MAGPIE

  Likewise, I came to know Daniel had been divorced for five years and was married twice; his adored teenage daughter, Sami, a product of the first. His second marriage was a mistake, a rebound that didn’t last a year. Unlike me, his parents were gone. Like me, Daniel had one sibling, an older brother named David who lived and worked overseas. Most importantly, I knew Daniel was a Southern man who had no plans to move. Ever.

  “So, I know what you look like, how you write, and now I know what you sound like—the only thing left, really, is to know what you feel like.”

  Twelve words from sixteen-hundred miles away, and I’d become instantly aroused. He’d known I’d react that way, and secretly I’d hoped his voice would have the same effect as his texting, which it had…and then some. His voice, radio announcer smooth, had sent me over the top, reeling with thoughts of fucking his brains out. Out of control and my mind spinning, I couldn’t form an adult sentence,

  “Yeah, uh, I have to go…have a meeting in a few. Talk later?”

  “You got it, Mags! Have a splendid day.”

  I adored how Daniel used the word “splendid.” My online thesaurus showed alternatives like, grand, superb, impressive, marvelous, wonderful, and magnificent. Half of the selection would have sounded ridiculous, the other half, unimpressive. “Splendid,” on the other hand, was…Astaire like. How did Daniel know I was a word junkie? Words that weren’t in full circulation tickled me; those that were bored me. Like people, I thought.

  As much as I enjoyed talking with Daniel, I cherished our secret virtual world of texting. It had started innocently,

  DANIEL: Hello Mags

  MAGS: Hi!

  DANIEL: Nice not to have to log on

  MAGS: Indeed

  DANIEL: What r u doing?

  MAGS: Fixing dinner, u?

  DANIEL: Reading

  MAGS: What

  DANIEL: Boring work stuff

  MAGS: Like what

  DANIEL: Rafa, a tennis pro

  MAGS: Oh, not “Raffi?”

  DANIEL: The children’s songwriter?

  MAGS: Ya! u know him?

  DANIEL: What parent doesn’t

  MAGS: Hmmm

  DANIEL: Hmmm what?

  MAGS: Just Hmmm

  DANIEL: Guess what

  MAGS: What

  DANIEL: U r making me a better texter

  MAGS: Don’t u text your daughter

  DANIEL: Yeah, like “how r u” then, “fine, u?” then “good”

  MAGS: That’s it?

  DANIEL: I think she’s embarrassed her dad texts her

  MAGS: I wish I saved Michael’s texts

  DANIEL: I can only imagine, Mags

  MAGS: Ya, kinda sad

  DANIEL: Let’s call it a nite and talk tomorrow ok

  MAGS: Sure and thanks

  DANIEL: For what?

  MAGS: For not feeling sorry for me

  Without speaking, we’d cut through all the bullshit that typically plagued a new relationship, romantic or otherwise. Texting had become our regular form of communication and it felt like we’d known each other for years. Was it easier with Daniel because of the geographic cushion? Could people be more real in an unreal world?

  I didn’t know and didn’t care. It was fun and seemed harmless, so I was just went with it.

  No one knew about the steamy virtual affair I was having with a guy some would call a complete stranger. After all, what did I know about Daniel? I hadn’t run a background check on the man. Why would I? I didn’t find him threatening, and, even if he were an ax murderer, he’d have to travel a long way to knock me off.

  ***

  I’d dozed thinking of our first call and text. Coming to, I tried to shake off a terrifying scene that popped up: Me, alone on a class-five river, frantically navigating jagged boulders with no end in sight. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping it was my ridiculous imagination and not a premonition.

  A quick glance at the clock showed more than fifteen minutes had elapsed, consumed by imagined portraits of Daniel. Welling from my gut, they became the main ingredient in an emotional soup expertly spiced with guilt, regret, doubt and fear. Guilt seasoned everything I did, said, touched and felt; regret coated my throat, making the future hard to swallow; and doubt soaked through every layer of my skin, impossible to rinse, no matter how hard I scrubbed. Over time, however, the strength of those spices waned. They were nothing more than epicurean bungles best concealed with sugar.

