by Joy Fielding
“It’s no big deal.”
“If it’s no big deal, why did you lie to me?”
“Because I knew how you’d react, that’s why. You blow everything way out of proportion.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Leo interjects.
“Shut up, Leo.”
“Don’t tell your brother to shut up.”
“If you weren’t so paranoid about everything, I wouldn’t have to lie.”
“Stop trying to turn this around. This is not about me.”
The doorbell rings.
“Finally!” Erin says, jumping off the sofa. “Sanity has arrived.”
“This is not over,” Maggie says to her daughter’s back.
“Oh, it’s over.”
“What’s over?” Leo asks.
“You’re late,” she hears her daughter say as she opens the front door.
“There was an accident on 95,” Craig is explaining as Maggie and Leo step into the hall. “Everything okay here?”
“Just Mom having her daily meltdown,” Erin says.
“And I suppose you had absolutely nothing to do with that?” Craig says.
“I’ll be in the car,” Erin tells them. “And you guys are separated, which means you don’t have to stick up for her all the time anymore,” she says to her father on her way out.
Maggie exhales, watching Craig do the same. Thank you, she says with her eyes, and Craig smiles, You’re welcome.
We’re still in sync, she finds herself thinking, dismissing the unwelcome thought with a shake of her head.
“Anything I should know?” Craig asks.
Just that I want you to come home, that I need you, that I still love you.
“I’m hungry,” Leo says.
“Why don’t we talk later?” Maggie tells her husband. She needs time to calm down and regroup, to rid her mind of these troubling thoughts. And if she really hurries, she might still be able to make that exercise class by seven o’clock.
“You’re sure?”
A car horn blasts its impatience from the driveway.
“I’m sure. Have a nice dinner.”
“Erin lied to Mom about Mark,” Maggie hears Leo tell his father as they walk toward the car.
“Who’s Mark?” Craig asks.
Maggie barely has time to close the front door before she bursts into tears.
* * *
—
It’s five minutes to seven and Maggie is sitting, naked except for her sports bra and bikini briefs, on her bed, unable to move. She’s been sitting here for the past half hour, her exercise clothes spread out beside her—the shiny new black tights, the bright yellow T-shirt and matching ankle-length yellow socks. A pair of recently purchased charcoal-gray sneakers rest on the floor by her bare feet. All she has to do is put the damn stuff on.
What’s the point? she wonders with her next exhale. The class will have started even before she leaves the house, and there are No Latecomers Allowed, as she recalls reading online.
So much for her resolve to use this time every week to get back into a regular exercise routine. So much for her determination to stop pining for a man who has clearly moved on, despite what Richard Atwood, certified public accountant, might think.
“Not your fault he’s still in love with you,” he’d said.
“Yeah, right.” Maggie forces herself to her feet. “Enough!” she says, stepping into the tights and sliding them up over her legs and hips, then pulling the T-shirt down over her head and pushing her arms through its sleeves. “Enough!” she repeats, donning her socks and shoes. “It’s time to get your act together. Time to get on with your life.”
She may have missed the scheduled exercise class, but there’s nothing preventing her from working out on her own. Half an hour on a treadmill should be enough to clear her head, sift through the fog of emotions clouding her brain, help her separate fact from wishful thinking.
She reaches into the nightstand by her bed for her gun, holding it securely with both hands, her arms stretched out in front of her, as she carries it down the stairs. “Clear!” she shouts as she reaches the bottom. Just like they do on TV, she thinks, marching into the living room. “Clear,” she says again, laughing as she goes from room to room. Would she have the guts to use it? she wonders as she drops the gun inside her canvas bag. Could she really kill another human being?
And does she really want to go to the gym when she could just crawl into a nice hot bath, grab a box of chocolates, and climb into bed? “Yes. Yes, you do!” she tells herself as she gets into her car and backs out of the garage into the driveway.
She’s almost at the road when she stops suddenly, looking toward the Wilson house next door. On impulse, she leaves her car running and hurries up the Wilsons’ front walk to ring the doorbell. Seconds later, the door opens and Nick Wilson stands before her. He’s wearing jeans and an open-necked, button-down blue shirt, and he leans into the doorway, the fingers of his right hand wrapped around the side of the door.
“Hi,” he says, clearly surprised to see her. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. I was just wondering…is Dani here?”
Nick Wilson looks toward the interior of the house. “She is. But she’s a little busy right now. Anything I can help you with?”
“Not really. I was just heading out to the gym, and I thought she might like to join me.”
“The gym’s not exactly Dani’s thing,” Nick says with a laugh. “And like I said, she’s a little busy at the moment. But hey, it sounds like a great idea. I’ll certainly mention it to her. Maybe next time.”
Maggie is about to respond, but the door is already closing. She returns to her car, trying to banish the image of the handsome Dr. Wilson slouched in his doorway, one hand on his hip, the other wrapped around the side of the door, the knuckles of that hand bruised and red.
