WakingMaggie (2 page)

Chapter Two

One year earlier…

With parquet wood floors, rich leather seating and a young
man playing flamenco guitar, the cozy little restaurant suited Maggie just
fine. She slid onto a barstool and ordered a top-shelf martini—up with a twist,
no olives, please. The handsome bartender quickly obliged. Handing him a
twenty, she told him to keep the change. He flashed a well-practiced smile and
thanked her.

A scan of the room revealed her date hadn’t yet arrived. At
least no one appeared to be wearing a red carnation. She patted the flower
pinned in her hair and tamped down the feeling that she’d lost her mind.
Nervousness twisting her stomach into knots, she fiddled with the hem of her
champagne-colored dress. In two minutes’ time, she’d downed her first drink
with too much gusto.

“Another of these, please,” she told the bartender and
fished another twenty out of her purse.
Who was she kidding?
Instead she
handed the bartender her credit card. “I’ll start a tab, please.”

Checking her cell phone, she noted it was eight o’clock on
the dot. He’d arrive any minute. When the bartender returned with her drink,
Maggie took a sip and turned around to watch the guitarist.

The young man plucked the strings with obvious skill. Clear,
sharp notes rang out in quick succession. Despite the intensity with which he
played, there was something fresh and boyish about his looks. He probably
wasn’t much older than a boy, so of course he looked fresh. Still, there was
something unmistakably masculine about the way he handled that guitar. She
watched his fingers glide over the fretboard. Such dexterity. Something about
the way they moved excited her and she wondered what it would be like to be
touched by those fingers. Blushing at the inappropriate thought, she turned away
and focused on her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

Her phone rang and she answered.

“Is Mr. Wonderful there yet?” her oldest friend, Barb,
asked.

“No.” Maggie blew out a breath of disappointment. She’d
thought it might be Frank, calling to say he’d be late.

“D—Wa—Mm—Oo?”

“Barb, you’re breaking up. Hold on.”

Sliding off her stool, she took her drink and purse with her
as she walked around the restaurant to find better reception. She followed a
sign that led to the patio. As soon as she went out the door, a gust of wind
rustled the skirt of her dress. She pulled her coat around her.

“What were you saying, Barb?” she asked.

“I asked if you wanted me to come wait with you.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I’m sure he’ll get here soon. Speaking
of which, I better go inside so I don’t miss him.”

“Okay. Call me when he gets there.”

“How about I call you when our date’s over?”

“Fine.” Barb sighed.

Maggie ended the call and made her way inside. Someone had
taken her seat at the bar.
Fabulous.
Undeterred, she approached the
hostess.

“I’m waiting for a friend. Could you set me up at a table
facing the door?” asked Maggie.

“Yes ma’am. Please, follow me.” The young woman grabbed two
menus and led her to a booth. “May I get you started with a drink?”

“Oh. I have a tab at the bar.”

“I’ll close that out for you and bring your card. Your
name?”

“Margaret Randolph-Mae. And I’ll take a glass of cabernet
sauvignon.”

“Very good.” The hostess flitted away.

Several minutes passed before a waiter appeared with the
requested drink. “Would you like an appetizer?”

“Not just yet. When my friend arrives.”

“Yes ma’am. I’ll check back with you later.”

He spun on his heel and disappeared. Maggie scanned the
patrons again to see if she’d missed Frank. No one resembled his picture and no
one wore a red carnation. With a sigh, she picked up her wineglass. He’d be
here soon.

At eight-fifteen, she decided to scan the menu. The omelet
with caviar and artichoke sounded delicious. Hopefully Frank liked caviar.
Somehow during their online chats, she’d failed to ask him the all-important
do-you-like-fish-eggs question. Ooh, the restaurant served roasted quail too.
Maggie knew what she was going to order.

Eight twenty-five. She opened her phone and snapped it shut.
Then, as if she’d developed a nervous tic, she repeated the action several
times until the waiter appeared again.

“Pan con tomate… On the house, while you wait, ma’am.”
Though his smile seemed perfectly neutral, Maggie sensed an undercurrent of
pity.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

When he left, she pushed the sympathy appetizer across the
table, distancing herself from it.

