Saint Just being so maddeningly accommodating, Sterling being Sterling.
“I’ll pick up three steaks on the way home, and we’ll all go to the park after lunch,” she offered as Sterling began gathering the dirty dishes, carrying them into the kitchen. The man was fascinated by the dishwasher, still in disbelief that he could close the door on dirty dishes, open it an hour later to clean dishes. And the question of “does the light go out when you close the door” had been formed for Sterling Balder, as she’d caught him emptying the refrigerator so that he could climb inside, and check it out for himself.
“Would you? Oh, now you see, Saint Just? Maggie has it all settled, right and tight.”
“Yes, she does, doesn’t she,” Saint Just said, neatly folding his cloth napkin (another shopping channel purchase), and leaving the kitchen, his spine ramrod stiff.
“Oh, that’s not good,” Sterling offered as he stood in the kitchen doorway, holding two dirty plates. “He doesn’t take orders well. Bristles, and all of that.”
“Let him bristle. He’ll get used to it, Sterling,” Maggie said, gathering knives and forks and carrying them to the kitchen. “Now, I promise not to be gone more than two hours, tops. Isn’t there a Brady Bunch marathon on Nickelodeon today?”
Sterling visibly brightened. “Oh, yes. All day. I’m rather fond of Alice. Do you think I could write to her? I want to tell her that she’s entirely too good and pure to be chasing after that butcher fellow.”
Maggie opened her mouth to explain, yet again, that Alice and the rest of the Brady’s were, in their own way, as fictional as Sterling himself, and then just smiled and said, “Sure. Maybe this afternoon. Bye, Sterling.” She leaned over and gave him a kiss. “Be good.”
She went to her room, passed through to her private bathroom, pressed her palms on the sink and looked at herself in the medicine chest mirror. If she was smiling, that meant she was happy—wasn’t that what Saint Just had said?
Okay, so she was frowning. Working on developing a permanent crease between her eyes from frowning. This meant she was not a happy woman.
Gee. Wonder why.
Maggie touched up her lipstick—she hated wearing makeup—and ran a comb through her hair, fixed the collar on her pink blouse.
It was time. Either now, or never.
She fished a small key from her pocket and unlocked the two-drawer cherry wood personal file cabinet she used as a nightstand, removing her wallet, then locking the drawer once more on her car keys, a family–size bag of Good and Plenty, her private journal, and the box containing her diaphragm.
Shoving the wallet in her purse, and slinging the purse over her shoulder, she headed back down the hallway, past Saint Just, who was watching her old videotape of Tombstone for at least the fifth time.
He looked up at her, drawled, “I’m your huckleberry.”
“Go to hell,” she said, not breaking stride, and smart enough now to know that he knew where she’d gotten his lips, and why. “I’ll be back before noon. Be sitting in that same spot, okay?”
He hit Pause on the VCR controller. “What are you going to tell him?”
Maggie hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. “Tell him? Tell who? Whom?”
“Why, Doctor Bob, of course. It is Monday. I know you canceled your appointment last week, as you were finishing our latest effort, but you see him every Monday at nine-thirty. I don’t like the man, by the way, just in case you were thinking to ask. He makes you unhappy. So, what are you going to tell him?”
“Nothing,” Maggie said after a moment. “I’m going to tell him absolutely nothing. And you don’t like him? You’ve never met him.”
“No, but I’ve watched you on your return from these Monday appointments. He sees your weaknesses, Maggie, and uses them to make sure you keep feeling that you need his counsel.”
“That’s ridiculous, Alex. Doctor Bob is a professional. He... he’s helped me enormously.”
“But you’re not going to tell him anything about Sterling and me?”
“No way!’
“Ah, there’s my huckleberry,” Saint Just purred, and Maggie yanked open the door, slammed it shut behind her.
* * *
“Oh, envy, envy! That is so frigid, man,” Argyle Jackson said, coming to a halt in front of the building, putting down one foot to steady himself, then handed the scooter back to Sterling. “But you probably should get a horn. You know, so people know to get out of your way?”
“A horn?” Sterling repeated blankly. “But I’m not at all musical.”
Saint Just stepped in front of his friend, and addressed the doorman. “A wonderful suggestion, Socks,” he said, waving one hand behind his back, warning Sterling to silence. He slipped a hand into his slacks pocket and pulled out a small wad of folded bills that had lately resided in Maggie’s wallet. Not that he’d tell her that there were two keys to her little wooden cabinet, and he had one of them in his possession. “Here, please take what you’d need, and be so good as to purchase this... horn, you said?”
