Chapter 15
“You’ll be my truest friend,” Ciaran said as he refilled her champagne flute. “Whatever I tell you, I know that you’ll keep my secrets, and when I act like the biggest dunce on earth you’ll come and swat me on the head like Sister Mary Cornelia used to do.”
Callista peaked in after hearing voices, and Maggie invited her to join their farewell party. “Ciaran is heading off on a new life,” Maggie explained, “trying to be the next Trevor Harwood by the sound of it.”
“Not the actor, Callista,” he laughed at Maggie’s inebriated quip. “I’m going to be the husband and father, and make the sacrifices that your dad made. Look around you, he’s had a comfortable life, and he’s proud of you and your brother. I’ve envied him for it, but now I’m going to find that life for myself.”
“Just a dull, boring husband who goes to work every day and comes home to the wife and kiddies,” Maggie continued, her words a bit slurred from alcohol.
“And when I die, I want my wife to be like you, Maggie, to wish she was in the box with me when they lower it in the sod. What a sweet misery I would want for her, the same thing you felt when your husband died,” Ciaran said.
“I am not miserable any more, Ciaran Doyle, I’m a new woman, too. I had a husband, and now he’s dead, and that’s the end of it. We’re moving on, you and I. And Callista, you’re moving on, with a new husband soon.”
Callista slid off the armrest and collapsed into the chair, shocked by Maggie’s blunt news. Maggie offered a toast to life’s changes, handing Callista a glass, and the young woman took it without thinking. “I’m sorry, Maggie, I had no idea.”
“It doesn’t matter, Callista, does it? I mean, we had a very enjoyable conversation tonight and it didn’t matter if I was married or single. If my husband is dead or alive, it shouldn’t make any difference.”
Ciaran almost burst out laughing, because it finally made sense. Only two hours ago, Trevor was peppering his solicitor friend with questions about divorce, child custody issues and taking overseas holidays while describing a particular absent father. The poor fool had no idea that Mr. Angiolini was not caring for his son because he was dead and buried.
“But my dad,” she began.
“It shouldn’t matter to him, either. His wife is dead and she’s not coming back, so do something else with your life. I cried and cried, Callista, night after night, and I screamed with anger at his memory, but Franco stayed dead. So I found something that I could change, and as of tonight I am going to make myself happy and raise my son, and you’ll have babies whether your mother is here on earth or looking down from heaven,” Maggie was rambling on, while Ciaran kept filling her glass.
They were going their separate ways, to which he agreed, but he longed to say goodbye in bed. It could be just the one time, if that was all he could get, but he wanted to share with her the love that they felt for each other. Even though she could not own the toy she admired in the shop window, she could play with it for a while before putting it back on display. He wanted to tell her that, and then tell her whatever else would convince her to go with him. All he wanted was one chance, and then he was positive that he could change her mind. They could postpone their parting for a few days, at least until he left for Manchester, for that was a good spot for a clean break. Cindy wandered in as Ciaran’s mind was dwelling on his dreams; the party was winding down and she was ready to go home.
“Join our party, Cindy,” Maggie insisted, getting up to give Cindy her seat while she searched for an empty glass. Finding a set of tumblers on a side table, she filled one with champagne and offered it to her friend, emptying the bottle in the process.
“Spin the bottle, Maggie, truth or dare,” Ciaran suggested, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
Maggie put the bottle on the table in the center of the seating area, a love seat and two chairs where the farewell party sat. She knelt on the floor and gave the bottle a spin. “Ciaran, truth. Do you remember Cindy, is she one of the girls you wish would give you a second chance?”
Truth or dare was a dangerous game, made even more hazardous by the application of alcohol to fuel the brain. Anyone could have seen that Cindy was so utterly mortified that she wanted to crawl under the carpet and hide. She gulped down her drink and boldly looked at Ciaran, as if she dared him to call her on her embarrassment when he should be cringing right along with her.
