End of the Road (Ghost Stories Trilogy #1) (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Margaret “Peggy” Wellington

b.1948 – d.1977

BEFORE

This is nice - our
third date and we’re at Durant’s – very high class. I am impressed. Is it too
early to sleep with him? I think he deserves it after taking me here. He must
like me.
I smile across the candle lit table at my date. He smiles back and
cuts into his T-bone. Blood runs out and pools underneath his steak. Durant’s
is one of the oldest steakhouses in Phoenix and it has a 1940’s Hollywood
charm; dim lighting, dark wood and plush maroon velvet seats. I’ve been here
twice: once for my parent’s twentieth anniversary dinner and then again after I
got my associate degree.

He even ordered a bottle
of wine. He must like me. He’s nice and has thick hair, like Ryan O’Neal…doesn’t
talk much, though. Yes, I think tonight’s the night. I won’t be considered
easy, it is our third date. Wait, what…is he? Oh my God! Is he really? Ewww, he
is! He is picking his nose right in front of me! Not a casual pick either, like
he has an itch, but a full on, finger up the nose pick.  I can’t believe this!
Should I say something? I think I’m going to be sick. Gross and I kissed him!

Brian examines his finger
before wiping it on his napkin then he resumes sawing off another bite of meat.
Is he really going to act like that didn’t just happen?

“Brian, I’m not feeling
well.”

“Do you want to go home?”
He sets his cloth napkin on the table and starts to get up.

“Oh no, you stay here and
finish your dinner. You can’t waste it. I’ll take a cab.”
Thank God I
ordered a salad; I’d feel guilty leaving a good steak behind.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Uh, okay. I’ll call
tomorrow to check on you?”

“Um…I’ll call you.” I say
over my shoulder as I practically sprint from the table, my purse tucked under
my arm like a wide receiver cradling a football.

***

Three Months Later

I check my appearance in
the compact and dust powder under my eyes; a growing habit since I turned 29
and noticed the bags becoming more visible. A man walks toward the table and I
quickly stash the make-up in my purse and ready a smile. Our eyes meet and my
heart stops.
Wow! Stacy really set me up with the hunk of the year! Will I
even be able to talk to him?
I wait for him to say something, but in an
instant he is moving past the table and into the arms of another woman.
Damn!
I wait for twenty more minutes and call it. I’d never been stood up on a blind
date before. I pay for my glass of wine with the little bit of cash I have in
my wallet and drive home to my apartment.

The pantyhose come off
first, followed by my earrings. I wash my face and use the magnified mirror for
a closer examination. The results don’t bolster my spirits.
At this rate,
I’m going to be an old maid. There has to be a guy out there for me…a soul
mate.

I let out a sigh and turn
off the bathroom light. That night I fall asleep and visions of marital bliss
dance in my head.

In the morning, I feel
better and wake with a renewed perspective. I haven’t always been in a race for
the altar. My goals after high school were to go to college and pursue a
corporate career. I’ve done all that. I’m an executive assistant for the Vice
President of Research and Development at Motorola. I don’t live with my parents;
I pay all of my bills and can take care of myself (as long as I adhere to a
modest budget). Lately, I’ve started to experience panic attacks. Moments where
I’m convinced I will die alone and will never share my life with anyone. These
attacks usually occur after attending a bridal or baby shower; and there have
been more of them this year. I avoid the second floor of Goldwater’s at the
MetroCenter Mall because the very sign for Bridal Registry causes palpitations.

My father thinks I’m nuts.
I think he doesn’t want to chuck out the money for another wedding and my mom
thinks I’m past my prime. None of them are a lot of help. Neither are my two
sisters, both younger than me, who are happily married. They have joined in
with my married friends on a charity effort. I’m the charity. Their mission is
to set me up with a decent man. After last night, though, I need a break. I’m
okay with where I am, I tell my reflection in the mirror, after applying
lipstick. If I am meant to fall in love, it will happen.

***

Four Months Later

God, this is worse
than sitting at the singles table at a wedding.
The hostess brings my order
out in a paper bag and I eagerly jump up to meet her at the cash register.  All
I want is a chicken enchilada dinner, the no. 5 entrée special. It is
Valentine’s Day and I am prepping to hide away like most single people, but won’t
hide away hungry. I thought grabbing take out instead of venturing into the
depressing grocery store was the lesser of two evils on this holiday. Seeing
all the occupied tables for two makes me wish I opted for the freezer section
or delivery.

“Just one dinner?” the
hostess asks. I can see the pity in her eyes.

