One Night in Boston

by Allie Boniface

  “Local mountain biker Dillon Murphy advanced in yesterday’s race…”

  “Dillon Murphy slam dunks to win the Student-Faculty Scholarship game…”

  “Dr. Dillon Murphy presents her findings on molecular research…”

  “Dillon Murphy named Boston’s Young Entrepreneur of April...”

  Maggie stopped. She read the last one again and then clicked on the link.

  Dillon Murphy, owner of Spectacular Scapes, was named the Boston area’s Young Entrepreneur of April. The program honors the city’s brightest new businessmen and women who have demonstrated outstanding vision, leadership, achievement, and social responsibility. Murphy is responsible for the transformation of lawns and landscapes in and around the city…

  As Maggie finished the brief article, perspiration broke out on her upper lip. Spectacular ‘Scapes, huh? Maggie grabbed Neve’s list. There it was, close to the bottom.

  She looked back at the article. Was it possible? Had her stepbrother really become an award-winning businessman? She stared at the screen, as if Dillon himself might glide through it. One leg bounced up and down as nerves took over, and she pressed a palm against her knee, trying to still it. Only one way to find out… Reaching for her cell phone before she lost her nerve, she dialed eleven numbers and closed her eyes.

  The phone began to ring.

  Maggie almost hung up. If Spectacular ‘Scapes was in fact Dillon’s business, if he answered the phone himself, what was she going to say after all this time? How was she going to dance around everything that had happened, all the years that had sailed by since the last time she’d seen him? Her thumb moved to cut the connection. I should think of something reasonable and convincing, she thought. I should call back when I have a plan. She didn’t think blurting out Hi, Dillon, I know it’s been a while but do you think you could loan me fifteen thousand dollars? would be her best opening.

  The line beeped, and a recording came on and saved her. “Hi, you’ve reached the office of Spectacular ‘Scapes. Please leave us a message, and we’ll get back to you. Have a great day.”

  Maggie frowned. It wasn’t Dillon’s voice—it wasn’t a male voice at all—but she supposed that didn’t mean anything. Could be a secretary, or a co-worker. She hung up without saying a word.

  Now what? She couldn’t just leave a message. What if it wasn’t him after all? What if he didn’t return her call? What if he waited until Monday to check his voicemail? She needed to talk to her stepbrother as soon as possible. Really, she needed to see him, to explain face to face what she was asking him for and why.

  Eyes back to the clock. Two-fifteen and counting. No other choice, the voice inside her head began chirping. If you can’t reach him on the phone, then you have to go to Boston and try to find him.

  “I can’t,” she said aloud.

  You have to, the voice answered.

  Maggie rubbed her temples as the headache began to win again. She stared at the dots of lights behind her eyelids and thought she could probably count thousands. Fifteen thousand, four hundred and eighty, to be exact. She peeled open her eyes and ran a finger down Neve’s list, checking the address. If she got in her car now and sped the sixty miles north, she could be in Boston by four o’clock or so. Maybe sooner. But he’s not in his office, the voice reminded her. Where will you find him? What if you can’t find him? What if he’s done for the day? What if he’s on vacation for the next two weeks?

  “Well, someone must be there,” she said. “Right?”

  But she didn’t know if that was right at all. She didn’t know if landscapers kept regular hours. She didn’t even know if they kept regular offices, or just machines in empty rooms that picked up calls while their owners planted flowers and shrubs.

  “Damn!” She slapped the flat of her hand against the desk. Why did she have to do this all by herself? Why couldn’t she think of one other person besides poor Neve to help her shoulder the efforts?

  Maggie froze as an idea struck her. “Eden Fife,” she said out loud. “Jesus, why didn’t I think of her sooner?” For the last year and a half, Maggie’s former college roommate had manned the phones at one of Boston’s top law firms. She was also a member of a half-dozen social groups in the city. Maggie grabbed her cell phone again. If anyone can help me find Dillon, it’s Eden. That woman has connections most people only dream of.

  She thumbed down through her phone book, hoping she hadn’t deleted Eden’s work number in some mad fit of clearing out last month.

