by Joy Fielding
Why do I keep banging my head against the wall? she wonders as she is washing up and getting dressed. Erin is going to do what Erin is going to do, and that’s all there is to it. She has to learn to pick her battles. Isn’t that what all the parenting books advise?
But what advice do they offer when everything is a battle?
Thank God for Leo, Maggie thinks, heading down the stairs and ushering her son out the door and into the car, making sure his seatbelt is fastened securely around him. Sweet, gentle, kind Leo, still in that happy stage where he loves his mother.
How long is that going to last? she wonders as they turn onto the main street. How long before nature overcomes nurture, before her neediness becomes a burden, and he is embarrassed by the intimacy she still craves? How much time does she have before a sullen silence replaces the unprompted hugs and unexpected confidences? “I don’t like it when they kiss in movies,” he told her just the other day. “It makes my penis tingle.”
“Oh God,” she moans, stopping at a red light and laying her head on the steering wheel. “It’s happening already.”
“What’s happening already?” Leo asks from the backseat.
“What?”
“You said something’s happening already.”
“Did I?” Shit. What is the matter with me? Can I no longer differentiate between when I’m talking to myself and when I’m talking out loud? “I meant we’re already halfway there.” It’s that damn dream. It’s affected my whole equilibrium. I’m frustrated, that’s all it is. I haven’t had sex in…what…four months? I bet my husband isn’t sitting around being celibate. He’s out there having a high old time, being an in-demand plus-one at weddings….
A car honks behind her.
“What’s your problem?” Maggie demands, glowering into the rearview mirror.
“It’s a green light,” Leo says quietly.
“Oh.”
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“Sure, I am, sweetie. Just a little distracted this morning.”
“Maybe I should stay home today.”
“What? No! Why?”
“To keep you company, so you won’t be so…distracted.”
Dear God, what am I doing to my son? she wonders. First, I scare him half to death, then I worry him with my strange behavior, make him feel responsible for my well-being. He’s a child and I’m an adult. How is it that I’m the one who needs to grow up? “Oh, no, sweetie. I’ll be fine. I promise.”
Leo nods, although his face looks anything but reassured, and they drive the rest of the way in silence.
* * *
—
She stops in a Starbucks, located in a small strip mall on Military Trail, on the way home. It’s crowded and she has to wait in line, a situation she normally avoids like the plague. But this morning has been something of a wake-up call. Her paranoia has already cost her her marriage. Now it’s starting to affect her son.
Besides, she’s in no hurry to get home. Erin will either be asleep or unpleasant, the only two options she seems to present these days. “A tall, skinny latte,” Maggie orders when she reaches the front of the line. “And a muffin.”
“What kind?”
“Cranberry walnut?”
“Name?” the barista asks, handing her the large muffin.
Maggie takes the muffin, gives the girl her name, pays the cashier, then looks around for a seat. But the half-dozen stools by the window are occupied and there are only a few tables, all full. “You’re very busy this morning,” she remarks idly, stepping aside to let the man behind her place his order. She notes that he’s young and very handsome, and tries to imagine what he’d look like minus the shirt and tie. Where the hell did that thought come from? she wonders. What is the matter with me? “Are you hiring?” she asks the girl behind the counter, in an effort to override such thoughts. “My daughter is looking for a summer job.”
The girl behind the counter shrugs, swivels toward her co-workers. “Are we hiring?”
More shrugs.
“She can fill out an application online,” one of the employees volunteers.
Fat chance of that, Maggie decides, watching as a table by the door frees up just as her name is called. She hesitates, torn between grabbing her latte or making a beeline for the table.
“You get the table,” the man behind her says. “I’ll bring the coffee.”
“What?”
“You’re Maggie, right?”
Her body tenses. “How do you know that?”
“The girl just called it out.” He smiles. A flash of white teeth. Dimples. “And your name’s on the cup.”
“Right.” I’m an idiot, Maggie thinks, heading for the now-empty table along the far wall. She sits down at one of its two chairs, her purse in her lap. The man is right behind her, handing over her latte. “Do you mind if I join you?…It’s the only available seat,” he says when she fails to respond.
“Rick!” a voice calls out.
“Be right back.” He’s gone before Maggie can object.
Take your coffee and your muffin and run, she thinks. But the man is back before she can muster the necessary resolve to move her legs.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says, sitting down. “I’ll just sit here and drink my coffee. We don’t have to talk.”
“No, that’s all right,” Maggie says, pretending to sip at her coffee when what she is really doing is studying the man’s handsome face. He’s younger than she is, although it’s impossible to tell how much. Blue eyes, brown hair, deep dimples at the sides of his lips. Well dressed. No visible tattoos. He doesn’t look like a hired assassin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“You weren’t. How’s the muffin?”
“Not great. It’s slightly stale and the walnuts are as hard as stones.”
“Good to know.”
Maggie sips at her coffee, not sure what else to say. It’s been a long time since she’s made small talk. And she was never very good at it. She takes another bite of her muffin, feels a sliver of walnut lodge inside the same back filling she loosened a few weeks ago at Publix.