“It’s none of your business,” she tells herself as she climbs back inside her car and slams the door shut. “It’s none of your damn business.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
“It’s none of your business,” she is still repeating as she pulls into a parking space in front of the boutique gym located at the intersection of Military Trail and Donald Ross Road. “Stay out of it. It is none of your business.” Her new mantra.
Besides, what can she do? Call the police and report her suspicions? She can just imagine how that little scene would play out. Yes, I realize that Nick Wilson is a highly respected oncologist, that his job is saving lives, and that the affable doctor hardly seems like someone who regularly beats his wife…. No, I’ve never personally witnessed any abuse, although I’ve seen evidence of it on his wife’s face and arms. And I’m aware that the bruises I saw on the good doctor’s knuckles could be the result of any number of things…. Yes, I understand that his wife has never filed a complaint, and that she flatly denies her handsome husband is abusing her. But my instincts all tell me…
At this point, the police would undoubtedly interrupt to point out that instincts aren’t evidence. They would remind her that Dani Wilson doesn’t fit the popular image of an abused wife any more than her husband fits the popular image of an abuser, that Dani is a successful professional in her own right, and that she has both the means and the wherewithal to leave her husband should she desire to do so.
I’m afraid that until such time as Dani Wilson files a complaint, the police would surely inform her, our hands are tied.
And if Maggie decides to report her suspicions anyway? If the police decide to investigate and show up at the Wilsons’ front door? What then?
Furious denials all around? Dani Wilson stops talking to her? A promising friendship is nipped in the bud? Maggie makes enemies of her next-door neighbors? She is forced to move yet again?
Where can she run this time?
Especially now, when she’s only just beginning to stand on her feet again.
Maggie lowers her head to the steering wheel and groans.
And what of the Grants?
If Erin isn’t mistaken, and it really was Sean Grant she saw at the beach on Monday afternoon, that means Sean is still lying to his wife. Should she say something to Olivia?
You should most definitely not, she hears Craig say.
And that little scene that just played out on the Youngs’ front lawn? Clearly, there’s trouble brewing there.
“Also none of your business,” Maggie whispers as she climbs out of her car and approaches the gym’s front door. “No one has asked for your help. No one is interested in your instincts.”
“Hi,” chirps the perky young brunette behind the reception counter. The name tag on her bright orange T-shirt reads Paula. Paula’s smile is wide and toothy. “Can I help you?”
“How much to join?”
“Depends on what you want.” Paula hands Maggie a price list. “Basic membership is twenty dollars a month. Classes and personal trainers are extra, and you have to be a member to make use of either.”
Maggie takes out a basic membership and adds her name to the sign-in sheet.
“Changing rooms and the main gym are through the door behind me on my left. Exercise classes are through the door to my right.” Paula checks her watch. “The last class is almost over, but you’re free to have a look-see.”
“Thank you. I think I’ll just hop on the treadmill.”
Paula swivels toward the door on her left. “Have fun.”
The gym is bright and spacious, full of the usual assortment of treadmills, rowing machines, recumbent bicycles, and free weights. Plus a bunch of scary-looking machines whose use Maggie can only guess at. “Stick to the treadmill,” she says, acknowledging with a small wave a young woman jogging on a treadmill two machines down.
Maggie steps onto the closest treadmill, gently dropping her canvas bag to the floor beside her and taking note of two teenage boys laughing and lifting weights at the far end of the long room. Nearby, a red-faced, middle-aged man is grunting his way through a series of pull-ups on one of two Gravitron machines. He looks as if he’s one pull-up away from a major coronary.
“Not my concern,” Maggie mutters, selecting a program and instantly feeling the machine start moving beneath her feet. She turns on the small attached television, giving herself over to the soothing confidence of the Property Brothers, as the machine finishes its two-minute warm-up and starts picking up speed. Soon, Maggie is alternating between a comfortable three-mile-an-hour walk and two-minute sprints of double that.
She’s halfway through the thirty minutes when she realizes that the woman on the other treadmill and the heart-attack-waiting-to-happen have both left the room. The teenagers at the far end of the gym have stopped lifting weights and are sweating their way through a series of squats and push-ups.
Maggie returns her attention to the TV— a man is demolishing a wall with a hammer while his tiny but surprisingly strong wife is pulling out kitchen cabinets with her bare hands. Looks like fun, Maggie thinks as she begins another two-minute sprint. A minute in, she hears the door to the reception area open and turns, beads of perspiration dripping into her eyes as she watches two men enter the gym.
The men are white, muscular, bearded, and heavily tattooed. The shorter of the two men wears a black T-shirt with a Harley-Davidson logo. The taller one sports a sneer and a handlebar mustache.
“Oh God,” Maggie whispers as the taller man mounts the treadmill next to hers and his companion in the black T-shirt selects a machine closer to the door, trapping her in between.
“You must be Maggie,” the taller man says.
Maggie understands in that instant that there is no escape.
The men are here to kill her.
She hears laughter and turns to see the teenage boys wrapping towels around their necks and heading for the door. Which means that, in a matter of seconds, she’ll be alone with these men.