  Eden — Home.

  Eden — Work.

  Thank God. She dialed and prayed it wasn’t lunchtime or quitting time or some other kind of formal-office-ritual time up there. Please answer. Please.

  “McGrath, Lyons, and Yearwood.” The voice, crisp and professional, with just a hint of Virginia gentility, picked up on the second ring.

  “Eden? It’s Maggie.”

  The voice sucked in a breath. “Mags? Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I haven’t heard from you in ages. Y’all all right down there?” Though Eden had lived in the north for over ten years, at times her Southern drawl still dripped like honey. To Maggie it spoke of times gone by, of carefree college days, of endless nights of studying and pizza breaks and swearing never again over the guys who broke their hearts.

  “Hi. Yeah, I’m all right.” She tried to remember how to have a normal conversation before leaping into desperation.

  “Well, it’s been too long. I miss you. What are you doing with yourself these days?”

  “Um…surviving.”

  Eden paused and Maggie could almost see her friend cocking her head to one side. Blonde hair would fall like a curtain across her face as she weighed the words. “What is that supposed to mean? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  Maggie took a deep breath. “Actually, I’m trying to find someone up there in Boston. I was hoping you could help me.”

  Eden laughed, a throaty sound that made Maggie long for days of margarita-drinking, whistling at the guys playing football outside their window, studying until midnight and then driving to the harbor just to listen to the waves.

  “You are too much, Mags,” she said. “It’s a guy, isn’t it? You met a guy and he hasn’t called you back and so you want me to track him down. Sure, I’ll do it.”

  I wish, Maggie thought. “It’s not a guy,” she said. “Not the way you mean, anyway.”

  “So what exactly are we talking about? Who do you need to find?”

  Maggie said the name she hadn’t spoken aloud in years. “Dillon Murphy.”

  “Your stepbrother?”

  She expected Eden’s surprise. In all the years of their friendship, she’d mentioned Dillon exactly twice: once before the operation, and once eighteen months later, after breaking up with the one man she’d wanted to spend her life with. Both times, sobs had virtually obscured her words, so she wasn’t sure Eden remembered much of what she’d said. But the agony, the blame, the heartbreak behind the tears—that had been pretty apparent, Maggie guessed.

  “Mind if I ask why?’

  “How much time do you have?”

  “Not enough, from what it sounds like. Okay, save the details for later. How soon do you need to find him?”

  “As soon as I can. I’m pretty sure he owns a landscaping business up there. Spectacular ‘Scapes. I called, but all I got was the machine.” She took a deep breath. “Listen, I’m going to drive up. Today. I’ve got to figure out where to find him. If he’s not in his office, I don’t have any idea where to start looking.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.” Eden rustled some papers in the background. “When will you be here?”

  “Maybe four or so? If traffic isn’t too bad.”

  “Call me when you get into town. And I’ll call you back if I hear anything between now and then.” Eden paused. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else I can do to help? Do you need money?”

  Maggie shook her head, surprised that
it had taken her friend nearly ten minutes to guess the truth. “No. But thanks for offering.” Though Eden worked as executive assistant to one of the top defense attorneys in the city, Maggie was sure that her posh little apartment, designer clothes, and the zippy red sports car she drove more than sucked dry her weekly paycheck. No, finding Dillon was the most practical answer. She could only hope.

  *

  Dillon swung his pick-up truck into the space marked “Reserved” and dodged raindrops on his way inside the office. Flipping on the overhead light, he settled himself into the chair behind his computer. Two of his guys had stopped by, judging by the paperwork lying on his desk and the half-full pot of coffee. He poured himself a cup and stuck it in the microwave to warm up. Scanning his appointment book, he mentally rearranged the jobs for sunnier days.

  Rained more this month than any other June I can remember, he thought. When he was a kid, summers seemed to stretch out with sunshine from dawn to dusk. Any rain that passed through came and went in the time it took to run inside and have a snack at the kitchen table. He ran a finger down the list of jobs he’d had to reschedule just this month: six. Not good. Fatigue, helped by the previous night’s tequila shots, pinched the back of his neck and squeezed his temples. Dillon flopped into a slouch and closed his eyes for a minute.

