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.
“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.”
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