Chapter 1

...If all the young ladies were blackbirds and thrushes,

all the young men would go beating the bushes...

He was the kind of a man who would sit in the football stadium in the middle of winter, joining his friends in spelling out the team name on their naked chests. The life of the party was a good phrase that summed him up, if anyone should ask about her husband. Maggie stood in front of the antique gilt-framed mirror in her room at the Strand House Hotel, practicing her little speech over the muted noise of the London traffic below, rehearsing until she could utter the phrases without tears or bitterness. He was the life of the party who partied until he died, never listening to his doctor because Franco did not like bad news.

Her shaggy hair had been highlighted and styled for tonight’s party; her perfectly manicured nails were reflected in the mirror as she applied her makeup. Taupe and coffee shadows accentuated her brown eyes and red lips complimented her nails. She smiled at her reflection. There was no need to reminisce about the good times or spill out all the hurt. Maggie had confessed enough to Bea, Cindy and Pam already, after knowing them for less than a week. Besides, it had to end eventually, and tonight was as good a time as any to lock up the past and put it all away, to walk straight ahead into the future that was opening up in front of her. Maggie did not want to see the old nightmares again.

Brushing off a stray fleck of mascara, Maggie looked back over the journey that had brought her here to London, a long trip that had begun just after Christmas. She closed her eyes for only a moment, to scan the photo album that was etched forever in her memory. There was Franco sitting in his favorite chair, the remote control locked forever into fingers rigid with rigor mortis. Like snapshots, she flipped through the days and weeks that followed, recalling her bright red toenails, painted to match the crimson lingerie she had selected for the funeral. Her first day at work, her first date as a widow; every image reflected various representations of Maggie Griffith Angiolini stumbling through life until she came to stand in front of an antique mirror, adjusting the collar of her raincoat. It was time to close that book, to put the pictures away and set off on another journey, along a different road.

Maggie stepped into the hallway of the West End hotel, pulling the door shut behind her. She tugged on the knob to check the lock, and then she walked away from her past.

* * * **** * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * *

The closet was empty, pretty much, and Maggie slammed the door shut after ripping her one and only pair of tailored trousers off of a hanger. “I could have used clothes for Christmas,” she grumbled to a ghostly memory. A gift certificate would have been better than what she got that year. “Should have asked the surgeon to sew your mouth shut.”

After a week, her dreams were still full of the funeral and the sad faces of the mourners. Her once neatly ordered life had ended a week ago, and she could not get to morning Mass because she had to catch the train. For years, as their money problems escalated, she had accepted the bumps in the road because that was how life was supposed to be. Today was Monday, Day Eight of the rest of her life, and the road bump felt more like a bone-jarring pothole. Thanking God for small mercies, she declared to the Lord that she was actually very grateful that Tsio Carlo had fired her on the day of the funeral. She was going to be better off, in the long run. Some day. Eventually.

Waking Joey up an hour earlier than usual was decidedly unpleasant, with a teen-age surliness greeting Maggie’s gentle prodding. “If Dad was alive,” Joey began to mumble.

“If I won the lottery,” she grumbled.

She had to go to work and their son had to revise his life because Franco was too lazy to change his ways. He never thought about his family, about the pile of debt and all the money that they had put back into the family business when sales slacked off. Had he ever given a single minute’s thought to the mortgage that had to be paid every month? All he seemed to have were big plans, to send Joey to the Jesuit prep school and expand the material yard, with nothing to pay for it except hot air. Now Franco was gone, the expenses were still there, and Maggie was on her own.

Joey stumbled angrily out of the car when they reached the Burns’ home. Mrs. Burns would be driving him to school every morning while his mother went to work, and the boy resented the adjustment to his life. Even as she sat in the kitchen with Greta, sipping a cup of coffee, she could hear the television vacillate between ESPN and MTV, while Joey grumbled about fate’s cruelty and the unfairness of life. Sooner or later, everyone learned the same thing, but Maggie ached for her son, struggling to cope when he was too young to handle the lesson.

“I had a great idea last night,” Greta said with excitement as she poured out a second cup. “I can take Joey here after school on Fridays and he can spend the night with Rob, so you can have a man over when you start dating again.”

“Excuse me?” Maggie spluttered.

“Listen, Maggie, I know that your life was no bed of roses with Franco, so let’s be honest. You’re still fairly young; you are attractive, interesting, great at party chatter. Plus, you will be working in the Loop where the odds are decent that you will meet someone,” Greta spelled out her logical reasons.

“And I am such a babe that you think I’ll be dating by this Friday,” Maggie said.

“Not this Friday, you’re such a comedian. Eventually, that is all I am suggesting, just know that when you do start dating, Joey has someplace to go.”

“Thanks. Greta, but to be perfectly honest, I really don’t know how to date anymore. Things are different now, I mean, for us the big question was whether or not to kiss on the first date. Now I have to worry about how many dates before I have to sleep with some guy.”

“I heard three dates,” Greta said. “Unless the guy is really hot, then the first date is perfectly acceptable.”

“All right, all right, I get it. Start reading Cosmo,” Maggie said. She laughed, smiled, and laughed again, posing as a woman who was recovering from the shock of finding her husband, cold and stiff, sitting in the family room with the television flickering in the early morning darkness. “I better run or I’ll miss the train.”

Traveling on the commuter train from River Oaks to Chicago, Maggie stared vacantly out of the window with her morning newspaper opened on her lap. The time had come to admit that Greta was right, that living with Franco was no bed of roses. If Maggie had faced the whole truth, she would have realized that it had been endless squabbling for at least the past eight years. A separation was looking awfully attractive, but there was Joey to consider, and he was everything to Maggie.

Shifting on the vinyl bench, she let out a quiet laugh as she recalled a phone call to the rectory. Only three days before Franco died, she made an appointment with Father McManus to arrange for marriage counseling, when she realized that she would lose her mind if she did not change her life. Her husband’s death was very nearly a thoughtful gesture on his part, solving a serious crisis by ending the union without the necessity of a divorce. It was the only thoughtful thing Franco had ever done for her.

“Mind if I look at your sports section?” the man next to her asked, waking her from her reverie.

“Oh, no, of course not,” she fumbled with the sections. “Hawks lost again last night.”

“Do you follow hockey?” he asked, and Maggie turned to look at him. She had no idea if it was wise to talk to a stranger, or if it would be rude to ignore him.

“My son does,” she said, trying to think of a suitable answer.

“Not your husband?”

“He’s a die hard Bears fan,” she replied, her answer tumbling out before she could decide if she should be chatting amiably or treating her seatmate like a dangerous pervert. The man began to read, and Maggie shifted on the vinyl cushion. From Dearborn Ridge to Evanston, she tried to determine if she should have said that there was no husband, and from Evanston to the end of the line she contemplated what effect that pronouncement might have had on her companion.

From the train station she moved east, washed on a wave that surged down Washington to LaSalle. It seemed as if only Maggie was looking around at the people who were hunched over, striding along the street and battling against the cold wind that whipped against them. A suggestion of a smile was creeping across her lips as she traveled as one with the throng, battling through the sea of heavy coats and scarves at LaSalle and Washington when she had to leave the pack and turn north, to the offices of Quinlan and Associates. Walking through the Loop made Maggie feel alive, as if she had been marooned on an island and was brought back to civilization after a fifteen-year absence.

Theresa Quinlan had a very successful editing firm, with a strong reputation for quality work. For years, Maggie had been employed on a casual, part-time basis, working at home and earning some much needed cash. Knowing that Franco had not left much behind but debts, Theresa came up to her cousin at the post-burial lunch and told her to be at the office on Monday morning. “Full time, with flexible hours,” she added when Maggie balked.

“How can I work full time with Joey’s schedule?” Maggie protested. “Practice of some kind every night after school, he has to be picked up at three thirty every afternoon.”

“What part of flexible hours don’t you understand?” Theresa said. “Don’t argue with me, Mags. I’ll tell my mother. She’ll talk to your mother.”

“That’s just plain mean,” Maggie said.

“I do what I have to. Look, you already have some regulars.” Leaning closer, Theresa offered a confidence. “Besides, I put out the word that I was expanding and there’s a stack of manuscripts in the office just waiting for you. You need a job and I need your help. See you Monday.”