“You’re getting drunk, Mrs. Angiolini,” he said, uncomfortable with the memory and unable to face Cindy.
“I am drunk, Mr. Doyle, not dead drunk but trying my best. But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“Maggie, I’m getting tired,” Cindy said. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Wait, Cindy, you didn’t play the game. Truth, Miss Horlick, if Ciaran wanted to take you home, would you go?” Maggie asked, her eyes on fire. “But not to stay the night, Mr. Doyle, you’ll have to buy the cow.”
Ciaran was the only one in the room who understood the joke, and he began to laugh with glee. Maggie was truly his best female friend, and she was trying to charm Cindy into forgiving the heartbreaker, to absolve him of a very great sin. Confession had indeed been good for his soul, and now Maggie was working hard to save him. “The truth, Cindy, is that I am sorry. Sorry I was such an enormous, pompous, conceited moron. You were brilliant in bed, but it wasn’t just sex, and I pray to God that you believe me now. I asked because I honestly like you, I still do. I always have. You see, after, I was too stuck on myself to call you. I was waiting for you to ring me up, like I was God himself.” Ciaran admitted the error of his former ways, and he felt as if his head was floating up into the clouds, the weight lifted off his shoulders. “After the way I treated you, I have no right to ask, but will you give me a fresh start? I’ll take you home and ask for your number like a proper gentleman.”
Cindy looked at Maggie, a quizzical look that asked if Ciaran was too intoxicated to be telling the truth. “Don’t give him anything but a polite peck on the cheek, and your phone number if you’re interested in seeing him again,” Maggie advised. “Don’t give away anything that’s worth something to you.”
With a warm hug, Maggie said goodbye to Ciaran and bid farewell to her past. He kissed her cheek, a tear in his eye as he thanked her for being a good friend. Her smile was sad, applied to a brave face and given to the handsome man who would have taken her back to her younger days, to be a replacement for the man she had fallen in love with as a young woman. It had to end sooner or later, and after tonight Maggie would not try to restore her old life but she would create a new one. She had thought that Trevor wanted her, perhaps not as much as she loved him, but there had seemed to be a tender glow flickering in his eyes. She had fallen in love with him on the first day she met him; that was obvious to her as she watched Ciaran sleeping on Saturday night. But if Trevor did not love her back, it was not the end of the world. That sort of thing happened to people all the time and they survived. Now she knew what she wanted in her new life, and after tonight, she would pray for a man as considerate and gentle as Trevor, a bit stodgy but certainly not dull, a man who would send her a flower on Valentine’s Day because he was kind-hearted and he took pity on a single woman alone in a strange city.
With only Callista and Maggie left in the study, sunk into the soft comfort of the leather chairs, they picked up a thread of an earlier conversation. At least it was something that Callista could talk about that touched on Maggie’s recent experiences without delving in too deeply. As for Maggie, the last thing she wanted to do right now was to return to a hotel room, to an empty bed. She was eager to continue her chat with Callista, whatever the topic.
“I always liked to write, but it’s a rare person who can make a living at it,” Callista began. “It started as a short story, but it began to grow, and I developed a more complex plot line in which Dad, as a widower, actually, the main character that is based on him, becomes involved with a widow. I wanted a happy ending at the time that I started writing, when Dad was having a rough time of it. Until tonight, I didn’t know any widows, and you’re an editor as well.”
Maggie smiled at the engaging young lady, a person who could never mask her enthusiasm for written words. “Tell you what, I’ll read through the manuscript and give you any advice I can. If that helps, and you want to proceed, you can hire me as your editor and I’ll give it a complete overview. I can send the bill to your father, and he’ll never know the difference.”
“I can’t ask you to do anything of the sort without paying the proper fees,” Callista insisted. “Whatever work you do should be compensated fairly, even a brief glance.”
