by D. Brown
It had been a long time since he’d been this close to another woman. He’d long ago forgotten when a woman other than his wife had been inside this place and sitting on his couch.
“Oh my God,” she was mortified, “What happened?”
“You fainted.”
“Oh God.”
“Hey, it could have been the heat, shock from the blood maybe.”
Sam realized his hand rested on the woman’s knee. He felt the solid contours of her leg beneath the thin fabric of the silk sarong and jerked his hand away as if he just touched fire.
Wow.
Maybe he did. The tingling sensation coursed up his arm and slithered around the center of his chest.
Jesus, I feel fourteen.
Come on.
“Maybe it is a little stuffy in here,” Sam said. “Let’s take a look at that foot.”
“Here,” he added and handed her the washcloth and ice cubes. “You’re as white as a ghost.”
Maggie took the washcloth and folded it around the ice cubes, pressing the cold compress to the base of her neck.
Whew.
She fought the nausea stirring around her empty stomach.
Nothing to eat this morning for breakfast except tea and a couple cookies, and she wasn’t used to this oppressive Southern summer heat, and cutting her foot and the blood, and being so close to him just…
Stop it!
Fainting had absolutely nothing to do with him at all.
He had a gun and it was in his mouth, remember?
He’s nuts, and the sooner you can get out of here the better.
Still, Maggie couldn’t take her eyes off his.
And that smile.
I could just eat him up.
Maggie, get a grip.
This is so not like you.
“Let me have a look at that foot,” Sam said.
“It’s okay really. I need to get going. My kids are waiting.”
Her voice trailed away when she started to add, “. . . and my husband.”
Sam set the First Aid Kid on the floor at her feet, took her foot and ankle in his hands and propped it on his thigh like a footstool.
“Sorry,” he said. “Not until I bandage this foot.”
“I’m sorry about the mess on your porch,” Maggie said. “I’ll clean it up for you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Sam removed a couple bandages, adhesive tape and gauze wrapping from the First Aid Kit.
“But the glass . . . you might.”
“This is the beach,” he said, looking up from her foot. “I’ll get it later.”
Afraid to move, Maggie didn’t know whether she was going to faint, cry or be sick. She felt his hands coarse and strong caress her ankle as he washed the cut.
“Put your finger here for a sec, okay?”
Sam held the gauze bandage to her instep as Maggie leaned over and pressed her two fingers next to his. She was close enough to catch his scent again. Wood smoke, coffee and hickory-smoked bacon and what was the part she was missing?
A sudden gust of wind whistled through the screen door carrying with it that familiar, but missing scent.
The beach, Maggie thought. He smells like the beach.
2
Maggie watched the top of his head while he applied the bandage. She propped her foot on his thigh with Sam on his knees at her feet.
He parts his hair on the left side, a sun-bleached mix of gray and white and it has thinned a little at the crown of his head, a small not-so-bald spot he made no attempt to conceal.
Robert, her husband – you remember him Maggie – contemplated hair plugs to fill in around the deepening peninsula of hair at the top of his forehead. He went so far as to practice scalp therapy to stimulate hair growth, and the God-awful stuff he rubbed into his hair at nights before bed. It smelled like old soup.
“The cut isn’t too deep,” Sam said, his hand sliding up her ankle to her calf as he placed her foot on the floor. “You shouldn’t need stitches. Just keep the cut clean for a couple days and wear beach shoes from now on. I’ll send some spare bandages home with you, how about that?”
“Really,” Maggie said. “It’s not necessary.”
“Yes it is,” he said. “It could get infected. This is the beach. Stepping on glass is the least of your worries.”
His hand lingered barely a moment too long and her leg tingled at his touch.
Her cheeks flushed hot.
This is wrong.
I shouldn’t be here.
She heard Robert’s voice inside her head next, “Maggie, look at you. You’re barely dressed.”
She wore a flower printed sarong tied at the waist around a black one-piece bathing suit and her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.
She may have had the body of a mother, but stayed in shape and looked more attractive pushing forty – I’m only 38, she protested in a concession to vanity – than she did at twenty. She wore little makeup, and in Sam’s opinion, didn’t need it. She curved in all the right places and came to Sam at that just-right spot in the crook beneath his chin.
A perfect fit.
He especially liked the look and shape of her legs, and the spark her touch flared deep inside.
Nice.
“I should be going,” breaking the uneasy silence as she started to stand, trying to prop her weight on her good foot.
“Not yet,” he said. “You need to keep your weight off the foot for a bit.”
She sat back down and sighed.
“It shouldn’t hurt too much though,” he said. “You should still be able to enjoy the beach. The ocean will sting a little at first, but the salt water might help keep the wound clean.”
Sitting back down on the couch, Maggie noticed the inside of the house to be spacious, the air rich with the leftover scent of a morning breakfast that included the familiar bacon and coffee.