One of Maggie’s strongest qualities was her ability to be headstrong when it came to revisions, using a gentle approach that put the writers at ease and left them remarkably pliable. Even though Karl Hofmeier, the eminently successful military fiction author, was fully aware that she was a manipulator, he was adamant that Maggie, and only Maggie, could read, red-pencil, or even touch his manuscripts. According to Theresa, the old man made grammatical errors on purpose, just to keep his editor on her toes. He lived for conflict, now that he did not have any wars to fight.

“He’s in his own world,” Theresa said. There was no point in postponing the unpleasant part of their Monday morning meeting, and it was more in her style to start with the bad news and end with the good. “Where that world is, none of us know, but he thinks you do.”

“Yes, and no one else in this office will work with him,” Maggie put in, winking over the steaming cup of coffee that she was using to warm her fingers.

“You cannot imagine what the script supervisor at the BBC said to me about dealing with his tantrums,” Theresa said.

“Don’t tell me, he must have said, at least a dozen times, that one has to eat a lot of shit in this world,” Maggie said.

“Not everyone finds that as amusing as you do,” Theresa remarked with an arched brow. “However, since you know where he’s coming from, you are the one to get things back on track. London’s a fantastic city, you’re going to love every minute of the trip.”

“But I can’t just hop on a plane and fly to England,” Maggie insisted.

“I know, and I explained the whole situation to our buddy. He’s coming back from London, and you can try to work things out here. Just don’t count on it.”

“Look, Theresa, if you really need me to travel,” Maggie offered, feeling a little guilty about making her cousin’s job more difficult. She owed everything to Theresa; after all, her cousin had given her a job when she needed one so badly.

“Joey is way too cute to be left alone without adult supervision,” Theresa said. “I’m trying to give enough time to make arrangements.”

"Now, tell me about this professor from St. Ignatius,” Maggie said as she pulled the next manuscript from the pile on her lap.

“Divorced, not particularly attractive but very bright,” Theresa spoke with a straight face. “Chairman of the History Department, specializing in American history before the Civil War.”

It was Maggie’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Some information I do not need.”

"Only trying to be helpful. It’s non-fiction but not a textbook. His previous book was a history of social customs in the United States before the War of 1812, and Leticia cleaned up that one. However, since Leticia cannot stand the guy, you, oh lucky junior editor, have inherited another client.”

“Next?” Maggie asked as she transferred the manuscript to the bottom of the pile in her lap.

“Historical romance, fiction, Mary Ann Fowler. Brain candy, but I know you’ll enjoy it; she has a light-hearted style.”

So began her first day, enough work to fill twelve hours, with a bundle of phone calls to handle from the time she arrived until she left to catch the 2:23 to River Oaks. With one manuscript stuffed into her canvas tote, she dashed from the office, rushing out of the elevator and bumping into the good-looking lawyer from the tenth floor as he was about to board at ground level. “Pardon me,” she mumbled, completely flustered and red with embarrassment.

If he were not already married, Maggie believed that she would be grinning like a fool to get his attention and goad him into saying the first word. He always checked her out when they rode in the elevator together, and she used to think that it was not so bad to be noticed and admired, even in an overtly sexual sort of way. Now that she had to face that sort of notice without her husband to hide behind, Maggie panicked.

“My pleasure,” he smiled, the face of a man who was not overly concerned with his vow of fidelity. Maggie returned his glance with a quick and nervous smile before fleeing in fear, nearly running down the street to the train station.

Her car was idling in the parking lot of St. Rita’s School when she caught a glimpse of Joey saying good-bye to his friends. “How was your day?” she asked her son as he dropped his backpack onto the floor of the car.

“Fine,” was his usual reply. “How was work?”

“You know, Joey, it was really good,” she said with a smile. “No, better than good, it was great, to go to the city on the train and then get caught up in that chaotic rush of people on the streets. Except I couldn’t get to St. Peter’s for noon Mass, and I feel like I missed something important in the day.”

“So go twice on Sunday,” Joey suggested, mocking his mother’s excessive devotion.

They sat down to a quick dinner because basketball practice was at six o’clock. Freewheeling conversation about their days, about teachers and about writers, flowed warmly across the little table. Back and forth over the chicken parmesan, with a minor skirmish over the consumption of salad, mother and son chattered. Maggie found it peaceful, even fun, without Franco storming about the quality of the meal, or tearing into Joey for no good reason except that Franco was mad at the world because he could not consume a whole chicken for his evening meal anymore. At that instant, Maggie was glad that her husband was gone, and the sensation filled her with guilt and remorse.

* * * * *

As if by some miracle or a slight decline in the testosterone that had recently begun to surge through his body, Joey got himself out of bed on time the next day. To the worried mother, it looked like he had immediately adjusted to his new circumstances. Maggie pondered that as she stood on the platform waiting for her train, always trying to decide if her son was getting on with his life or masking his sorrow. “Am I getting on with my life?” she asked herself. She realized that she was staring into the windows of the coffee shop across the street, watching the couples having intimate chats over breakfast. She had gone there once with Franco, after she was released from the hospital following her last miscarriage. “It was a blessing that you lost it,” Franco had said. “We can’t afford another baby, and you don’t have time to take care of it anyway, with your job.” A gust of bitterly cold wind blew across her face, and Maggie noticed that tears were running down her cheeks.

Her seatmate was mentally dubbed Mr. Accountant as he slid into place at the next stop. Oddly enough, it felt like Sunday Mass at St. Rita’s, where everyone sat in the same pew and saw the same faces, even if no one knew a name. She always talked to the geriatric couple that sat in front of her every week, so Maggie offered the sports section to the gentleman as if he were an old neighbor. All he did was thank her, and that was the extent of their conversation. At the end of the line in the city, Mr. Accountant returned the section, bid a friendly farewell, and that would be Maggie’s morning every day that week.

“He’s back,” the receptionist warbled menacingly to Maggie as she entered the office. Ann Majik was more of a concierge in the truest Parisian sense, the guardian at the gate who knew everyone’s business.

“Mr. Hofmeier’s here?” Maggie asked excitedly.

“He has an appointment at nine with his favorite editor,” Ann put in. “And when I talked to him five minutes ago, I’d say that he is seriously jet-lagged. And crankier than usual.”

Theresa and Maggie held their usual morning meeting, to exchange completed manuscripts for raw material while the pot of coffee was slowly drained. They had grown up surrounded by pots of coffee, as if the beverage was a dark flowing talisman of their families. Every time someone stopped by for a visit the coffee pot was set to perking at once, practically before the visitor’s coat could be removed. Theresa was a Quinlan, and Maggie was a Griffith, but their mothers were the Barletta sisters, a couple of Bridgeport dagos from Chicago’s south side. Coffee and biscotti was a way to say hello to anyone who dropped in, a mark of hospitality that was passed down from mother to daughter.

“I have no idea how things were left in London,” Theresa confessed as they planned ahead. “Maybe I can get them to wait until February.”

“What am I going to tell Joey?” Maggie sighed. “His whole world is upside down, and now I might be flying to England.”

There was no time for an answer, not with the booming voice of Karl Hofmeier echoing down the corridor. He had retired from the United States Marine Corps nearly twenty years ago, but he was still the bristle headed lieutenant colonel and a Green Beret for all time, barking out orders instead of holding a conversation. Maggie loved him because she knew that he was nothing more than a lovable teddy bear, which she discovered by reading his novels. Hofmeier entrusted his works to Maggie’s hands because her father was a south side Irishman, a former corporal in the United States Marine Corps, and a veteran of Iwo Jima. Besides, she was in on his secrets, had become aware of his sensitive nature and enormous capacity for love, and she guarded that secret self as closely as he did.

“I am very sorry about your recent loss, Mrs. Angiolini,” Hofmeier murmured as he stood in the doorway of Theresa’s office. At the age of seventy-eight, he had become depressingly adept at offering condolences, as his long time friends began to drop by the wayside.

Maggie brought him to her office, a cluttered and windowless space that seemed crowded by Hofmeier’s large frame. In the harsh light of the fluorescent fixture, his chiseled features stood out in relief, and his standard issue marine crew cut seemed to sparkle like sterling silver. With large, strong hands, he delicately removed the paper wrapping from a clump of carnations and handed the bouquet to Maggie. It was the sort of arrangement that was available in the local supermarket for a few dollars, but the gesture touched Maggie deeply. Wiping away a tear, she thanked him and cleared her throat, trying to begin like a professional businesswoman. “Did you have a good trip?”

