Maggie Box Set

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  Collin whistles. “Maggie slept with Zach?”

  Ava smoothes her dress over her flat stomach. “Not exactly. I’ll take a double as well.”

  “Speaking of sluts, Ava did actually sleep with my boyfriend at the time.” Maggie smiles angelically. “Michele, a drink for you?”

  Collin cocks an eyebrow at his girlfriend.

  Ava shrugs. “Zach and I had split up. I hated Maggie. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Michele says, “I’ll wait for Rashidi.”

  “The wait is over, my love.” Rashidi appears behind her and kisses her neck.

  Ava launches herself at him. He twirls her in a hug. Her accent returns. “I miss you ass. How much of that you hear?”

  “Enough.” Rashidi shakes Collin’s hand, kisses Maggie’s cheek, and returns to slip his arm around Michele. His accent comes out thick. “Welcome home, Maggie girl. Sorry about Gary.”

  “Thank you. Drink?”

  “I take a Shiner.”

  Michele nods. “Shiner for me. I have a feeling some of us need to pace ourselves. And referee.”

  Maggie hands out the drinks. As Ava grasps hers, Maggie holds on to it. “Baby daddy. So no more Zach?”

  “God, no.”

  “Good call. He’s a little effeminate.” Maggie releases the drink.

  Ava freezes, then giggles. “True dat.”

  “How many babies with Tom Cruise here?” Maggie nudges her head in Collin’s direction.

  Ava turns off her island accent again without missing a beat. “One. I have a daughter, and we have a son.”

  “Handsome devil, like his dad,” Collin says.

  “They’re staying with Collin’s sister, Katie, while we’re here. She sings with me sometimes, too.”

  Maggie nods. She remembers that Ava’s newer music includes a soprano with a twangy voice, more than backup, less than shared top billing. Ava Butler with Katie-somebody-or-other. The relationships start to make sense to her. Katie, law school roommate of Michele. Singing partner of Ava. Sister of Collin. Old boss of Emily. Thinking of Emily reminds her of Amarillo, and of karaoke. “Just so you know, I sing your songs better than you.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  “Huh?”

  “Emily sent me the video.”

  “Wait. Emily what?”

  “Somebody put it up on YouTube. You’re trending on social media. Thanks for making me money—it kicked my sales up.”

  “I haven’t even gotten online since I did it. I had no idea.”

  Ava raises an eyebrow and sips the Balcones. “You like my songs, then?”

  “They’re all right.” Maggie remembers singing them driving home the day before. Catchy for sure, dammit.

  “I’ll admit your versions were the best I’ve ever heard from anyone but me. Talent never held you back.”

  “No, I did that all by myself.”

  “Seriously, even though I’m not big on folk or whatever—”

  “Alt-country. Texana.”

  Ava bobs her head. “Whatever. But even though it’s not my thing, your stuff is good. Respect.”

  “Thank you. Yours, too.”

  “Not like the already-been-chewed bubblegum all over the place lately. Kelly-what’s-her-name.”

  Maggie can’t disagree about Gary’s little sister.

  “Do I sense a truce?” Rashidi says.

  Ava and Maggie give each other the slant-eye.

  Maggie nods. “For Michele’s sake.”

  Ava smiles. “As long as she doesn’t come near my man.”

  Maggie smiles back. “Good thing for Collin I don’t have one for him to worry about you with.”

  Michele says, “Speaking of which, I can’t vouch for Maggie’s mouth or behavior. She’s having the bad day to end all bad days, which includes three dead ex-boyfriends and getting dumped by the fourth.”

  “Damn, girl.” Ava lifts her glass at her.

  “Thanks for the share, Michele. You left out being a murder suspect and having a squatter living in my house, but I think you hit the major high points.” Maggie stretches her arms over her head as she arches her back. She purrs, “But I can’t catch nobody doesn’t wanna be caught.”

  “Bottoms up to that,” Collin says, raising his glass.

  Thirteen

  Too much Balcones later, Maggie falls asleep in her semipermanent room at Michele’s. She bolts upright in the wee hours of the morning. Her room is pitch dark, but her heart is hammering. There’s someone in the room with her. Or is it just an impression left from a bad dream?

