Maggie scrubbed her hands with soap and water. She had done so five times within the span of thirty minutes, which exceeded her average.
She wasn’t afraid of germs or dirt. She didn’t necessarily feel unclean. She just had a compulsion to wash her hands and make sure that things were in their proper places. She imagined that her psychology professors would attribute her behaviors to a minor imbalance of serotonin in her brain, but she had never sought treatment. Her compulsions didn’t affect her everyday life, and she could overcome them, if necessary. But she had always noted that the small urges—especially the hand washing—increased in ferocity when she was nervous.
She dried her hands and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She took a deep breath and washed her hands for a sixth time.
She exited the bathroom of The Magnolia Bakery and walked into the kitchen. She found Alexei, the bakery’s owner, straining noodles in preparation for her and Marcus’s dinner. Two young children, a boy and a girl, skittered around his legs and banged utensils on pots and pans.
“My little matryoshkas, please, settle down. Did your mother give you the Mountain Dew before she dropped you off?” Alexei grumbled something more in Russian under his breath.
She smiled. “Do you want me to get them out of your hair?”
“What hair?” He rubbed the bald spot on the crown of his head. “I’ve already pulled it all out. Don’t you need to get ready?”
“I’m as ready as I’m going to be,” she said, with a slight tremble in her voice.
He set down the strainer and raised his eyebrows. “Nervous?”
“Not too bad.”
“Let me see your hands.”
She rolled her eyes but thrust out her arms. He ran his hands over her skin and sniffed her palms. “How many times have you washed your hands in the past hour?”
“I’m fine. I’m really not that nervous.”
“Maggie, you’re trembling. If you are not nervous, then I am President of United States. Settle down. Just be yourself. This boy can’t help but fall madly in love with you.”
The date wasn’t the only thing that she was nervous about, but she couldn’t share that with Alexei. “Thank you, Mr. President. But I’m fine … really.” She looked down at the kids as they scurried around Alexei’s legs. “I’ll take the kids upstairs with me. I think they might be able to help me with a little experiment. You just focus on dinner.”
“As you wish, my dear Magd–”
She pressed a finger over his lips. “I shoulda never told you. Come on, kids.” She took the children by the hands and led them toward the door.
He chuckled. “I think it’s a beautiful name.”
She didn’t acknowledge him.
*
Marcus ascended the stairs with slow, deliberate steps. It had been a long time since he’d been on a real date, or at least one where he cared about the outcome. He had forgotten about the butterflies. He knew that most people felt the winged creatures swirl in their guts during moments of anxious anticipation, but his butterflies seemed to have razorblade wings.
He heard footsteps and looked up, but the face that greeted him was not the one he expected. Andrew Garrison, the local realtor, smiled as he approached. “Hello. Marcus, right?”
He had met Garrison when he picked up the keys to the ranch. They had been cordial, but there was something in the man’s eyes that didn’t sit well with him; an intensity that shouldn’t have been there. Sandy blonde hair topped Garrison’s head, and he possessed a trim athletic build.
Good-looking guy. He felt a twinge of jealousy and a hint of suspicion to find Garrison coming down Maggie’s stairs, but he dismissed the emotions. He had neither the right nor the reason to feel either one.
“That’s right.”
“I heard about what happened last night. Don’t worry about them. When I first moved here, Glenn gave me a hard time too. But most of the people around here aren’t like him.”
“You’re not from here?”
“No, I’ve only been here a couple months. It’s a nice place to live. My commission checks aren’t quite what they were in the city, but the cost of living is so much lower that it evens out.”
As they met on the stairs, Marcus fought the urge to take up more than his fair share of the stairwell. He recognized the feeling as the instinct to establish dominancy, an impulse left over from man’s more primitive days. He always tried to overcome such urges and gave Garrison three quarters of the path.
“Excuse me. Have a nice night,” Garrison said, squeezing past.
He nodded and continued to ascend. He knocked on Maggie’s door, and she called for him to come in. He entered, and her voice greeted him from down the hall. “Have a seat. I’ll be out in a sec.”
