Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) (4 page)

“Yes, I believe it did,” Charlie King answered simply. “I admire his bravery.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Have you been to Washington?”

“Only once, for the medal ceremony.”

“I find it a little exhausting to live there. Everyone has some sort of game going. It's probably always been that way, but it seems worse these days. All these political winds.”

“More polarity?”

He nodded. He turned a little to face her. She liked the way he talked, the intent way he had of holding her eyes with his own.

“So you grew up in Iowa?” she asked, partially to rid herself of political thoughts. “I saw it on your bio sheet. You must have felt right at home on our farm this morning.”

“I grew up in farm country, but we weren't farmers. My mom and dad are both teachers at the high school near Carroll. That's in the center of the state. I had a pretty average upbringing.”

“And you got an appointment to West Point?”

“I did. I don't want you to think I was some sort of born soldier, though. It was one of the best ways to pay for school. I would have done National Guard if I hadn't received an appointment to West Point. I'm just cheap.”

“And you served . . . ?”

“In Iraq.”

“I read that,” Margaret said. “Three tours. And is your brother still alive?”

He nodded.

“Yes, still. He has pretty good care. Ups and downs. You know how that is, I'm sure.”

He smiled. Margaret smiled back at him. For an instant, just an instant, she felt a ridiculous, nearly forgotten flirtatiousness rise up in her. How strange, she thought. How absurd and how ill timed. She would have given a great deal to have her friend Blake beside her, if for nothing except to verify that his gaze actually contained interest. Sexual interest. She felt her face flush and she became aware of her body, of his opposite maleness, of the pleasure of talking to a man. How long had it been? She could not say precisely. She did not even permit herself to think of it, to believe fully that such a thing was happening, but she could not dispute the warmth and attraction of his eyes. She nearly blurted out her feeling because it came as such a surprise she could not take it seriously. She wondered if he felt the same thing. At any moment she imagined they would both burst out laughing, except his eyes remained on hers and in a pulse, maybe two, she understood that his interest was genuine.

She moved her eyes away when the plane bounced a little on an air pocket. She felt grateful Charlie sat across the aisle and not directly beside her. It felt more comfortable that way, more casual. The plane dipped again and Margaret braced herself on the seat.

“We're supposed to have decent weather, I think,” Charlie said. “Not sure where this disturbance is coming from.”

“Thank goodness it's a short flight.”

“No flight is too short for me.”

“I would think you'd be pretty accustomed to it in the army.”

“I can tolerate it, I guess. I just don't like it.”

The plane dropped twice, then steadied. Margaret felt a little nervous and uneasy. She understood that part of the unease came from speaking to a man to whom she felt attraction. It had been years, more than half a decade, since she had engaged in any type of flirtation, and even that had been with Tom, her husband. And was this truly a flirtation? She couldn't even know that for certain, although she could guess Blake's answer. She felt entirely out of practice. She spoke to her friends' husbands at social functions, of course, and to Grandpa Ben and Gordon, but that was a different kettle of fish. What did men talk about? With Blake she could talk about anything, but with a man she felt out to sea. What did they care about? Sports, probably. In Maine, at least near her home, they talked about farming and milk prices and tractors, and occasionally hunting. But what topics interested a man out in the larger world, she couldn't say. She smoothed her dress a little against her legs, and when she looked back at Charlie she saw he had gone back to reading his sports page. She nodded and looked across him and out the window. The plane's wings sliced through the clouds. A red light at the wingtip turned the mist hazy and soft, and she watched the clouds fall back and away from the plane and swirl like a bad movie flashback to introduce memory or forgetting.

* * *

The city felt hot and humid, as it usually did, and Charlie felt the heat build inside his suit and rest there, as if reluctant to leave. A strange custom, he thought, for gentlemen to wear jackets in such heat. And ties. As he lifted Margaret Kennedy's bags into the trunk of the waiting town car, he was relieved to see storm clouds on the southwest horizon. A rain, he knew, sometimes cooled off the city. Sometimes, too, a storm merely nailed the heat down tighter, giving everything a swampy, malarial feel. He had not paid attention to the weather reports, so he did not know for sure what the rain might do. For Margaret's sake, he hoped for a bright, cool wind to help her through the weekend.