  Fear, on the other hand, burned the inside of my mouth. Its vapors stung my eyes and scorched my nasal passages. If not perfectly balanced, fear would ruin every attempt at sensory satiation.

  Mags, focus! Big presentation today, remember?

  Hoisting myself out of bed, I made my way to the kitchen.

  ***

  I love the month of May. Snow long gone (with the exception of a freak storm), my gardens begin to form, mostly green foliage with tulips and iris scattering brilliant colors in between. Chilly nights force me to keep the furnace going, but during the day, I open the windows for long-awaited fresh air. This time of year challenges my professionalism. I struggle to leave home in the morning, usually taking a few extra minutes to enjoy a third cup of coffee, listening to the birds and watching Cody frolic from my perch on the back deck.

  Thankfully, things had begun to slow down at work. My last big project had ended a few weeks earlier on May 1, “May Day.”

  Out with the old, in with the new…how fitting, I thought.

  The first quarter of every year generated more projects than my team should have been able to handle, yet we’d always managed to execute on time and within budget. Still, by the middle of the second quarter, we all were ready for a break. For Christmas the year before, Tony crafted bumper stickers for everyone, poking fun at project managers: “PM’s: Perpetual Maniacs.”

  I didn’t even know what a project manager was when I was in college. I thought about going to law school after I graduated, but I met Jack, who was two years ahead of me studying engineering. When it became clear we were meant for each other, I decided one graduate student in a young marriage was enough. Jack resisted, saying I’d make a great lawyer; I said I’d probably make a better wife.

  Soon after our wedding, Jack enrolled in the geological engineering graduate program at Mines, which happened to be located in Golden, just twenty minutes from our home in Denver. I’d applied for a job at a mid-sized tech firm that developed software for telecommunications companies. I wasn’t tech savvy and feared I wouldn’t make the cut. Nevertheless, the position was administrative in nature and I successfully convinced the hiring manager I could make my way around an office. Over time, I proved to be an exceptional project manager. I earned my Project Management Professional certification, courtesy of the company, and later became a Six Sigma Black Belt. As the director for a unit within the innovation division, I led a team of brilliant PMs, all of whom were Type A personalities. Possessing the same personality type, I nevertheless appreciated down time and often stole a few extra minutes on sunny mornings to soak in early spring’s splendor.

  It was Friday, and I’d decided to take the day off and head to my favorite spot for shopping: Home Depot. But first, a latte, made perfectly at an eclectic coffee house operated by a charming Lebanese man whose eyes were brilliant green, flecked with gold. Sometimes I wondered if I stopped there for no other reason than to gaze into his exquisite pools.

  “Hey Adnan, ready for a day of sunshine and brilliant blue Colorado skies?” I asked.

  I didn’t know what was more hypnotizing, Adnan’s eyes or the flash of his perfect white teeth as he welcomed me with his genuine smile.

  Earnestly, he said, “Maggie, even if it was snowing, you’d brighten my day!”

  “How’s Jamie? I hope to see more of her this summer now that she’s out of school. Has she found a job yet?”

  Jamila was Adnan’s wife, a real beauty with smooth, honey-colored skin and golden eyes. Aside from her striking looks, she w
as quite intelligent, having recently defended her dissertation—something to do with bioengineering. I loved talking to her about Lebanon, strife in the Middle East, and life as a Muslim woman in such a male-dominated field.

  “Yes, she did! A start up contacted her and offered her a very attractive deal. They are in Boulder, so the commute may be rough, but the work is exciting. It’s a biomimetics firm that does artificial intelligence stuff. Anything more, you’ll have to ask Jamie.” Adnan was proud of his wife and beamed whenever I asked about her. I couldn’t wait for them to have babies.

  I hadn’t needed to place an order since becoming a regular the day Adnan opened his place; half the time my caffeine fix was on the house. On those occasions, my tip more than covered the cost of the steaming beverage.

  “Thanks, Adnan, heading out to Home Depot to begin my spring ritual.” Already with another customer, Adnan nodded and flashed his mesmerizing smile.

