Sick Puppy (Maggie #2)

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “It all started when Hank, this bull rider, was taking money to lose, which I didn’t know at the time. I told him I wouldn’t go out with him unless he won. So he did. I broke up with my band so I could stay there with him. They were really, really pissed. Davo, Brent, Celinda, Chris. Oh my God. I can’t believe I remember their names. They tried to kidnap me and make me stick to the tour with them. But I didn’t. Which is a good thing because I’d be dead if I had—they crashed the van. Very sad. Anyway, these South American gangsters chased Hank and me all over Wyoming that night. The next morning, when Hank went to get us breakfast, my agent called, and instead of firing me, he bought me a plane ticket to Nashville to write an album with Patty Griffin. He did fire me, later, but I was already famous by then, and that’s not part of this story. So I left Hank a note to call me and went to catch the flight.”

  Emily’s eyes widen as she puts two and two together. “Are you talking about Laura’s brother, Hank? The one you were fighting with at Michele’s?”

  “Laura didn’t tell you?”

  “No. She knew?”

  Maggie’s shoulders lift and fall. “Knew. Knows.”

  “She’s in big trouble. But go on. You left for Nashville, and then what?”

  “He never called. He broke my heart.”

  “You mean you hadn’t talked to him in all that time until you saw him at Michele’s?”

  Maggie holds up two fingers in the sign of scout’s honor. “Not once in fifteen years.”

  “Okay, wow. That’s awful. But how does that get us to tonight?”

  “I’ve just been to Wyoming to see Hank.”

  The group, hanging on her every word now, says “Ooooh” in unison.

  “In Texas last spring, he wanted to get back together. I didn’t hate him, but I was still mad. I said no. Then I changed my mind. When I got to Wyoming, he already had somebody else.” Tears trace a path down her face, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Oh, hon, I’m so sorry.” Emily pats Maggie’s back.

  Maggie nods. “Me, too. But it doesn’t make any difference. And now he’s engaged to Sheila and they’re going to teach Sunday school together and make babies. I might as well get back with Gary.” She lifts her empty glass. “Fuck ’em, right?”

  Emily, Wallace, and Ethan make eyes at each other. Burrows stares into his beer. Jack looks like he wants to be anywhere but there.

  Wallace leans in. “Gary?”

  “Yeah. Gary Fuller.” Too late, Maggie remembers she doesn’t ever tell anyone about Gary. He’s been a secret since the beginning. What is wrong with her, blurting out stuff like that?

  “The country music star, Gary Fuller? The one whose little sister Kelly has the number one single on the iTunes country charts and just kicked off a nationwide tour?”

  Maggie snorts. “Gary’s manager spoon-fed Kelly the song, and she doesn’t have an album to back it up.” The modern-day equivalent of Tiffany’s mall tour circa 1987 for “I Think We’re Alone Now.” Kelly’s big break was singing backup for Gary earlier that year. She wonders what he thinks of her solo efforts.

  Wallace’s eyebrows shoot skyward. “Ooh, and I hear he’s the frontrunner to take the country coach slot on The Singer now that their ratings are slipping. You-know-who is going to be F-I-R-E-D.”

  “And you know all of this how?” Ethan asks.

  Wallace shimmies his head. “What? Just because I’m gay I can’t listen to country music? Maggie is a Texas legend.”

  Ethan smiles at the others. “More like he obsessively reads People. Since he was in training pants.”

  Wallace holds up a hand to his husband. “Don’t listen to him, Maggie. You were saying, about Gary Fuller?”

  Maggie sighs. “I broke up with him. He’s very, very mad at me.”

  “Because of Hank?”

  “No. But I haven’t taken him back because of Hank.”

  Wallace grins. “Okay, not to be stalkerish, but I already knew all of this, except for the part about Gary. I read about it online today. I never dreamed I’d be meeting the real Maggie Killian tonight.” He leans forward, hand cupping one side of his mouth like he’s sharing a secret. “It’s such a relief when I don’t get suckered into fake news.”

  “See?” Ethan shakes his head. “You read too much garbage online, babe.”

  Maggie’s tear-streaked eyes are red but alert. “I don’t understand. Knew all of what?”

  Wallace and Emily exchange another look. Emily slides a finger across her throat.

  Wallace smiles at Maggie. “Hey, I have an idea. Did you eat? Why don’t we get you some food?”

  “I need to walk my dog.”

