Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures)

by Davis, Nageeba

  The day I was brought home from the hospital, Andy took one look through the bars of my crib, snorted his disgust, and stomped out of the room. At least that’s the way I imagine the scene, because ever since I can remember, he’s ignored my gender completely. My own gender, that is. Other women were a completely different matter. If you listen and believe half of what Andy says, he does very well with the opposite sex, thank you very much. To hear him talk, he’s quite the stud—which is more than I needed to know.

  Anyway, from the moment I was old enough to walk, Andy began wrapping my pudgy fingers around a baseball and explaining the importance of the red stitching and other intricacies of the game—all gobbledygook at the time. But to please my older brother, whom I inexplicably adored despite his merciless teasing and dogged determination to toughen me up, I became a willing student. He desperately wanted me to be one of the boys, and I just as desperately wanted to please him, so I did what he wanted. I played baseball. Before long, I could out-run, out-pitch, and out-bat any boy in the neighborhood. And as luck would have it, I grew to love America’s favorite pastime.

  My childhood had one purpose—to be the first woman recruited by the Yankees. I didn’t want to interview the other players, I didn’t want to nurse their injuries or have their babies. I wanted to be a Yankee. My goal in life was to hit so many home runs that people called me Babe—and not because I was looking hot. Even better, I dreamed of being the outfielder who stopped every “should-have-been-a-home-run” hit, vaulting up and crashing into the fence with my arm outstretched, feeling the ball smash into my open glove.

  But then mud pies walked into my life. On one hot, windless day, my brother and I started squirting each other with the hose, an activity that quickly escalated into our usual war games. Andy and I took turns with the hose, pretending it was a machine gun or a stream of arrows. It was always fun for about ten minutes, until Andy became a little too enthusiastic and ended up hurting me. That day, in his zest to beat up the bad guys, he pinned me to the ground, sat on my chest, and sprayed water directly into my face. I spit and sputtered and finally managed to throw him off. I was so angry, I marched off, refusing to listen to his apologies. Eventually he gave up, shrugged his shoulders, climbed onto his bike, and pedaled down the street.

  After he left, I grabbed the hose and jerked it across the lawn to water the freshly planted flowers, a chore that always fell on me because I was the girl. Sulking, I flopped down, dropped the hose, and watched the water stream out, creating little gullies and valleys in the loose soil. Mesmerized, I stuck my hands in the earth, grabbed large chunks of wet dirt, and started packing them together. Ten minutes later, I had a pile of thick, semi-round, hamburger-patty mud things. Stacking them on top of each other, I leaned back to examine my work. I had created a misshapen, multi-tiered chocolate cake. I was hooked.

  Baseball dimmed in the light of my real dream. I wanted to be a sculptor.

  Fifteen years later, fifteen years of watching my brother clutch his broken heart, I was exactly that. At least I hoped to be. Tonight was the big test. After months of suggesting changes in my work, Mark had finally decided I was ready. So after a restless night of tossing and turning and sweating through my pajama top, I slipped into the studio, sat down, and created another vase I didn’t need but didn’t have the heart to throw away.

  And now, a few hours later, I stood in the studio again all by myself. I leaned over and touched my vase. The clay was still soft to the touch and would be for several hours, but I knew Mark would want the place spotless for tonight. I carefully lifted the wooden tray that held my vase and carried it into the small staging room where the kiln stood and placed it on the shelf with the other pieces waiting to be fired.

  I was reluctant to leave. Deep down I was scared that the show was nothing more than a figment of my imagination, and if I left—Poof! it would disappear. I’d always been insecure about my talent, and despite Mark’s frequent pep talks, I couldn’t help but wonder if I should have stuck with baseball.

  But I couldn’t stay. Mark had made himself perfectly clear—get the hell out.

  My red Jeep was parked at the curb. I climbed in, dug out my cell from my purse, and dialed Lisa’s number. Like clockwork, she picked up on the third ring, a habit she developed in college to keep her boyfriends from thinking she was waiting by the phone for their call. She thought anything less than two rings smacked of over-eagerness. I thought waiting for the third ring smacked of manipulation, but as usual, she ignored me, insisting that there was a very thin line between thoughtful maneuvering and clear deception. It didn’t make sense to me then and it still doesn’t. But then again, I’m hardly an expert. She’s the happily married one, not me. I’m single and involved in a stormy, up and down, convoluted relationship with an Italian detective, the key word being “Italian.” What else did I expect?