“Think of this as an interview in a way, as if you were doing research for a school paper. I’ll look at the widow’s viewpoint, and if things don’t make sense then I’ll recommend some changes. I won’t move a single paragraph or change a comma unless you hire me officially. Now, that’s fair.”
Before they could reach a consensus, Nigel and Bea burst into the room, all smiles and happy laughter. “We were just leaving,” Callista said as she held the door for Maggie, indicating that they had best find another spot for their conversation.
“And you’d better lock this door,” Maggie suggested. “It’s like the departure terminal at O’Hare in here tonight.”
“Time for their monthly reconciliation talk,” Callista explained as she led Maggie up the stairs to her room. “At least once a month they try to patch things up, but old Nigel refuses to admit that he was in the wrong, merely misguided.”
“And he doesn’t understand the problem?” Maggie asked. “This banister is beautiful, is it original to the home?”
“I don’t know, actually, Mum and Dad bought this house when I was a child, about four or five years old. I know they restored it, that was Dad’s pet project for years. I can remember how he used to go to the British Museum to research wall coverings and colors; everything had to be just right for him. But for the rest of the house, I can’t say what parts are new and what is old.”
“Your dad promised to show me the beams in the attic because they’re ancient and historic. I love history, and being around such ancient things.”
“No wonder you enjoy Dad’s company,” Callista said, giving Maggie a wink.
“Shame on you, Callista, your father is not at all old,” Maggie smiled at her, amused by her youthful perspective. It was part of life’s cycle, and one day Callista’s daughter would look at her and think that she was old, even though she was only thirty-nine.
Callista had stowed her briefcase and coat in her childhood bedroom, and she offered Maggie a seat on the bed while she fished around in the case for the binder that held her little story. It was only a short novel that would make a lovely vacation read, something light that did not require the reader to expend a great deal of effort to understand the characters or the plot. As she reviewed the story outline with Maggie, one of Will’s chums appeared, with a very pretty young actress attached to the end of his arm.
“Change the sheets when you’ve finished, Danny,” Callista griped as she pulled Maggie out of the room. Will’s door across the hall was closed and Callista had no desire to even try the lock. She escorted Maggie down the hall, taking a moment to show her the bathroom and explain how it was created in a home that was built before central plumbing was invented.
“You really don’t have to do this right now,” Callista said, but Maggie could hear the pleading in her voice that was begging the editor to work some magic.
Insisting that she would rather be enjoying this new nugget of creative writing than returning to the party, Maggie asked for a relatively quiet spot so that she would not be disturbed. “There is the guest room, but that’s the choice spot for a quick shag and naturally it’s occupied early on. Dad’s bedroom is nice and quiet,” Callista suggested as she brought Maggie into the room.
“Besides, I’ve had enough to drink,” Maggie said, “so I’ll hide in here a little and sober up. I’ll go back to the party, I promise, and it is a great party, I have had the best time tonight.”
“As long as you go back, I won’t feel guilty,” Callista said. “You have some pens, paper, and my magnum opus. Colin’s keen to get home, Maggie, can we meet for lunch tomorrow? We can look this over then, and you can let me know if it’s any good.”
“Call my hotel tomorrow and let me know where to meet you. And I won’t tell you if this is good or not, my opinion doesn’t matter. If you think this is good, then it is.”
They said goodnight and Maggie scanned the room, walking over to the tall windows that looked out on the street below. A chaise longue and a low table were placed near the windows, making for a perfect reading spot during the day. The small lamp was not bright enough, so Maggie carried her equipment over to the bed, ready to make camp on the side furthest from the door, the spot that she gravitated to out of habit.
It was a beautiful room, with its reproduction wallpaper in shades of gold and yellow, and exquisite Oriental carpets scattered on the floor. The swags around the windows were heavy velvet, contrasting beautifully with the light lace curtains that covered the paned glass. Even the way the fabric pooled on the floor was a mark of the Napoleonic Era, just like the furniture that filled the room. The bed and the armoires were English Regency, possibly reproductions but gorgeous pieces nonetheless.
