by Terra Wolf
“There, all set,” Janice said, unleashing Maggie’s newly bandaged and socked feet.
Maggie nodded her gratitude, glancing toward the door.
“Now, Deacon will be here for supper tonight, if you’d like to stay.”
“No, no!” Maggie said, cringing at the fervor of her refusal. Bad manners, Maggie. Bad manners. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to impose.”
“It’s no imposition,” Janice assured her, marching across the kitchen to the phone without another word. Before Maggie could decipher her intention, Janice smiled into the phone, greeting her son with a warm tone.
“Deacon, honey. I have someone here you might like to meet.”
Oh my god, no!
Maggie waved her hands in Janice’s direction, but the woman was distracted by her phone call.
This can’t be happening, she thought. I can only imagine what he’s saying.
“Her name is Maggie. I’ve told her you were coming for supp – Oh? Oh, that’s right, you’re working tonight! I forgot. Well, oh - oh, you’ll come now? Well, if you’re not busy,” Janice said, glancing toward Maggie with a smile. Maggie rubbed her socked feet together, weighing whether or not they’d be enough to take off running in.
Janice hung up the phone and ordered Carl to the garage for firewood. “Well, it’s a bit early for supper. Have you eaten lunch?”
Maggie had eaten at least half of her breakfast and couldn’t imagine eating a single bite, especially with the thought of Deacon on his way. Still, she knew her manners.
“Honestly, I don’t want to impose.”
Janice Fenn was already heading for the refrigerator, seemingly oblivious to Maggie’s concerns.
Nine
“I was wondering where you’d run off to.”
Deacon slumped into the old recliner, sipping on a bottle of Sam Adams as John raided the fridge. Deacon didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. Confessing he’d met the girl he was supposed to marry was one thing, but how much did he want John to know about her? And did he want to confess that he’d practically stalked the poor girl, following her limping dad home just for a chance to speak to her again.
“Was she cute?”
Deacon startled at this question. No, he thought. She wasn’t cute. She was beautiful. She was timeless. She was Mother Nature in human form. He couldn’t explain the way Maggie looked to another person. He imagined anyone else would see a native girl – dark hair, dark eyes, and creamy, coffee colored skin. Yet, when Deacon sat on her father’s porch, watching her red eyes as she confessed her secrets to him, he imagined hundreds of years passing while she watched. She felt like she’d watched the tides shape the shoreline, seen the white people come and gouge their way into the landscape. She hadn’t, of course, she was only a year older than him, but still. She had wise eyes, and that familiar stoicism of the Passamaquoddy, with a hint of wiseass just beneath.
“Have you heard from Carissa?”
Deacon shook free of his trance, halfway through a lunch time beer he opened to quell the last hints of a lingering hangover. He glanced at John, frowning. No, he hadn’t heard from Carissa, and at the mere mention of her name, he felt guilty.
Maggie Light Foot was a welcome distraction, but not a distraction he was proud of. Damn it, he’d only just met her and the blood wasn’t even dry from Carissa.
John just shrugged. “Well then, I say go for it.”
Deacon startled. “What? Go for what?”
“For Maggie. She sounds like a pretty cool girl.”
“Jesus John, Carissa just broke up with me.”
John glared at him, a skeptical look on his face.
“What?”
“Girls don’t just suddenly end relationships, pal.”
“Oh really? Do tell, source of sage life advice. What does that even mean?”
John shrugged, slumping down onto the couch and slamming his booted feet onto the coffee table. “Something I read once. When a girl ends a relationship, chances are she’s been planning it for a long time – processing, you know?”
Deacon swallowed. “Ok.”
“But when a guy does it, he’s more likely to do it on a whim. Then he has to do all the processing after. That’s why they say girls get over breakups faster than guys.”
Deacon thought of Carissa out on the town, sipping on cocktails with her office pals, flirting with some new guy named Brett or Chad or some other shit. Despite the recent distraction, these thoughts hurt all over again. No matter how welcome these thoughts of Maggie might be, he knew full well that he was too fresh from a relationship to be eyeing another woman. Besides, she’d already turned him down as a fiancé – technically.