“Looks like weather's coming,” he said to the car in general as he climbed inside.

The driver, a black man with a thin mustache across his top lip, nodded and caught his eye in the rearview mirror.

“We're going to get a break from the heat,” the driver said. “Should be a good weekend.”

“Well, that's fine,” Charlie said, at the same time thinking that he should have sat in the front seat. On one hand, it felt friendlier to join Mrs. Kennedy in the backseat, but it also felt perhaps a shade too casual. Maybe. He did not want Margaret to think he presumed a certain familiarity, that he had forgotten his official function on this trip. But he admitted to himself that he had felt . . . what? What was it, exactly? He could not name it to his satisfaction. Warmth, perhaps. Or interest. Sitting across the aisle from her on the plane, he had felt sensations he had not indulged in for a year or longer. She was undoubtedly a beautiful woman, and a kind one, and he confessed to himself that he felt comfortable in her presence. He had felt it on the phone. It felt like calling home somehow, as if they had already met. Maybe it was all tied up with the cows and the Maine farm and her valorous husband, but he felt a deep tidal attraction growing in him. He liked her, simply put. And if he felt a few tiny sparks, a little acknowledgment of the man-woman thing, what of it? More than anything, he wanted her experience in Washington to be fun and meaningful, a break in what he knew from his brother's life could be a long, unending wait. A futile wait. To his way of thinking, even the rain counted. If it cooled the city, if it made her weekend more enjoyable, then he wanted it to rain. It was that simple. And if he could serve a little as the rain—that was stretching it, but it had a basis in truth—then he didn't mind. He would pay attention. That was all. He had not counted on liking her so much.

“What time is the signing tomorrow?” Margaret asked. “I know I know it, but I just need someone else to tell me.”

“Ten o'clock.”

“And is it close to the hotel?”

“A three-minute walk. We should allow for a little time to pass through security. It's at the hospital, so the security attachment won't be quite as smooth as it would be at the White House.”

“It was very smooth when we went for the Medal of Honor ceremony. That was all my father-in-law talked about for months afterward.”

“And he lives with you?”

“For the time being. We're a little in limbo. There's a second house on the property that we're renovating, but there isn't much time or money. We'll stay on the farm no matter what. It was to be Tom's farm, but things don't always turn out the way you expect. Of course, you know that. But I like farming. It sounds odd, probably, but I do.”

“And I take it the farm in Maine is a lot like the farms in Iowa. Tough making a go of it.”

“We could sell the land and do a lot better.”

“Are you tempted?”

“Oh, sure. Tempted. But we've had the farm through four generations. I think it's four. I lose count sometimes. It's never been flush. We've never made a lot of money at it, but you know how it is. It's your way of life, everything. I'd hate for Gordon to grow up without experiencing it.”

The car moved through traffic.

“Did you grow up on a farm?” Charlie asked. “I hope I'm not asking too many questions. You don't meet many farmers in Washington.”

“No, it's fine. My dad leased a farm one town over. It's been sold out for condos for, oh, I don't know. A couple years, anyway. Maybe longer. My dad and mom moved to Tennessee. They couldn't take the Maine winters any longer. Dad works at Home Depot and Mom does party cleaning. You know, if a woman is hosting a big party, then she calls my mom to come in and do a top-to-bottom cleaning. Before and after. She isn't afraid to charge.”

“Good for her,” Charlie said.

“They miss farming, though. They don't say as much, but I can tell. If we can get the second house renovated, maybe they can come up and give a hand in the summers. I must be boring you to death with all this. I didn't mean to go on about myself.”

“Not at all.”