“That’s right!” I muster
up a big smile and leave. Once inside my Datsun I let the smile crumble. My
next stop is the liquor store. I don’t care that it’s Monday and I have a big
meeting to oversee tomorrow.

I get home, lock the door
behind me and put on my pajamas before flipping on the television. After
adjusting the antennae, I sink down onto the sofa with my enchilada and bottle
of wine.

The Next Morning

I can’t get out of
bed, I just can’t.
I flip over onto my side and stare at the clock. The
time gives me the power to move. It’s after seven already and it takes a half
hour to get to work. I need to hustle (
Do the hustle!)
if I’m going to
make it by eight. The big wigs are coming into town for a huge meeting and I
need to make sure the coffee and pastries are ready. 

I’m three minutes late,
but thankfully my boss hasn’t arrived yet. A box from the copy center sits on
my desk containing reports for the meeting. I walk down the hallway to the conference
room, the carpet muffling the click clack of my heels. The caterers are already
setting up an ornate breakfast display of bite sized pastries and exotic
fruits. A row of stainless steel coffee urns reflects the sunlight streaming in
through the floor to ceiling windows. The brightness exacerbates the dull ache
festering behind my temples. A quick flick of the cord on the vertical blinds
diverts the beams.
It’s going to be a very long day.
I help myself to a
cup of coffee before walking back to my desk.

Just as I move around my
desk to take a seat, the elevator doors open and my boss, Harvey Phelps, steps
out, followed by five men in business suits. He is deep in conversation with
the group and breezes past me without acknowledgement.  I sink with relief into
my chair. Mornings are unpredictable and I never know if a big project may have
materialized overnight during an overseas meeting that took place while I
slept.

With Mr. Phelps
preoccupied, I lay my head on my desk and pray for my hangover to go away. The
usual miracle of coffee hasn’t kicked in yet.

A throat clears and I sit
up, blinking my eyes. My boss is staring down his nose at me.

     “Oh, I’m so sorry
sir! I’m not feeling well this morning.”

     “Margaret, I need
those reports. The meeting is about ready to begin.”

     “Yes, right away!” I
stand and smooth my skirt.

I scoop the reports up
into my arms and hurry down the hall. Not even two steps into the conference
room the heel on my right shoe gets caught on the carpet and I’m almost
airborne. I watch, in slow motion, as the reports fly into the air ahead of me
and flutter to the floor. I land with a thud at the feet of one of the big
wigs. I glance up, and through the hair in my face, see a bemused expression. I
hang my head and manage to get on my knees. The man holds his hand out and
helps me stand. I realize my skirt is hiked up and I’m showing a bit of leg.
Oh
my God, this is the worst day ever.
I quickly adjust myself and mumble a thank
you.

“You’re welcome,” he says
with a smile and then bends down to collect the scattered papers.

After the meeting begins,
I make a more graceful exit and go back to my desk, which is where the man who
helped me finds me later in the afternoon. I stop typing and smile up at him. 
He
has nice eyes, like pool blue; I’m surprised I didn’t notice them earlier.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Stanley Gruber,” he
says and holds out his hand.

“Peggy Wellington.” I
take his hand. It’s soft, dry and warm. I can sense the strength when he
lightly squeezes.

“I just wanted to check
on you. Make sure you made it through the day in one piece.” His lips twitch as
if he is containing a smile…or a laugh.

I feel myself flush, “I
did, thank you.”

“Good, then you’ll be
able to go out for dinner with me tonight.”

Oh my gosh, I didn’t
see that coming!
I am temporarily speechless and take a few moments to
process the offer. Stanley’s cute, in a college professor sort of way. He was
nice in helping me when I tripped. A dinner out would sure beat last night’s
lonely hearts club meeting of one.

“Yes, I’d love to.”
Shit,
I said love. Is he going to think that sounded desperate?

“Great! Want to meet
somewhere…or I can pick you up?”

Oh, so he’s wise to
the modern dating world.
About a decade ago, women embraced the “free love”
mind set. Now we’re more guarded and out of personal safety, more cautious.
Considering my recent dating disasters, I decide to have him pick me up. At
least if I get stood up, I’ll already be home.

I write directions from
his hotel to my apartment, even draw a little map. He folds the sheet of yellow
lined paper and sticks it in the inside breast pocket of his navy suit jacket.
He taps his hand over it like he’s patting his heart.

“I’ll see you around
7:30,” he says and walks onto the waiting elevator. I wave and feel my insides
squirm with anticipation when he winks right before the doors close.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I pull my closet apart for
the right outfit. I settle on a green wrap dress. Being a redhead, green is one
of the better colors for me and I want to emphasize my assets. I spritz some
Halston behind my ears, behind my knees and on my cleavage. Before I even have
a chance to check the time, I hear a knock on the front door.