The furnishings were typical guy: fishing gear stacked in one corner, a guitar in the other, old artwork filling up wall space, a few personal mementos sprinkled here and there, your typical sofa and love seat combination that might have been in style back in the Sixties, a couple wingback chairs arranged around a coffee table positioned in the center of the room.
A Franklin stove squatted off to the side near the wall.
It provided the home’s only source of heat when it was needed.
There was no air conditioning.
The floor was knotted pine hardwood and groaned like an old man under his feet as he took the bandage wrappings to the kitchen garbage can. A ceiling fan stirred the air above the rafters as a wooden spoon stirred a pot of stew.
She saw the eye of the gun peeking out at her from between the sofa cushions. The barrel’s empty black eye stared impassively, saying, “I’m patient. My time will come. I’m in no hurry.”
Sam called to her from the kitchen. “You look like you could use a drink.”
Maggie suddenly wanted something with a serious kick.
Badly.
“What do you drink?” he asked.
Maggie considered wine, something soft and light, and refined with it being so early in the day, of course, but the gun, dropping the cup, cutting her foot and fainting, Maggie figured if there was ever a time to throw caution to the wind, this was it.
“Vodka and cranberry juice if you have it.”
“No problem at all. Smirnoff’s okay?”
“Smirnoff’s is fine,” she said.
She watched as Sam dropped ice into a rock glass, poured in a couple jiggers of vodka, and topped it off with cranberry juice. He then fixed himself a Gosling’s black rum over ice with a splash of pineapple juice and ginger ale.
“Rum, a pirate I see,” Maggie smiled.
“Whiskey and bourbon sometimes lead you down bad roads.” Sam replied, “But rum is more fun.”
He winked.
Maggie concentrated all her effort to keep her hands from shaking when he handed her the glass. The chime-like
tinkle of ice against cut crystal creased the smile lines across Sam’s face in a mischievous, almost boyish grin.
He noticed Maggie cutting nervous glances at the gun.
“That really upset you,” he said as they touched glasses. “Cheers.”
“You had a gun in your mouth. Of course it upset me.”
“But it wasn’t loaded.”
“That makes it okay then?”
“I’m sorry you cut your foot.”
“If that was your idea of a joke it wasn’t very funny.”
“Sam.”
“Sam, what?”
“If that was your idea of a joke it wasn’t very funny, Sam,” he said.
He held out his hand.
“My name is Sam . . . Sam McKenna.”
He held it there waiting for her to take it, but she had both hers clutched about the sides of the cocktail glass. She finally shifted the glass to her left hand and extended her right.
“I’m Maggie,” she said, “Maggie Scott. My family and I are vacationing here for the next two weeks.”
Family as in she has a husband, as in she’s a mom, and somebody’s wife. Sam spied the ring on her left hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Maggie.”
His smirk grew into a warm smile, which irritated her more.
Anger’s slow burn ate away at what was left of her initial apprehension.
“Don’t tell me your name if you’re intent on killing yourself, Sam.”
“The gun wasn’t loaded,” he said. “I had no intention of killing myself.”
“Then why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Put the gun in your mouth.”
“I wanted to know what it felt like,” he said.
“That’s not something anybody should want to know,” Maggie said sharply.
“But I do.”
“My God, why?”
Sam shrugged, “It’s complicated.”
The smirk had faded. The iron façade had returned. Maggie could no more see into him than she could see through brick walls.
“I really should be going,” Maggie said coolly.
“I’ve upset you. I’m sorry.”
A finger played with the ice cube in her drink, anxious, desperately wanting something to occupy the nervous shake in her hands.
Sam moved to the sofa next to her, conscious of the gun, and tucked it back beneath the cushion out of sight, as if hiding it would remove its presence from the room.
“Why?” Maggie asked.
Why what?
“Why would you want to go and do something so foolish and just plain stupid like that?”
“I never said . . .”
"You had a gun in your mouth, Sam."
“I did.”
“And it’s because you wanted to know how it feels? I want to know why. Suicide is no answer. It’s just a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”
“You must watch Dr. Phil,” Sam said, “I’m sorry, but like I said, it’s complicated.”
“I’m a good listener.”
“I’d rather not, sorry.”
Sam looked away.
“I was in the privacy of my own home, and yes, I put a gun in my mouth, and no, it’s not the healthiest way to kill time,” his smile flashed again and softened the hard glint in his eyes, “Sorry, bad joke I know. Honestly, I didn’t expect anybody to be standing outside my door peeking in.”
“I should go,” Maggie said.
“Wait,” he said and put a hand on her arm.
His touch sent a tingling surge through her.
Again.
“Your sugar,” Sam said. “Don’t forget your sugar.”
And before Maggie could protest, Sam was off the couch and bounding into the kitchen.
Okay, she thought, get the sugar and out of here now.
“I’m going to put a couple cups in a freezer bag for you. That should hold you until you get to the store.”
He watched her thumb the gold wedding band and the decent sized diamond on her engagement ring. Maggie noticed the lack of one on Sam’s finger, but did see the photographs of what she assumed to be Sam’s kids arranged about the coffee table. She picked up the nearest frame, a family portrait.