She smiled. There it was again, Charlie told himself. He liked that smile a great deal and he felt it pull him in, draw him closer. He wondered if she had any idea how fetching her smile could be. Meanwhile, the driver managed to hit the highway and Charlie felt the car accelerate. The driver's window, down a crack, made a high, noisy hum as they sped along. But the air felt good and Charlie smelled the rain. It was beginning somewhere. The leaves on the trees beside the highway turned their white sides over.

“Now you know my life story,” Margaret said. “Not exactly an exciting life.”

“It sounds like a good life,” Charlie said.

“Well, it has its moments. After Tom's accident, his situation, I needed to stay busy and there's no place on earth that will take more work from you than a farm. The schools are good and it's safe. No crime at all, really, except a domestic blowup now and then. No one locks the door and people park and leave their keys in the ignition. That's worth something, I figure.”

“Sure it is.”

“But you're going to be a diplomat,” she said. “That sounds more exciting.”

“Well, we'll see. I like the sound of your Maine farm. It reminded me of home when I saw it this morning.”

He felt his eyes go into hers again. He didn't mean it to happen, but it did anyway. Lust, probably. People called it love, but maybe it was simple lust. Charlie couldn't say. But he felt their eyes teetering, holding on to each other's gaze longer than any required need. He only managed to pull his eyes away when the car veered sharply to the right and the driver tapped his horn. Charlie looked forward. The driver, for the barest instant, met Charlie's eyes in the rearview mirror and nodded.

* * *

Margaret loved a late afternoon rain. Stretched out on the bed, she listened to the rain slash and move against the window. She felt good in her body; her limbs felt warm and solid. Her face, washed and scrubbed, glowed with the polish of soap and Noxzema. She felt a deep, wonderful, guilty luxury. She had nowhere to go, nothing to do, except, perhaps, to get herself something to eat. But even that was a simple matter. She merely had to lift the phone and it would be brought on a silver platter. She could eat what she liked, then pack it all up and stick it outside her door, and then the hotel elves would come and take it away and that would be that. Wouldn't it be wonderful, she thought, if life always came complete with room service?

She had nearly fallen into a doze when her cell phone rang. She grabbed it and glanced at the number, but she didn't recognize it. It was a Washington, D.C., number.

“Yes?” she whispered when she opened the phone.

“Margaret, I'm sorry. Did I wake you? This is Charlie King.”

“I dozed off,” she admitted. “Or almost did. Hi, Charlie. Is everything okay?”

She reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. She felt fuzzy and slightly hungry. She tried to clear her head.

“I wanted to invite you to a ball,” he said. “It's a spur-of-the-moment thing, and I apologize, but a friend of mine has tickets. They throw these things from time to time and this should be a pretty good one. I thought it might be fun for you.”

“A ball?” she asked, not quite getting her mind around it. But her stomach had started to flutter noticeably. “I have nothing to wear, Charlie. I didn't come planning to attend a ball.”

“I have a friend . . . she lives here and has helped me with a few things. Anyway, she has a couple ball gowns she can lend you. She has three. She's looking at me right now and nodding. You can pick, she says. If you want, I could put her on and you two could talk.”

“Oh, Charlie, I don't know.”

Margaret swung her legs over the side of the bed. Where had this come from? She admitted, deep down, that it felt good to be asked. Very good. At the same time, it made her nervous and a tad distrustful. What was the game here? He knew that she was married. Obviously. Then again, she wondered if she wasn't overthinking it. Maybe he simply meant to be polite, to give her something to do on a Friday night in D.C. She pushed back her hair at the hairline and switched the phone to her other ear. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate.

“Here, just talk to her for a second,” Charlie said. “Her name is Terry. I'd really like to escort you to a ball tonight, Margaret. If you'd like to go. It should be very pretty. It's at the French Embassy. It's sponsored by the London School of Economics.”

Before she could answer, she heard a woman's voice on the other end of the phone. Terry, obviously. Terry giggled and the phone rattled as she came on.

“Now, don't worry about a thing,” Terry said, her voice deep with a southern accent along its edge. “Margaret, I have three dresses and you're welcome to any of them that suit. What's your dress size, darling?”