Cul-de-sac

by Joy Fielding

  “I didn’t realize you were looking.”

  “Neither did I.” Maggie laughs, noting the curiosity in his eyes, eyes that are even bluer—and younger—than she first realized. “Very long story.”

  “I like long stories.”

  Maggie nods. “Maybe some other time.”

  “I’d like that, too.”

  Maggie has no idea what to say to that, so she says nothing. Is he saying he’d like to see her again? She doesn’t know, and she’s through with jumping to conclusions where men are concerned, trying to second-guess what is really on their minds. If Richard Atwood, certified public accountant, is really interested in seeing her again, as he seems to be implying, if this isn’t just her overactive imagination or a case of wishful thinking, if he isn’t just being polite, making idle conversation while they wait in line, he’ll have to come right out and say so.

  “Are you married, Maggie McKay?” he surprises her by asking.

  “Technically, yes. I guess,” she hears herself say.

  “You guess?”

  “We’re separated.”

  He smiles. “In that case, are you free tomorrow night?”

  “What?”

  “I realize it’s a Saturday night and very short notice….”

  “I am free, yes,” Maggie says quickly.

  “Great. Would you like to have dinner with me?”

  What’s happening? Maggie thinks as they reach the front of the line.

  “What’ll it be?” asks the girl behind the counter.

  Maggie recites her order, then waits as Rick tells the girl he’d like a breakfast sandwich and a large cup of black coffee. They move to the side of the counter to wait. “Well?” he asks.

  “Did you just ask me out? Just checking that I’m not hallucinating.”

  He laughs. “You’re not hallucinating. I did just ask you out.”

  “How old are you?” Maggie asks, the question out of her mouth before she can stop it.

  “Twenty-eight,” he says easily.

  “My God.” He’s even younger than I thought.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Well, I’m a bit older than you are….” More than a bit, she thinks.

  “Is that a problem?” he repeats.

  Maggie hesitates. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s just dinner, Maggie. We don’t have to get married, if you don’t want to.” He smiles.

  “No, of course we don’t.” She tries to laugh, but coughs instead. “Twenty-eight! Shit! Sure, why not? I’d love to have dinner with you tomorrow night. What the hell!”

  “Anywhere special you’d like to go?”

  “I’ve always liked the Palm Beach Grill.” She and Craig used to go there whenever they could get reservations. “But it’s so hard to get a table.”

  “It’s off-season. Shouldn’t be too difficult. Seven o’clock?”

  “Seven is good. I’ll meet you there.”

  He regards her quizzically. “You’re not going to stand me up, are you?”

  Hell, she thinks. I’m forty-two; you’re twenty-eight. “I won’t stand you up,” she says.

  “Maggie!” a voice behind the counter calls out. “Rick! Your orders are ready.”

  Maggie smiles. Ready or not, she thinks.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Sean has spent the morning online, researching guns. He’s learned that the United States tops the list of countries with the most firearms, with more than one gun per person, and that while Americans make up only four percent of the world’s population, they own forty-six percent of the world’s firepower. An estimated three hundred and ninety-three million guns belong to three hundred and twenty-six million people, which means sixty-seven million guns left over, if every man, woman, and child owned one.

  Twenty-nine percent of gun owners own five or more.

  Fully forty-two percent of American households have guns.

  There is no federal limit to how many guns a person can own.

  One collector compares his gun collecting habit to buying shoes. Another describes guns as “man jewelry.” Yet another likens them to tattoos—“You can’t have just one.”

  Sean closes his laptop and finishes the last of the vodka in his glass, laughing at the comparisons. He’s never been overly fond of either jewelry or tattoos. He has no interest in accumulating guns.

  All he needs is one.

  Does he really have the courage to end his life?

  Coward, he hears his father scoff, knowing how disapproving his dad would be. He’s happy that the man is no longer alive to witness the mess his son has made of his life. He can feel, indeed can almost taste, the disappointment in his father’s eyes, and knows it will be the same look he’ll see in Olivia’s when she discovers not only what an abject failure he has proven himself to be, but also the extent of his deception.

  He knows she asked her boss for an advance on her paycheck in order to pay back Maggie McKay. He knows how difficult that was for her to do. She has her pride after all.

  Sean discards the empty bottle of vodka in the garbage bag under the sink and checks the freezer for another bottle he already knows isn’t there. Is Olivia aware of how much his drinking has increased in the past year?

  “Add it to my list of failures,” he says aloud, stumbling as he pushes himself away from the kitchen table. He checks his wallet as he heads for the front door, counting out forty-three dollars in cash, the last of the money he withdrew from their joint checking account.

  He climbs behind the wheel of his car, dismissing the thought that he probably shouldn’t be driving. A DUI is the last thing he needs. Although prison might provide a welcome respite, the excuse he needs to do nothing but sit around all day feeling sorry for himself. He chuckles as he backs his car out of the garage, managing an exaggerated wave to Julia Fisher’s grandson, who is smoking in the shadows. He saw the old lady the other day bending Dr. Nick’s ear and couldn’t help admiring the good doctor’s patience, the way he leaned in and actually seemed to be listening. “More power to you, Doc,” he says now, doffing an invisible hat as he pulls onto the main street on his way to his favorite liquor store.