Not only is Stanley punctual,
but he hands me a bouquet before stepping inside. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you!” I say and
quickly take in what he’s wearing. He’s ditched the suit from earlier for tan
slacks and a white button down dress shirt with a butterfly collar. “You don’t
look bad yourself.” He grins and follows me to the kitchen where I pull a vase
out from underneath the sink. I have to rinse a layer of dust off before
filling it with water. He leans on the breakfast bar and makes light
conversation as I arrange the flowers.

“Do you live alone?” he
asks.

“Yes.”

“Me too. I’ve been
thinking about getting a dog, but work has me travel too much.”

“Dogs are great, but I
know what you mean. They need someone home.”

He turns and surveys my
living room stopping at the wall where there are a few photos on display.

“Is this your family?” He
points at the last portrait my mom had insisted we get done. It was taken over
eight years ago while my youngest sister was still in high school.

I nod and set the vase on
my coffee table.

“Are you the oldest?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“It is actually. Your one
sister still has braces and you appear more confident…grown up than them.”

“Whew, for a moment
there, I thought you were saying I look old.”
Oh my God, did I just say
that?

He laughs. One of his
front teeth is whiter than the other from a cap and I wonder if there’s a story
behind it. I realize that I don’t know anything about Stanley, but I really
want to learn. “You are far from old,” he says when he finishes laughing.

“Good response.” I smile
at him and he laughs again. A hoarse, hiccup kind of laugh unlike anything I’ve
heard before. It’s infectious and I join him.

When we compose
ourselves, we leave for dinner. Stanley holds the door open to a brown Chevy
Caprice that is easily twice the length of my little Datsun. I slide onto the
seat, trying to be graceful, but my dress rides up, exposing the back of my
bare thighs which stick to the vinyl making a terrible squeaking noise. I close
my eyes in mortification and can feel my cheeks heat. Stanley politely acts as
if he doesn’t notice and closes the door, but it’s too late and I know my face
is now probably as red as my hair.

He takes us to Old Town
Scottsdale and a small Italian restaurant. It’s a warm night for February so we
sit out on the patio.

Stanley orders a bottle
of red wine and we’re quiet as we read our menus. I peer over the top of mine
to watch him. A lock of brown hair hangs in his forehead. He has a nice
straight nose and he lightly chews on his lower lip as he reads.

The waiter returns to
fill our glasses. We place our orders and we’re surprised when we pick the same
entrée; clams linguine.

One conversation leads to
another and I find out what I thought was a cap on Stanley’s tooth is really a
replacement for a tooth he lost in a sledding accident when he was 11. He grew
up outside of Chicago and his description of lake effect snow is hard for me to
imagine since I grew up in the desert.

Stanley walks me to my
apartment after dinner, taking my hand in his along the way. We reach the front
door and I unlock it. Instead of going inside, I turn around in the doorway and
lean in to kiss him. He meets me halfway, one arm winds around my waist and his
hand lightly presses against the small of my back as he pulls me closer. There’s
nothing awkward about us moving together and we seem to naturally fit. He is
tall, but not so tall where I have to stand on my tiptoes. Stanley’s other hand
slides into my hair and he cups the back of my head, tilting it just slightly.
His lips are soft yet firm when he slants his mouth over mine. Wrapping my arms
around his neck, I open to him, deepening the kiss. Just like with our
conversation over dinner, one thing leads to another and I step backwards into
my apartment, bringing Stanley with me.

***

Five Months Later

“Peggy, I think you and
Stanley are moving too fast,” my mom says, with her arms crossed over her
chest.

“Mom, I love him. He
loves me. What more do you want?” I don’t stop to look at her as I turn from my
closet with an armful of clothes and walk to my bed where a suitcase is flipped
open. I toss the clothes next to the suitcase and begin sorting; picking out
three sun dresses and folding them.

“Don’t you want a big
wedding with your families?” I detect the beginning of a guilt trip in her tone
and face her, my hands on my hips.

“Mom, we’re going to get
married and then we’ll have a big reception later. I already told you this.”

“I know, but…”

“But, what? Do you think
I’m making a mistake?” She doesn’t say anything, but her expression answers my
question. I sigh and slam the suitcase shut. “Mom, I’m 400% sure about this.
Please trust me.”

“All I know is you’ve
known this man for less than half a year and now you’re getting married and
moving to Chicago. That’s fast, sweetie.”

