Locked Hearts

by D. Brown

  He laughed.

  Maggie didn’t.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Sorry. I’m still cooking y’all dinner.”

  She stood and set her glass down on the coffee table.

  “Well, let me at least make a salad.”

  “Bring the wine,” he said. “I’ve got a case of beer in the fridge. This will be fun. What does your husband like to drink?”

  “Robert likes his vodka martinis, but he drinks nothing but Absolut.”

  Sam smiled, “Ahh, a vodka snob, I take it.”

  Boy, did you hit the nail on the head with that one, she wanted to say, but didn’t.

  “All right, you bring the vodka then. You let me worry about dinner. It’s the least I can do after what happened, you know, earlier. You’re on vacation. You don’t need to be slaving over a hot stove on the hottest day of the summer. I’m going to fire up the smoker and throw a few things together. This will be fun.”

  “I . . .”

  “Seven o’clock,” he said, “Right out front. Just follow the lights.”

  That mischievous sparkle danced behind his eyes again.

  “And no guns.”

  Sam flashed empty hands.

  “Promise.”

  3

  Sam watched Maggie walk across the yard to the house next door.

  He watched the rhythmic playing of her hips from side to side beneath the draped sarong and remembered the feel of her ankle and leg in his hands, and how she light yet solid felt when she collapsed into his arms.

  She felt good, Sam.

  Too good.

  You don’t play with another man’s toys.

  Not good form at all.

  She’s married, didn’t you notice the ring?

  Yeah, so what?

  Has that ever stopped you before?

  No . . .

  But there was something about her, something that kicked him square in the heart and gave it one of those squeezes.

  I feel like I’ve always known her.

  Meeting her wasn’t like, “It’s nice to meet you,” it was more like, “There you are, what kept you?”

  He’s been waiting all his life for this moment.

  And I can’t explain why I feel this way.

  I just do.

  Maggie mentioned meeting Sam to Robert when she made it back to the beach, and explained why it took her so long just to make a pitcher of her special “freshly squeezed” lemonade that he loved so much.

  “I was parched,” A reproachful frown masked behind his seventy-dollar sunglasses.

  “I’m sorry, I was out of sugar,” she said.

  “You didn’t get any when you went to the store?”

  “No,” Maggie said and set the tray of lemonade and five cups down on the cooler. “You were supposed to pack the bag of sugar I left out on the kitchen table, remember?”

  “I’m sorry, I forgot.”

  “You forgot the one thing I asked you to do.”

  “I was busy,” he said. “Mags, you know I was up to my eyeballs in that acquisition deal trying to get everything wrapped up before the Fourth. Besides, you were home all day. You had plenty of time to check over the packing list.”

  Robert picked up a cup and held it up, waiting for Maggie to pour it for him.

  “I’m covered with lotion,” he said leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the footrest so as to capture the maximum amount of sub-tropical sun.

  Maggie regarded her husband.

  Robert’s stomach was flat and tanned; the hairs on his chest curled and glistening dark brown from sweat and suntan oil.

  His hair, cut short and receding at the temples to form the much dreaded peninsula in the center of his forehead – ‘Maggie am I going bald?’ a stand-at-attention wet spike sprinkled with flecks of gray, and yes, you’re going bald.

  His jaw was angular, like Sam’s, and tight. Not an ounce of fat on him anywhere. Her husband was obsessed with fitness and just as obsessed with his own good looks.

  Racquetball three times a week and golf every other Sunday.

  He rock climbed.

  When he was a younger man, Robert Scott was considered the catch; and of course he swept Maggie off her feet.

  She often wondered what it was that attracted her to Robert, and her answer as the years wore on and little by little wore her down, it dawned on her she married him strictly for his good looks.

  He was the fitting mate and they were the perfect couple. She didn’t realize until after they were married there wasn’t much else to her husband besides his good looks. He excelled at everything except being a good husband and a father.

  She had mentioned it to him once or twice, wanting him to spend more time with the kids, and more time with her as well, but his reply was always the same.

  “Maggie, I’m a good provider. I work hard so you don’t have to. The kids all go to private schools. You get to play tennis at the best clubs in town. What more can you ask for?”

  Does a woman have to beg for a little affection that wasn’t a precursor to wanting sex?

  I guess so.

  Romance was an art lost on her husband.

  Some days are just harder than others.

  She wasn’t one to complain. After all, like Robert said, he worked hard so she wouldn’t have to, and he loved her.

  And . . . yes, I love him.

  The sigh of hesitation wasn’t lost on Maggie either.

  “Where are the kids?”

  “Out there,” Robert replied with a nod. “Robbie and Anna Beth walked out to the pier. David is playing in the sand down by the water.”

  Maggie first saw David’s pair of inflatable ‘swimmies,’ lying in a pile of beach toys and flip-flops at the foot of his towel, but no David.

  “David’s not wearing his ‘swimmies,’ Robert.”

  Robert had his face buried in a book. “I told him to put them on.”

  “He’s seven-years old, Robert. You don’t tell him to put them on you put them on for him.”