Socks took the money, counted it. “But... but you’ve got close to two hundred bucks here, man. A horn couldn’t cost more than ten, fifteen tops. Here. I’ll take a twenty, and bring you change.”
“Not necessary, my good man. Just the horn will do, and you may keep the rest for your trouble. But I wonder. How will Sterling hold onto both the handles and the horn? I see a mishap in his future.”
“No, no,” Socks said, waving his hands. “The horn gets attached to the handlebars, see, and he only lets go for a moment, to squeeze it. You know—ooo-ga, ooo-ga.”
Saint Just smiled, nodded, hoping Socks didn’t realize that he hadn’t a clue as to what any of the man’s last comments meant. “Ooo-ga, ooo-ga. Ah, yes. Rather more rude than a simple ‘pardon me,’ but I imagine that would be eminently successful in warning away pedestrians. Now, if you’d be so kind as to point out the direction of the nearest park?”
“Central Park? Sure, no problem. You’re only two long blocks away once you’re at the corner down there—you’ve gotta cross Broadway, too, in the middle of the first long block. Go straight down this street, then turn right when you see the park and go one short block. Tavern on the Green is right across the street, right at an entrance. That’s a restaurant, Tavern on the Green. There’s horse and carriage rides there, the whole nine yards. You can’t miss it.”
Sterling waved back at Socks as they walked along, not yet climbing onto the scooter. He looked left, right, and up. Definitely up. “Everything is so tall, Saint Just. I doubt Westminister is this tall.”
“They’re called skyscrapers, Sterling,” Saint Just told him, bowing to an approaching woman, who quickly grabbed at her purse and kept moving.
“Skyscrapers? Is that because they—”
“No, Sterling, they do not. Why don’t you get on your scooter now?”
“You don’t want a carriage, Saint Just?” Sterling asked.
“What, on such a fine day? Besides, as Syrus said, ‘An agreeable companion on a journey is as good as a carriage.’”
“She don’t like that, you know.”
“She? Maggie? She doesn’t like what, Sterling?”
“She doesn’t like that you keep using all those quotes she used to put in your mouth. Our contemporaries, that is to say, the gentlemen of Regency England, were always tossing off quotes, even spouting Latin, but nobody does that now. She says you come off sounding like a know–it-all. Yes, that’s what she said, a know-it-all. She also said she’s thinking of making some changes in us, for the next book. Are you worried about that?”
“Me? I never worry, Sterling,” Saint Just said, squeezing the knob of his gold-topped cane. Squeezing it until his knuckles turned white.
Ten minutes, one small stumble with the scooter that put a tear in the knee of Sterling’s new slacks, one irate Federal Express deliveryman, and one crate of oranges scattered on the sidewalk later, Saint Just and his friend entered the park.
“An oasis of calm in a mad, frantic world,” Saint Just said, lazily swinging his cane as they strolled along, Sterling becoming more and more proficient on his scooter. “Why Miss Kelly would think we’d stumble into trouble while partaking of a leisurely stroll—well, the woman must learn to put more faith in us, Sterling, and that’s the whole of it. We’ve made great strides in having her believe in us. Now we must convince her to accept us, trust us.”
Sterling shot ahead slightly on his scooter, executed a neat turn, then wheeled back to Saint Just, making a full circle around his friend. “Look, Saint Just. There’s a man selling ices over there. See him? I love ices. Would his be as fine as Gunther’s, do you think?”
“Nothing surpasses a Gunther Ice,” Saint Just reminded him, but reached into his pocket anyway, this time removing only two five dollar bills, which seemed sufficient, if Socks’ assessment of the cost of minor goods could be used as a yardstick. “Come along, Sterling. We’ll sample the man’s wares.”
Sterling chose the blue, which proved to be a good choice, gastronomically, but not ascetically, for within five minutes he had blue teeth, a blue tongue, blue lips, and yet another stained shirt. “I could eat these morning, noon, and all of that,” he vowed, licking his blue fingers with his blue tongue once the ice was gone.
Saint Just handed him yet another napkin. “You look ridiculous,” he said, unaware that his own tongue and lips had turned a bright cherry red. “And how will we explain your looks to Maggie, hmmm? Come along, Sterling, we’d better head back to the apartment.”
Sterling, nothing if not an obedient sort, revved up his scooter, pushed off, and putt-putted ahead of Saint Just, rather proficiently weaving his way through the pedestrians and making the street a good one hundred yards ahead of the viscount—and just in time to startle a carriage horse making its way around the perimeter of the park.
It would have taken Maggie half an afternoon to set up, describe, and put the finishing touches on the scene that followed.