  A groggy, muffled voice came over the line. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “You sound funny.”

  “No, I’m just lying down on the bed.”

  “It’s eleven-thirty in the morning. Are you sick?”

  She sighed. “No, Maggie. Believe it or not, there are other things to do in bed than sleep.”

  Oh, yuck. “That’s disgusting. It’s like hearing about your parents having sex.”

  “Well, what did you think—that Mandy just miraculously arrived on my doorstep?”

  Mandy was Lisa’s two-year-old daughter, cute as a button and mischievous as hell. She was also my goddaughter. “Of course not, but I don’t want to hear every lurid detail, either.”

  “I hardly call mentioning the word bed a lurid detail, but for someone like you, it probably is.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, summoning up a little indignation.

  “Exactly what you think it means. You’ve got the best-looking, mouthwatering man this side of the Rockies following you around like a lap dog, and you tuck tail and run.”

  “Thanks for the interesting canine analogy,” I responded dryly.

  “What are best friends for?”

  “Butting in where they don’t belong?” I suggested. “You’d miss me if I didn’t interfere.”

  “So you keep saying. Listen, as much as I hate to end this little verbal sparring, I called to see if you wanted to meet me at Jamie’s for a late lunch, but this probably isn’t a good time,” I ended lamely.

  “Actually, it’s the perfect time. We just finished our...uh... gardening, and Joel is off for the afternoon. He can watch Mandy.”

  “Then I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes. That’ll give you two an extra ten minutes to complete...well... turning the soil.”

  “Trust me, it’s been taken care of.”

  Gross. “Okay, make it twenty minutes then. I’ll be there before you, so I’ll get us a table, but hang on a second while I start the car. I may need you to drop by the gallery and pick me up if this rust bucket decides to throw a tantrum,” I said. I pumped the accelerator three times, waited, and pumped it again twice. The Jeep was, gently put, a seasoned piece of machinery. Actually, it was a mechanic’s nightmare, not to mention mine. It was a used car when I bought it, and it had only gone from old to decrepit. Underneath this hood was a thick layer of corrosion and a temperamental engine laughing its ass off at my frustration. I had to soothe, coax, and sometimes beg to get this contraption moving.

  I prayed to the great Car Dealer in the Sky, because if the engine didn’t turn over real soon, this heap was heading there in a jiffy. My Jeep must have known what I was thinking, because suddenly it roared to life like a brand-new Porsche.

  Lisa hung up when the engine turned over. I pulled out onto Tejon, drove to Bijou, took a left, traveled down three blocks, and took another left, completing what amounted to one giant U-turn. I followed Nevada north until I hit Uintah, turned left, and caught the freeway for a few miles, exiting on Academy Boulevard. About a mile down the road, I saw the sign for Jamie’s Cafe´ on the right, wedged right between Chipotle a
nd Burger King. I swerved in and parked in the back.

  Climbing out, I was struck again by Jamie’s strange choice of location. Her small restaurant, which served sandwiches for lunch and specially blended coffees and teas, was really a front for a catering business she ran from the back of the building. She was a wonderful chef and her reputation was solid, but word of mouth was slow. Her menus were sought after by a more elite (translate that to rich) clientele than was normally found here on Fast Food Row. But evidently, her wealthy clients liked to keep her name to themselves. So she continued to depend on the walk-in business for her bread and butter.

  Entering Jamie’s Cafe´ was like stepping into a real French bistro, at least what I imagined one to look like—sunny yellow walls, black-and-white tiled floors, and wicker furniture. Starched white tablecloths and glass vases filled with fresh flowers topped the small round tables. Overflowing pots of dark green ferns hung from the ceiling. Every imaginable brand of coffee and tea lined the glossy pine shelves. A large glass case displayed delectable desserts guaranteed to satisfy any sweet tooth. Hips and thighs spontaneously ballooned just being in the same room.

  I walked to the long wooden counter next to the Pastry Bin of Sin, and sat down on one of the high wooden stools, hoping to get a chance to talk to Jamie for a few minutes. Since Mark had mentioned the trouble between the two of them, I thought I might be able to get Jamie to shed some light on the problem. Although Mark had agreed to talk to me, I knew from experience what that meant. The bare minimum. But Jamie was a whole other story. If I was lucky, not only would she paint a broader and much more detailed picture, but she’d also supply me with free appetizers while we talked. Mark might not like me poking my nose in his business, but given the way he threw me out of the gallery, my curiosity (aka nosiness) was the least of his worries.