  After long moments with her breath held, listening, she punches her pillow and digs her head into it. There’s no one in the room. She’s being ridiculous. Half an hour passes. Maggie doesn’t fall asleep. She tries to count sheep, but all she sees are disgustingly happy couples jumping the fence. Rashidi and Michele, Ava and Collin, Emily and Jack, Wallace and Ethan, Hank and Sheila. Hank and Sheila? That pisses her off and brings her fully from relaxed and groggy to wide awake.

  She sits up, then gets the feeling again. Like someone is watching her, from close by. She slinks down and pulls the covers over her head. That gives her the bed-spins. She sits up.

  And screams.

  A woman with a fat gray braid tied with a scarf in a big bow at its end is rocking in the chair next to the window. Her legs are long, her hands clasped in her lap. Are those roses and skulls on her plaid shirt? Wisps of hair frame a moon-shaped, moon-colored face. Her eyes are so dark they’re like cutouts against the night sky.

  She turns her face toward Maggie and puts a finger over white lips.

  “Who are you?” Maggie whispers.

  The woman stops rocking. Sad tears flow down her cheeks in a silver river. Like Maggie has disappointed her somehow.

  “What are you doing here?”

  A knock sounds at the door. Maggie jumps. The woman in the rocker disappears.

  “You okay in there?” It’s Michele’s voice.

  “Bad dream.”

  “You drank too much.”

  “You didn’t drink enough.”

  “Night, Maggie.”

  “Night.”

  Maggie looks back at the rocking chair. Moonlight streams into a seat empty except for a blue scarf with a field of white stars. No, she thinks, that can’t be from the woman she’d seen. She wasn’t real. It was a dream. The scarf has to be something Michele or someone left there earlier.

  Michele is right. She drank too much.

  Fourteen

  Morning is a gut punch to Maggie. Had she slept at all? She groans, rolls to her stomach, and puts a pillow over her head. She hears Louise even through the pillow. Maybe that’s what woke her. A dog needing to go out. Shit. She sits and hangs her feet over the edge of the bed. Her stomach lurches. A tongue laps at her toes.

  “Louise, stop.”

  Floppy black-and-white ears rise above the mattress, followed by a black button nose and shining eyes.

  “What time is it?”

  The dog cocks her head.

  Maggie leans down into her hands, elbows on her knees. The room tilts. Last night is a blur. Why did she drink so much? The string of awful events of the last two weeks wash back over her, ending with the appearance of Ava Butler in Michele’s living room. As bad as all the rest is, Ava is the explanation for the hangover.

  “As long as you don’t like her, we’re all right.”

  Louise gives the wood floors a good sweeping with her bushy tail.

  The dog goes to the door and whines again. Maggie opens the door just enough for Louise to push her way out. Seconds later, she hears barking and human greetings for Louise and a “What did you do with Maggie?” which she ignores in favor of a shower and toothbrush.

  Fifteen minutes later, the world is less like the rocking deck of a ship. The morning after drinking never gets any easier, no matter how much she practices. She soft-foots into the kitchen. The clock on the stove says it’s nine. Too damn early. Is it too mu
ch to hope that Ava and her hunky man have left for the day?

  “Good morning, Maggie. You look like shit.” Ava sets a pod into the Keurig. “I was making this for me, but you clearly need it more than I do.”

  Maggie shoots her a bird. “Good morning, everyone.”

  Rashidi is standing behind Michele, his hand on her shoulder, an empty plate in front of her. “We saved you some breakfast.” He points to a plate with corn tortillas, scrambled eggs, refried black beans, salsa, and a sprinkling of shredded cheese.

  “Thanks.”

  Michele sees Maggie scanning the room and guesses what she’s looking for. “Dogs are outside.”

  “Ah, good.”

  The front door opens and Collin appears in running shorts and shoes, dripping sweat down his bare, bulky chest. “Damn, it’s humid here.” He walks straight to Ava. Before she can get away, he wraps her in a wet hug.

  “Ick, Collin, no.” But she turns in his arms and kisses him, long and hard.