He moved toward the couch but examined the apartment as he did so. As he gazed around the room, he tried not to focus his analytical spotlight upon her, but he couldn’t help it. His cop instincts were too strong, and he recognized that there was something off. It took him a moment to put his finger on it, but then he realized. It wasn’t what was there, but what was absent.
He peered into the kitchen and down the hallway and found more of the same. There wasn’t an actual photo in sight. No family portraits. No captured memories of cookouts or sunny days at the beach. Tasteful decor filled the space, but there was something cold and distant about it.
He also noted the absence of dust. Upon a cursory examination, he reasoned that every corner of Maggie’s dwelling would stand up to the white glove test. More than that, every picture and grouping was in precise symmetric arrangement. Not a single picture hung askew. Everything seemed in perfect balance.
It didn’t tell him much. He hadn’t even seen the whole apartment, but it was still a piece to the puzzle that he filed away in his memory banks. Every investigation had its pieces.
He closed his eyes and chastised himself. This isn’t an investigation. You’re not a cop. Switch off.
When he opened his eyes, he jumped back in surprise. Two young children stood a foot in front of him. They gazed up with wide, curious eyes. Maggie’s kids?
“Have you seen the Mama Load?” the little boy said.
He blinked in rapid succession. “I … I don’t think so.”
“Me neither, but I really want to go. My Grandpa said that he would take me.”
With apprehension, Marcus said, “What’s the Mama Load?”
“You know, where Davy Crockett killed the bear when he was only three.”
He laughed, but the little boy didn’t seem to find it humorous. “You mean The Alamo.”
“That’s what I said. The Mama Load.”
He knelt down and stuck out his hand. “I’m Marcus. What’re your names?”
The little boy shook his hand as if they had just concluded a business deal. “I’m Alex, and that’s my little sister, Abigail. Do you know why sharks can’t sleep?”
“Well … I …”
*
Maggie washed her hands again.
She had been ready for the date for quite some time, but she wanted to conduct a little experiment with Marcus. Kids always seemed to be a great judge of character, and a man’s reactions to them could provide substantial insight into his personality.
She checked the time. Five minutes had passed since she’d sent in the troops, so she reasoned that Marcus should have been sufficiently flustered.
As she approached the living room, she didn’t hear the patter of rambunctious feet or the howling of the two hyperactive kids. All was quiet. She peered around the corner and found Marcus on the couch with the two children on his lap.
The kids listened with rapt attention while Marcus spoke in a strange, throaty voice. His impression reminded her more of Yoda than a Sesame Street character, but she gave him an A+ for effort.
“I, lovable, furry old Grover, am the monster at the end of this book. And you were so SCARED! I told you and told you there was nothing to be afraid of … Oh, I am so embarrassed. The End.”
“Again!”
“Okay, one more time.”
“All right, kids,” Maggie said. “It’s time to head back downstairs.”
“But we want to stay with you and Marcus.”
She cocked a sideways grin at him. “Sorry, kids. Marcus is all mine tonight.”
As they stood and exited, he said, “Yours?”
“Goodness, no. Our chef for the evening is babysitting his grandkids, so I offered to watch them while he worked.”
“Oh.”
“Relieved or disappointed?”
He seemed to ponder her question. “A little of both, I guess.”
*
As they ate, Maggie stared into Marcus’s eyes and noticed an anomaly. “Your eyes are different colors.”
“Yeah, most people don’t notice. My eyes are kinda gray-green, but the right one is half brown. It’s called sectoral heterochromia.”
“Is that some kind of disorder? Nothing contagious, I hope?”
He laughed. “It can be related to certain syndromes, but I don’t think I have any of them. It can also be a sign that you had a twin you absorbed in the womb. They call it chimerism. In that case, I could actually have multiple sets of DNA in different body parts. I don’t think I have that either. I also read once that some believe it to be a sign that you’re descended from Swedish royalty, or something like that. I think I’m just a dude with a funny-colored eye.”
“I told you that you were an odd man.”
“I didn’t dispute it. What about you? You have any oddities?”
She straightened her silverware and folded her napkin into a perfectly symmetrical square. “No, I’m completely normal.”
He grinned. “Nobody’s completely normal.”
“I am.”
“Really. You’re not mildly obsessive compulsive?”
She started to open her mouth but stopped. After a moment, she said, “What makes you say that?”