  Emily, Wallace, and Ethan laugh, but nervously, like Maggie’s lost her marbles. Even Jack smiles.

  Burrows says, “I think she’s serious.”

  “I am. My dog, Fucker, threw up in my truck, which is how I met Officer Burrows. Otherwise I’d be in Wichita Falls about now. That’s why I didn’t have time to eat.”

  Wallace nods. “Makes perfect sense. Then let’s get food and go walk Fucker. Unless—” He waves between Maggie and Burrows.

  Maggie shakes her head quickly. “Not a thing.”

  Burrows looks crestfallen for a moment, but he rallies with a brave face. “I’ve got an early morning. Maggie, nice meeting you. See the rest of you soon.”

  Maggie waves. “Thanks for getting me onstage and wasted.”

  “Yeah, John.” Emily rolls her eyes. “Always a great idea with someone who has famously done rehab. Multiple times.”

  Burrows winces. “Sorry. Didn’t think of that.”

  Maggie wags a finger at Emily. “That was for coke. I’m much better with liquor.”

  After Burrows leaves, the group orders food from a bar menu. Maggie chugs waters while they chat and wait, suffering through karaoke performances that range from rutting goat to cat in heat. When the food comes, Wallace, Ethan, and Maggie bid farewell to Jack and Emily and walk back to the Sundowner, to-go bags in hand.

  Maggie fetches Louise, who is elated when they rejoin the two men on a grassy area behind the hotel. They stand beside a picnic table, eating their burgers while Louise runs in circles.

  Wallace finishes first. He wads up his burger paper and throws it in the trash can outside the hotel’s back door. “It’s been such a hoot meeting you, Maggie.”

  Ethan holds a thumb up and nods. His mouth is full and he’s still got three-quarters of a burger to go.

  Maggie swallows a too-big bite. “Come to my shop and buy some antiques. Hang out with Michele and me.”

  Wallace smiles. “Text me the details, and color us there.”

  The three swap phone numbers.

  Maggie hugs her new friends. “Thanks for escorting me home. And making me eat. Good call.”

  Wallace studies her face. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay tonight?”

  Maggie flaps a hand at him. “I’m fine. That thing earlier—already over it. Never better.”

  “All right, then. Are you ready, Ethan?”

  He holds up his half a burger, but he nods, hand in front of his mouth.

  Maggie waves, then they walk away arm in arm. Louise is still cavorting along the line of bushes edging the building, sniffing out trash. Maggie fears more vomit is in their future. When the two men are out of sight, she pulls her phone from her jeans pocket. For a hot second, she thinks about texting Hank. She’d like to give him a piece of her mind, something like “You sorry no-good son of a bitch, why don’t you love me like I love you?” But that would mean admitting to herself and him she does love him, not to mention caving in and calling him. Instead, she pulls her go-to move whenever she feels rejected: she calls Gary Fuller instead.

  He answers on the first ring. “Maggie.”

  She still feels boozy, but boozy sexy instead of boozy sad. “Hey, baby, I miss you.”

  “Here Without You.”

  Her lips curl up slowly. He’s talking to her in song titles. It
’s a good sign. She answers with the artist. “Three Doors Down.”

  She hears him muffle his phone. It doesn’t keep her from hearing the woman’s voice in the background. “I have to take this,” Gary says. Then Maggie hears her say, “You’re crawling out of my bed to take calls from her?” A door slams. Then another.

  “Where were we, gorgeous?”

  Maggie doesn’t give a fig about the other woman, whoever she is. Gary’s never pretended to be anything but a horndog, even when he and Maggie were together. It’s probably Jenny. She’s a nutjob and hates Maggie, but she makes herself available to Gary. Very available. “About to have phone sex because it’s urgent, urgent.”

  He laughs. “Foreigner. We can do better than that. Where are you?”

  “Switch me to FaceTime.”

  Gary might be shit as a boyfriend, always on the road, sleeping with whatever groupie catches his fancy in every town, but he’s sexy as hell. She switches their connection to FaceTime and his video comes into view. He’s shirtless. Because he stays in great shape for the cameras, his chest and abs are chiseled. His shoulders make a yummy inverted V, and his collarbone begs for her tongue. His sandy blond hair is mussed from whatever he took his shirt off for.

  His green eyes, though, look at her like she’s the only woman in the world. At least for now. “Better?”

  “Much.”

  “Damn, you’re beautiful.”