Saint Just, however, required only as much time as it took to break into a run on his long, strong legs, vault over a child’s stroller, neatly skirt an elderly lady and her walker, and bound into the street, running straight at the head of the wild eyed, plunging horse.
As Sterling bent and cringed, the hack driver yanked ineffectually on the reins, and the tourists in the open carriage screamed bloody murder, Saint Just grabbed at the horse’s halter and began running alongside as the animal pounded off down the street, heading into the heavy vehicular traffic.
One hand on the bridle, the other fisted into the horse’s mane, he took a deep breath, then hoisted himself up on the animal’s back, landing safely just before the horse went up on its hind legs yet again, pawing the air.
“The brake!” he called out to the driver. “Put on the brake, you brainless twit. And stop sawing on the reins, I’ve got him.”
And he did. “Get him,” that is. As taxis honked and cars screeched to a halt, and a man talking on a cell phone, and who’d stepped off the curb without looking, set the world’s record for the backwards long jump (if there were such a thing), Saint Just successfully fought to control the horse, bring animal and carriage to a halt just before the intersection.
Nearly breathless, dragging the scooter and carrying Saint Just’s cane, Sterling ran up to grab the horse’s head as Saint Just dismounted. “First rate, Saint Just!” he exclaimed as his friend walked back to check on the tourists—which is how he found out they were from Goddard, Kansas, that they had come to New York for a plumbers’ convention, and if Saint Just ever needed his drains snaked, all he had to do was call. Until Friday, when they’d go back to Goddard, taking with them several photographs of Saint Just and Sterling.
“Only one more, please,” the tourist with the camera begged as Saint Just stood beside Sterling, the two of them flanked by the plumber’s wife and daughter.
He shouldn’t have tarried, should have just been on his way, but the thrill of being feted as a hero—definitely his stock in trade—kept him on the scene, as the plumber snapped pictures, as other tourists captured the remainder of the moment on videotape, and as the driver of the carriage threatened to “sue your scooter-riding ass into the next century. Where’s a cop? I want a cop!”
As the sound of approaching sirens came to him, Saint Just politely disengaged himself from the Goddard daughter, a freckle–faced poppet who’d just given him a piece of her bubble gum. “Sterling, I do believe we should be on our way now, don’t you?”
“My thoughts exactly, Saint Just,” Sterling answered as the carriage driver pulled out a stub of pencil and a wrinkled piece of paper, demanding to know everybody’s names and addresses, so he could “sue all your asses.”
They walked briskly, not quite running, but definitely far from a leisurely stroll, until they’d got to the corner, at which time Saint Just told Sterling to get on his scooter and “proceed with prudent haste” back to Maggie’s apartment. “Ooo–ga, ooo-ga, my friend.”
“She’ll never know, will she?” Sterling asked fifteen minutes later, as he scrubbed at his blue lips with a soapy washcloth.
“Not if you don’t tell her, no,” Saint Just said, peeking in the mirror to get a look at his tongue. “Too bad, really, as it was most exhilarating, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” Sterling answered. “But if you don’t mind, old friend, I don’t think I want to be exhilarated like that again any time soon.”
* * *
“Come on, come on, come on,” Maggie muttered under her breath as she checked her watch for the fifth time in as many minutes.
How could Doctor Bob do this to her? Okay, so she’d canceled last week only an hour before her session. Big deal. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t going to charge her for it. But to schedule someone else during her hour? That wasn’t fair.
She checked the brown paper bag she’d laid on the chair next to her, half-hoping the juice from the three T–bone steaks had leaked through, onto his white chenille cushions.
Was that passive-aggressive? Did she want to know?
No. She was still trying to figure out why she needed so much therapy, considering she’d never needed it when she couldn’t pay for it. Being broke and unhappy made sense. Having money and not bouncing off walls in her glee wasn’t quite right. Success certainly had its pitfalls.
She checked her watch again. “Come on, come on, come on.”
At least she’d been able to run out and get the steaks, so that she’d be free to grab a cab straight back to the apartment after the session... which should have begun twenty minutes ago. He’d said an hour delay, that was all. Funny, she always thought a shrink’s hours ran fifty minutes, not eighty.
At last the door opened and Doctor Bob smiled at her, waved her into his office. She didn’t get to see his other patient, who presumably had left via the second door, because Doctor Bob didn’t want his patients seeing each other. He said it was for personal privacy, but Maggie always wondered if he just didn’t want his patients getting together, talking about his fees, which were only inches short of outrageous.
The smell of expensive perfume lingered in the room, which told her that Doctor Bob’s previous appointment had been either a woman or one of his gender-dilemma patients. Gender-dilemma had been the title of Chapter Seven in Love Well, Live Free. Best damn chapter in the book.