“I pay attention. Your apartment is impeccably clean—not a single picture or decoration is out of place. Every grouping is perfectly balanced. When you eat, you cut every bite into the same size. You make sure that the silverware you’re not using is in perfect alignment. You folded your napkin into a square. And when you put the sweetener into your tea, you made sure that the markings on the two packets lined up before you opened them. You even put one back because it was longer than the other packet.”
She felt naked before him. She started to say something, decided against it, and stared down at the table.
He reached across and laid a hand over hers. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting the world to be in order and make sense.”
“But my compulsions don’t make any sense. They’re irrational. I don’t have a good reason for doing them. I just feel like that’s the way things should be done. Most people don’t notice, so I try to hide it. It makes me feel like a freak.”
“Does it make sense to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do all the things that you do make sense to you? We each see the world through different eyes. We all have our nuances … our little tics. I’ll give you an example. I always sit facing any points of ingress. I always know what’s behind me. When I walk into a room, the first thing I do is scan it to find the entrances and exits. I consider what could be used as a weapon in this space. I play out in my mind what I would do if someone walked in the door with a gun. Where’s the best place to take cover? What’s the best route to flank an armed assailant who just entered? And other things. Who in the room could pose a threat? Who’s potentially armed? What’s here that’s out of place? What’s missing? All that runs through my head every time I enter a room. Some people call that cop instincts or training. I call it paranoia.”
Marcus squeezed her hand, and she met his gaze. “I don’t have a good reason to do all that,” he said. “Nobody’s after me. I don’t have any enemies. Even back in New York, I was never in a restaurant that somebody shot up. Maybe one day it’ll save my life, but probably not. Odds are that I’ll never be in that situation. But I can’t help but run through it. It’s just my nature.”
Her face brightened. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being stranger than me.”
They laughed together, and the butterflies in her stomach finally found a perch. After they finished, she cleaned up and offered to take him on a tour of Asherton. The town was small, and the tour didn’t last long. She tried to live in the moment and stay focused on enjoying the evening, but her mind kept wandering. She couldn’t help but play out the events that would soon take place. “How about I introduce you to your neighbor? She’s a wonderful lady.”
“Sounds good to me.”
She drove out of town in the direction of Maureen Hill’s home. After a moment on the road, Marcus said, “Where do you work at, Maggie? Obviously, you help out at the bar where we met, but do you have a day job? And what’s Maggie short for, by the way?”
She ignored the second question. “I work at Garrison Realty.”
“Oh, okay.”
She noticed something in his voice. Realization? Relief? She wondered about the reaction for a second but continued, “I’m just doing that until I finish my psychology degree. Believe it or not, I used to be one of my father’s deputies, but … that didn’t work out. I’ve considered staying within law enforcement, though. Maybe even applying to the FBI.”
“I don’t want to overstep the second-date rules here, but you and your father seem to have a bit of a strained relationship.”
“You could say that. My father is a good man, but he … well, like you said, he has his nuances. What about your parents?”
A pained look fell over him, and she immediately regretted the question. “They died when I was young. Lots of great memories, though. You haven’t answered my question about your name.”
“And I’m not going to.”
“Oh, come on. Now I have to know. What is it? Marjorie? Margaret? Marigold?”
“I’d rather not.”
“I tell you what, I’ll tell you my middle name. Believe me, yours can’t be any worse than mine. And I’ve never told anyone other than the IRS.”
She bit her lip and thought for a moment. “My name is Magdalania.”
He laughed, and she shot him a withering glance.
“I’ve never heard that one before.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s very pretty.”
“Shut up.”
“All right, you listen to my middle name and see if you can keep from laughing. My given name is Marcus Aurelius Williams.”
She tried to keep a straight face. She clenched her lips shut and forced the corners of her mouth from rising, but she couldn’t contain it. The laughter burst from her.
“What’d I tell you? It’s hard to top that one.”
“That is pretty bad,” she said, between chuckles. She looked over at his smiling face and gazed into his strangely colored eyes. She had never felt quite the same way around anyone, even though they couldn’t have met under worse circumstances.
She pulled into Maureen Hill’s driveway and shut off the car. “Ready to meet your neighbor?”