Eight thirty-five. Should she call him? Would that seem too
pushy? People ran late and she didn’t want to make him feel bad about it. Of
course it would be nice of him to call her and tell her he was going to be
late.

Eight-forty. The
pan con tomate
was staring at her.
The gin and wine swirling around her stomach had whetted her appetite. It would
be rude to start eating without her companion, but…one teensy slice? If she stuffed
it in her face fast enough, Frank would never know it’d been there. She pounced
on a piece of bread and devoured it, washing it down with a gulp of wine.
There. Now she could wait for Frank without gnawing on her own fist.

Eight forty-five. The guitarist announced he was going to
take a break. How much longer was Frank going to make her wait? Especially
without calling. Then again, maybe he had called. She had lousy reception in
here. Scooping up her glass of wine and her purse, Maggie dashed out to the
patio again.

She checked her voicemail—no messages. Pushy or not, she
found his name in her contacts and hit send. Two rings and her call rolled over
to voice mail. In a last, desperate attempt to contact him, she logged on to
Facebook. There was a green dot next to his name. She instant messaged him—
Frank,
where are you? I’m at the restaurant.
The dot next to his name promptly
turned gray.

“I know you did not just…” she mumbled under her breath. But
he had. He’d logged off or at least changed his status so that he’d appear to
be offline. Her heart fell down to her shoes. Meeting tonight hadn’t even been
her idea. Her throat tightened and her eyes watered. Of all the rude,
insensitive…
What a prick.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath of the cool autumn
air. She ran a hand across her forehead, her fingers brushing over the
carnation pinned over her left ear. Stupid fucking red carnation. She tore the
flower from her hair, chucked it onto the ground and stomped on it. A few
people witnessed this outburst and shot her wary glances. Maggie didn’t care.
She smoothed the bodice of her dress and opened the patio door. The sooner she
got back to her table, the sooner she could pay and leave.

Thoughts far away, she noticed the guitarist coming down the
narrow hall in the opposite direction too late to avoid a collision.

Wham!
She smacked into his guitar case, spilling wine
down the front of her dress.

Looking at the stain, she groaned. “Look what you did.”

“What I did?” He furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry, but you ran
into me.”

“This will never come out. This dress is silk.
Silk.
”

The young man nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Christ, just perfect.”

“Really, I’m sorry,” he pleaded.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” she snapped.

Annoyance flashed across his face. “I could tell you the
same thing, lady. I said I was sorry.”

“Kiss my ass. It’s not your dress doused with red wine is
it?”

“Yeah, well bend over and bare it.”

His response caught Maggie off guard, and though she didn’t
want to, she let out a chuckle and then an out-and-out full-bellied laugh.
“What did you say?”

The young man stared at the ground, a half-grin tugging at
his lips. “You told me to kiss your ass so I said, ‘Bend over and bare it.’”

Wiping her eyes, she shook her head and sighed. “You know,
I’m not usually so rude. I’m having a bad night.” She motioned to her dress.
“This is the last thing I needed.”

“Join the club.” He exhaled.

“I was stood up. What happened to you?” She grabbed a cloth
napkin from the wait station.

“I just got fired.”

“Oh.” She grimaced. “You win.”

He raked his fingers through his hair and met her gaze. His
locks fell in feathery layers around his angular face. “Well, it’s not a
contest. Fucked up is fucked up, right?”

“Agreed.”

He shoved a hand in his pocket. “I can pay you for the
dress.”

“Not necessary. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Neither was I. Sorry.”

She nodded. “Stop apologizing. It’s fine.”

“I hope your night gets better.” He picked up his guitar
case as if he were going to leave, but stayed rooted to the spot. “This might
sound crazy, but how about I buy you another drink, to replace the one I
spilled?

“You don’t have to do that either.”

He licked his lips and pressed them together. “I want to.”

“Are you even old enough to drink?”

A shy grin on his face, he said, “I’m twenty-seven.”

Maggie stopped patting at her dress and looked at him. His
hazel eyes sparkled the same way they had on stage. “Well, I’m forty…
something,
and old enough to know better than to have a drink with a stranger.”

