5. Maggie
Maggie stood in front of the bathroom mirror and considered the woman looking back at her.
Sharp navy slacks. Cream silk blouse with the small gold buttons.
The pearl studs Roger had given her for their tenth anniversary.
Sensible black flats. Her short, silver hair swept back in the style she’d been wearing since someone told her it accentuated her cheekbones.
She looked, she thought, like a seventy-eight-year-old woman about to attend a luncheon at the country club. Not, she thought with a narrow-eyed assessment, like a biker girl about to go out with a guy named Brick to a place called…Crabby’s.
Which was why she’d broken her own rule and put a little eyeshadow and rouge on.
“You’re overdressed,” she told the woman in the mirror. “And we are not going to apologize for that.”
“Mags!” Jo Ellen called from the living room. “He just pulled up. On…the bike.”
Maggie closed her eyes and hissed out a very bad word. “Then we’ll go in my car,” she said, walking out of the bathroom. “But it will be very tight in the back for you…”
As she stepped into the living room, she stared at Jo Ellen, who was at the window in her pajamas, holding a glass of white wine.
“Why aren’t you dressed?”
“You told me Brick texted and said Randy couldn’t come. The sick grandson and the upset granddaughter. Remember?”
“So? This wasn’t really a double date! But it will be a single one if you don’t come. Jo, please. Get dressed.”
She shook her head. “I told you, my hip is barking.”
“Your hip barks more than my dog.”
“Well, today it howled.” Jo Ellen took a serene sip. “You go on without me.”
“Jo.” Maggie bristled. Goodness, she hated to lose an argument.
Jo Ellen tilted her head, and the affection in her face shined bright enough that for one terrible second Maggie thought she might cry.
“Mags, you have not had a first date since the Beatles came to America. You’re not bringing a chaperone. You should go meet him, unless you want him to come up and sit here while I interrogate him on his intentions.”
Maggie pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “I hate you.”
“Go, before he rings the bell at the main house and Eli figures out you have a date.”
That could not happen. With one more glare at her friend, she grabbed her black handbag from the table by the door and pulled it open to make sure she had her keys, wallet, and lipstick.
“Have fun, Mags.”
“Thanks, traitor.”
Jo Ellen’s giggle faded as Maggie pulled the door closed, navigating the stairs and stepping out the side door just in time to keep Brick from going to the main house.
“Over here,” she called, making him turn. “Remember? Jo and I live up there,” she said lightly, her voice a little breathless.
Brick blinked in surprise and not, she assumed, because she came out of the side entrance.
“Mags.” He sort of sighed the nickname, which he’d picked up from Jo Ellen and would not let go.
He stood still in the late afternoon sun, giving her a minute to take in his pressed black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up his tattooed forearms, dark jeans, and boots that had clearly been polished for the occasion.
His silver beard—at least four inches long—had been neatly trimmed. But it was still absurd.
He slid off his sunglasses to reveal that his blue eyes were exactly the color she remembered, exactly the color she had been trying to forget about all afternoon.
“Hello, Brick.”
He took her in, head to flats. Slowly.
“You clean up real nice.”
“Oh, please. This is…nothing. This is how I dress to clean my own kitchen.”
He laughed, the real one, the one that came up out of his chest and made the creases at his eyes deepen. “And here I’ve been picturing you in a little maid’s outfit for that task.”
She rolled her eyes and suspected they’d stay permanently in that position for the rest of this night, which would be him lobbing inappropriate comments and her pretending to be offended.
“My car’s over there,” she said, pointing to the T-Bird. “We can take it.”
He gave her a sideways look. “My hog’s over there. We’ll take that.”
“No, we won’t.”
“Is this a hill you’re gonna die on, Mags?”
“No, but that’s a motorcycle I’m going to die on, so if you want to go on this little jaunt together, you’ll go in my car. If not, I’ll meet you there.”
“You don’t like to drive at night.”
What she didn’t like was that he remembered everything she’d ever said and a lot of those things were said one night at Gator Jack’s after he’d coerced her to drink shots of whiskey, of all vulgar things.
“I can drive at night.”
He came a few steps closer and gave a sly smile under that beard. “And then I’ll have to make another cheesecake in the middle of the night to bribe the cops again and spring you.”
In other words, she owed him.
“Compromise,” she suggested. “We’ll take my car…with no top.”
He considered the offer while he studied her intently. “Only because you put makeup on for me.”
She swallowed, not sure if she loved or hated that he’d noticed. “My convertible or meet there? Which is it, Brick?”