  As he turns onto Donald Ross Road, the impulse strikes him to stop at his former place of work. Maybe showing his face there will remind them how instrumental he was to the company’s success, force them to acknowledge how much he’s missed, how much he’s needed. Maybe they’ve taken on some new clients and their financial outlook has improved so that now they can afford to have him back. He’d even be willing to take a slight cut in pay, should the talks progress that far.

  He pulls into the parking lot of the three-story white stucco building, noting that his former parking spot is now occupied by a charcoal gray Porsche Panamera. “Somebody’s moving up in the world,” he mutters, wondering which of his colleagues can afford such an expensive automobile. He pulls into the empty space beside it, ignoring the spot’s reserved designation. Exiting his car, he’s tempted to run his key along the side of the Porsche’s shiny new exterior, but is dissuaded by the sight of a man heading his way. Sean quickly pockets his key.

  “Beautiful day,” the man says as he walks past Sean toward his car at the far side of the lot.

  Is it? Sean wonders, breathing a sigh of relief. He hasn’t noticed. He glances toward the cloudless sky, the sun so bright it hurts to even look in its direction. So much for nature echoing the thoughts of man, he thinks, referencing another of his father’s ubiquitous quotes. A quotation for every occasion. The man was a regular Hallmark card, for God’s sake.

  Sean pulls open the heavy exterior glass door of the building, sauntering through the white marble lobby and stepping into the waiting elevator. When he worked here, he often took the stairs, sometimes two at a time. But that was then, and this is now. Now he has barel
y enough energy to push the elevator button for the third floor.

  Another heavy glass door separates Merit Marketing’s reception area from the rest of the workplace. It’s one of those open-concept arrangements, with the creative team occupying the large central space and the offices of the president, vice presidents, and various heads of departments running along the outer walls. A large boardroom sits at the far end, beside what used to be his office as one of Merit’s five senior vice presidents.

  But again, that was then. This is now.

  Now he is an unemployed former corporate vice president who is about to lose everything if he can’t find a job in the next several weeks. He gave his life’s blood to this company, for God’s sake, and they tossed him aside as unceremoniously as yesterday’s garbage. They owe him.

  Sean feels a wave of anger swell inside him, so strong it almost knocks him over, and he has to lean against the nearby wall to keep from collapsing. He is suddenly dizzy with fury, drowning in defeat. And maybe because his head is still swimming with statistics from this morning’s Internet search—shocking fact: Nearly forty thousand people died in gun-related violence in the United States in 2017, the highest annual total in decades—the thought comes to him that it would be ridiculously easy for someone to burst into Merit Marketing with a gun and shoot up the place.

  How many articles has he read in the past year alone about disgruntled former employees returning to the places where they used to work and gunning down their erstwhile bosses and co-workers?

  He smiles, picturing himself dressed all in black—Keanu Reeves in The Matrix, or better yet, as John Wick, avenging the murder of his innocent little puppy—an AK-47 in one hand, another slung across his shoulder.

  He shakes the thought aside. Where are all these gruesome fantasies coming from?

  The receptionist behind the high black-and-gold marble counter smiles back, although her smile is more practiced than genuine. The woman’s name is Kathy Millard and she’s been sitting behind that counter for as long as he can remember, flashing that same insincere smile.

  “Hello, Kathy,” Sean says in greeting, noting that nothing about either the woman or the lobby has changed much since he left. Both are neat and attractive, in flattering shades of black and beige.

  “Oh my goodness. Sean!” Kathy says, large brown eyes doing a not-so-subtle sweep of the man standing before her. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  Too late Sean realizes how slovenly he must appear. He’s dressed in ill-fitting jeans and an old T-shirt that highlights the added weight to his midsection. He’s wearing flip-flops.

  “I’m so used to seeing you in a suit and tie,” Kathy says, clearly flustered.

  “One of the benefits of taking extended time off is not having to wear the uniform every day,” he says, hating the forced joviality in his voice. Can she hear it?

  “So, you’re not working?”

  Sean hears the unvoiced “still” she diplomatically left out of her question. “I’m actually mulling over a few offers. But I want to make sure that where I end up is really where I want to be. I find I’m in no hurry to rejoin the rat race.”

  “Well, wherever you end up, they’ll be lucky to have you.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.” He smiles. Condescending bitch, he thinks.

  He’ll shoot her first.

  “Is Harvey in?”

  Kathy glances toward the president’s office halfway down the north wall. “He is, but I think he’s in a meeting.”

  Sean’s smile hardens. “Could you check?”

  He waits while Kathy presses the digits of Harvey Shulman’s extension. “Mr. Shulman,” she says. “Sorry to interrupt, but Sean Grant is here to see you. No, he didn’t say.” She lowers the phone to her chest. “He’s asking if this is in regard to anything in particular?”

  Sean shakes his head, determined to keep smiling when what he really wants to do is put a bullet right between the woman’s eyes. “No. Just hoping to say a friendly hello.”