“What’s your name?”

“Maggie.”

“I’m Calvin. There. We aren’t strangers anymore.”

She sucked in her cheeks and squinted at him. “You think
you’re cute?”

“Come on, Maggie. One drink. Maybe we can cheer each other
up.”

“Hmph. You should be so lucky,” she groused, but her resolve
had already softened. He was cute. Adorable, in fact. “All right. Let me settle
up and I’ll meet you outside.”

Walking to her table, she fished a couple twenties from her
wallet and placed them under the saltshaker. She grabbed a piece of
pan con
tomate
and scarfed it down—no good going for a drink on an empty stomach.
One last swig of wine and she was ready to do something even crazier and more
ill-advised than going on a date with a guy she met online.

“One drink, Mags,” she told herself as she exited the bar.

Calvin waited for her on the sidewalk. “I was afraid you’d
duck out on me.”

She buttoned her coat to hide the stain on her dress. “After
what I’ve been through tonight, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Right. I forgot.” He looked around and held up his guitar
case. “Could I stow this in your car?”

“I walked here.”

“I took the Metro.”

Taking a deep breath, she looked up the street in the
direction of her townhouse in Dupont Circle. “Well, if you promise you’re not a
psychopath, I’ll let you stash it at my place. That way I can change clothes.”

He crossed his heart and held up two fingers. “Scout’s
honor.”

She gave him a sidelong look as they started to walk. “Fine.
But just know I will cut you if you try anything funny.”

“Wow. I’m so turned-on right now.”

Arching an eyebrow facetiously, she patted her purse.

“So, what do you do, Ms. Armed and Dangerous?” he asked.

“Whatever I want.”

“Must be nice. You really don’t have to work?”

“Oh, I’ve worked. As a wife and mother, I worked plenty the
twenty-six years I was Mrs. Nathaniel Randolph-Mae, but when he started
screwing his personal trainer, then I worked out a big, fat divorce
settlement.”

“I gotta get me one of those.”

She nudged him. “Play your cards right and maybe you can be
the next ex-Mr. Maggie Randolph-Mae.”

He laughed. “Wait…your name is Maggie May, like the song?”

“Oh Christ. No. Not you too. And it’s Maggie
Randolph-Mae
with an ‘e’, not a ‘y’.” She stopped in front of her Victorian brownstone. “I
thought you’d be too young to make that association.”

“Musician, remember?” He jiggled the guitar case at her. “I
love that song.”

“Well, I hate it.” She hurried up the steps and dug her key
out of her purse. Fiddling with the sticky lock, she said, “You don’t know what
it’s like, people bursting into song when they meet you.”

But it was too late. He’d already liberated his guitar and
started to play the opening notes.

She rolled her eyes and walked inside without him, closing
the door behind her. Out of habit, she dropped her keys in a bowl on the foyer
table, switched on a lamp and hung her purse on a hook by the door.

Calvin peeked inside. “Can I come in?”

“Only if you leave that song outside.”

“Fine. But if you hate the name so much, why don’t you
change it?”

Hands on hips, she said, “I have my reasons.”

After he put his guitar back in its case, he wiped his feet
on the mat and came in. He cast his gaze around the entryway and adjoining
living room. “Nice digs.”

“Thanks. I bought it after the divorce. It’s cozy.”

He craned his neck and pointed to the staircase. “How many
floors?”

“Three. Four, if you count the attic I converted into loft
space.”

“Yeah.
Cozy.
And I thought that term applied to my
efficiency apartment.”

She patted his cheek and grinned. “No, dear. That’s just
small.”

He scowled at her, but he clearly knew she was joking.

Chapter Three

“Would you like a drink?” She hung his overcoat. As she led
him through the doorway into the living room, she noticed his hand in the small
of her back. The intimate gesture unleashed a smattering of butterflies in her
stomach. Hesitant to break contact, she had to force herself to switch on the
lights.

“A beer, thanks.” His gaze meandered down her body and then,
as if he caught himself, it flicked up to meets hers.

“I have raspberry lambic.”