  “Maggie, don’t you think it’s a little bit sissy for an 7-year-old boy to be wearing swim floats? He should be learning how to swim, or how to fish.”

  “Funny, last time I remember fishing and teaching a son to swim was something a father was supposed to do.”

  Maggie hated it when Robert degraded David like that.

  He was their youngest son, almost ten years younger than Robbie and Anna Beth. She had him late, and if pressed, Maggie would have to admit she had her third child as maybe a way of putting some spark back into their marriage. It didn’t work, but it did give her a precious little boy, and of her three kids, a true momma’s boy.

  Robert sighed, irritated.

  He closed the book and sat up, pointed down the slope of drifting sand at the water line. “There he is.”

  David was busy building a sand castle.

  “David, come get your ‘swimmies!’”

  Their son continued to play in the sand.

  Robert offered her an “I tried” shrug and returned to his book.

  “Drink your lemonade,” she said and grabbed her son’s swim floats.

  “You’re the best, Mags,” he said, “and your lemonade is awesome, as usual.”

  Her fresh squeezed lemonade.

  Maggie laughed.

  Sam helped her with that as well.

  She would have been another 45 minutes slicing and squeezing the dozen or so lemons necessary to make a pitcher of her freshly squeezed lemonade. Sam gave her a packet of Wyler’s instant lemonade mix and said a couple of sliced lemons for garnish tasted just as fresh.

  Besides, who’s got time to squeeze lemons?

  Robert wasn’t pleased when Maggie told her about Sam and dinner.

  He wasn’t pleased about Maggie being alone with another man, and certainly not about the fact the man had a gun.

  Of course he said nothing about the bandages on Maggie’s foot.

  “What were yo
u thinking Maggie? He could have shot you.”

  “Robert, you’re being ridiculous,” a tired sigh, “I told you, the gun wasn’t loaded.”

  “So he says. Come on. This is the South. You’ve heard the stories they tell around here, all these eccentric rich folks who marry their cousins, and then pull out their .22’s the moment things get a bit tense.”

  “Maybe they’re on to something,” Maggie deadpanned.

  “That’s not the least bit funny,” Robert said cutting her a reproachful look over the top of designer shades.

  “I don’t recall laughing,” Maggie replied pulling her sunglasses down so he would be sure to see hers in return.

  “The South is nothing more than fat old men, Red Hat women sucking back mint juleps and discharging firearms.”

  “Your stereotypical opinions are condescending and offensive.”

  “You’re not Southern, so why would you be offended?”

  “Serves you right for forgetting about the sugar,” Maggie said and buried her nose into a book.

  Robert gave her a long look and sighed, sliding the sunglasses back up his nose.

  “Tell me when my 30 minutes are up, will you Mags?”

  As if.

  I have half a mind to let you fry for your pigheaded frame of mind.

  Robert never approved of Maggie talking with other men, not that he ever had any reason to feel threatened. He was one of those possessive types who grew jealous quickly. Maggie never minded much. She liked the attention, and her husband’s possessive nature was his way of showing he cared about her. He was her husband, a handsome, very sophisticated and successful man, who was the father of her very cute and adorable children.

  Her family was the envy of all the ladies at church.

  They were a very handsome family. Maggie’s kids were always the best behaved. They performed the best at the annual Christmas pageants: Anna Beth had played the Virgin Mary for the last two, and this year, Robbie would be playing the part of Joseph.

  Her kids were the smartest students. Robbie was a starter on the soccer and basketball teams, and Anna Beth played the lead in last spring’s school play, the first junior to do so since Maggie went to school there.

  Robert was a handsome man and had aged well. He looked sharp enough in his Sunday suit to make the church ladies blush and giggle whenever he walked by.

  He was her husband.

  She had the best looking man in town.

  They lived in the nicest house.

  Ginny Breedlove, one of Maggie’s best friends, said the Scotts were the model family for a Norman Rockwell portrait.

  She smiled at the reference.

  They were the perfect family.

  Still.

  Happily Ever After left a lot to be desired, and she scoffed at the Norman Rockwell thought. As she settled into her chaise lounge, Maggie chided her own pettiness. Was she simply being selfish when thinking there was something missing?

  And honestly, was there really something missing?

  Robert was about as handsome and caring man as she could find – didn’t she once refer to him as the ‘Best Husband in the World?’

  A woman couldn’t ask for more from a man, so what if he was a little self-absorbed?

  She cut a glance at her husband looking happy and relaxed, while her kids were off elsewhere.

  Was this real?

  Or like Ginny Breedlove said, were they something by Norman Rockwell?

  Something make-believe.

  4

  A cup of sugar started this.

  The doubt . . .

  Maggie comparing her husband and Sam, and it wasn’t fair to her husband.

  Robert was handsome. He looked 30 rather than 40. He stayed in top shape, worked out regularly, and still fit into the same size 32 pants he wore in college.

  But he’d be the first one tell you too, “Hey! Look at me!”

  What was it about him?

  The list grew quickly.