  “He says he’s just hoping to say a friendly hello,” Kathy parrots into the phone. “Certainly. I’ll tell him.” She replaces the receiver. “Mr. Shulman is just finishing up with a long-distance call. He shouldn’t be much longer. If you’d care to have a seat…” She motions toward two black leather chairs tucked into the corner of the reception area.

  “No, I’m happy to stand.” Sean approaches the door to the inner sanctum and leans against it, watching the imprint of his warm breath stain the cool glass and noting the women in their short skirts and tight pants going about their business on the other side. He zeroes in on Barbara Taylor and Vince McKenzie, two of the senior V.P.s who still have their jobs, conferring over some document. Neither has reached out to him since he was let go.

  He’ll shoot them next.

  Or maybe he’ll go right for the big man himself. Hell, might as well start at the top. He imagines himself moving from office to office, spraying bullets in all directions as he goes, every now and then pausing to fire indiscriminately at whoever is foolhardy enough to try to escape.

  Someone will undoubtedly call the police, and they’ll arrive, order him to stand down, to surrender his weapons. They’ll call his wife in hopes of persuading her to talk some sense into him. But she won’t answer because she’ll already be dead. He’ll have shot her before leaving the house.

  In the end, of course, they’ll kill him, too. And he’ll go down in the proverbial blaze of glory. Suicide by cop, he believes is the term they use. The perfect solution.

  All’s well that ends well. Right, Pop?

  He knows they’re never going to offer him his old job back. Pride would stop them, no matter how much they wanted him back. Shulman would be far too embarrassed to admit he’d made a mistake. And he certainly isn’t going to beg for it, let alone agree to a pay cut. What the hell had he been thinking?

  He returns to the reception counter. “I’m gonna go,” he tells Kathy Millard. “Tell Harvey I’ll catch him another time.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks, clearly surprised by his abrupt change of mind. “He should be out any minute.”

  “No, that’s okay. I have another appointment, and I didn’t realize how late it was.” He steps inside the elevator, deciding to head to the nearest gun store, decide on a weapon, then fill out the various forms necessary to get this show on the road. He’ll figure out a way to come up with the money later. “Nice to see you again, Kathy,” he calls to her as the elevator doors are closing. “Take care of yourself.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Julia Fisher sits in the passenger seat of her son’s Tesla, wondering where they’re going now. Lunch is finally over, and she’s exhausted, having endured almost ninety minutes of mind-numbing small talk with her son and his pea-brained wife. Ninety minutes she’ll never get back. Ninety minutes she can’t afford to spare. Not at her age. And really, if she has to listen to one more word about Poppy’s insane plans for designing a line of high-tech swimwear, despite never having taken a design course or knowing a thing about technology, she just might throw herself out of the moving car. Providing, of course, she can figure out how to open the damn doors.

  “Where are we going?” she asks, glancing toward the ocean on her left. She’s never been very good with either directions or geography, but she knows they’re heading south when they should be heading north. “Shouldn’t we be going the other way?”

  “I want you to see something,” Norman says.

  “What?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Can’t you just tell me?”

  “I’d rather show you,” he says.

  “I’m a little tired.”

  “This won’t take long,” Poppy says, reaching around from the backseat to pat Julia’s arm.

  Julia fights the urge to shrug it off.


  “Did you enjoy your lunch?” Poppy asks.

  “I did.”

  “You didn’t eat very much. Didn’t you like it?”

  Didn’t I just answer that question? Julia wonders. “It was delicious. Thank you again.”

  “No thanks necessary.” Poppy falls back against the buttery leather interior of the backseat. “Would you just look at that ocean. It’s so…big.”

  “So big and so…wet,” Julia says.

  “Mother…” Norman warns softly.

  “My swimsuits are going to be made specifically with the ocean in mind,” Poppy says.

  Julia reaches for the door handle. If only she could find the damn thing, she’d be mercifully dead in seconds.

  “Maybe I should create one line for salt water and another one for pools. Chlorine is just murder on bathing suits, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” Julia says. “But what about fresh water? Shouldn’t you have a line for that as well?”

  “What do you mean, fresh water?” Poppy says.

  Dear God. “Fresh water. Like a lake. Or a river. Or a pond.”

  “Those aren’t salt water?” Poppy asks.

  “They are not,” Julia tells her.

  “So, you think I need a third line?”

  “You’re the expert,” Julia says.

  “Mother…”

  “How did you come up with this idea anyway?” Julia asks, curious despite herself. “I mean, you were a personal trainer. I would have thought that, if you were going to design anything, athletic gear would be more up your alley.”

  “I thought of that, but it’s such a crowded field right now. You know my sister Rainbow?”

  Julia sighs. The conversation is starting to echo the car ride: She has no idea where either is going. “The one with the long dark hair?”

  “No, that’s Sunshine.”

  Rainbow, Sunshine, and Poppy. That’s what happens when your parents grow up in a commune, Julia thinks. “What about her?”

  “Well, I got the idea because of her. She went swimming in the ocean last month, and she was wearing a new bikini. A really nice one. Very expensive. And suddenly, along came this giant wave and knocked her flat on her face, and when she stood up, she discovered that her bikini bottom was around her ankles. Can you imagine?”