“But,” her mother protested, “it’s nobody’s birthday, our anniversary was months ago, and we can’t afford it.” She whispered the last part.
Her father shook his head and smiled. “Don’t worry about a thing. It’s all taken care of.”
As her mother lowered the carrot in wonder, Maggie gasped, switched off the television, dropped the remote to the coffee table, and dashed down the hallway toward her bedroom.
“I’ll be ready in five minutes!” she called over her shoulder.
Because if her suspicions were right, if her father really had gotten a new job, she’d blow up balloons herself to celebrate the return to normalcy.
“This place is so fancy” Summer whispered excitedly.
“Dad must have very good news,” Maggie whispered back, unfolding the white cloth napkin and laying it in the lap of an old denim skirt, the only one that still fit.
Very good news was an understatement, because when she’d expected him to turn into Friday’s or Applebee’s, their usual restaurant stops, her father had kept driving until reaching Nora’s, the most expensive restaurant in town. They’d passed by the converted Victorian house numerous times over the years, had commented on the candles in the windows and the white Christmas lights in the trees, but had never actually parked the car and gone inside.
And now Maggie understood why.
In addition to those in the windows, countless candles made the room glow so that overhead, electrical lighting was unnecessary. The tables were draped in soft white linen and wildflower arrangements, the chairs were covered in creamy velvet, and long, sheer curtains flowed from the ceiling to the floor. Vinyl booths and free refills were suddenly things of the past.
“Water is fine,” her mother said quietly when the waitress asked for drink orders.
“Nonsense!” her father protested loudly. “We’ll have a bottle of your best merlot and Shirley Temples for the girls.”
“Wow!” Summer mouthed to Maggie, eyes wide. They only had Shirley Temples at wedding receptions or other free, fancy occasions.
Maggie watched her mother’s fingers tighten around the leather-bound menu.
“And girls, order anything you want, anything at all.” He winked before ducking his head behind the menu.
Maggie’s mouth watered at the entrée choices: capellini pomodoro, fettucine Alfredo, penne a la vodka. When she could feel the warm noodles in her belly, she shook her head and forced her eyes to the pasta-free, chicken and fish sections. She didn’t care if her father had been elected mayor; the scale had read 179 that morning and no occasion was worth regaining a single pound.
“So.” Her father clapped his hands together after they’d ordered. “I have news.”
Her mother reached for her wine glass. Maggie sat up straight and grinned at Summer.
“Now, nothing’s definite, so let’s not get too excited, but I have a potential job opportunity.”
Her mother’s mouth fell open and she lowered the wine glass slightly.
“An opportunity?”
Her father cleared his throat at her mother’s disappointment.
“Yes, but it’s just about a done deal.”
“But opportunities are great!” Maggie exclaimed. “They lead to other things!”
Her mother forced a smile. “Well, where? Doing what?”
Her father waved his hand. “Details, details. They’re not worth getting into right now. But suffice it to say that if it all works out, we’ll be all right.” He sipped his wine. “We’ll be better than all right.”
“Can’t you tell us anything about it? Is it a company? Is it local?” Her mother’s voice was cautious.
He shook his head. “I’ll tell you everything when it’s finalized.”
Her mother sat back in her chair, frowning slightly. “Will that be soon?”
He awkwardly patted her hand that lay on the table between them. It was the grandest affectionate gesture Maggie had witnessed between them in months.
“It’ll work out. Don’t worry.”
Maggie fiddled with the cherry in her drink as her mother poured herself another glass of wine.
“So, sunshine! Filet mignon. Good choice!”
Her mother let him change the subject and they talked about random things before and during dinner: the weather, the new shopping complex just south of the highway, movies—nothing especially important, but still meaningful because they actually talked, together. Maggie relaxed in a way she never could during meals at home, and she knew her mother did the same, with some help from the wine.
“Well, that was extraordinary,” he declared when they finished, patting his belly and handing the waitress a credit card.
“Hey, Maggie.”
Her head snapped up and she quickly made sure the cloth napkin in her lap adequately covered her belly before turning around.
“Peter, hi!” She brought both palms to her pink cheeks. “Are you here with your family?” She peeked behind him.
“We come every week. It’s my mom’s favorite place.”
“My dad got a great new job!” she exclaimed before she could dwell on the fact that his family could afford to eat things like salmon oreganato four times a month.
“Cool, congrats.” He nodded and smiled at her father.
Maggie twisted in her chair to better make conversation.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the waitress said quietly.
Maggie’s breath caught.
“This credit card came back declined.” Her voice was apologetic, as though she was embarrassed for them. “Might you have another?”
Her father’s eyes widened briefly before he reached for his wallet.
“So! English!” she declared, hoping the volume of her voice was suitably distracting. “Did you finish Macbeth?“
Peter smiled slightly. “I should get back to my family. I’ll see you in school.”