  Maggie snatches her plate, looking away. She doesn’t bother warming her food, just plants herself at the bar and shovels it in. Her stomach rebels, but she’s not about to let it win, especially not with all the mushy-gushy lovey-dovey going on around her—just like when she tried to count sheep. It’s enough to toss breakfast over, if her hangover isn’t.

  Collin releases Ava. “Maggie, that funny-looking dog of yours is carrying a possum around in its mouth.”

  Maggie flinches. “Dead?”

  “Well, I didn’t stop and check its pulse, but that’s my guess.”

  Louise, a bloodthirsty killer? Her golden retrievers had tried to catch squirrels and other small animals, but they were too floppy and goofy to ever succeed. Maggie pictures Gary’s finger in Louise’s mouth. Bile rises in her mouth. But Louise had been trying to save Gary. That was different. Must think of something else.

  “That’s disgusting,” Ava announces.

  “What’s up with you today, Maggie?” Michele rises, gathering empty plates and taking them to the dishwasher.

  Ava sets the fresh cup of coffee beside Maggie’s plate. “Here you go. Maybe some caffeine will take a few years off around your eyes.” She points at them. “Dark circles.”

  Maggie flips Ava off again. Her finger is going to stay nice and limber with her nemesis visiting. She turns toward Michele. “Gonna try to bribe Leslie to check out early.” And escape this damn love nest as soon as humanly possible.

  “You should quit stressing about it. You’re welcome here.”

  “I know. Thank you. But I need to get back to my life.”

  “Good luck, then.”

  “Need some muscle?” Collin asks. “Rashidi and I could crack some heads.”

  She offers a tepid smile and a wave of her fork. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Suit yourself.” He swats Ava on the tush. “I’m hitting the showers, with or without you, woman.”

  “Without? Bite your tongue.” Ava takes his hand and they disappear down the hall.

  “Jesus.” Maggie slugs coffee, welcoming the tongue scald.

  Rashidi laughs. But he takes Michele by the hand. Maggie hears him whisper to her. “Separate hot-water heater on the other side of the house.”

  “Get a room,” Maggie mutters.

  Rashidi and Michele disappear into the master suite. The silence in the kitchen turns deafening. Half the food is left on her plate, but Maggie scrapes it into the trash and puts her cutlery and plate in the dishwasher. The coffee is coming with her. She doesn’t see her bag, but she knows just where she’ll find it, no matter where she left it—the coat and purse rack Michele keeps by the door. Michele enforces order on her world and the people in it. Maggie grabs the bag, lets Gertrude in, and joins Louise outside, rubbing her bouncing head on the way out to her truck, until they pass a furry mound in the yard.

  Collin is correct. The possum is dead.

  “Oh, Fucker. What have you done?”

  The spring in Louise’s step grows springier. Maggie ushers the dog into the truck. Inside the cab, it feels like a swamp. Midmorning in mid-September, and no humidity or temperature break yet.

  The leather seats are damp on her thighs. She pulls her homemade blue-jean miniskirt down—formerly her favorite pair of jeans, until they sprung too many holes—and levers her butt and legs up by pressing her back into the seat. She turns on the truck, rolls the windows down, and sets the vent to full blast to push out the heat. Louise’s tongue lolls out as she pants, and Maggie tries not to think of the dead possum it’s been touching. Or the other things she’s seen in the dog’s mouth. Nasty.

  The familiar drive between Michele’s Nowheresville and her own Flown the Coop isn’t lovely this time of year. The summer sun has long since burned the grass to a crispy brown, the flowers died in June, and the heat shimmers off the asphalt like it’s a desert instead of central Texas. It’s truly hotter than she imagines hell to be. Hell. The thought of it brings Gary back into her mind. She hopes he made it up to the good place, even though he always claimed he wanted to spend eternity with the fun crowd down below. That makes her smile, which makes her eyes leak.