“Horrible trip,” he shook his head sadly. “I hate planes, hate sitting still for eight hours with the same movie playing over and over again. I’m too old for those goddamned long rides, that’s why you’ll have to go for me.”

“First let’s try to take care of this here at home, and then no one has to go anywhere,” she suggested. “I finished the first round of corrections, and this weekend I’ll clean up the scenes that you rewrote in London. If I have to make any changes or corrections, it’ll be to more closely follow your book.”

“See, that’s it, you understand my novel,” Hofmeier nodded strongly, gesticulating with his meaty fist. “Those assholes in London don’t know shit from shinola.”

“They can’t possibly understand that this novel was based on your real experiences,” Maggie explained, calm and soothing. If the man ever were to eliminate swearing from his vocabulary, he would be essentially speechless, a thought that brought a gentle smile to her face. “And they have their own ideas, probably influenced by their parents’ experiences during the blitz.”

“There’s one scene that you have to keep in for me, Mrs. Angiolini,” Hofmeier was agitated. “The soldier discovering his sweetheart, after she was killed in the bombing. That fucking director doesn’t want the soldier to dig in the rubble with his bare hands, too hackneyed he said, the little shit.”

“Take it easy, I know that it really happened,” Maggie said, her voice full of sympathy as she gently touched his hand. She could feel Hofmeier’s sorrow so acutely, as if it were a spark that surged through her fingers. “I’ll make sure it stays as written, and I promise not to tell the director why it has to stay. No other suggestions are acceptable, all right?”

“Go there for me, Mrs. Angiolini,” he said, jumping up so that he could more easily wave his arms about. “Make sure they film the scene the way I wrote it. Don’t let them fuck it up; that director is the biggest asshole in the Western Hemisphere and he can’t be trusted.”

"I’m sure it’ll be done correctly,” she said, catching her lips sliding into a condescending smile.

“Damn straight it’ll be done correctly, because you will be there,” he vowed as he lunged at the phone on Maggie’s desk and dialed a number. “Miss Kolasa? Tell my shit for brains agent to call London. No, my editor’s going there to supervise the script. She goes, or this whole fucking deal is off.”

“Mr. Hofmeier, please, I really can’t go,” Maggie was protesting as the old marine rattled off his instructions to the agent’s secretary. Karl was at full throttle, spitting out obscenities with his orders, and determined to have his way. Maggie could say whatever she wanted; he was not listening and he was not changing his mind. Maggie chased after him as he stormed out of her office. He was remarkably limber and quick for a man his age.

“Miss Quinlan, tell your cousin that she has to go to London,” he bellowed down the hall as he plowed ahead to the office.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Hofmeier?” Ann asked from her post in the center of the suite.

“He wants me to go to London with his screenplay,” Maggie half-whispered.

“I’ll go if you don’t want to,” Ann said gleefully. “Can I go instead, Mr. Hofmeier?”

“Mrs. Angiolini must go, Mrs. Majik. And I can find a new editor pretty damn quick if I have to,” he threatened. That statement was enough to get Theresa off the phone at once, bouncing out of her office with the spring of a jack in the box.

“Of course Maggie will take care of this for you,” Theresa said, clucking and cooing over her very famous client as she slipped her arm through his. “Don’t we always take care of everything for you? Besides, you don’t want to give up Maggie; she red inks your books better than anyone and you know it.”

Watching Theresa escort their most valuable client into the sunny office, Maggie prayed for success. Peaking around the corner of the doorframe, ears wide open, she waited to hear some kind of debate, a give and take that would end in her favor. Hofmeier silenced Theresa with one wave of his hand, grabbed a notepad and wrote with an officer’s strength of command. The only sound was that of a pencil scratching fiercely against the paper, as if Karl meant to engrave his message into the desktop.

“Confidential, Miss Quinlan, destroy it after reading it, for your eyes only,” he barked.

Apparently he was satisfied, because Hofmeier turned around after handing his secret message to Theresa, and he strode briskly out of the office like the ex-Marine that he was, waving a solid farewell to Ann and Maggie. The door was closed with a firm slam while Theresa began to laugh as she read the note, marching orders from an officer whose command of the English language did not include the phrase “I can’t”.

“So, Mags, do you need to update your passport?” Theresa said with a broad smile.

“What about Joey?” she gasped in terror. “How can I go out of town?”

Theresa brushed aside those worries as she returned to her office, leaving Maggie to deal with a very large problem. Two people were on hold for Mrs. Angiolini, giving her no choice but to hurry back to her own office and get to work, temporarily ignoring the issue of business trips. She worked through lunch, never noticing the time until Ann rang the little office and reminded Maggie about her train.

After basketball practice tonight, she would do what she had done all winter; she would take Joey and his friends for pizza. Sitting on the train that was empty so early in the day, she found herself thinking about Franco, about their first few years together when they had been happy. So many Friday nights became impromptu barbecues with their friends, where Franco would make a batch of his famous margaritas and everyone would be laughing and joking. What had happened, she wondered, to turn that jovial man into a jerk, someone who stopped paying compliments and began to throw out cruel jibes and outright insults. She hung on for so long, expecting that jovial man to return when their son was older and she was working full time to ease the financial burden. It was the anticipation of better times that kept her going through the storm, that and the fact that a divorced woman could not receive the sacraments if she remarried. The very idea that she would have to confess to adultery if she started dating again was enough of an embarrassment to goad her into mending their marriage. After all that misery for so many years, she felt that she had struggled for nothing because Franco had died, cheating her out of some obscure reward.

Maggie sat at her usual table at D’Ascenzi’s Pizzeria, a spot that gave a clear view of the video game room that was tucked in a back corner. Joey and his buddies were clustered around one of the games, playing at racing sports cars through Death Valley, while she sat with a slice of pizza growing cold in her plate. “Maggie, I made that with my own hands,” Pete joked as he slid into a chair across from her. “No good?”

“Oh, no, sorry, Pete, it’s fine, I’m just tired from work,” she fabricated a response. The truth was that she could not swallow the food tonight, not when she so clearly remembered the very last time that she had sat there with Franco. They bought a large pizza and she ate one slice while Franco ate the rest, washing it down with a pitcher of beer. She could not stop him in a restaurant, not when he would berate her so loudly and she could not tolerate the humiliation in public. Go ahead and choke on it, she had thought to herself, and then a couple of days later he was dead.

“Everybody been wanting to give you a hand?” Pete asked as he took a large bite from a leftover slice. “But you need anything done around the house, you call me. I still charge only a good plate of spaghetti and a couple meatballs.”

“Thanks, Pete, I will. About all I can afford is a handyman who works for his meals,” she replied.
“You’re the nicest lady I ever met, Maggie, I mean it, and I figure this is a rough spell for you. With Joey, if you need a man to talk to him, straighten him out about girls or something,” Pete offered, looking in Maggie’s eyes in a way that made her squirm. She had been married for so long that she had forgotten how a man looked at a woman he was attracted to, but the image was being dusted off just then in her mind.

Pete sat there chatting, leaving his brother Rocco to tend the counter and take the orders. Pete’s current girlfriend was sitting near the window and glaring at Pete, but he carelessly ignored her as he made his move on Maggie. He was a man who had been married twice already, the kind of guy who never understood why his need to go hunting in Wyoming for three weeks was such a point of friction with his wives and girlfriends. When his first wife complained about the trips to Las Vegas that were men only, and his second wife screamed over the fishing trips that took place nearly every weekend, he dumped them for trying to run his life. He was like Franco in that way, Maggie always felt, a man who lived in his own universe, and he was the center of that universe. A woman had to revolve around him like he was the sun if she wanted a relationship, and sometimes that was just more trouble than it was worth.

“Oh, my, it’s ten o’clock already,” Maggie said as she glanced at her watch. She rounded up the party of Joey, Rob, and Cullen Reardon and headed for home, with Pete’s invitation to breakfast left hanging in the air. He was just another one of Franco’s old friends, someone she had seen so often that she could not remember meeting him for the first time. It was impossible for her to picture the two of them together, because she could not imagine what they could possibly talk about. On top of that was the gnawing she felt, deep in the pit of her stomach, nibbling at her pride. Somewhere a voice was telling her that Pete offered breakfast and expected sex.