  He had about as much depth as a wet spot on the sidewalk.

  He’s selfish.

  He’s self-centered and narcissistic.

  He’s spoiled and damned full of himself.

  The world is all about him and ends at the tip of his nose.

  There.

  How’s that for splitting hairs?

  As handsome a man as Robert was, her husband didn’t do it for her anymore.

  Not for a long time, in fact.

  Their sex life was as good as she could expect.

  Okay, Maggie admitted, she didn’t climax as much as she’d used to, or would like to, but that’s not Robert’s fault.

  Granted, their sex life might have been good; you never heard Robert complain, but their love life left much to be desired.

  He never bought her flowers anymore unless he’d done something to make her angry, and then it was simply to placate her, and buy her forgiveness, and in less than 24 hours reverting back to whatever behavior made her mad in the first place.

  The mere sight of a bouquet of roses irritated the hell out of her anymore.

  Robert forgot marriage was supposed to be about love, and sharing instead of freshly squeezed lemonade and her very own special tuna melts.

  Or maybe he never understood what marriage was supposed to be like.

  Or he never cared.

  Maggie felt more like the hired help lately than a wife.

  After heading to the mainland to pick up groceries, Sam spent the rest of the afternoon on his computer.

  He couldn’t get Maggie off his mind, or the memory of touching her. Her touch coursed tiny shocks through him.

  It’s not right, Sam.

  She’s married.

  So?

  It’s not like I’m going to start anything. This is her vacation. I am the last thing on her mind – well, other than being the psycho guy sucking on the revolver.

  Yep.

  Not one of my better moments.

  Maggie's thoughts were mired in a similar quandary. She could not keep her mind off the man next door.

  Something about him sparked her curiosity.

  Sam.

  He has a name and it’s Sam.

  Maybe it was the simple fact that he took her time into consideration when suggesting she use the lemonade mix over freshly squeezing lemons.

  Like he said, “Who the hell squeezes lemons these days anyway?”

  Exactly, she thought.

  Who the hell squeezes lemons?

  Sam went all out for dinner.

  He took care of everything, even the wine, though Maggie made sure she picked up both a bottle of red and white from the store when she went shopping later on in the afternoon.

  He had arranged the picnic tables in an L.

  One table was for eating, and one to hold the food. The food picnic table he covered with newspaper beneath a tablecloth of white butcher paper, and anchored down with candle jars. Tiki torches were lit and positioned in a half circle behind the Adirondack chairs Sam had taken off his porch.

  He’d been cooking for most of the afternoon. His kitchen consisted of a large black barrel smoker and a propane fueled turkey fryer containing the Lowcountry boil.

  Robert considered the grand production much to do about nothing. He didn't understand what possessed someone to go to all that trouble for complete strangers.

  “This is the South, dear,” Maggie said. “We’re not strangers, we’re next door neighbors.”

  She didn’t try to hide her sarcasm then.

  “I still don’t like it,” he said. “That man had a gun, and he touched you.”

  “For heaven’s sake Robert, he applied first aid!”

  They were in the bedroom getting dressed and they had long made it a point to never argue in front of the children.

  “I could have done that for you.”

  “Robert, you weren’t there. I was bleeding. The man removed a piece of glass from my foot.”

  “You should really be more careful
and worn shoes. Really Maggie, do I have to tell you everything?”

  It infuriated her whenever Robert assumed this condescending tone.

  The beach crowd had thinned from this afternoon.

  The holiday weekend approached, and by Saturday, the Fourth of July, the beach would be packed for the fireworks display shot off the pier.

  The intense heat waned with the setting sun, making the early evening pleasant. The breeze carried the faint hint of salt and coming rain.

  Sam had stacked a pyramid of kindling in the fire pit for later, though Robert commented under his breath there was no way in hell he was planning to make a night of this.

  Maggie shushed him with an elbow to the ribs and told him to be polite.

  Sam brought out paper plates and plastic cups, saying that the best way to do dishes is to chuck them in the garbage.

  For him, this afternoon was a means of trying not to think so damned much.

  He was lonely, and it didn't take a rocket scientist, or an attractive next door neighbor to remind him. He cooked like he used to when his family was together: Diane, the kids, his folks, brothers and sisters, in-laws and out-laws both, a crowd of more than 20.

  Cooking dinner for Maggie and her family coursed a charge through him, a feeling that settled about him in a comforting hug.

  At least for a little while, Sam pretended he belonged.

  “Let me explain the nuances of eating Lowcountry boil,” Sam said sporting a pair of oven mitts as he carted the large kettle to the newspaper covered picnic table.

  He set the kettle down on the table’s edge, popped off the lid, and set it to the side.

  “The first nuance of eating low country boil, there is none.”

  He tipped the kettle and the steaming contents spilled about the picnic table.

  The kids squealed, David especially.

  He looked up at Sam with wide-eyed shock.

  “Lowcountry boil is a favorite meal around these parts,” he smiled and winked at David. “Best part is, you get to eat with your fingers.”

  He slipped off the oven mitts and wiped his hands on his shorts.