He scooped her arm into the crook of his and grinned. “You drive a hard bargain, Magnolia. But you’re right. Let’s go on four wheels.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Topless.”
She heard him laugh under his breath as they walked to the car and she pulled out the key, which he snagged from her.
“My manhood cannot take being in the passenger seat,” he said, going around to open the door for her and not waiting for an argument. “My lady?” He gave a flourishing wave. “Your chariot awaits.”
She bit back a smile and the fight, giving in to the pleasure of being driven.
Her hair was a wreck by the time they arrived at a place she’d driven by with nothing but a faint hope that she’d never have to step inside. He waited patiently while she smoothed her silver strands and let him open the door for her.
Crabby’s looked even worse up close. A low cinderblock building painted a regrettable shade of teal, with a hand-lettered sign promising live music and ladies’ night and a dollar off pitchers.
They walked through the parking lot full of pickups and one Lexus that Maggie suspected belonged to someone’s mistress.
“If there are peanut shells on the floor, I am leaving.”
“How else would the mice eat?” he joked, doing that thing of holding her arm in his again. “I’m teasing, Mags. You’re going to be surprised. About six years ago, a friend of mine took the place over. It’s still a dive, but it’s epic.”
She wasn’t sure what “epic” meant, but took a deep breath and hoped for the best.
Inside, she was indeed pleasantly surprised.
There were no peanut shells, but a nicely laid out bar and dining area with booths, good lighting, a scent of grilled fish, and music that didn’t offend her ears. She was inexplicably glad it wasn’t some upscale white tablecloth restaurant because that would feel like an awkward first date.
“Brick Collins!” The hostess greeted them, a woman in her fifties with red lipstick that few could carry off and an enviable wave in her dark hair. “Is this the lady you’ve been talking about?”
Maggie’s eyebrow climbed half an inch.
“It is,” he said without a molecule of shame or embarrassment. “Magnolia Lawson. Maggie to her friends. Mags to her lovers.”
Her jaw dropped, but the woman came around the hostess stand with two hands out for her.
“Maggie. I’m Gail Pickering, owner of this fine establishment. We are so happy to meet you. And you’re gorgeous!” She looked up at Brick. “You weren’t kidding! So far out of your league you should be drowning and screaming for air.”
He shrugged, apparently unaffected by this breach of confidence. “I bribed her to come so I could win the bet with Picks. Is he cooking?”
“Like the madman he is,” Gail said, still holding Maggie’s hands like she’d never let go.
“He hoped you’d come with Brick tonight, Maggie.
My husband catches the fish, brings them in, and cooks every last one.
It’s simple food, but you’ll love it. Drinks are free for you tonight. Wild Turkey, Brick?”
“Oh, sure, Mags loves the stuff. Maybe bring her a chaser of wine, since she’s so fancy tonight.”
Gail gave a bold wink. “Go on with you, Brick. Your booth is always ready. Mags, you just relax and eat until you can’t move no more.”
Maggie’s mind whirred as they walked across the planked floor toward a booth with a lovely view of…the back parking lot.
“They’re good friends,” he said, gesturing for her to slide into the booth. “Can I sit next to you, or do you prefer across?”
She looked up at him. “Take a wild guess.”
“Excellent.” He started to slide in next to her, then he laughed. “Just playin’ with you, Mags. I’d rather sit across and stare into those pretty eyes.”
She didn’t answer, looking around for a napkin to unfold on her lap, but didn’t see one. He sat down, propped his elbows on the table—shocker—and looked right at her. “When’s the last time you went out on a date, Mags?”
She inched back and pulled Jo’s quote. “I believe it was when the Beatles came to America.”
He gave a soft hoot. “Okay, well, times have changed.”
“I haven’t.”
Grinning, he put his hand out, palm up. “Put it there, Mama.”
Did he just call her—
“C’mon. Hand in mine, right now.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” he demanded with a laugh. “’Cause I’m buyin’ dinner. Give me your hand, Magnolia.”
Slowly, she lifted her hand and placed it in his much bigger, more callused one.
“Sweet lady,” he said slowly. “You can relax, okay? I ain’t gonna bite, hurt, or frighten you. I’m the most honest and trustworthy man you’ll ever meet. And you are too uptight for your own good.”
“You should have seen me before,” she said under her breath, aware of her heart rate going up with each word of his speech.
“Before what?”
She didn’t even have to think. “Before Jo Ellen.”
He considered that and smiled as a server—who knew him by name—brought a tray full of drinks that included shots, wine, and, thank the Lord, water.