  She lets the tears drip, lost in memories. The two of them had met in rehab. A recipe for disaster if there ever was one. But he’d been a bright spot. A brash young performer defusing bad press from a DWI and near-disastrous traffic incident under his manager’s orders. Tom was protecting his future, but Gary met falling-star Maggie. After her release, she spent a week with him at the decrepit farmhouse he was renting near Round Top—the one she’d later helped him restore, and the same one that had burned to rubble two days before. At the end of the week, Gary hit the road and they kissed goodbye. Her record label went belly-up. Of all the crazy coincidences, the owner owned a compound of buildings nearby in Giddings and offered them to her in lieu of royalties on her last album, which he sold to another record company. Speculative future royalties on a tanking career or a few acres, buildings, and contents? She chose door number two.

  Giddings. Close to her parents in La Grange, but not too close. She found Bess and other treasures in the ramshackle barn. She discovered a knack for repurposing. Not too many months later, she opened Flown the Coop, named for her escape from addiction and rehab. Gary came back from touring straight to her new doorstep nine months later. For the next decade, their relationship followed an easy pattern of on-when-he-was-home and off-when-he-toured.

  She smiles and makes a turn from one gravel road onto another. Gary had shot to the top, like she had once upon a time. He’d never understood why she refused to go back to the life. Why she insisted he keep her a secret. Why she refused to go on tour with him, which he swore would have been the saving grace of their relationship. Maggie didn’t want a saving grace. She got what she needed from him, and when she didn’t, she got it from someone else. And he’d loved every minute of his stardom. She envied him that. Hers had chewed her up and spit her out in the wake of Hank.

  Her smile disappears. Hank.

  The sun glints off the hood of Leslie’s car. She parks behind it. “Ready for this?”

  Louise follows her out of the truck and around to the house. On a deep inhale, Maggie knocks. This time, Leslie answers the door quickly, almost as if she’s expecting her. Her hat and glasses are gone, revealing thick sandy hair and tight facial skin with a scar beneath one eye.

  She pins Maggie in place with her eyes. “Yes?”

  Louise makes a break for the inside of the house.

  Leslie blocks the dog with her knees. “Control your animal.”

  It’s my damn house. Maggie grabs Louise’s collar and hauls her back a few feet. “Louise, sit.”

  The dog’s bottom hovers over the ground.

  Close enough, Maggie thinks. “We need to talk.”

  Leslie’s shoulders lift and fall with no change in her expression.

  Maggie takes a step toward the door, but Leslie doesn’t let her by. “All right, Leslie. How about a hundred and fifty dollars t
o vacate my place today?”

  Leslie holds out a sheaf of papers to Maggie. “We have a contract and extension.”

  Maggie takes the papers. It’s a set of printouts of the contract and some emails. Well, damn. “I’m offering new terms.”

  “A refund, then?”

  “I guess.”

  “No.”

  Maggie grits her teeth. “On top of the refund?”

  Leslie shakes her head.

  Maggie hears a noise inside. A person or an animal? She tries to see in, but Leslie is blocking her view. “What would it take, then?”

  Leslie shuts the door in Maggie’s face. Louise yips, a loud, shrill bark that surprises Maggie.

  She nods. “I know. Total bitch.” Standing on the steps, Maggie flips through the papers, then texts Michele an update. Leslie refuses to leave but gave me a copy of the contract and the missing email about an extension. Dammit. Dropping both on your desk later.

  Maggie and Louise walk to the truck, only to find themselves blocked by a Tahoe from the Lee County Sheriff’s Department. Junior waves. Maggie meets him halfway, working up her ire along the way.

  “Please tell me you’re taking my renter to jail so I can get back in my house.”

  “Huh?” He lifts off a Lee County Sheriff’s Department ball cap and scratches his scalp through his buzz-cut hair.

  “Never mind. If you’re here to harass me, you’ll have to do it through Michele from now on.”

  “She made that quite clear when she called. But it’s not about Gary or the Coop. I hate to do this, but I have to let you know I’m this close”—he holds his hands a few inches apart—“to citing you for animal neglect.”

  Maggie glances down at Louise. The dog looks fat and happy to her. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your goats keep getting out. They’re going to get run over, Maggie.”

  “That’s impossible. Lumpy has them.”

  “He may have, but they’re not with him now.” He thumbs toward his vehicle. “They’re filling the back end of my ride with pellets.”