“Is that supposed to be helpful?”
John shrugged. “I have no idea what it’s supposed to be. I’m just saying, the girl broke up with you. Don’t feel bad for finding another girl attractive. If she wanted to have a say in who you were boning, she shouldn’t have broken it off through a fucking text. Jesus, that’s something a dude would do.”
Deacon’s kitchen phone clanged to life, startling them both.
“Jesus! You still have that thing!” John said.
“Hey man, it’s Gramps house. He likes house phones. Hello!”
Deacon struggled with the phone, almost losing hold of it as he tried to press it between his chin and shoulder.
“Deacon, honey. I have someone here you might like to meet.”
Deacon shot John a confused look, as though he’d heard their mother’s comments as well. “Oh yeah? Who’s that?”
“Her name is Maggie.”
Deacon dropped the phone, slamming his beer onto the kitchen counter as he scrambled to snatch the receiver before it hit the floor. “Mom. Mom, I can’t do dinner. I’m working tonight.”
“Oh, that’s right!”
“I’ll come now. She’s there now? I’ll come now.”
What the hell was Maggie doing at his mother’s house?
His mother hung up with him in her usual jovial tone, and Deacon shot across the living room to his bedroom. He had to change his clothes. Should he wear cologne?
No, you shouldn’t wear cologne, he thought. For fuck’s sake, you’ve only been single for a week. You’re not wearing cologne.
“What’s going on, pal?”
Deacon leaned out the bedroom door. “Maggie’s at Mom’s house.”
John’s eyes went wide. “Are you fucking serious?”
Deacon gave him a confused and exasperated look.
John’s face seemed to go completely stoic.
“What?” Deacon demanded.
John stared at him, a smile traveling across his face. “Dude. This is it.”
Deacon’s brow furrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“This girl’s the one, man.”
“Oh my god, shut up.”
“I’m telling you! The same thing happened with me and Catherine.”
Deacon pulled his sweater over his head – the gray crew neck that Gracie assured him was the most flattering thing in his closet.
I might not wear cologne, but I can wear my sexy sweater.
Deacon watched John a moment, fighting his curiosity and failing. “What did?”
John’s eyes went wide and he threw his hands up just so. “We found each other again. I couldn’t get her out of my head, and within twenty four hours she was at fucking mom’s house. Same deal. Swear to god.”
Deacon pulled a belt from his closet and began weaving it into the loops of his jeans. “Seriously? What’s your point?”
John tossed his empty beer bottle into the recycling bin and stood by the door waiting. “Tell me you don’t think it’s an interesting coincidence.”
Deacon stuffed his keys and phone into his pocket. “Coincidence, yes, but nothing more. Don’t go picking out our kids’ names because she’s at mom’s house. Seriously. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”
“Sure. Says the guy
who just put on his ‘date’ sweater to go over to his mom’s house.”
Deacon’s face grew hot. “Dick.”
They pulled up outside Mom and Dad’s house ten minutes later, John absolutely insisting that he come along and meet the girl. Deacon felt his face burning, the nape of his neck getting sweaty and hot as he marched toward the door of his parent’s house.
Play it cool, Deacon. She’s probably here on some formal business. Official refusal, maybe? Tribal apology? Would they send her alone for that? Would they do that at his mom’s house?
John shot him a strange look, and Deacon realized he was making strange expressions with each new thought.
Great, you’re acting like a god damn crazy person. Fantastic.
“Ah, here they are!” Janice said, hopping up from her favorite chair to greet her sons. She made a point to remark on Deacon’s appearance. He blushed all over again.
Then he spotted the dark head, turning to face him as he entered the living room. Her eyes weren’t red this time, but she carried the lingering scent of fear about her. He moved across the room to shake her hand.
“Nice socks,” he said, gesturing toward her feet.