“Hello, Margaret,” Doctor Bob said, settling himself at his desk, which faced the wall. He motioned for her to sit down on one of the two chairs set at right angles to the desk, consulted an open manila folder on his desk, and then swiveled his chair, to look at her.
She hated this part, and never had gotten used to being only three feet from the guy in his tiny office. His claustrophobia patients really got a dose of tough love in this place.
“Hello, Doctor Bob,” Maggie said back at him, forcing a smile on her face, and deliberately avoided looking either straight at him or at the handy box of tissues he kept on a small table between the patient chairs. She’d gone through her share of those over the past two years. “I’m sorry I had to cancel on such short notice last week. I’d been up all night, writing, and must have lost track of the time.”
“And why do you think you did that, Margaret?” the psychologist asked, looking at her overtop his gold-rimmed half glasses. Shorter than average, rounder than many, Doctor Bob looked only marginally better now that he’d starting working out, but you had to give him credit. The man did try. He had to, for the book tour he’d gone on last fall, when Love Well, Live Free was on the bestseller charts.
You’d think he could afford a bigger office now, or more comfortable chairs. Or a better hair weave.
“I just said why I did that,” Maggie answered, inwardly cursing because she’d allowed herself to be so immediately put on the defensive. “I was up all night, working.”
“All night, Margaret? That’s rather obsessive, isn’t it? And I imagine you smoked while you were working?”
Maggie dipped her chin, tried not to feel like a ten-year-old called to the principal’s office for putting chewing gum on the teacher’s chair. “Yes, I was smoking.”
“And are still smoking? I can smell it, you understand. It’s not very appealing, Margaret, which you already know. Isn’t that why you want to give up the habit? Health should be your first consideration, but if it’s the smell that worries you, then we work with that, that you find your habit socially repugnant.”
Maggie’s head shot up, as he’d hit one of her hot buttons. “Habit? Doctor Bob, we’ve been over this before. Chewing your fingernails is a habit. When you start digging through the waste can for a butt you can light, that’s not a habit. When you stand outside in minus zero weather, in the middle of a snowstorm, to grab some nicotine after having dinner in a restaurant, that is not a habit. That’s an addiction. Crackheads get more sympathy. There ought to be telethons for us,” she ended, grumbling.
“Yes, yes, we certainly have been down that addiction road before, haven’t we, Margaret? So much so that I won’t bother discussing your need for oral gratification. Cigarettes, junk food. I blame it all on early weaning and an emotionally distant mother, as I’ve discussed with you.”
“Oh, shove it,” was what Maggie was going to say when she opened her mouth, but what came out was, “I know, Doctor Bob. I’m trying to fight it. Really, I am.”
What a wuss. She ought to be seeing a shrink because she was a wuss, and the hell with the cigarettes and all the rest of it.
“On a happier note, did I tell you that Bernice and I have come to terms on another book? And I have you to thank for it, Margaret.”
Maggie grinned a little as she reached for a tissue. She didn’t feel like crying, but she needed something to do with her hands. Why didn’t Doctor Bob see that it was her hands that needed filling most of the time, not just her mouth? “Thanks, but I didn’t do that much. I just introduced the two of you, that’s all. And Tabby, of course.”
“Yes, of course. I did write the book, didn’t I? I didn’t mean that, Margaret. We’re going to contract for a smoking cessation and junk food addiction treatise.” He laughed shortly, ended it with a snort. “You’d better not prove me wrong and be able to quit your habit, Margaret, as you’re going to be ninety percent of my composite Patient A, the one who swears she’s trying and failing, but really isn’t trying at all.”
“Gee. Swell,” Maggie said, twisting the tissue in her hands, wondering what Doctor Bob would do if she rolled the tissue into a tube, then lit it. “Excuse me, but could we change the subject? I mean, we’ve been doing the smoking cessation now for over a year, and we’re getting nowhere.”
“Not smoking cessation, Margaret. That’s only the buzz word. We’re dealing with your deep-seated fear of rejection and your feelings of low self-worth. Creatively, your childhood is a gold mine for success, but emotionally every hole you dig is a dry well. Oh, wait. I mixed that metaphor, didn’t I? Those were metaphors?”
“How should I know? That’s why God created copy editors.” Maggie leaned forward in her chair. “Look, Doctor Bob, I’ve got a problem. A creative problem, okay? It’s a plot idea I want to run by you.”
Doctor Bob sat up straighter, folded his hands in his lap, careful to let the diamond pinky ring show. “You’re asking for my professional advice on a creative problem? How flattering, Margaret. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Maggie bit her bottom lip for a moment, then let him have it, knowing she’d never been worth spit at pitching an idea in person. Writers write, they don’t talk. “All right, here it is. I’ve got this book idea, see? There’s this writer.”