  She wants to ask if she’s prettier than the woman in the other room. She figures she’s older. In fact, she doesn’t get it. Gary can have and does have any woman he wants, eighteen and up—or so he claims, anyway. Why thirty-seven-year-old her?

  “Thank you. You’re not bad yourself.”

  “So where are you?”

  “Amarillo by Morning.”

  “George Strait. Amarillo? I won’t ask why.”

  She bites the inside of her lip. Guilt is swelling inside her, demanding she deal with it. Now. “I’m sorry you got dragged into the thing about the vandalism at my shop.”

  He nods, slow and rhythmic, like he’s bobbing his head to music she can’t hear. “That sucked.”

  “And for ending things between us.”

  “That sucked worse.”

  “Are you still mad at me?”

  “Not mad enough, apparently.”

  She hears the woman’s voice again. “Are you coming back, Gary?”

  His jaw bulges as he clenches his teeth. “Sorry. Just a second.” He turns his face, leaving his movie-star handsome profile onscreen. “No.” He throws a T-shirt over his shoulder, giving her a quick glimpse of the enormous gold ring he insists on wearing. He adds a diamond to it for each million records he sells. Pretty soon he’s going to need to switch to something bigger. Like a bracelet. Or a belt. The background behind him blurs as he starts moving.

  Maggie hears keys jangling. “Where are you going?”

  “My truck.”

  “I didn’t tell you to stop what you’re doing.”

  “I lost my appetite.”

  Her forehead creases. She leans toward the screen. “I can’t make any promises, Gary.”

  “I can be very persuasive.” He winks at her. “But I’m not asking for any.”

  “You were. Before.”

  “Yeah, and then you left me. I’ve had six months to rethink things.” He smiles, opens a door, shuts it behind him. Bugs buzz a globe light behind his head. “Just get your ass home. Tom Clarke is coming to town tomorrow, and he’s about to discover I’m upgrading to a new manager, so he can focus all his attention on his hot new clients. We can celebrate my independence from that thieving jackwipe together. And my other good news, which I’ll tell you after I’ve fucked you until neither of us can walk.”

  Maggie doesn’t want to get into Gary’s latest complaints about his manager. Gary should have shitcanned him a decade ago. A pang of loneliness echoes inside her. She wants it to be Hank on the screen, Hank telling her to come home. She wants to point Bess north and leave now. But that won’t happen. God knows she still needs someone who will scratch her itch, and Gary knows all her itchy spots. That has been enough before. It can be enough again, can’t it?

  Louise noses her hand.

  Maggie fondles the dog’s ears reflexively, offscreen.

  Onscreen, Gary’s face holds the possibility of salvation. She closes her eyes to save his image for when she’ll need it. When she opens them, she tilts her head. Her hair swings forward, silky against her cheek. Baritone vibrato and soaring soprano twin in her inimitable voice. “Keep the bed warm, music man.”

  Three

  Maggie’s hangover remedies have kicked in by the time she nears Round Top the next afternoon. Alka-Seltzer, a gallon—literally—of water, and a Joe T. Garcia’s Mexican food lunch in Fort Worth counterbalance the sweltering heat sans air conditioning. It was at Joe T.’s that she’d read her texts while she paid her bill.

  The first was a surprising group text initiated by Wallace, with Ethan, Emily, and Michele: Hey, new girlfriend. Have a safe drive.

  She’d smiled and replied: Heading straight to see that friend you asked me about ;-) Gonna wash that Wyoming man right out of my hair.

  Wallace responded immediately with OMG send pictures. Or video. Kidding. Sort of.

  Maggie laughed, pocketed her credit card, and read a text from Gary: You’re bailing, aren’t you? It made her squirm. He knows her well.

  Maggie: Eric Church. “Like a Wrecking Ball.”

  She’d hit the road again singing songs from his Outsiders album.

  No, this time she isn’t bailing. Who would have ever thought Gary Fuller would be a safer place to land than Hank Sibley?

  Hank. He’d still been blowing up her phone during the drive—she’d ignored his texts at Joe T.’s, out of self-preservation—but it had slowed from an incessant shelling to an occasional shot. She gets it. During her week on Piney Bottoms, things between them had become electric. He’d kissed her. She’d saved him. They’d come close to rekindling things, until Sheila’s news. Because Maggie had run, Hank didn’t get to tell her thank you or explain himself or say goodbye. It wasn’t fair to him. He hadn’t done anything wrong, but that didn’t change the facts or how bad they hurt.