“So, your daughter’s looking for a summer job, is she?”
A sharp intake of breath. “How do you know that?”
“You kind of announced it.” Another smile. More dimples.
Maggie tries smiling back, but the result is more twitch than smile. “Are you…hiring?”
“Me? No. But I know that the hairdressing salon next to my office is looking for a receptionist.”
“Where’s your office?”
“A few doors down the way.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m an accountant.” He reaches into his pocket.
Maggie immediately reaches inside her purse for her gun.
“Here we go,” he says, withdrawing a handful of small white business cards and handing her the top one. Richard Atwood, certified public accountant, the card reads in bold black letters.
So, Maggie thinks, an accountant, not an assassin. The tips of her fingers brush against his as she takes the card. The touch sends a barrage of unwelcome tingles up her arm. She drops the card into her purse, gulps at her latte, then jumps to her feet, finally managing to dislodge the stubborn piece of walnut with her tongue. “I really should get going.”
He nods. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Maggie.”
“You, too.”
“Good luck.”
“Good luck?”
“Finding your daughter a job.”
“Oh, right. I’ll need it.” Maggie drops the remains of her muffin into a trash bin on her way out. She doesn’t look back.
Chapter Twenty-one
Nadine’s is located four storefronts down from Starbucks, between a RE/MAX office and that of hal
f a dozen certified public accountants, Richard Atwood’s name at the top of the alphabetized list etched into the glass. The handwritten sign in the salon’s window reads: Receptionist wanted. Apply within. “Don’t do this. Keep walking,” Maggie tells herself, even as she is pulling open the heavy glass door and stepping inside the cool, air-conditioned space. Immediately, the combined smells of fruity shampoo and hair dye reach deep into her nostrils.
It’s a pleasant space—wood floor, pale pink walls, white enamel sinks, lots of mirrors, comfortable-looking black leather chairs, six of them along one wall, three on the wall opposite, four of the chairs already occupied. One client is having her hair washed, another is having hers blow-dried, while the third sits, rifling through the latest issue of Vogue, waiting her turn. The fourth woman, whose head is covered in strips of tinfoil, is busy scrolling through her phone, a male stylist examining her roots to see how the dye is taking.
“Be right with you,” a birdlike, middle-aged woman with skinny legs and asymmetrical red hair chirps in Maggie’s direction as the phone at the front counter rings. The woman quickly leaves her client to answer it. “Nadine’s,” she says into the receiver. “Nadine speaking. What can I do for you?”
Maggie watches the whirlwind that is Nadine check her computer and type in the caller’s information. “Certainly, Mrs. Peters. We can do a color and cut at two o’clock Thursday with Jerome. Perfect. We’ll see you then.” She hangs up the phone, takes a deep breath, and steps around the counter to do a quick appraisal of Maggie’s head. “Honey, have you ever come to the right place,” she pronounces, pulling at the sides of Maggie’s hair. “So many split ends. How long’s it been since you had your hair styled? And have you ever thought of going blond? Blond would be perfect with your coloring. Just look at these cheekbones,” she says, her hand on Maggie’s chin, turning her head from side to side. “You have wonderful bone structure, but trust me, what you’ve got going on now with your hair isn’t doing you any favors.”
Holy shit, Maggie thinks, taking a step back. “Actually, I’m here about the receptionist job….”
“You’re hired,” says Nadine.
“What?”
“My receptionist eloped last week and left me high and dry. I thought I could manage without her over the summer, but you can see how busy we are. When you’re good, word gets around. You look smart. Please tell me you’ve had at least a little experience.”
“Yes, but it was a long time ago,” Maggie demurs, not quite sure what’s happening, “when I was in university, but it was only part-time and—”
“You’re familiar with computers?”
“Yes, but—”
“Shouldn’t take you long to figure everything out. It’s not exactly rocket science. I’ll pay you twelve dollars an hour. When can you start?”
“Uh…I’ll need a day or two to get things organized….”
“Fine. You can start Wednesday. Of course, we’ll have to do something about that hair. I can’t let this”—she makes vague motions around Maggie’s head with her hands—“be the first thing clients see when they walk through the door. Jerome, can you fit in a color and styling for our new receptionist?”
Jerome motions toward an empty chair. “Sit yourself down, sweetheart,” he tells Maggie, patting the back of an empty chair. “I’ll be with you in a flash.”
* * *
—
It’s almost three hours later when Maggie turns onto Carlyle Terrace. She’s been sneaking peeks at her reflection in the rearview mirror the entire drive home, alternating between terrified and thrilled by what she sees. “Oh my God,” Jerome had proclaimed when he was done coloring, snipping, and styling, taking several exaggerated steps back to admire his handiwork. “It’s Michelle Pfeiffer’s younger sister!” Everyone in the salon had burst into a round of applause.
Maggie is still so preoccupied with the unexpected events of the morning that she doesn’t immediately register that the pajama-clad girl talking to the skinny young man on the lawn of the house to the right of hers is, in fact, her daughter. “Shit,” she says, pulling into the driveway and turning off the engine, tapping the outline of the gun in her purse as she climbs out of the car. “Erin, what are you doing outside in your pajamas?”