She sighed, turned back to the table, slumped in the velvet chair, and watched as her father’s fingers trembled through the pockets of his wallet. Closed her eyes as her mother shook her head and pulled a thin envelope of cash from her purse. Maggie had been grocery shopping with her mother enough to know that she handed the waitress a large portion of her carefully budgeted monthly allowance, and that they’d probably live on canned tuna and baked beans until her next payday.
“No worries!” Her father’s voice was unnaturally bright as the waitress walked away with cash and he drained his wine glass. He placed the empty glass on the table, wiped his mouth with one hand, and looked down at his lap. “No worries.”
21.
With just two weeks remaining before tryouts, Pound Patrollers was the last place Maggie wanted to be. She was doing just fine losing weight on her own and needed every free minute to memorize the routine tapes. She’d even considered faking sudden illness, but then remembered one reason the meeting might not be a total waste.
“Waffle cone crowns.” Arnie flopped in the chair next to hers.
“Okay …” She sat up straighter in her chair.
“To go with the togas, instead of cheesy gold wreaths,” he explained.
She nodded, pretending to seriously consider the proposition.
“Just picture it.” He spread his hands in the air as though the imaginary creation floated before them. “Red, blue, green, purple, any color of the rainbow, and topped with broccoli florets instead of sugar sprinkles.”
Maggie laughed at the excitement in his voice.
“And!” He slapped his knee. “The best part: customer customization. Kids can decorate however they want. Brussels sprouts, green beans, cauliflower.” He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest in satisfaction. “They’ll be all the rage once our parlor/gift shop combos sweep the nation.”
“This is quite the vision.”
“Yoo-hoo, Mag Pie!” Aunt Violetta half stood from her chair in the group’s circle. “Two seats, right here! One for you, one for Arnold!” She smiled wide a
nd flashed two thumbs up.
“Did she really just do that?” Arnie asked without moving his lips as he smiled and waved.
Maggie wagged her finger back and forth until Aunt Violetta playfully pouted and sat back down.
“You’re dressed down tonight.” Maggie pointed to his blue sweatpants.
“For the gym. My mom’s latest and greatest. So I can be as good as new, as soon as possible.”
“At least she didn’t think spandex would get you better faster.”
“Silver linings, always appreciated.”
“Is the gym around here?”
He shook his head. “Working out is apparently way cooler than these meetings. There was no room for geographical negotiation. But it’s not so bad—a little cardio here, a little weight training there. There’s even a pool, though I never go in.”
“A pool, huh?” Maggie almost looked up to see if a cartoon lightbulb glowed above her head. Endless analysis of Water Wings routine tapes was helpful, but there was only so much she could master on her bedroom carpet. And while it might seem essential, she hadn’t yet convinced herself that practicing (and embarrassing herself) in front of other people in the school pool was a requirement to making the team. She’d settled for hoping that her body would just sense the graceful moves when the time came.
“It’s small, just two lanes, so there’s usually a wait, which I don’t have the patience for. I do the necessary time and get out.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip and the cartoon lightbulb dimmed.
She felt him look at her.
“What’s up? Itching for a dip?”
She hadn’t told anyone about her plan because she hadn’t wanted to set anyone (besides herself) up for potential disappointment. But she so wanted to tell someone, and Arnie was as safe a bet as she was going to get. He hadn’t known her long enough to form any expectations or permanent opinions, and they didn’t even go to the same school, so there was no way anyone else would find out.
She glanced toward the circle of gathering Pound Patrollers. If she kept her mouth closed, she’d miss her chance. She took a deep breath, turned toward Arnie, and met the green eyes watching her from underneath his red knit cap.
“Actually, yes.”
“Are you for real?” Maggie asked, joining Arnie at the end of the dock.
“You wanted a place to practice.”
“Yes, but when you mentioned plan B after not being able to sneak me into your gym pool fee-free, a lake wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“Hey, synchronized swimming is a tough sport. If you can’t hack it—”
“I’m tough! It’s just, like, October.” Maggie breathed into her cupped hands and tucked them in her armpits.
“Which makes this,” Arnie declared with a sweep of one arm, “all yours.” He poked her shoulder.
Maggie peered over the dock’s edge. “Are there creatures?”
“Yes, water snakes. Big ones. Think Anaconda.”
Maggie’s mouth fell open.
He rolled his eyes. “Mud Puddle Lake is manmade! The scariest things in there are floating scraps of busted inner tubes or abandoned flip-flops.”
Maggie looked over her shoulder at the two-story luxury log cabin behind them. “I can’t believe that’s your summer house.”
He shrugged. “Workaholic parents. It’s a perk, I guess.”
“ You guess? I can’t even imagine the fun you must have here.”
“Yeah, Mom’s a thrill with her waterproof laptop, and Dad’s a hoot with iced tea in one hand and cell phone in the other.”
A deck wrapped around the entire rear of the house, and, despite summer’s end, a hammock still hung between two trees. Two Adirondack chairs faced the water. Maggie tried to picture anyone sitting in one of those chairs and typing away at a keyboard. If she ever had the chance to spend any amount of time at such a place, work would certainly be the last thing on her mind.
She shook her head.