His proposition was made because she was a living, breathing, and available female, and Maggie felt that she was entitled to more than that. Every lady on the planet could proclaim that women were now sexually liberated, but Maggie would hear nothing more than a variation on an old theme. Men had always been trying to get women to have sex with them, and for a long time, women had resisted until the situation suited them. Maggie did not see any newfound power in the modern morality, not when women gave up the little control they once had over relationships.

The dating scene had revolved completely around from the old days of chastity and virtuous ladies, to the point that sexual activity was part of the package of dating and courtship. Sex was so expected that Maggie feared for her future, foreseeing a choice of giving in or being left alone. Sooner or later, she would have to decide if male companionship was more valuable than her self-esteem.

Technorati tag: literary fiction

Chapter 2

Previously: A week after her husband's untimely death, Maggie is dealing with a new job, business travel, childcare problems, and a nagging doubt about whether or not she'll ever be a part of a couple again.

Chapter 2

St. Rita’s gym was buzzing with eighth grade energy. The boys on the team were jabbering to each other as they ran through their warm up drills while the girls in the stands were chattering like a flock of starlings as they eyed the boys. Maggie took up her position in the upper bleachers, where she sat with Greta Burns and Peggy Reardon, while their husbands clustered together on the first row. Mike and John were trying to fill the space, but without Franco there the gap was very noticeable.

“Peggy, would you mind if I took the carpool tonight?” Maggie asked, looking for something to do to fill her time.

“Can you? That would be perfect, Ashley has a sleep over at Missy’s,” Peggy responded absent-mindedly. “It’s date night. Oh, gosh, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Please, Peggy, please be normal,” Maggie said. “Let’s talk like we always did, okay?”

“She’ll have date night herself, Peggy,” Greta said, grinning to cheer up Maggie. “And then she’ll have to tell us all the details.”

A cell phone began to ring as the game was getting underway, and slowly Maggie realized that it was her phone, the one she always carried in case her elderly parents needed something. She jumped up and raced out of the gym so that she could stand in the foyer of the grade school to take the call that could only be trouble. Her mother never called on the cell phone except for emergencies, thinking that it must cost a fortune for the convenience.

“I am terribly sorry to have interrupted a family event,” the man on the other end was apologizing after Maggie had explained the noise level in the background. “And on a Saturday, as if you were on call twenty four hours a day.”

She heard barely half of the sentence, with her mind focused on the game and Joey’s drive up the lane. Through the open door she could see Greta and Peggy, waggling eyebrows in an attempt to communicate their concern. After all, who else would be calling on a Saturday morning besides an elderly parent, and a call that like could only mean that something was terribly wrong. Just as she was began to move her hand, to give them a thumbs up, all is well sign, the words and the voice came together and Maggie forgot all about her girlfriends.

“Is everything all right?” Greta nervously whispered when Maggie returned to her seat.

“I was just asked out on a date tonight by the Chairman of the History Department of St. Ignatius University,” she said in a voice filled with amazement.

“You’re not going, are you?” Peggy said, horrified at the thought.

“Of course not, Peg, it’s against the rules,” Maggie assured her friends. It was unheard of to snap up an evening engagement for the same day it was offered, and she would never go out with one of her clients, especially when she had not even met him yet.

With Joey spending the night with a friend, Maggie had the house all to herself for the first time. Her ears kept picking up strange noises and crackling that she had never noticed before. She watched a silly movie, one that made her cry, and drank two glasses of wine while she read over Mary Ann Fowler’s latest bit of fluff. There was something about the novel that reminded her of Franco, something that stirred up bad feelings. “You were selfish, that’s what it was all along,” she said to his photograph that stood on the mantle of the fireplace. “You wouldn’t have left me alone like this if you cared about me.”

Unable to sleep, even though it was past one in the morning, Maggie decided to clean the house. She ran the vacuum over the family room rug, but it did not really need cleaning. She mopped the kitchen floor, but the wash water in the bucket was nearly as pristine as it had been at the beginning. Year after year she had listened to Franco railing about the dirty house, harping about the mess and the pigsty, while she felt guilty that her job took up too much time. She came to believe that her little projects for Theresa kept her from her household chores, and now she finally saw that the mess and dirt came from Franco. He never bothered to pick up after himself, the clutter and filth was all from him, and it had been his fault. For the first time, Maggie faced the truth, but she could not understand why was she sobbing about it now.

She sat with Joey at the kitchen table on Sunday afternoon, not wanting to be alone. “Hey, you have homework too,” Joey noticed as his mother began to leaf through a manuscript.

“If I do it right, I won’t have to go to England,” she said, to bring up the topic that had not yet been discussed. “Listen, I may have to go on a business trip in February, and you might have to stay with Rob or Cullen, just a few days. I don’t want to go, and I’m trying my best to get out of it, so maybe things will work out all right.”

“Nice to have a vacation in the winter,” Joey mumbled, his feelings very bruised. It was going to be another problem, another crisis, all thanks to Franco. Maggie felt her temper begin to rise, as if she could scream out in anger at the situation she was left in, but that would not resolve the quandary, any more than two glasses of wine helped her sleep last night.

They worked in silence, with Maggie’s red pencil making notations in the margins of Hofmeier’s screenplay. Since movies were not filmed in sequence, she had only to edit the portions that had been revised since the production began. Hofmeier had already explained to her that the entire project was now being held up until he approved these last few scenes, and Maggie was trying to be quick as well as thorough. She had never been involved in movie making, but she presumed that since time is money for any business, this delay was causing the British production company an enormous sum.

Maggie ran out to the grocery store, and returned to find her son sprawled on the sofa. “Pete D’Ascenzi called,” Joey reported from his post in front of the television. “He wants to take you dancing, he said.”

“Yeah, dancing between the sheets,” Maggie said under her breath. She would have to call him back, if only to be polite, but she had absolutely no desire to talk to him. He was a nice enough person, but he was not the sort of man that she pictured herself with. Since talking to her new client, she pictured her desired suitor as someone rather intellectual like Professor Goebel, and maybe he was a possibility. Maggie was relieved to hear Pete’s voice mail come on so that she only had to leave a message, and she hoped that it would be the end of it.

Ann was grinning like a fool when Maggie showed up at work on Monday, as if she had played a marvelous practical joke. “Sorry I gave him the cell number, but he was so insistent and I was on my way out the door on Friday when he called,” Ann explained.

Maggie and Theresa had their meeting, which was not really necessary but it was so pleasant to start the day with coffee and chatter, to recall Uncle Enzo and the time he took his nieces smelting one April. The jangling of the phones spelled an end to the fun, and Maggie raced back to her office to take a call.

“Mr. Goebel from St. Ignatius,” Ann announced into the phone. “Sounds like a real horse’s ass, worse than Friday afternoon.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Maggie replied. “Wait till I tell him that he has to rewrite half the book.”

“Oh, and last Friday I told him you were single, sorry,” Ann said quietly as she transferred the call.

“Good morning, Professor,” Maggie began in her sweetest voice. “I have all day to give you now, but do you have time to talk?”

Being accorded that little bit of respect through his honorary title was enough to soften Bill Goebel’s attitude, with Maggie’s tone calming a twitching ego. “If it will take some time, Mrs. Angiolini, your news cannot be good.”

"It's only bad news if you expected to publish this book by tomorrow, and I know that you weren't expecting that," she said lightly, trying to ease her way into the discussion.

"Quite true," he agreed. "There is the sound of extensive revisions in your voice, I would say. Perhaps it would be best to discuss them in person, say, over lunch?"

“Can we make it a working lunch?” Maggie begged. Every minute of the day had to be put to good use if she were to get out of the office on time. “I have to catch an early train.”

“I can see you in your office in an hour, if you are free,” he said. In the background, muffled, she was sure that he was telling someone to cover the lecture for History 302, which was starting in one hour. “And I will bring lunch; I know this charming little bistro that has a great chef. I am sure that you will enjoy whatever he can prepare for us.”

Maggie’s first meeting with her new client was rather awkward, since it was obviously not going to be quite what she was expecting. Bill Goebel brought more than lunch; he included wine and a bouquet of red roses in the unwieldy package that he hauled over on the ‘El’. Theresa had been dead on accurate with her description of the professor, who was not the least bit attractive. Short, pudgy and balding, he had been divorced for the past five years, after his wife decided that she needed some space. It was understandable; the man was suffocating in his attentions.