She was getting comfortable, ready to settle in for a good read, when she looked at the table next to her. An array of prophylactics had been spread across the top, ready for use by this evening’s guest. So that would explain Trevor’s complete disinterest in her, she thought, even though she had been so blatant about sleeping with him. One of those pretty young things in a skin-tight mini dress would be in this spot later, selecting her favorite rubber or maybe Trevor would need all six. She felt like a fool at that moment, for presuming that he would give her a second look at her age. It was too awkward just then, to be sitting in his bed when he did not want her there for the night. She picked up the papers and slipped into the adjoining bathroom, closing the door so that she would not have to be reminded that she had acted like a brainless idiot at the party.
It seemed as though her one and only chance for casual sex had just walked out the door with a woman that she had practically handed to Ciaran. Tears began to form in her eyes, with a wave of miserable self-pity breaking over her head. Tonight had been a disaster, due entirely to her lack of experience with men. Like the most popular girl in high school she had turned her back on the boy who liked her while she chased after the man who did not know she existed. She was not the most popular girl, and now she felt as though she had thrown away an opportunity. It was too late to run back to Ciaran and tell him she would take a few days of sex and deal with the emptiness later. A prayer began to rise in her throat, and Maggie pounded her fist against her forehead.
Entreaties to God, one after another, had been the road markers of her life, and now she saw that she had used prayer instead of rational thought to guide her. If she had acted sensibly instead of relying on superstition, she would not have thrown herself at a man who was not responding, while at the same time turning away from the man who was willing to bed her because she had not prayed for his attentions. Talking to God instead of talking things out had brought her to this point, and Maggie was sorry that it had taken her this long to realize that prayer had its place in anyone’s life, but it was not meant to smooth out the bumps in the road that she was supposed to see with her own eyes.
Without warning, the voice of a Marine corporal burst into her brain like a gunshot, startling her out of her funk. “You think you got it bad,” she heard her father barking. The Griffith family was not a sorrowing lot, not with Neil in command. Throughout her childhood she had heard that phrase, issued with impatience by a man who had seen plenty of hardship in the neighborhood behind Chicago’s stockyards. Maggie grabbed a tissue and immediately dabbed at her eyes, soaking up the tears before they could fall. It was Angie’s admonitions that she was hearing now, as she pictured her mother scolding her for letting her make-up run after having spent so long at perfecting her face.
“You got it easy, Maggie Griffith,” she said to her reflection while she sniffled back the last sob. “So quit talking to God all the time and talk to some eligible men. You must be a hot babe if Ciaran Doyle wanted you.”
Leaning against the vanity top, Maggie began to skim the pages of the raw manuscript. Pacing slowly as she read, it was not long before a pen was in her hand as she found herself unable to stop being an editor. She began to make corrections, moving a paragraph here or adding a semi-colon there. Time always flew by when she worked, with her entire brain absorbed in the words on the page. Gradually, the sheets from the binder were taken out so that chapters could be rearranged, and before long Callista’s manuscript was spread over her father’s vanity top.
Noticing that the house was noticeably more quiet, Maggie went back into the bedroom to check the time on the alarm clock. The phone was there on the table, serving as a reminder to call for her car. She was going home alone, and she was more than jealous of Cindy, but Maggie also knew that it was her own fault. If nothing else, she had learned some lessons tonight, about handling men and gauging their interest, about taking control of her life and not letting some stifling dogma run her around. Like any other amateur, she had made mistakes, but she was smart enough to not repeat them if another opportunity came around. Lifting the receiver, she punched in the phone number, ready to move on. She could not possibly return to the party, not when she was depressed and miserably unhappy. Someone would come and collect her when the car came, and even though she felt foolish, it was somehow very comfortable on the floor of the bathroom. There was one more chapter to read, and Maggie went back to work with a clear head.
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