  I jumped into Beater, placed my latte in the cup holder, and adjusted my rearview mirror to make sure I hadn’t been talking to Adnan with a crusty nose. Dad always said God played a practical joke when he made me. I loved the outdoors, gardening especially, but my immune system reacted violently to pollen. He urged me to “muscle through it,” which I did, never looking back. Mom, less of a Catholic and more of a realist, said that it was no practical joke, but flawed genes. When I got older, I often reminded my mother that I took after her side of the family more so than Dad’s.

  My phone buzzed just as I started the engine,

  Today, 8:12 AM

  DANIEL: Betcha I know what u r doing

  MAGS: Ya?

  DANIEL: Slowly tracing your swollen pussy, thinking of me

  MAGS: Nope, not even close

  DANIEL: :(

  MAGS: Betcha I know what u r doing

  DANIEL: Ya?

  MAGS: Stroking your incredibly engorged cock

  DANIEL: Yup

  MAGS: W/o me??

  DANIEL: Yup

  MAGS: U will have to finish w/o me, I’m on the road

  DANIEL: Latr then

  MAGS: Latr

  What had started as late-night exploits now trickled into our mornings, days and afternoons. We were so comfortable with each other that choosing not to play wasn’t a sign of rejection, but simple postponement of something delicious. Daniel worked from home and could step away at almost any time, which electrified me. I never knew when I’d get a text and what kind of text it would be. The thrill of our “arrangement” seeped into every moment of the day.

  There were times when I wanted to share my on-line fling with Katie. I struggled keeping it to myself because we shared almost everything—always had. I’d begun to feel guilty when we hung out, so I minimized those occasions. Her new position was demanding, making it somewhat easier to keep our distance, thankfully. Worked for me, otherwise I’d worry that she’d detect my secret that could have easily been teased out with a glass of wine or two.

  A few hours later I was loading Beater with flats of alyssum, baby blue eyes and African daisies for sunny spots, and a few flats of impatiens and begonias for the shady areas. I grabbed a few bags of potting soil for my containers, and mulch and soil amendment for my perennial gardens. Sweat was beginning to drip down my neck; guessing the temperature to be around seventy-five degrees, it was only 10:30 in the morning. I predicted that by midday, it’d be eighty to ninety degrees.

  Properly hydrated, I unloaded my garden essentials and worked non-stop until a quarter to five, or thereabouts. I’d left my phone inside, freeing myself from the ties of technology, and dedicated my full attention to my botanical world—except for the side of my brain that processed the steady stream of ’60s and ’70s folk music blaring from my iPod.

  Finished for the day, I schlepped up my deck steps and remembered about dinner with Katie. I drank a glass of cucumber water before picking up the phone to call and cancel, when I decided not to; I didn’t want to deal with her disappointment. I texted instead,

  Today, 4:53 PM

  MAGS: Hey

  KATIE: Hey

  MAGS: Been in the yard all day – can’t even move now, rain chk?

  KATIE: God I forgot! Sure, that’s fine cuz we have tix to Adelle!

  MAGS: Oh I forgot – why did we even plan tonite? LOL!

  KATIE: I know, right

  MAGS: Will call next wk?

  KATIE: Sure

  MAGS: xxxooo

  KATIE: x 2

  Before I could text Daniel, my phone buzzed with a call. It was Bill, Match Date #2.

  Fuck.

  “Hello?” I answered with an uninterested tone, hoping he’d catch on.

  Normally, I didn’t play games, but this guy was clueless. Not long into our date, I’d shared my view that we didn’t have much in common, hoping he’d agree. He didn’t; blowing past my comment like a lead NASCAR driver, Bill went on to brag about having an autographed copy of Ann Coulter’s How to Talk to a Liberal, followed by a detailed description of his mission experiences in Indonesia, including a proud moment where he and his church fellows had managed to “save” the indigenous people who’d graciously hosted their trip. I’d shared a few highlights of my political, social and religious beliefs, certain they would scare off this clueless chump. At the end of dinner, awaiting the check, I’d added a closing remark, hoping to underscore our mismatch:

  Bill, thank you for dinner. But I’m not sure we’re a “match,” as they say.

  I thought we had a great time tonight, Maggie. What did I say or do to put you off like this?