One of the first things that Maggie noticed was his sturdy horn rim glasses, which had a tendency to slide down his nose so that he had the irritating habit of constantly readjusting them. The incessant movement of finger to bridge of nose quickly began to grate on Maggie’s nerves, but he was a paying client and she had to earn a living. She cleared the top of her desk, spread out his manuscript, and for ninety minutes Maggie had to refocus his thoughts to the work at hand, while Bill went off on tangents relating to Chicago’s nightspots.

Precisely at noon, Bill presented his picnic offering with great pride. He was a regular patron of Bistro La Tour, allowing him the luxury of pleading with the owner to prepare a lunch suitable to impress an available woman. As Maggie discussed the revisions of the eighth chapter, Bill spread a buttery foie gras on freshly baked slices of rye bread, arranging them on a napkin with an eye to presentation. Over a plate of tuna salad Nicoise they made corrections to the closing paragraph. She could not remember the last time she had eaten such marvelous cuisine, a delightful meal that almost made her forget about Bill’s sliding glasses.

“You are overwhelmed and swamped now, I’m sorry,” she said, the wine warming her outlook on life. “Not the proper way to thank you for this wonderful lunch.”

“Not at all, this has actually been the most pleasant dressing down that I have ever received,” Bill said, pushing at his glasses for the millionth time. “In fact, I may not make all these changes, just so I can have another session with you.”

“Be careful, Professor Goebel. If you disobey my orders, I can be very strict,” she replied, joking through a wine-laced haze. Unaccustomed to drinking in the middle of the day, one glass of Entre-Deux-Mers had mellowed her senses and washed away her apprehension.

“I am in fear, madam. A rap across the knuckles with a wooden ruler from Sister Maggie,” he replied in kind. “How about next Friday night, if you can meet me again I will have all my work finished. Dinner at the bistro is far better than the lunch.”

Surprised at the unexpected invitation, Maggie took in the overall package of Bill Goebel while she tried to compose a sober reply. He was a dull and dowdy college professor, attired in khaki pants and a tweed blazer that fit about ten pounds ago. Even though he was the exact opposite of Pete, Bill was no more her type than the pizza man. Where Pete was aggressive, Bill was much more subtle in asking her out, suggesting a business dinner that would masquerade as a date. Beyond their styles, she analyzed their personalities, and could not find the right qualities in either man. Out of appreciation for Bill’s clever tactics, she selected the kindest, most gentle manner of brushing him off without hurting his feelings.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to go there. But Friday night is family night, I’m sorry, but you understand, don’t you?” she said.

“Bring your children, I would love to meet them,” he blurted out. He cringed slightly, as if he realized that his offer was much too forward for a first date, entirely too pushy.

“Let me explain before you make this commitment,” she said, gently touching his arm. “My son is thirteen, and he would be joined by his two friends. Have you ever seen thirteen-year-old boys eat? It’s not an appetizing sight.”

His eyes locked onto her fingertips and seemed to glow. At once, Maggie snatched her hand back, afraid that she was sending the wrong signal. She meant to be gentle, not to imply that he should ask again, but pick a different night. Returning her hand to her lap, she pictured his manuscript, recalling in detail the chapter that was devoted to the eighteenth century belief that women had to have sex after the experiences of marriage. When they went over the footnotes, she had asked him if he really believed it. He had never answered her directly, and now she was horrified to think that he just might be planning to assist her with some imagined urges. Growing nervous, she gripped her wedding ring and began to roll it up and down her finger. The symbolic power and protection of the gold band was not there anymore.

“You have only to name the time and place, madam, and I will tote my manuscript wherever I must go,” he offered in his most gentlemanly fashion.

“Work carefully on these rewrites, Bill, and call me when you’ve finished. For now, let’s stick to meeting during the day,” she said, eager to get him out of her office so that she could get back to the customers who had called during the meeting.

Maggie escorted her love-struck client to the elevator, offering a few bits of advice about the use of commas and semi-colons. She carried the bouquet of roses, hoping that Ann had a large vase somewhere in her well-stocked closet of office supplies. Bidding Mr. Goebel a good afternoon as the elevator door clicked shut, she handed the flowers to Ann. “Even roses make a horse’s ass smell better, Miss Annie.”

“A little wine makes a big difference, too,” Ann smiled back. “Are you drunk, Mrs. Angiolini?”
“Me, drunk? No, just a little happy,” Maggie said. “Look at the time; I have to get hold of Tessa Perritt in New York before I can catch my train.”

“Tell the conductor to wake you up at River Oaks,” Ann shot back, “or you’ll find yourself in Kenosha with drool trickling down your chin.”

At dinner on Friday night, Maggie was much more animated and full of smiles as she spoke to friends at the D’Ascenzi Pizzeria. While the boys played games, she sipped a glass of red wine and chatted with some old neighbors whom she had not seen since Franco’s funeral. It was a very relaxing evening after a very special day. Maggie had received her first paycheck, bigger numbers than she had seen on a slip of paper for years.

After the Saturday basketball game, Joey went home with Cullen for a so-called sleepover, which was actually a way to talk to girls on the phone without Mom listening in. Maggie knew that because Cullen and Rob did the calling at her house while Joey stood guard and kept her away from the phone. On her way home, she stopped at the hardware store and bought a can of paint. The bedroom was hers alone these days, and she was going to paint it whatever color she liked. If she was going to be happy, she would have to create her own happiness.

By the time that Joey came home on Sunday afternoon, Maggie had painted the room, washed the bedspread and polished the furniture. The armoire that had been emptied by the ladies of St. Rita’s Grieving Guild and Used Clothing Drive was now filled with Maggie’s summer clothes, all the extra things that used to be stored in the attic for lack of space. Overnight, she had rearranged the room to suit her new life, accepting the fact that she was alone now and she was going to deal with it.

“I’m going to say hi to Nonna at the nursing home,” Maggie said at noon on Sunday. “Back in an hour. Go study.”

The woman who waltzed into the kitchen at half past three was not the same person who had left earlier. Her arms were loaded down with shopping bags, deep green and shiny red paper that crackled as she deposited her treasures on the nearest chair.

“Pete called,” Joey announced as Maggie walked in the door. “What took so long, I though you were only going to see Nonna. What’s with the Rivers Oaks Shop bags?”

“I went shopping,” Maggie practically sang with joy. With her first paycheck she had splurged on a visit to one of River Oaks’ finest women’s boutiques, where Mrs. Sherman selected the outfits for her customers. Suits and cocktail dresses could be paired with the perfect accessories, and Maggie had only experienced such a delightful bit of pampering when she needed a special ensemble for Little Carlo’s wedding.

The professional businesswoman now owned a very elegant suit and a simple black dress. There was not an occasion yet for a cocktail dress, but Maggie expected that something was going to come along. One of these days, she would not be sitting at home alone, but she would be out on dates with interesting men who gave her compliments and noticed if she changed her hair style. One fine day, she would be in the company of men who would drop everything to take her to the theatre because they wanted to satisfy her whims. Some day soon, she would have love affairs and find out what it was like to have sex with other men besides Franco. Mrs. Sherman had been pretty specific about the affair business. “You cannot mourn your husband forever,” she had said, “and it certainly isn’t doing you any good now.”

Stalling on the return call to Pete, Maggie talked to her mother while she made Sunday dinner. Holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder, she sautéed a few anchovies and garlic in olive oil but her mind was not on her task. “I can leave him with friends, but it’s a long time to ask someone to take care of him,” she said as she tossed the broccoli into the mix. “Are you sure that you and Pops can’t live here for a week?”

“You know how your father is,” Angie Griffith sighed. “He won’t even go on a vacation anymore. You know, if you had married that nice Bellasteri boy you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Please, mom, Luca and I did not get along,” Maggie groaned, tired of hearing about that nice Bellasteri boy, the same story over and over again. Her mother had never cared for Franco, and now she would never forgive him for dying young.

“You’ve helped Greta and Peggy plenty of times, it won’t hurt them to give you a hand,” Angie reminded her daughter. “They wouldn’t have offered if they didn’t want to help out, and it’s only for what, a week or so?”