And seconds after that, she’ll almost certainly be dead.
“Wait!” she calls, breathlessly, to the teenagers as they walk toward the door. But they don’t hear her over the whir of the treadmill, and in the next instant, they’re out the door. Immediately, Maggie presses the red emergency Stop button on the treadmill, bringing it to an instant halt and throwing her backward off the machine. She scrambles to stay upright as both men move toward her.
Maggie feels one hand on her back and another on her arm. She sees a snake tattoo wrap around her wrist. “Please,” she cries.
“You all right?” the taller man asks, the natural sneer of his lips at odds with the seemingly genuine concern in his eyes.
“Please just let me go.”
“Sure thing, Maggie,” he says, releasing her arm. “Just making sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine. Please, I have to go.”
The man steps out of her way.
“Maggie,” the other man calls.
Maggie freezes, bracing for the impact of a bullet to her back.
“I think you’re forgetting something.”
Maggie turns toward the man in the Harley-Davidson T-shirt. He smiles and lifts one muscular tattooed arm toward her. In his fingers is the canvas bag with her gun.
She gasps and grabs the bag, clutching it to her chest, the Glock 19 snapping against her sternum. “How do you know my name?”
He offers a sheepish smile. “It was on the sign-in sheet. You were the only woman here, so I figured…Sorry if that freaked you out.”
Maggie nods, unable to move.
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. Yes, I…I’m fine. Thank you.” She walks quickly to the door, then stops, turns back around. “Enjoy your workout,” she offers weakly.
“Have a nice night.”
* * *
—
She’s in her living room, still in her sweat-stained exercise gear, and nursing her third glass of red wine when Craig returns with Erin and Leo.
“Everything okay?” he asks, after both kids have retreated to their respective rooms.
Maggie takes a deep breath. “I think we should get Erin a car.”
He looks surprised. “I thought you were opposed to the idea.”
“I was,” Maggie admits. “But I’ve been thinking about it. Palm Beach Gardens isn’t the easiest place in the world to get around without one. I’m working now, and once school starts again, it’ll be difficult to keep chauffeuring the kids everywhere. This way, Erin can drive Leo to and from school, and, I don’t know, it just seems like it’s the right time….”
“I agree.”
“So, can you look into it, see if you can get a deal on something?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Can I have a glass of that wine?”
Maggie shrugs. “Help yourself.”
Craig walks to the cabinet in the dining area and comes back with the appropriate wineglass. “This particular Shiraz has always been my favorite.” He empties what’s left of the bottle into his glass, regarding Maggie quizzically, his eyes asking, You drank the rest of this bottle all by yourself?
“It’s been an interesting night,” she says in response.
He lowers himself to the olive-green velvet sofa across from the white-and-green-striped wing chair where Maggie sits and takes a sip of his wine. “How so?”
“Well, for starters, I’m pretty sure that Nick Wilson is beating his wife and that Sean Grant is lying to his. Plus, something’s definitely not right with the Youngs. I know you’re going to tell me I should mind my own business….”
“Since when have you ever listened to me?” Craig asks with a grin.
A small smile wobbles a
cross Maggie’s lips. “And then tonight at the gym,” she continues, “I was positive these two guys were there to kill me, and of course they weren’t, I was just being paranoid, as you would say….”
“I say a lot of stupid things.”
“Well, yes…you do. But you were right about that.”
He laughs. “Please tell me you didn’t shoot them.”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, that’s a step in the right direction.” He takes another sip of his wine. “Anything else?”
“It’s just all got me thinking.”
“About…?”
“I recognize there will probably always be moments like tonight at the gym, moments where I let my anxiety get the better of me. But I can’t let those moments turn into days, weeks, years of my life,” she says slowly, carefully measuring out each word. “I’ve been in limbo for so long. Afraid of my own shadow, afraid to move forward, to trust my instincts, to be…who I am.”
“What are you saying, Maggie?”
“That it has to change. I can’t keep waiting, hoping, for things to be different. I want my spark back. I…” Maggie downs what’s left of the wine in her glass and stands up. “I want a divorce.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
It’s almost seven o’clock on Saturday night and most of the residents of Carlyle Terrace are gathered outside to celebrate the Fourth of July. Sean Grant, beer in one hand, cooking utensils in the other, stands sweating over his barbecue, which he’s moved from his backyard to the middle of the street. His wife, Olivia, waits behind the rickety old bridge table provided by Julia Fisher, where stacks of hot dogs and hamburgers, courtesy of the Wilsons, are piled high on a platter. A small wooden table belonging to Maggie McKay holds buns, potato salad, and a variety of condiments. Next to it is a large cooler of beer and soda pop, contributed by Aiden and Heidi Young. An impressive collection of communal fireworks lies off to one side in a cardboard box, awaiting the first hint of darkness to be sent soaring skyward in loud, colorful bursts.
The adults chat amiably to one another as brothers Tyler and Ben Wilson engage in a rowdy game of tag, weaving in and out of their elders and into the middle of the road without fear of traffic or reprisals.