“My new position with
Motorola is one I couldn’t pass up and it happens to be in Chicago, Mom. It’s
as if fate is lighting the path for me. Everything feels right.” When Stanley
first mentioned the opening in product development, I had immediately dismissed
it because it’s a management role. Middle management, but still, I’d only been
an executive assistant. Stanley encouraged me and told me my degree in business
and understanding of operations made me a natural fit. So I applied, then
interviewed. Now I’m getting married and moving in with Stanley. We’ve been
talking about getting a puppy next. Flipping the latches on my suitcase, I grab
it by the handle and my mom follows me out into the hall, shutting the bedroom
light off behind us.

“I can’t talk you out of
this?” she says to my back.

“Nope. This time tomorrow
night, Stanley and I will be married.”

“When will you be back?”

I stop and look at her. 
“In a few days. Stanley’s coming back with me to help pack up my apartment.”

My mom’s face crumbles
and she attempts to sniff back tears.
Don’t give in to her. You deserve a
happily ever after.

I set my suitcase down
and pull her into a hug. “Mom, trust me on this. Stanley is a good man,” I
whisper into her hair. She reaches around and grabs the back of my shirt in a
tight grip.

“I know. I just worry
about you.”  We hold onto each other for a few moments and then slowly pull
apart. My mom wipes her eyes and smiles at me. “Call us when you get to Las Vegas, okay?”

“I promise.” I pick my
suitcase up and sling my purse over my shoulder.

She walks out to the
parking lot with me. Sweat tickles my scalp. The humidity is high today and the
blue sky is painted with bulbous clouds on the horizon, a familiar sight during
Monsoon season.
I hope I don’t get stuck in a storm; that will really slow
me down.

“I love you Mom,” I say
before I shut the door.

“Love you too! Be
careful!”

She watches me back out
and waves as I pull away.

***

“…and I just want to be
your everything!” I sing at the windshield. I imagine Stanley twirling me around
the dance floor to this song as we’re lost in each other’s eyes. Andy Gibb is
on the stage crooning to an empty room, except for us.
I may be close to
thirty, but I can still fantasize, damn it!

I take a break from my
day dream to check my gauges. I have a steep climb ahead of me and no rest
areas in between here and Prescott.  All is well so I step on the gas. Thunder
rumbles around me and I am suddenly aware at how dark it has become. I glance
out the window and see heavy dark clouds rolling towards the highway. Sand
blows across the asphalt as if in retreat from the storm. I turn the radio down
and focus on the road.

The next thunderclap is
directly overhead and I shriek as my shoulders reflexively tense up. It sounds
like boulders are going to crash down on top of the car. Giant rain drops
splatter against the windshield, slow at first and then growing in intensity. I
ease off the gas pedal a little bit, but not by much.

Out of nowhere a gust of
wind plows into the driver’s side of my car. I struggle to stay in the lane. My
hands grip the steering wheel so tightly that my nails dig into my palms and I
am very aware of how fast my heart is beating. Still I push on. There really
isn’t anywhere to pull over on this winding road. The driver in the car behind
me lays on his horn so I step on the accelerator.

Daylight is erased as the
sky is swallowed up by the darkest clouds I’ve ever seen. Lighting erupts from
within their depths like the flash on a camera. The highway in front of me is
illuminated briefly before the deluge starts. My windshield wipers can’t keep
up with the rain as there’s basically a river running down the center and when the
hail that’s mixed in with the rain hits my car, the pinging surrounds me.

I round the bend and can
barely make out the shoulder of the road, which is wider because of a clearing.
I decide to pull over until the storm passes. I speed up, but another flash of
lightning reveals a group of people standing on the shoulder and I’m barreling
towards them. Reflexes kick in and I turn left, overcorrecting in the process.
My wheels hydroplane and before I can gain control, my car punches through the guardrail
with a screech.

A scream is stuck in my
throat and I can’t breathe. My car is suspended in mid-air and I am vaguely
aware that my foot is still pressing down on the brake pedal.
Don’t let go
of the brakes, you’re not going anywhere as long as you keep your foot on the
brakes. Oh no, no, no,
“No!” I yell, wrapping my arms up over my face and
head to protect them, as the car begins to plummet. I feel my ass leave the
seat as my body is lifted, only to be stopped by the seatbelt.

I am aware of tremendous
pressure and the sound of metal being compacted mixed with shattering glass.
Next, I’m aware of unbearable pain. Not in one particular area, but everywhere.
Like each limb has been torn from my torso. Then it’s gone. No pain. In fact, I
don’t feel anything and everything is quiet; total silence and total darkness.
 Oh
God, I must be paralyzed and deaf. This isn’t supposed to happen. I’m getting
married!