“They can’t be that bad. You are named after the Terminator.”
“It was more for his Mr. Universe title, actually. Mom had high hopes.”
Arnie picked up a rock, threw it halfway across the lake and lowered himself to the dock, dangling his legs over the side.
“Well, at least they both have jobs.”
“Not everyone has to work.”
“True.” She lowered herself next to him. “But my dad hasn’t in a long time. And we don’t have a buffer like this.” Maggie gestured to the vacant vacation homes dotting the circumference of the lake. “We don’t even own one home.”
He shrugged. “They’re just wood and nails.”
She’d take wood and nails over a pile of splinters, any day.
“At least your dad’s around, right? I hardly ever see mine.”
She nodded. “He’s definitely around. It’d probably be helpful if he was around less, actually.”
“He gets in the way?” Arnie asked, as though this was something he heard could happen to other kids.
“No,” she shrugged. “He just focuses on the wrong things, I think.”
“ESPN and chicken wings?” He nodded in understanding.
“More like Jeopardy and Pound Patrollers. My going was his big idea.”
Arnie looked down at the water, giving her time to elaborate.
“Is today a gym day?” she asked before he could respond, poking his blue sweatpants.
“Just like every day,” he said, accepting her subject change. “But it’ll be one quick session on the Precor Elliptical Trainer, because I have band rehearsal tonight.”
“You’re in a band?”
“I’d hoped Precor Elliptical Trainer would’ve been suitably distracting.”
She dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “Old news. Like running, but without the pressure on your knees, according to Cosmo.”
“Cosmo? Ew.”
She rolled her eyes. “Marching or rock?”
He raised his eyebrows at her.
“Okay, what instrument?”
He fiddled with the stones scattered across the dock before settling on one, reaching his arm back and flinging it halfway across the lake.
“The flute!” He smacked one hand to his forehead. “The little girly flute.”
She grinned. “Any good?”
“Five years of private lessons have taught me something, yes.”
“Well, that should make your parents happy, right?”
He hurled another rock across the water. “Right. And it just might, if they ever heard me play.” He jumped up, shook out his sweatpants, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt, and looked at her from underneath his red knit cap. “Anyway, I have to head out. But feel free to stay as long as you want.”
She looked up at him, squinting against the afternoon sun. “No quick dip before you go?” She knew she needed privacy to practice, but she was still disappointed that he was leaving so soon.
He laughed as he headed back down the dock.
“It’s October” he called over his shoulder. “That water’s ice cold. You gotta be crazy!”
She picked up a rock and playfully tossed it after him. She waited until he climbed the back stairs and disappeared into the house before standing up, shedding her sweats, and facing the lake.
Goosebumps sprang instantly and her knees shook. It was now or never, and with tryouts less than a week away, there was no room for the latter. So she squeezed her nose, closed her eyes, and, before she could crawl back into the safety of her sweats or think about the warmth of her bedroom comforter, jumped.
22.
“Maggie, honey,” her mother called through the bedroom door. “Aimee’s on the phone!”
Maggie stopped jogging in place, wiped her forehead with one arm, and took three deep breaths before attempting to respond.
“Can I call her back?”
She heard her mother speak into the portable phone.
“She said yes, as long as you
really do this time!”
Maggie stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. Her chest swelled and dropped and her heart drummed in her ears so loudly that she barely heard her mother’s soft footsteps retreat back down the hallway. Once certain no one stood directly outside her door, she waited an extra thirty seconds before turning the television back on, and another thirty before pressing Play on the VCR.
Because if she looked anything like the curly-haired little man in extra-short striped shorts springing across the thirteen-inch screen, she’d be defenseless against the inevitable teasing.
She had the fifty-minute aerobics routine memorized now. Five minutes of stretching, ten minutes of warm-ups, twenty minutes of low-impact aerobics, ten minutes of floor work, and five minutes of cool down. She’d found the ancient exercise tape tucked between Gone with the Wind and Breakfast at Tiffany’s, two of her mother’s favorites. After her very first attempt, her stomach muscles hurt more from laughing at the feather-haired women in pastel leotards and matching leg warmers than from the two-minute sit-up session. But by the second day she’d learned Richard Simmons sweats to the oldies for good reason: The cheesy music served as a hilarious distraction from the weird positions and bodily contortions that worked muscles she’d never known.
She was dripping her way through a third set of high kicks when a knock on the door made her stumble backward and drop onto the bed.
“Dinner’s ready!” Summer announced, throwing open the door before Maggie could get her footing.
She jumped up and, suddenly aware that she wore only shorts and a sports bra and that her stomach probably glistened in the glow of the television screen, grabbed a pillow.
“Whatcha doing?” Summer peeked around the door. “Can I try?”
“I’ll meet you at the table, okay?” Maggie tried to sound calm as she clutched the pillow to her stomach.
“But it looks like fun,” Summer said hopefully.
Maggie sighed and flopped on the bed. “Go ahead.” She would’ve pushed anyone else back out the door.
The Melting of Maggie Bean Page 9