She frowned. “Yeah. At least they’re comfortable.”
Nice socks? Really, Deacon? You fucking prick.
His mother hustled into the kitchen and began fretting away over a meal that filled the house with the familiar savory smells of Janice Fenn’s cooking. Even Dad groaned his approval from the couch in the TV room, demanding to know when soup was on. Deacon sat down beside Maggie, doing his best to assess her without drawing attention to himself. She didn’t give off fear now. Whatever fear he smelled was passed. Instead, she smelled warm and smokey, and as Deacon slumped down beside her, he thought he caught a hint of something else – pheromones.
Couldn’t be, he thought. If those were her pheromones, they didn’t smell like the pheromones of any other woman he’d ever encountered.
Still, when Maggie finally looked at him, her expression cracked, and she smiled.
Holy shit, he thought. Holy fucking shit.
“So, do you regret calling off the wedding, yet?”
Everyone turned on John, Janice throwing her napkin at him as they scolded him for his comment.
Maggie just exhaled in a half laugh. She shot Deacon a sideways look. He was the only one who knew why she’d acted as she did, and he wasn’t about to share her secret.
Maggie wiped her napkin across her lips, then set it over her lap. Janice had practically offered up a Sunday dinner; roast beef and gravy with mashed potatoes and peas. Maggie apologized for her lack of appetite at the beginning of the meal, but then proceeded to eat three full slabs of roast beef before throwing in the towel. Deacon feared she may have stuffed herself just to be polite.
Catherine groaned softly to herself from across the table. Even with Maggie’s sudden appearance, John wasted no time shooting his wife a quick text, demanding she come down the road and meet Deacon’s new ‘fixation.’
Damn it, she’s not a fixation. She’s just on my mind. A lot.
“Whatever you say, pal,” John said as he introduced Maggie to his wife.
Deacon couldn’t help but watch Catherine as she made her way around the home. She was comfortable there now, married to John for over a year. Still, Deacon couldn’t help but watch, wondering silently whether she still felt pain in her side, if there were silent troubles that even John wasn’t telling him about. She smiled at everyone the way she always did, ate with relish, telling jokes and filling everyone in about her family. Still, Deacon knew how brave Catherine Calhoun Fenn could be. He hoped this jovial mood wasn’t just a show of grace.
“Who’s this now?” Maggie asked suddenly at the mention of Catherine’s cousin, Bennett Calhoun.
Catherine’s eyebrows shot up. “Who? Bennett? He’s my cousin.”
“Bennett Calhoun?” Maggie asked and her words were staggered.
Deacon froze a moment. She’d know that last name, the name of the man who’d murdered her sister.
“Yeah. Calhoun is my family.”
Maggie took a deep breath and they all went quiet a moment. Finally, she turned toward Deacon. “Deacon Fenn. I knew recognized that name.”
Oh shit, he thought.
“You were there? When Bodie Calhoun died?”
Deacon nodded.
Maggie licked her lips, setting her napkin in her lap. She took a deep breath, nodding across the table to Catherine. “Will you – will you shake Bennett’s hand for me, when you see him next?”
Deacon frowned and his heart hurt. He knew Bennett well, knew that the night Badie Calhoun died would haunt his friend for the rest of his life, but to Maggie, Bennett was the man who killed her sister’s killer. It didn’t matter than he was also the man’s son.
“So, Maggie – should I call you Maggie, or Maggie Light Foot?” Carl asked, his thumb hooked into the belt loop of his jeans. Deacon silently praised his father’s very name for breaking the tension of that moment.
Deacon watched Maggie out of the corner of his eye. He’d often wondered this very thing himself.
“Either is fine. I’ll even answer to just Light Foot, if you’re feeling inclined.”
John nodded, sagely. “Well, it’s a rad name, man.”
Maggie smiled. “That’s what Deacon said.”
Maggie had graciously taken on every question thrown her way, smiling and answering with the manners of a queen. Deacon just sat beside her, listening and watching.