“I don’t even know yet, I’m guessing about a week, maybe only a few days.”

“So, you go away for a few days and Joey won’t even know that you’re gone,” Angie said. “It’s like a vacation for him, to get away from his mother.”

“Thanks, I feel special now. I don’t know what to do, Mom. If I wasn’t so far away, like if I had to go to New York or something, I wouldn’t feel so guilty about leaving him.”

“What about the divinity school over in Willow Park?” Angie suggested. “Maybe you could hire one of the graduate students to live in the house and keep an eye on Joey.”

There would be no easy solution, Maggie could see that, and she puzzled over her options as she sorted through the laundry. Evading the questions that peppered her thoughts, she tried to tell herself that she should be happy with so much less housework now, with one less person to care for. The piles of sorted clothes were noticeably smaller, which meant the chore would be finished earlier and she would have more time to herself, to read or work on needlepoint if she wanted. As she tossed Joey’s shirts into the washing machine, she went back to her dilemma, mulling over her mother’s suggestion about leaving her boy with strangers from the Evangelical College.

Joey was her responsibility, and if she hired someone to come to the house, she would be paying for her son’s care, which seemed more reasonable than expecting Greta to foot the bill. Neither Peggy or Greta would accept a dime if she offered, but Maggie could not even think about delivering Joey to their care when it would be a free ride. More than anything, she wanted to do things on her own, without having to rely on anyone to fill Franco’s place. It was Franco who should be looking after his son, her mind told her; the man who had fathered the boy should have some stake in his care. This was supposed to be a team effort, mother and father together, but Franco had eaten his way out of the job. Grief enveloped her, crushing the air from her lungs with a choking embrace. Maggie slumped to the floor of her basement laundry room and wept, her self-pity and sorrow churning together as if swept up in a swirling flash flood.

Technorati tag: literary fiction

Chapter 3

Previously: Trying to settle into her new lifestyle, Maggie discovers that the available men are more frog than prince. With a business trip to London looming, she must find someone to mind her son. The stress, mixed with grief and anger over her husband's death, becomes crushing.

Chapter 3

The list of clients who relied on Maggie Griffith Angiolini began to grow as she spent more days at the office. Authors passed her name around at workshops and seminars; Quinlan and Associates had more than enough projects for the four editors to handle. Maggie found herself being swamped by work, but even with the pressure she considered her job to be a delight, from the daily commute to the endless phone calls. Those conversations were probably the best part of every day, when she would lose herself in the discussions she had with creative writers who used words magically. With so much on her mind, she quickly reached the point where she rarely even thought about her husband, pushing him further and further back in her mind with the passing of each busy day. Even so, there were times when Maggie would catch herself looking at the kitchen clock as she prepared dinner, waiting for Franco to walk in the door, but he was not coming home anymore.

“Maggie, there’s something here for you,” Ann said with a tone of mystery. It was a bitterly cold Tuesday, typical for a Chicago January, and Maggie was still trying to warm up from her short walk to the office. She had foolishly worn her suit, and the wind that howled down the river had frozen her knees. Mr. Lawyer From the Tenth Floor had admired her legs, though, which alleviated a great deal of her discomfort. He could look all he wanted, as far as Maggie was concerned, since he was not getting anything from her if he had any ideas. Walking stiffly with a steaming cup of coffee held in both hands, she wandered out to the reception desk to see her unexpected gift.

“Flowers from Mr. Goebel,” Maggie said. She loved receiving such an utterly impractical gift, a blessing of color and beauty that made the swirling snowflakes outside fade away into an imagined sunshine. “His book is going to be published this fall.”

“Ahem,” Ann loudly cleared her throat, trying to be very casual. “Does that mean that he can see you socially now?”

Ann had listened carefully and overheard a few of the conversations, with Bill calling the office nearly every day. He put on a full court press, as the basketball aficionados would call it, asking Maggie to join him for dinner, or a play, or a gallery opening, or anything that could constitute a first date that was held on neutral territory. Citing their business relationship, Maggie had always declined, convincing the professor that her constant badgering and criticism would be detrimental to a personal relationship. With the book finished, Maggie was no longer his editor.

“We share some interests, but I don’t think I’m ready to start seeing men,” Maggie said.

“You’ve been alone for over a month. Don’t you miss it?” Ann asked, trying to be subtle.

“Miss what, sex?” Maggie put Ann on the spot, looking the young woman in the eye.

“Well, yes, I mean, you’re still young,” Ann fidgeted. She was sorry she had asked, but it was one of those things that intrigued her. She had only been married about three years, and could not imagine being suddenly celibate.

“Look, Ann, I was married for over fifteen years. I don’t miss sex,” Maggie said plainly, an older woman’s wisdom shared with youth. “I miss making love. Can you understand the difference?”
“I’m not sure. But you’ll fall in love again.”

“Maybe,” Maggie laughed it off, trying to switch her mood completely around. “But not with Bill Goebel. He’s got too big of an ego for my taste.”

“Now this is where I say something crude and obscene about what he has that is big,” Ann warned, and she was laughing her head off as she answered the phone, immediately pretending to adjust an imaginary set of eyeglasses in perfect imitation of a certain professor. “Of course, Mr. Goebel, I’ll transfer your call at once. Beautiful flowers, yes, she has just picked them up.”

Maggie was trying to stop from snickering as she picked up the phone in her office. Picturing a naked Professor Goebel in bed made her laugh even harder, and she had to cover the receiver so that he could not hear. “They’re lovely, Bill, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Maggie, I have never had a manuscript so well received,” he gushed, his words tumbling out of his mouth as fast as his lips could move. “The publisher mentioned several passages that were outstanding, and they were the sections that you helped me to revise. I want to repay you, to show my appreciation. Please, join me for dinner on Saturday, and I can get tickets for the theatre. You mentioned that drama at the Brandenburg that you wanted to see.”

“I’m very grateful, really,” she said at last. “But I, um, it hasn’t been very long, and well, not yet, I don’t think.”

“You need to get out in the world,” he insisted. “It’s not healthy for you to sit alone at home, with no one to talk to.”

“Yes, but I’m not alone, I have my son, and I have my friends,” she assured him.

“Oh, well, if there is someone else, I will step aside of course,” he offered, the epitome of an eighteenth century gentleman.

“There’s no one else,” she said softly, trying to discourage him but being kind.

“Forgive my haste,” he replied with theatrical grace.

The call was barely finished before she picked up the next, an urgent message from Sonya at Candlewick Press. Within the span of one minute, Maggie came to clearly understand why everyone referred to the woman as “That Bitch”, and her patience evaporated. Don’t take no shit from nobody, her father-in-law had advised last Sunday, and she was not taking it, no indeed. “That’s just pure bullshit,” she said, giving as good as she was getting. “I’m not some fucking floor mat for you to wipe your goddamned shoes on.”

She had lost control, and she looked up to heaven with embarrassment, to ask God to forgive her. Her eyes caught sight of Karl Hofmeier, leaning in the doorway quietly aping a standing ovation.

“Oo-rah,” Karl rumbled, deep and full-throated.

With a forced smile, Maggie wished Sonya a good morning and slowly hung up the phone.

“Feels pretty damn good to squeeze off a couple of rounds, doesn’t it?” he said as he took a seat. “People like that are the ones that get it in the back in combat zones, and no one blinks an eye.”

“I hate to admit this, but it did feel good.”

“Met any eligible men yet? Mrs. Hofmeier and the girls have been beating the bushes, but no soap. Fuck the looks, I tell them, get her a man with a big,” and he held his hands about six inches apart, slowly extending the space as he spoke, “thick, fat…wallet. With good manners.”

“You are a devil in Marine’s clothing. Is this the latest edition of the screenplay?” Maggie asked as he handed her the thick ringed binder. Colorful paper clips popped up from the tops of several pages like warning flags to indicate a problem lurking on the paper.

“Minor corrections, Mrs. Angiolini,” he said pleasantly. He was stern and overbearing with everyone else in the office, but with Maggie he was a sweetheart. “Except as noted with red clips. Red, you see, to indicate that you are to stop them from changing that scene.”

Maggie had to laugh at his clever use of color, and old Lt. Col. Hofmeier winked at her in their charming conspiracy. He had confidence in Maggie, assured that she would never bend if he did not want to give in. At least she could be stubborn while being very pleasant, and she would get her way without creating enemies. Before Karl could elaborate on the problems, the phone rang again.