  The memory slipped inside his mind’s eye before he could shoo it away.

  *

  “Dillon, will you make me one?” Her voice, too big for her tiny, ten-year old frame, bounced across the room to him.

  “Nope. Go away.”

  “Please. I won’t bother you again for the rest of the day. I promise.” In an instant, his kid sister Maggie was pulling a chair up next to him, leaning both elbows on the table and staring at his sandwich like she hadn’t eaten in a year.

  “Yeah, right. In an hour you’ll be bugging me to let you play in the fort with me and Jimmy.” At thirteen, he knew he should pretend to be too old to talk to little girls or make them sandwiches. Still, down deep, he sort of liked Maggie. He liked the way she followed him around, the way she only let him apply her Band-Aids, the way she sat curled up next to him on the couch when they watched television at night. At least when Dad married this time, Dillon had gotten a sister out of the deal. That was pretty cool.

  “Please, Dillon.” She refused to let her mother trim her bangs and crazy curls fell into her face. He laughed; he couldn’t help it. And when he put down his sandwich to take a long drink of milk, she snatched it from his plate and ran into the living room, giving it back only when he caught her and tickled her until she squealed.

  *

  Dillon’s eyes flew open as the telephone rang. Jesus, he thought, where did that memory come from? He ran a palm over his forehead and found it damp with perspiration.

  “Good afternoon, Spectacular ‘Scapes, may I help you?” The words came out in one long, ragged sentence.

  A woman cleared her throat and said, “Yes, hello. I’m interested in getting an estimate for a flagstone patio?”

  “Sure, go ahead.” He grabbed a notepad and jotted down the woman’s address and phone number. At least the rain hadn’t chased away potential clients. He’d just have to find a way to work them all in.

  “Could I ask you another favor?” the woman went on.

  “Sure.”

  “Well, I’m the vice-president of the Women’s Horticulture Club of Greater Boston. Would you be interested in donating any items to a charity auction we’re holding next month? You know, like a landscaping consultation, or a lawn treatment, or…”

  “Ah, I’m not sure…” Dillon wasn’t very good at this part of the business, schmoozing to get his name splashed across the paper. J.J. usually handled publicity.

  “It’s a tax write-off, of course, and all our proceeds go to the local shelter for battered women.”

  Well, I’ll sound like a real schmuck if I say no to that. “Could you let me talk to my partner and get back to you?”

  “Of course,” she answered. “We’ll be putting together the list of donations through next weekend.” She paused. “Incidentally, I’ll be at the Deveau Ball this evening. Will you be attending? Maybe we can talk a little business while we’re there.”

  Dillon cleared his throat. “Actually, I plan on it...” He’d almost forgotten.

  “Wonderful. Well, I’ll make sure to find you while I’m there, then. Have a good afternoon.”

  “You too,” Dillon mumbled as he replaced the receiver.

  Rubbing one thumb against the nub of his ponytail, he closed his eyes. Against his will, his imagination replayed that morning’s conversation with Ellis Casterline’s daughter. What was her name? Wilma? Willow, that was it. Might as well be Maggie Doyle, though.

  God, he didn’t want to think about his sister today, didn’t want to remember. But it was almost as if today, he couldn’t think of anything else.

  *

  Still a little stoned from the weed they’d smoked earlier that night, Dillon and his buddy huddled in the shadows by the mailbox. They shared the end of a butt and laughed. One glance at the light slipping through Maggie’s first-floor window told him his kid sister was the only one still up. Sam followed Dillon’s gaze and whistled under his breath.

  “You sure got a cute sis.”

  “Shut up.” Dillon elbowed his friend. “I‘ll kill you if you even think about it.”

  Sam didn’t answer, just shrugged and grinned as he finished the cigarette and toed it out in the gravel of the driveway. “Mind if I use your bathroom?” He jerked his thumb toward the Murphy’s front door.

  Dillon frowned. “Can’t you take a piss out here?” If his dad caught him sneaking anyone in after curfew again, he’d be grounded until graduation.