“Holy crap!” Erin exclaims, ignoring her mother’s question as she walks toward her. “What happened to you?”
Maggie abandons both her outrage and her gun to pat at her hair. “Do you like it?”
Erin makes several complete circles around her mother. “It’s amazing. You look, like, ten years younger.”
“You really think so? I mean, it’s very blond.”
“It’s very…everything. Wow.”
“Wow?”
“Wow,” says the young man ambling toward them. “You look great. Mark Fisher,” he reminds her, tucking his own straggly hair behind his ear. “Julia’s grandson.”
“Yes. I remember. It’s so nice that you visit your grandmother so often.”
“Actually, Mark’s staying with her for a while,” Erin explains.
“Oh? Are you from out of town?” Maggie hopes he won’t be around for too long.
“No. I’m just hanging out here for a bit.”
“Is your grandmother okay?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s fine. Great.”
Great, Maggie repeats silently, her tongue gravitating toward the tooth at the back of her mouth. The filling definitely feels loose.
“So, what brought this on?” Erin asks, fingers motioning toward Maggie’s head.
“I’m not sure,” Maggie says, still trying to make sense of it herself. “I went into this hairdressing salon to inquire about a job for you….”
“You asked about a job for me?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’m not working in some stupid hair salon!”
“No, you’re not,” Maggie confirms, exhaling a long, deep breath. “I am.”
“What?”
“The owner of the salon offered me the job and…I think I took it.”
“What?” Erin says again.
Maggie isn’t sure what else to say. She’s been asking herself the same thing for the past three hours. “I know it sounds bizarre.”
“No shit!”
“Erin…”
“What about Leo? Who’s going to drive him to and from camp? Does this mean I get a car?”
“No, it does not. I can still drive him. The hours are pretty flexible.”
“I don’t understand. You’re a teacher,” Erin says.
“I was a teacher.”
“And now…what? You’re a hairdresser?”
“I’m a receptionist. For the time being. You were right—I can’t just sit around all day, doing nothing. It isn’t doing anyone any favors…” Maggie says, borrowing Nadine’s words.
“Wait,” Erin interrupts. “You’re saying I was right about something? Who are you, and what have you done with my mother?”
Maggie smiles. She doesn’t have an answer for that one either. “It’s almost one o’clock,” she says instead, checking her watch. “You need to get dressed. You shouldn’t be outside in your pajamas.”
Erin rolls her eyes. “And she’s back.”
Maggie turns toward her house. “Nice seeing you again, Mark.”
“You, too,” he says. “And you really do look great.”
“Thank you.” Maggie begins walking to her front door. “Erin?” she says, stopping when her daughter fails to accompany her.
“I’ll be in soon.”
“Now,” Maggie says.
“Does your grandmother have room for one more?” Erin mutters, just loud enough for Maggie to hear.
Mark laughs. “Catch you later.”
“Really, Mom?” Erin demands as they step inside the house. “Do you h
ave to be such a dick?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
The next thing Maggie hears is the familiar sound of her daughter’s bedroom door slamming shut.
Chapter Twenty-two
“I’m looking for a birthday gift for my husband,” the well-dressed matron announces, stopping in front of Aiden Young, her eyes sweeping across the watches on display inside the glass counter. “Nothing too expensive.”
“Well, I’m sure he’d be very happy with any of these,” Aiden says, although he’s sure of no such thing. In fact, he’s sure about absolutely nothing in his life these days. Not his wife, not his marriage, not even his sanity. He shudders, recalling his reaction when the ball slammed into his back during that impromptu game with his neighbors, the near-lethal mix of terror and fury that washed over him.
He’d come so close to losing it.
So how can he say for certain that a man he’s never met, husband of a woman he’s encountering for the very first time, will like any of the watches he’s about to show her? “Do you see anything that strikes your fancy?” Strikes your fancy?! Where the hell did that expression come from?
The woman points to a watch with a heavy silver-links band and a midnight-blue dial. “This one looks interesting.”
“Good choice,” Aiden agrees, suddenly realizing where he heard that expression last. His mother! She’d used it last night when she dropped over with a selection of fabric samples for the occasional chair she was buying them.
“See anything that strikes your fancy?” his mother had asked, before indicating the fabric that she preferred, and had, in fact, already ordered. “Of course, I can call the store back and change the order, if that’s what you want,” she’d offered. “I just thought this one would work best. But, of course, it’s entirely up to you. What do you think, Aiden?”
Aiden recalls the smile on his mother’s face and the frown on his wife’s, and knows that he can’t win either way. He removes the watch from its perch and holds it out toward the woman. “One of my favorites,” he adds, although it isn’t. He prefers a more casual watch, one with a wide leather band and an oversized face. This one is much too prissy for his taste. “It’s very elegant.” Elegant, but useless. The dial is so crowded with symbols, you can barely make out the numbers.