He’d discovered she was a poet, a painter, an Aries, a cat person, and mildly allergic to Cilantro. He was grateful his family circle hadn’t made fools of themselves by delving any further.
Janice was off in the kitchen, preparing to bring a blueberry pie to the table for dessert when Deacon’s phone suddenly burst to life in his pocket.
“Oh shit!” He said, jumping up from the table and scanning the room for his keys.
It was his work alarm. He’d completely forgotten he was due for his first shift.
He turned toward Maggie, setting a hand on her shoulder as he stepped away from the table. “I’m so sorry. Do you have a ride home? I completely forgot I have to work. Fuck.”
“It’s ok,” she said, touching his hand. “You needn’t worry. It’s not like you were expecting me.”
But he did worry. She’d come to his mother’s house, sat with his family for an early supper, and behaved with such grace as to never let on the drama that was brewing back on the rez. Whatever brought her there, and whatever inspired her fear before she arrived, he was left ignorant to it.
“Mom, John? Can one of you give her ride home, maybe?”
“Of course! I’m not about to let the poor girl walk home, shoeless.” Janice said, setting the massive blueberry pie down on the table as John and Carl both groaned.
Deacon touched Maggie’s shoulder again, then jerked his hand away.
Stop it, Deacon. Don’t be so damn familiar. You hardly know her, you have no idea why she’s here. Stop it!
“Alright,” he said, and his body almost moved to kiss her on the cheek as a parting gesture. He stopped dead, mortified with himself.
What the hell is wrong with you?
“Everybody wish me luck! Let’s hope it’s a quiet night.”
His family called their well wishes as he shot through the kitchen toward the front door. He noted that Maggie didn’t say a word.
The sky was already near dark as he rushed out to his SUV, smelling the wood smoke and chill in the air. He flung open the driver side door, nearly hitting Maggie in the chest. Jesus, he hadn’t even heard her come out.
“Sorry! Sorry,” she said, splaying her hands before her. “I just – I just thought I’d say goodbye. I’m sorry about this whole thing, it wasn’t my inten -”
Deacon grabbed her around the waist, pulled her against him, and kissed her. Despite every nerve in his body screaming in horror at the sheer audacity of this move, M
aggie’s body softened in his arms. She kissed him back.
She broke from the kiss after a moment, not pulling away, not pushing him, but simply breaking the connection. Their lips remained close as he fought to comprehend what he’d just done. Carissa came flooding to mind at that moment, and his stomach turned with guilt. He hadn’t thought of her all day.
“I’m sorry, Maggie. I don’t know where that came – sorry.”
She exhaled, and he caught a hint of the oregano from his mother’s gravy on her breath. Beneath that, the same strange, intoxicating smell he’d caught in the house. Her scent betrayed wanting him. He could blame those god damn pheromones, couldn’t he?
Yet, why did she smell so different than other women?
He could imagine John’s answer to this question.
Because she’s it, man!
Not helpful.
“I don’t want to make you late,” she said, but still she didn’t pull away.
Deacon exhaled, frustrated to think he had to leave now. Of all the months he’d spent trying to find a decent job down south, one would expect some relief to be going back to work. Yet, this smoky, foreign, beautiful thing seemed to shift and settle into every cranny of him, and he didn’t want to let her go for anything.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, a familiar ringtone he’d been waiting to hear for days, now tearing him from the most pleasant moment he’d had in a long time – Carissa.
Oh god, he thought. Carissa.
Deacon released his hold on Maggie with more force than he’d intended, half pushing her away from him as he straightened. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.”
“No, it’s ok. Please, you don’t need to apolo -”
“I have to go. I’m sorry I wish I could drive you home – I’m sorry.”
With that, Deacon climbed into his car, fighting to keep his eyes from her face as the headlights set her skin aglow. Deacon threw the car in reverse and was barreling down the dirt road in less than three seconds.
He was as far as the Fenn gate before he stopped to read her text.