  She’d kept her mind mostly off him by voice-dictating lists of things to do.

  Take Michele dinner and a gift.

  Prepare for antique week.

  Repair the Coop.

  Create “junque” from Wyoming haul.

  Meet with insurance adjuster.

  Get a report from the Lee County sheriff’s department about the incident.

  Clean up after the renter.

  Pick up Omaha and Nebraska from Lumpy.

  Fix Bess’s air conditioner.

  Call Mom and Boyd.

  About that time, she’d sniffed, smelled a hint of dog puke, then added a last item.

  Get Bess professionally cleaned.

  Other than that, she’d surfed radio stations, run a mental best-of-Maggie-and-Gary slideshow to get herself in the right headspace, and thanked the good Lord that Louise kept her breakfast down.

  Now, on Highway 290, she notices a new antique venue. It’s in a white metal building that’s been standing vacant ever since she can remember, halfway between Burton and Carmine. Cars and trucks crowd the dirt lot out front. A big sign hangs over the door: CRUSTY CRAP. Underneath, a smaller sign reads RICKEY SAYLES, PROPRIETOR. A decrepit black fringed buggy leans on its traces near the front door.

  Maggie groans. Rickey Sayles. He’d tried to buy the Coop from her a few months before. When she turned him down, he opened his own shop. She’s been told he’s bad-mouthing her to any who will listen, bragging that he’s going to kill off the Coop. That makes him a viable suspect for the vandalism, in her opinion.

  “Bless your heart, Rickey.” She salutes Sayles’s new venture with a bird, then exits south toward Round Top.

  Fifteen minutes later, she parks at Royers Round Top Café. There’s a
very full low-sided rain-collection tub under a porch gutter. She lets Louise out for a drink. The dog jumps in and thrashes happily in the water.

  “Not what I had in mind,” Maggie informs her.

  She puts the wet dog back in the truck and heads inside. At the counter, she orders their Steak Special OMG! for two, to go. With Texas Trash pie, Gary’s favorite. A whole one. She may not be in love with him, but their sexual reunion, if nothing else, is cause for celebration, as is the good news he promised her. And what is better for celebration than a place like Royers, whether dine-in or to-go, especially with pie? She orders two more, Chocolate Chip for Michele for her help with the Coop, and Pecan for Lumpy, for hoteling her goats.

  She admires the interior with eyes fresh from her time in the wild, wild west of Wyoming, where there is nothing like Royers, not even close. Posters, flyers, photos, and curios in a rainbow of colors are plastered over every square inch of ceiling and wall. It’s like a big welcome-home hug.

  While she’s waiting on her food, Maggie texts Michele.

  Maggie: I’m back.

  Michele: So I hear, through the Amarillo grapevine.

  Maggie: The rumors of my behavior are grossly exaggerated.

  Michele: I love you. Sorry you’ve had a tough time. Go easy on Gary.

  Maggie: Not in my playbook. I love you, too.

  Michele: See you soon?

  Maggie: Tmrw.

  In an attack of daughterly guilt, Maggie quickly texts her mother next.

  Maggie: I’m back, Mom.

  Maggie stares at the phone, expecting an immediate answer, but none comes.

  A waitress with multicolored pastel hair slinks up with Maggie’s food, interrupting her texting. Heather has always been Maggie’s favorite, and her hair clashes perfectly with the frenetic vibe of Royers. “Here you go, Magpie. How’s Boyd?”

  Boyd Herrington, former senator and presidential candidate, is Maggie’s birth father and a Royers regular. He’s not to be confused with her nonfamous—and no longer living—adoptive father, who was an ultrareligious member of the Wendish Lutheran community. Boyd is now a lobbyist, and about to be immortalized on the big screen, like Maggie, thanks to the true-crime book Michele has penned and the movie soon due for release: The Love Child and Murder That Toppled the Herrington Dynasty. Maggie, of course, is the love child. At the center of the book is the murder of Maggie’s birth mother, Gidget, an artist and gallery owner and an escapee from the Wend culture, like her daughter. Maggie’s adoptive mother, Charlotte, was none too pleased when Gidget bequeathed Michele the task of finding her long-lost daughter, or that Michele was successful and wrote about it. But Boyd? Boyd is pleased as punch about Maggie, the book, and the movie.