  Almost everything, really.

  Ha! Such a joker. Can I see you again?

  No, Bill, I don’t think so. Hope you can understand.

  Disbelief had pooled in Bill’s eyes. Had he really not understood?

  Shaking my head back to reality—and Bill’s call—I listened for a response, “Hi Maggie, it’s Bill. How are you?”

  Pissed that you don’t fucking get it, Bill. How the hell are you? I so wanted to say.

  “Oh hi, Bill. I’m whipped, been in the garden all day. How are you?”

  Please read between the lines.

  “Well, it sounds like you could use a nice dinner and glass of wine. I know it’s last minute, but I’ve been thinking about you lately.”

  Uh huh…

  “I know we got off to a rocky start, we probably shouldn’t have talked about the things they tell you not to talk about on the first date, right?” He chuckled, amused with himself. I couldn’t get a word in, before he said, “Look, no strings, no hidden agenda. I seriously like your company and find you so damn interesting. Nothing like the twits you get on Match.”

  ‘Twits’ you get on Match?

  “What do you say, Maggie? My treat, of course.”

  Even Cody begged with more style. Still, I could sit through a conversation with him if it meant a great dinner at one of Denver’s premier steak houses.

  “Well, Bill, you make an interesting offer. No strings, just dinner? No convincing me to convert?”

  Don’t poke the bear, Mags.

  “You make me laugh, Maggie! No, just conversion, I promise…this time anyway.” He was completely in love with himself. No wonder he had no need for a twit.

  Just an interesting broad like me, I silently concluded.

  I rolled my eyes like Katie used to do when our mother directed her to clean her room. I rarely employed that tactic, and was surprised at my reaction. With a tone of indifference, I said, “On one condition, then. We go to Del Frisco’s. How we get in on a Friday night is your problem, deal?”

  A few seconds lapsed before Bill pronounced, “Deal!”

  Bill had suggested that we meet at seven-thirty and it was already half past five. Del Frisco’s was a good thirty minutes away, which meant I had to feed Cody, shower and find something decent to wear in ninety minutes. Utterly do-able.

  My skin tingled with a slight burn as I showered and shampooed my hair. Thankfully, I had my mother’s co
loring that tanned easily. Her folks were French, while full-blown Irish was Dad’s claim to fame—as much fame as one can claim in western Colorado. Poor Katie got the Irish tones: pink and pinker. When I get a little sun, my skin turns golden, a color people try and replicate in tanning booths. Bons genes…touché, mom.

  I didn’t need much time to get ready. I’d quit straightening my hair years ago, and I wore very little make up—none on the weekends. My parents thought I was pretty, in a natural sort of way. Jack’s nickname for me was “beautiful;” not just for my outward appearance, so he said. If asked, I’d probably say I was “nice looking,” probably adding “for a fifty-five year old.” On the other hand, Daniel insisted that I was gorgeous.

  “Gotta love the limits of technology,” I snickered to myself.

  I found a black sleeveless maxi dress in the back of my closet and pulled it out. I’d worn it only once, having scored it from a 75% off rack at H&M last fall. It hung nicely on my body, unlike most straight skirts and dresses. I was curvy, always had been; my ass attracting more glances from ethnic men than white. I’d come to appreciate my looks, pitying women who had body-image issues. Fretting over a couple extra pounds was too damn exhausting, and I simply had better things to do with my time.

  It was a cool May night, so I grabbed a teal knit shrug and paired it with a scarf of similar shades. I chose a necklace and matching earrings that Michael had picked up for me in Milan when he was stationed in Italy. He said they matched my eyes, the color of shallow Caribbean waters. I hadn’t thought of Michael lately, though my eyes instantly brimmed with tears. He’d be twenty-nine years old now; his children are seven, twins. They look so much like their papa, a bittersweet pill because every time I see them, I see Michael. They’d come to Colorado every year since Michael died, except that first year. I could have gone to California; Carrie’s invitation was open ended. But I never took her up on it…some things I just couldn’t do.

  It was almost half past six according to my phone, which buzzed with a text from Daniel,

  Today, 6:27 PM

  Daniel: You sore?

  MAGS: Terribly