5. Maggie #2
“Picks is making you a special,” the young woman said as she put the drinks out. “No need to order. Just enjoy the night.”
“Amen and amen,” Brick said, lifting one of the shots. “Here’s to Picks.”
Maggie toasted him with the water and got a wry look, but noticed he barely touched the whiskey, wetting his lips at the most.
“How do you know this Picks character?” she asked.
“Oh, he is a character,” he said. “He worked for me for years.”
The statement surprised her. She couldn’t imagine him working himself, let alone having employees. “Doing what?” she asked.
“I owned a paving company in Pensacola. Poured asphalt and blacktop. Kenneth Pickering—Picks to most—was one of my top guys and we rode a lot together. Picks and Brick. We were a pair. He’s older than Gail by a decade and a half, but you’ll love him.
” He grinned. “And he’ll love you. Now, have a real drink and tell me about you and Jo Ellen. ”
She took a glass of white wine and nodded her thanks, taking a sip. “There’s not much to tell.”
“Oh, I do not agree,” he said. “I saw you two dance like a couple of eighties ladies.”
“Sixties, more like.”
He tipped his head. “Yeah, we’re old. But I can see you have a history. I’d have sworn she was your sister.”
“She is. Sorority sister.”
His eyes danced with humor. “Tell me everything and don’t leave out a single detail down to the panty raids. Remember those?”
She laughed softly as the tension eased from between her shoulders and the wine loosened her just enough.
“Come on, now,” he said. “Start with college. Tell me about you and Jo and your lives as best friends.”
“Oh, it’s…” She swallowed the thought, sipping again, and regarding him over the rim. “You really care?”
“Why do you think we’re here? I’m interested in you. This…” He pointed to his face. “This is interest. Tons of it. Tell me.”
“We met in college, so it’s a long story,” she said.
“Gimme the highlights.”
She took a sip of wine and considered how—and how much—to tell him. “She showed up in my dorm room first day of freshman year at UGA, the Yankee-est of New Yorkers, with that infectious optimism and hunger for fun.”
“And she loosened you up?” he guessed.
“Exactly. The friendship grew, we met the men we’d marry, and she and Artie went back to Ithaca, and Roger and I lived in Georgia. We stayed in touch through long-distance phone calls and letters, then one day one of us had the idea to spend a summer in Destin with our kids.”
“Probably it was Jo,” he said.
She conceded with a tip of her head. “And we did that for seven years, starting when her girls and Vivien were twelve and the last year, they were eighteen.”
“Must have been wonderful.”
“Until it wasn’t,” she said. At his raised brow of interest, she tried to keep it simple.
The whole “my husband got mixed up with the Dixie Mafia and Artie helped the Feds” was too much and no longer important.
“We had a strange falling out,” she said instead.
“And Jo and I lost touch for thirty years.”
He drew back. “That’s sad.”
She sipped more wine, enjoying the way it made her feel a little softer and more open.
“It was. But this past March, I revealed to the kids that my husband had purchased the property that last summer—well, Eli knew, and he used the money I’d accrued from renting it to tear down the old cottage and build the Summer House. ”
He let out a long, low whistle. “That’s impressive.”
“It is,” she agreed. “It spurred a reunion between the two families.”
“Beautiful.”
“What’s beautiful,” she said, “is that from the moment Jo Ellen and I reconnected, I’ve…” She wanted to say changed, but would he understand? “I’ve relaxed,” she said instead. “She reminds me how to laugh and let go of control and truly have fun.”
He beamed at her. “That’s the best kind of friend.”
The server interrupted with an appetizer platter of bacon-wrapped scallops that smelled as delicious as they looked. They thanked her, accepted napkins, silverware, and plates, and smiled at each other before starting.
“I’m sorry to monopolize the conversation,” she said, leaning back to take a breath.
“I loved every minute of that story,” he said, sounding like he meant it. “There’s nothing like a friend that changes you. That’s what Bear did for me.”
“Bear?” She remembered the name from the day they’d met. He’d said he and his biker friends drove that road every year on that day. “The friend you lost?”
His smile wavered and he nodded. “What a great man he was,” he said. “But he had that same effect on me. Changed me in a good way. Brought out the best in me—though, come on, that bar is low.”
She laughed softly. “What about Picks?” she asked.
“What about me?”
A man who might have been eighty, with a shock of white hair and a rugged complexion, came up to their table in a bright yellow apron with a fish on it, holding a platter.
Brick gave a soft hoot and stood to shake hands and exchange hugs, then he introduced Maggie to Kenneth “Picks” Pickering.
“So pleased to meet you.” Picks set down the tray and ignored Brick, his attention on Maggie. “Woman, I hope you are made of strong stuff to handle this man.”
She laughed, giving up any pretense of the country club she’d dressed for. Instead, she picked up her nearly empty wine glass and saluted him with it. “I’m getting there.”
He howled at that and served their food with a mouthwatering description of how he’d prepared each dish. He chatted for a minute, no more, instructed them to eat and enjoy, and put a huge hand on Brick’s shoulder.
“This is good for you, man. Pretty lady, date night. I’m proud of you.”
With that, he left, and Maggie studied the man across from her. “Why would he be proud?” she asked.
“Because I haven’t been on a first date for a few decades, either. I buried my wife three years ago and…” He swallowed, his voice thick. “I really couldn’t imagine anyone else would ever sit across from me in this booth again.”
She stared at him. She knew he was widowed, but hadn’t really thought about him experiencing grief. She just imagined him too strong for that.
“I’m so sorry, Brick.”
He closed his eyes and swallowed. “So am I. And I ain’t lookin’ to replace her, Mags. Just some company and entertainment. Nothing more. I swear.”
She searched his face, lost in those eyes for a moment, and processed what he was saying.
“Just friends,” she clarified.
“Good friends,” he added. “Someone to ride with, if the spirit moves you. Have some dinner, share a drink, lots of stories, hang out with the grands. Come see my bees.”
She remembered he’d mentioned he was a beekeeper.
“I bake like Betty Crocker’s older brother and can quote every line from the movie Shane.” He leaned forward. “Oh, I know you’re a classy broad. Stiff as a board and relentless with your rules.”
“I am,” she agreed, making him smile.
“I think we could be real good friends, Mags. That’s all I’m looking for.” He picked up the shot glass that he’d barely touched. “Drink to it?”
She picked up one of her own. “To being friends.”
“Real good friends and you have to take that shot or it doesn’t count.”
She tapped his glass, knocked it back, and sucked in a breath when the whiskey burned her throat. She’d just made a deal and, as her granddaughter Lacey would say, she wasn’t mad about it.
On the way home, Maggie put her head back against the seat and let the wind take her hair while Sam Cooke crooned “You Send Me.” She sang the words in her head and remembered being a little girl when her mother sang the song.
Because they were friends, she told Brick about the memory, and he smiled and shared one of his own.
When he pulled into the driveway, they both glanced up to the apartment and instantly saw Jo Ellen move from the window.