  “It’s not pissing I gotta take care of.”

  “Yeah, all right, whatever. Just make it fast and keep your mouth shut.” Dillon tiptoed around the shrubs, up the drive, and opened the door with a silent, practiced motion. Together they made their way through the dark foyer and past the kitchen, leaving all the lights off. Sam knew where the toilet was; he’d been to the house a half-dozen times. Dillon crept to the bottom of the staircase and listened. Nothing but his father’s snores so far. Good thing.

  “Hurry up,” he hissed, following Sam toward the hallway that led to the downstairs bedrooms. He hooked his thumbs in the loops of his jeans, leaned against the wall, and kept one eye focused on the staircase.

  Halfway down the hall Sam stopped

  Maggie’s door opened a few inches, and her round, freckled face peeked out.

  “Hey, Maggie.”

  Dillon jabbed his friend in the back, but Sam ignored him.

  Maggie’s eyes flicked back and forth from her stepbrother to Sam Knight, captain of the football team and president of the senior class. A flush rose in her cheeks and she opened her door all the way.

  “What are you guys doing?” It was a whisper, a laugh, a biting of the bottom lip. Clad in an over-sized t-shirt and a pair of Dillon’s white tube socks, she leaned in the doorway and stared at Sam.

  “Came by to say hello,” Sam said. He ran a hand over that buzz cut that all the girls at school seemed to drool over and edged his way closer.

  That was enough for Dillon. Grabbing Sam by the arm, he hauled him into the kitchen. “Stay away from my sister. I mean it. You even look at her wrong, I’ll send your ass into next year.”

  Sam shrugged, a good-natured grin still on his face. “Hey, I was just saying hi.” He raised both palms as if proclaiming his innocence and shuffled into the bathroom.

  Dillon glanced over at Maggie, who still stood in her doorway. The smile had left her face, and she shot him a glance he could read as plain as day: I’m fine, older brother. Stop worrying about me. Don’t hang around my room and play cop.

  He sighed and ignored her. She didn’t get it. Somehow, over the last year, Maggie had turned from an annoying little kid with a head of crazy hair into this slender thing with curls fall
ing down her back and a figure that filled out every damn thing she put on. Shit, she had no idea how the guys at school reacted to that.

  I should warn her, Dillon thought. I’ve got to tell her to be careful, let her know what guys say, the way they think. I can’t always be around to watch out for her. Tomorrow, he told himself. I’ll drive Mags to school and give her a heads-up.

  Two minutes later, the toilet flushed, and a bleary-eyed Sam emerged. “See ya later,” he whispered.

  Dillon nodded and turned toward his own room, down the hall from Maggie’s. Sam knew enough to lock the door behind him. He knew to let the screen door ease shut rather than squeal with a jolt. Dillon didn’t watch his friend disappear into the night shadows. He didn’t wait to hear Sam’s jalopy start up for the two-mile drive home. Instead, dozy from the weed and the late hour, he slipped off to bed. His eyes closed before he reached the pillow.

  Not once did I think anything would happen.

  Not once did I think I should have stayed and played chaperone.

  It wasn’t my fault. Sam was gone. The door was locked.

  It was only the next morning that Dillon found out the truth.

  *

  On his way back from lunch, Jack stopped at the huge mahogany desk outside his office.

  “Suzie, what’s my calendar look like for next Wednesday?”

  The ample-bosomed woman in her early forties fluttered her lashes at him. No secret around the office that the CEO’s secretary had a schoolgirl’s crush on her boss. In her tight sweaters and heavy make-up, she preened and posed each time he walked by.

  “Let me see.” Swiveling her chair to the computer behind her, she typed a few keys and hummed. Frosted blonde hair bobbed as she did so.

  “Conference call with Les Axeman at noon. Other than that, nothing scheduled.”

  “Okay. Leave the rest of the day free, if you can. I might have to make a trip down to Rhode Island.” He hated to think about wrapping up the purchase himself, but sometimes Carl turned soft when he had to make cutthroat deals face to face. Jack would save mid-week for the mop-up just in case.