“Kay, why are you calling so early?” Maggie chirped into the phone. Her sister lived in Los Angeles, and rarely rose before eight. She never called before noon, and it was only ten o’clock in Chicago.

“I call you at ten plenty of times,” Kay protested.

“Exactly, and it is now eight o’clock,” Maggie explained, thinking that perhaps Kay had been partying all night.

“Well, Mom’s kitchen clock reads ten, and her clock was never wrong before,” Kay continued, waiting for her sister to realize that Mom’s kitchen clock was within Kay’s eyesight. It took Maggie a few seconds to comprehend.

“When did you get in? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Maggie said excitedly, her words rushing out in breathless torrents. She pointed at the phone and mouthed ‘my sister’ to Karl.

“That’s one of my clients saying hello to you,” Maggie explained when Kay asked who was shouting across the room. “Military fiction writer, not your preference. Exactly, that’s the one, our father’s all time favorite author.”

“Fabrizio had to go to Chicago for business,” Kay began the saga of her latest romance. “Didn’t Mom tell you about him?”

“Is this the guy from Sienna, in the export business? What was it, Italian pasta or Italian pottery?”

“You know, I really think that our mother has gone deaf or senile,” Kay sighed. “He’s a university professor who’s here on a sabbatical. Steve’s wife introduced us in L.A., and when he asked me to come with him for this conference, I said yes, of course.”

“Dinner this Sunday, you have to come,” Maggie offered at once. She was as eager to spend time with Kay as she was to assess the quality of this newest beau. “Where are you staying, by the way?”

“Not at Mom’s house. Jesus Christ, I’m thirty-five years old and she still won’t let me stay in the same room as Fabrizio,” Kay snorted. “We’re at the Cosmopolitan, just off Michigan Avenue. Let’s meet for lunch, tell Theresa to give you the rest of the day off.”

“We can meet in the lobby of the Cosmopolitan at noon. No shopping though, I have to pick up Joey after school,” Maggie made plans with her sister as quickly as she could, while Hofmeier waited patiently. There was a tiny pang of guilt as she realized that she had seriously planned to go to Mass at noon, with manuscripts already tucked into her tote bag for homework. As she hung up the phone, she asked God to excuse her for another day, but since it was a family matter she assumed that He would understand. Returning her attention to Karl, she apologized for the lengthy interruption.

“I have two girls, Mrs. Angiolini, and I’ve learned to wait my turn,” he chuckled. “Now, back to my script, presented to you for the final going over.”

“Not bad, okay,” she mumbled as she flipped through the corrections. “And where are we at with that troublesome scene?”

“You should expect a call from one of Argosy’s producers,” he began, and his manner of speaking gave Maggie a clear indication of Hofmeier’s animosity to the entire staff of Argosy Productions. His face was beginning to turn red as his blood pressure climbed, brought on by the recollection of his last trip. “The little prick playing the lead character is absolutely against my treatment of my scene from my novel. The director’s taking his side; naturally, all the shitheads like to stick together. The BBC script person is weak as a kitten and she’s weighing in on England’s side; that director has her scared shitless. So, there it is, you’re the voice of America.”

“Thanks, Mr. Hofmeier, three against one,” Maggie said with a touch of sarcasm. “Those are not good odds.”

“Well, we faced worse during the Revolutionary War and we licked the bastards,” he put in cleverly, aware that Maggie was an avid reader of history.

“Perfect, I just have to wear them down and employ guerilla tactics, and of course the French government will support me,” she suggested, for some reason thinking of the Continental Army crossing the Delaware in the middle of winter. “And can I also assume that you made no friends when you worked with them?”

“Semper fi, my girl, I was true to my novel,” he laughed. In fact, Karl Hofmeier was currently despised by half the employees of Argosy Productions, and several people at the BBC Studios would run the other way if they saw him coming. “I know I can count on you, you’re the daughter of a leatherneck and a Bridgeport dago. You’re the little girl who was on Jackie Rago’s payroll.”

“You know how to manipulate me, Mr. Hofmeier. And Jackie only gave me dimes when I went to visit his mother next door, and I never once set foot in Moon’s Tavern with the rest of his crew,” Maggie said. She had told Hofmeier a long time ago about her childhood, when she lived in an Italian neighborhood with a strong Mafia presence. He had written her little tale into his previous novel, after twisting it slightly so that the little girl became a messenger for the Mob. Karl liked to rag her about it, especially when she seemed to need a bit of cheering up. “But I want you to understand, I have to try to resolve these issues from here. You’re fully aware of my situation at home.”

“Where there’s a will,” he said as he rose to leave. “You know, Mrs. Hofmeier always buys a new lipstick when things are fucked up. It always seems to work for her.”

With Hofmeier gone, Maggie raced to Theresa’s office to share the news about Kay and her new boyfriend. Until 11:45 Maggie worked at a furious pace, cramming one more unfinished project into her tote for tonight’s editing session. It was one more thing that Maggie enjoyed about her job, an added benefit that came with working for Theresa. This was a full time job with incredibly flexible hours, and the boss had no problem with giving an employee an afternoon off to spend time with her sister, especially when the boss would monopolize all of that sister’s attention after work. By the time Maggie left, Theresa was already on the phone with Kay, making plans for drinks after six, organizing a little get-together with old friends. It was rather remarkable, but most of their high school clique had stayed in touch and most had stayed in Chicago. Maggie felt rather sorry for poor Fabrizio, who was about to be overwhelmed with new faces and a dozen names.

With a joyful grin, Maggie strode into the lobby of the Cosmopolitan Hotel, where Kay was seated, facing the entrance. “Mags, you look sensational,” Kay cooed as soon as her sister entered, admiring Maggie’s smart attire. Kay was the Griffith girl who read the fashion magazines religiously, and she was thrilled to see that Maggie was finally decked out in the latest style. The crisp wool suit was well paired with the white silk blouse, and the low pumps complimented the elegant outfit.

“We career girls have to look successful,” she replied. “I forgot to ask my sister what subject you teach, Fabrizio.”

“I am a professor of history, Mrs. Angiolini,” he said with a warm charm. Fabrizio Nerini was five years younger than Kay, though his mannerisms made him seem much older. In a way, he reminded Maggie of Franco, but it was just his style of speaking with his hands. There was no doubt that he was Italian, with dark hair and a sharp nose that seemed to celebrate the Caesars of ancient Rome. His clothes were tailored and worn with an elegance that only European men could bring to the drape of fabric.

“Call her Maggie, or she’ll feel old like a grandmother,” Kay suggested, bringing forth an apology from Fabrizio.

“Are you attending the conference at St. Ignatius University? One of my clients is the Chairman of the History Department,” Maggie said, to make the slightly nervous man more relaxed in her presence. Meeting the family of one’s love interest could be stressful, and Maggie hoped to alleviate a bit of the anxiety.

“Professor Goebel, yes, I have spoken to him. He will be leading the symposium on Friday that I am looking forward to,” Fabrizio said happily. Making this connection with Maggie seemed to brighten his face, as if they now had things in common.

“Have you read his book?” Maggie asked, trying to make conversation on a topic that she knew well.

Over an elegant lunch at La Dolce Vita, one of Chicago’s finest hotel dining rooms, Fabrizio felt that he had made a friend of Maggie. He had fallen madly, passionately and deeply in love with Kay, and now he could look to Maggie to recommend him to her parents. They eagerly accepted her invitation to dinner on Sunday, to have a chance to meet with Mr. and Mrs. Griffith on neutral ground. In return they made plans for Saturday night, and Maggie was given a golden opportunity to wear her brand new, simple black dress.

St. Rita’s parking lot was packed with a few hundred cars, driven by a few hundred mothers waiting for their children to be released for the day. It was a ritual that Maggie clung to, as if she had made time stand still by doing something that she had done before Franco died. Everything would be fine, so long as she was in this parking lot at half past three every weekday.
Taking the same route home, another source of comfort, she noticed the bare trees that lined the street, with branches that almost shivered in the cold. The only warmth came from the glowing windows of the mansions that they passed as they drove through the old and well-to-do part of town on their way to their little cottage on the fringes of River Oaks.

“Say, you’ll never guess who called me today.”