“Ah. Like you and I?”
Maggie considered this, tried to put Doctor Bob in the same category as herself. “O-kay,” she said, nodding her head. “Like you and me. But the thing is, this writer, well, he has a problem.”
“He has a problem, Margaret?”
“Yeah. He. I’m thinking about starting a new series, see, and my main character is going to be a writer. A mystery writer with, um, some personal problems.”
“Write what you know,” Doctor Bob said, sighing with satisfaction.
Maggie gritted her teeth, counted to five. “Absolutely, Doctor Bob. Here’s the set up. I’ve got this mystery writer, okay? He’s got a character in his book, the continuing character who solves the mysteries. You with me so far?”
Doctor Bob smiled benevolently. “I think I can follow this, yes.”
“Good. So this guy—the writer in the book—turns around one day, after writing, oh, ten or so of these mysteries with this character and, bam, there’s the character.”
“Where’s the character?”
The impulse to scream was back, and Maggie had to bite her bottom lip to keep from letting one loose. “In his living room. The character. In the mystery writer’s living room. This guy, this writer, he wrote such a strong, convincing character that the guy came to life. Poof! Right in his living room.”
Doctor Bob smiled. “You have been putting in some long hours, haven’t you, Margaret? Have you considered a vacation?”
Maggie squirmed in her chair. “No, no, we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about my book, my new series. Mystery writer and his imaginary character come to life. Would anybody believe it?”
“I can think of several of my patients who might believe it... ” Doctor Bob said slowly, steepling his fingers on his ample belly. “Of course, a few of them are institutionalized and may not have access to fiction novels in their current condition.”
“So it’s not believable? Not plausible?”
“I’d stick with the Saint Just Mysteries, Margaret. Now there’s a believable hero.”
Maggie slumped in her chair. “Yeah. Tell me about it...”
* * *
Hours later, snuggled against her pillows as Napoleon and Wellington lounged on the bed with her, Maggie thought back over her day, and smiled.
Okay, so the Doctor Bob thing hadn’t been grand, but at least he hadn’t tried to have her committed.
She’d been able to take a nap in the afternoon because Saint Just and Sterling had decided to watch a movie on HBO rather than go out to the park, and dinner had been more than pleasant. She’d tossed a salad, serving that with baked potatoes, and Saint Just had actually not burnt the steaks in the George Foreman grill.
Leaving Saint Just in front of the laptop, surfing the net, and Sterling reading a Harry Potter book, Maggie had indulged in a bubble bath, painted her toenails bright pink, and crawled into bed to catch up on her own reading. Still, out of habit, she turned on the TV in time for the ten o’clock news.
The government was being sold to the highest bidder; nothing new there. Bus crash in Sri Lanka, soccer riots in wherever they were having soccer riots this week. Forecast for mild and sunny into the weekend, just as if these guys knew what would happen in the next ten minutes. The Mets playing a night game out on the coast.
Just the same old stuff. Hell, they could broadcast reruns of last week’s news, and who’d know?
She picked up the channel changer, ready to turn off the TV, when the smiling anchor woman said, “And now, as promised, another look at our Central Park hero, as seen on the five o’clock edition of Fox News.”
Maggie hesitated, her thumb on the Power button, and watched as a rather grainy, jumpy videotape played on the screen. A bolting carriage. A man leaping onto the back of a runaway horse. A Mike Piazza uniform shirt.
Her jaw dropped and she knelt on Napper’s tail—the cat scratched her, but Maggie didn’t notice—as she scrambled to the bottom of the bed.
“Out of nowhere,” a red-faced man in a plaid shirt and bright blue I Love New York ball cap was saying now, nervously grinning into the camera. “A real hero, too, just like I told my Nancy. Wouldn’t give his name, either, but just bowed—yeah, bowed, honest—and took off.” He sighed, wiped a tear from his eye. “Saved our lives. Who says New York isn’t a friendly city?”
“Friendly, indeed,” the street reporter said as she turned to face the camera. “We’re going to run the tape provided by a tourist from Ohio one more time, in hopes that, if our hero won’t come forward on his own, someone else might recognize him, as the Mayor would like to thank him personally. Please, watch closely, and if you recognize this man, call our station at...”
“Saint Just,” Maggie whispered hoarsely, her throat tight as the grainy tape ran once more.
“Saint Just!” She called out, nearly falling off the bed, as she couldn’t seem to drag her eyes from the screen.
“Saint Just! I’m going to kill you!” she bellowed, running down the hallway.