“Are these your kids?”
She also figured it was a good time to change the subject.
“Yeah, those are mine,” he said, “A son and a daughter, Joey and Taylor.”
“Nice looking children.”
She noticed the woman in the photograph with them.
“Attractive woman,” she said. “Is this your wife?”
Sam’s smile faded into a melancholy tilt of the head. “Yeah, that’s her.”
“She’s pretty.”
“She was.”
“She was?”
“Was,” Sam said, taking the picture from her and looking at it for a long moment, before returning the frame to its place among the arrangement on the coffee table. “She left three years ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” Maggie said. “I should have noticed from the lack of a wedding ring that you were divorced.”
“I’m not divorced.”
“Oh?”
“I’m widowed.”
He smiled.
“Oh . . .”
She blanched.
Maggie wanted to find the nearest hole, crawl inside, and die.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “These things happen. It’s all a part of life. You’re born. You grow old. You die. Some sooner than others, and in-between lie the complications.”
“You have a very fatalistic attitude about something as fragile as life,” Maggie said and inside, her stomach folded over on itself. Of all the stupid things to say, “Is this your wife?”
To add insult to injury Maggie forgot how to shut up.
“How old was she?”
“Diane was 39.”
My age, Maggie thought.
She took too big a sip of her drink.
She wished she could toss it back in one quick shot and then down another.
Uneasiness washed over her as a mantra of ‘This is so wrong,’ repeated inside her head. On unsteady legs, she started to stand.
“I really should be going. I’m so sorry to have interrupted your afternoon.”
“Please,” he said, and touched her arm.
“I really should . . . my husband is . . .”
She wanted to go but couldn’t make herself leave.
“He and the kids wanted lemonade.”
She saw the pleading look in Sam’s eyes.
“Please stay, okay? Just for a few more minutes.”
“They’re waiting,” Maggie said and cut a worried glance at the open porch door as if she expected to see Robert there at any moment. Besides, if Maggie didn’t return in what her husband believed to be an acceptable amount of time, he came looking for her.
Robert did that a lot.
“You’re my wife,” he said whenever she took exception to his watchdog attitude. “I have a right to know where you are.”
“I don’t get much company these days,” Sam said, and realized he still had his hand on Maggie’s arm.
He pulled his hand smiling an apology.
Maggie sat back down on the sofa.
“A few more minutes,” she said.
“So, you’re here with your family?”
Maggie nodded.
“We’re on vacation.”
“That’s great.”
“So, where are you from?”
“Ohio,” Maggie said, flustered then quickly changed her mind, “Near Pittsburgh.”
“Eastern Ohio near Pittsburgh,” she said, finally deciding on where to call home. “But Robert – my husband is an attorney and works for a firm out of Pittsburgh. He hopes to make partner in a couple of years.”
“That’s nice,” Sam said. “You must be proud.”
Maggie didn’t know to be offended or to tak
e what he said as a compliment.
“He works very hard.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“So what do you do for a living?”
Maggie balked before answering. Her place in life – her job – had always been being mother to her kids – Mrs. Robert Scott, and admitting this to Sam shamed her for reasons she couldn’t explain.
“I’m a stay-at-home mom,” she said. “Three kids don’t leave much time for anything else.”
“But I volunteer,” Maggie quickly added. If Sam had judged her as some pampered soccer mom who volunteers with the auxiliary ladies to feel useful and significant in an insignificant life, he didn’t show it.
“Three kids can be a handful. Tybee Island is a long way from Pittsburgh. What made you decide to vacation here?”
“Well, Hilton Head was booked solid.”
He laughed.
“This time of year it is,” Sam said. “But hey, Savannah is a great place to vacation. The people here are some of the friendliest you’ll ever meet. Tybee Island is the east coast’s best-kept secret.”
“You live here?”
“I do now, most of the time,” Sam said. “I used to split the year between here and Atlanta. Nasty commute, but I’ve stayed here almost full time since Diane died.”
Maggie looked at her watch, the universal signal that it’s time to go.
“I really should be going,” she said and then had an idea, which she voiced before ever considering it might be a horrendous one. “Would you care to join us for dinner tonight? We’re staying in the house next door.”
He smiled.
“I have a better idea Maggie from Eastern Ohio near Pittsburgh,” Sam’s face lit up at the thought. “Let me cook dinner for you.”
“Oh, I can’t do that. I have three children. That’s too much.”
Sam stood.
“It’s not an imposition at all. It’s my pleasure. Do you know how much I hate cooking for just one? It’s not even worth the trouble. I’d love to cook for a big family.”
“I can’t really,” she suddenly regretted extending the dinner invitation.
Robert won’t like this at all.
“Please,” Sam said. “I insist. We can eat out on the beach. Do your kids like seafood?”
“My kids will eat anything,” Maggie said.
“Then it’s settled. Besides, it will give me something to do this afternoon. You know what they say, ‘Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.’ It’ll give me something to do besides play with guns.”