“Grandma?” Joey asked, not aware of his mother’s enthusiasm.

“You’re close. The call did come from Grandma’s house,” Maggie continued. “Here’s a big clue, the last time I talked to this person she called me from California.”

“Aunt Kay is here?” Joey jumped to attention.

“She’s coming for dinner on Sunday, with your grandparents and her new boyfriend. He’s really sweet, a nice guy from Italy. I met him at lunch today.”

“When are you going to have a boyfriend?” Joey asked out of nowhere.

“What brought that up?”

“Aunt Kay always has some guy around to take her places. Don’t you want to go out to dinner and stuff like you used to?”

“Well, sure, Joey, but I don’t know any men that I want to spend time with,” Maggie said, trying to find the right way to tell her son that she was not like Aunt Kay. All those years of marriage had affected her philosophy about men, and she pretty much knew what she liked and what she did not like in a male companion. There was no way to tell him what she really thought, that dating lead quickly to sex. Three dates, hop into bed, and she was not ready to face that part of life.

“I don’t care if you have a boyfriend,” Joey continued. “Katie Parker’s mom has a boyfriend, and Katie says her mom’s a lot happier since she started going out with him.”

She looked over at him and gently touched his hand. “Thanks. It means a lot to me that you would say that. Before I forget, can you spend Saturday night with Rob or Cullen? Aunt Kay is taking me to dinner in the city, and I don’t want you home alone half the night.”

“Sure, okay. Maybe she’s gonna fix you up with someone.”

“I hope not.”

The week passed quickly, with Kay’s calls added to Bill Goebel’s daily chat, on top of the dozens of calls from publishers and writers that had to be dealt with promptly. She had made the mistake of telling Bill all about her sister’s new beau, and Bill had pigeonholed the hapless Italian and taken him everywhere, acting the part of tour guide. Not only did Bill call every day, he had to provide a complete rundown on every site visited, and every meal eaten, along with anecdotes about the other historians they had met. By Thursday, Maggie felt like her ear was being molded to fit the end of the phone receiver that was always pressed against her head. As soon as one call ended, she took another, and Thursday was more of the same. Mary Ann Fowler and her publisher signed off and the phone rang again.

“Mrs. Angiolini? Bea Parkhurst here, Argosy Productions. Mr. Hofmeier has given me your name,” the woman said, her perfect British inflection giving her away.

“Yes, I’ve been expecting your call,” Maggie said pleasantly. “And please, call me Maggie, it’s less of a mouthful.”

“Can we get right down to business?” Bea said with a hesitant note, as if she was afraid that Maggie would turn into a female version of Karl Hofmeier, foul-mouthed and foul-tempered. She was business-like, but something in Bea’s voice seemed open, more like talking to an old friend after a long absence.

“Absolutely, Miss?” Maggie inquired.

“Just Bea is fine,” she replied in an affable way. “I’ve been Miss and Mrs. and Miss again, and it does get a bit confusing to keep the title straight.”

“I understand that Mr. Hofmeier has left a bad impression behind,” Maggie said. “I’ve worked with him before, and I know his moods well.”

“At our last meeting, Maggie, I thought that he was going to pop Trevor squarely in the nose,” Bea confessed, “and our director is on the verge of pulling out of the production.”

“Mr. Hofmeier has a very deep attachment to this particular story, and there are some things that he will never change,” Maggie began the delicate negotiations.

“Unfortunately, Trevor and our director have become equally determined to see things done in a certain way,” Bea went on, still pleasant in tone. “Trying to come to terms over the phone appears to be futile at this point.”

“That is not what I was hoping to hear,” Maggie sighed. “Are you sure that the situation has become so hopeless?”

“I cannot begin to explain the disaster that I am trying to repair,” Bea said, the exasperation in her voice very clear, “and at what cost to Argosy. Mr. Hofmeier was the right to pull the plug, and everything that has been done to date would be scrapped. Very expensive scrap at that.”

“Hmm, I shouldn’t expect a welcoming party when I arrive, then,” Maggie said almost to herself.

“Mr. Hofmeier did ask me to look after you while you are here, and he explained your situation to me, but we are in a terrible bind over here. I’ll be in New York next week, and I fly back home on the eighth. I’ll have my secretary fax my flight information to you and we can travel together. Two girls on the town in London, how can you say no?”

“Bea, you’re an angel, of course I can’t say no.”

“Very well, then, all settled. We can talk about some of the changes on the flight if you like, get a head start, and I’ll fill you in on our cast of characters. You’d better give it ten days at least, a fortnight if Quinlan and Associates can spare you.”

Maggie hung up the phone and put her head down on her desk. A week with Rob, the next with Cullen, and she did not know how she could possibly ask anyone for such an enormous favor. It would be worse when she picked up Joey later and told him that she had to go to London. The look on Joey’s face when she relayed the sad news was so heartbreaking that Maggie thought she would be sick.

On the ride home, Joey pouted, sullen and silent, acting as though he were being punished for no reason while his mother was allowed to fly off to Europe without him. At basketball practice, he took out his frustrations on his teammates with flying elbows and angry shoving. It got to the point that the coach had to pull him from the scrimmage and sit him down on the bench, where he tore into the boy for his childish behavior. While Joey cried himself to sleep that night, Maggie cried in her empty bed, discouraged at her own inability to fix everything. Some things were beyond repair, like Franco’s health and Franco’s death. Some things were unfair to Joey, like this upcoming trip, but there was nothing that Maggie could do to make it better. Sooner or later, she knew that she would have to accept the fact that time did not run in reverse, no matter how many prayers she offered up every day.

Pete was his usual persistent self on Friday, ignoring the long line of customers that waited to place their pizza order at the counter while he asked Maggie very bluntly to go out with him next week. “Say, dinner and a movie and then whatever you feel like doing after,” he suggested.

“I have to go to London next week, sorry,” she apologized, silently thanking Bea Parkhurst for saving her from having to tell Pete the truth. She had no desire to go to a movie with him, and whatever she felt like doing after would not include romping in bed with him. All she needed these days was her own company, at least until she found a man with the right qualities. Only then would she be ready to open her heart and welcome a new man into her life.

While Maggie climbed up to her usual perch for the Saturday afternoon game, Greta made a grand announcement. “Barb, our Maggie is going out to dinner tonight.”

“With whom?” Barb asked in a teasing way. “Tom Parker, the stud of River Oaks?”

“Oh, never with Parker. Maggie is way too old for him,” Peggy sniggered. “I’ve seen his new girlfriend. Bleached blonde and fake boobs, and if she’s over sixteen I’d be surprised.”

“Isn’t Andy Duncan’s father a plastic surgeon?” Maggie said. “Should I go in for an estimate?”

“You have a manicure,” Greta jumped up in surprise. Maggie had always been a little tightfisted, cutting corners and skimping on luxuries to save a few dollars. She had not had her nails done for years, but tonight was her first time out without a husband, and she had splurged on a touch of glamour to suit the occasion. She proudly displayed her red painted nails, laughing and joking through the game. She was still giddy when she sent Joey off with Greta, who demanded a complete report to be delivered over coffee on Sunday morning.

Looking forward to a night on the town, Maggie rummaged around in her dresser for some sexy lingerie that she had not worn for many years. If she felt attractive, she would look the part, and there was a spark of confidence in her eye as she drove to the city. The valet at the restaurant gave her a quick glance as she handed him her keys, and his sly look lifted her spirits. Young women might resent such suggestive leers, but a woman like Maggie, nearing forty and on the edge of the dating world, actually appreciated the reassurance that came with being desirable.

Five hours later, she drove blindly down Michigan Avenue, heading south when she meant to travel north. Kay and Fabrizio were going to take care of Joey, a blessing if ever she needed one. Even that great news could not improve the evening. Just when she thought she was past such horrors, Maggie had lived through a night from hell. Stopping her car in the middle of the road as soon as she passed the Wrigley Building, she jumped out as it idled on the bridge. She yanked Franco’s picture out of her wallet, the one taken at Little Carlo’s wedding, and she began to tear it up into tiny pieces as she hurried to the side of the bridge. Little scraps, fluttering like snowflakes, drifted down to the dark water that flowed under her feet.

“God damn you to hell, Franco Angiolini,” she screamed at the river. “I will never forgive you, never.”