  Jamie’s distinctive voice floated through the swinging bar doors that separated the kitchen from the rest of the restaurant. Seconds later, she came barreling through the doors, her arms loaded with plates of food. She caught sight of me and sent me one of her broad, welcoming smiles. After serving a young couple who were obviously besotted with each other, she walked back and threw her arms around me. I eased back on my chair again as she circled back behind the counter.

  “Hey, girl, you sure are lookin’ good,” she declared, leaning on her elbows, her thick blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  I grinned. In baggy pants and a ratty sweatshirt, I looked anything but good. “You lie with such finesse, Jamie, that I’m willing to believe.”

  “I’m offended, honey. A false word has never passed these lips.”

  Even though I’d heard her voice a million times before, I still had to laugh. Her down-to-earth, unpretentious style totally belied the sophisticate she really was. The lady had graduated from the New York School of Culinary Arts, earning enough awards to paper the walls of her restaurant, but she insisted on sounding like she’d never cooked anything but buckwheat flapjacks. Jamie McGuire was tall, thin, and buxom, and had every guy within a fifty yard radius salivating like Pavlov’s dogs: See breasts, will drool.

  The first time I saw Mark and Jamie at the gallery, I knew they were perfect together. Not only were they great to look at, but more importantly, Jamie had a heart of gold. It was exactly what Mark needed to loosen him up a little and coax him out of his shell.

  “I came for lunch... and to talk.”

  My tone must have raised her suspicions. “You want to swap gossip or did you have something particular in mind?”

  I cleared my throat. “I just came from The Outlook, and—”

  “Ah, I see. Mark sent you over to grill me, right?”

  “Well, not exactly. I kind of took that mission on myself,” I admitted. “He mentioned that things were strained between the two of you.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  I should have backed off then, but as usual, I ignored the warning signs and plunged ahead. “He thinks you might have lost interest.”

  Jamie’s big blue eyes went flat and her lips tightened. “How many times do I have to tell him nothing’s changed? Work is stressful right now, that’s all. Except for Kevin Brooks over there,” she said, pointing to a thin busboy clearing plates from an empty table, “the teenage help nowadays is virtually useless. Why he stays is a mystery. I’ve lost two waitresses in the last week, so Kevin’s doing the work of three people right now. I’m swamped trying to run two businesses and I haven’t had a chance to interview for replacements. I don’t have time to deal with Mark’s insecurities, especially when they’re groundless. If he can’t handle a little bump in the road, then that’s his problem.”

  “I think he can handle a bump, Jamie, if he knew what it was or what was causing it,” I said, a little surprised by her outburst. “He’s just worried. I don’t think he’s convinced that it’s entirely work related, and I’m guessing that you haven’t been your characteristically jovial self.”

  Jamie stared at me for the longest time without saying a word, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She dropped her head in her hands. “You’re right.”

  Concerned, I placed my hand on her shoulder. “What’s going on, Jamie? I’ve never seen you like this.” I cleared my throat, afraid to ask the next question. “Is there someone else?”

  She looked up and shook her head. “No, believe me, it’s nothing like that.”

  “Thank God,” I said, relieved.

  “Then what is it?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” she said, forcing a smile that didn’t erase the sadness in her eyes.

  “But, Jamie—”

  “No buts,” she said, glancing over my shoulder. “Lisa just arrived and I have work to do.” She stood up. “I have a lunch crowd to take care of and food for a party tonight at The Outlook—some up-and-coming artist,” she said. Jamie winked and started back toward the kitchen, then stopped and turned to face me. “Don’t worry, honey. Mark and I will be fine. By this point in our lives, we’ve both survived a whole lot worse than this.”

  I tried to do exactly what she said, and for the most part, I succeeded. At least during lunch. Jamie came out and chatted with Lisa, a tall beauty with thick auburn hair and hazel eyes. Between the two of them, I felt like the ugly stepsister with a wart on her nose. But lunch was kept light and frivolous. Jamie served sandwiches and regaled us with stories of her more difficult clients and their very uppity demands. She was back to her relaxed and entertaining self, even pulling up a chair, eating off my plate, and unabashedly praising her cooking between mouthfuls. By the time we left, I had convinced myself that Jamie was right and there was nothing to worry about. Things would smooth out on their own.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been wrong.

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  Table of Contents

  Praise for...

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Excerpt from Artistic License (Book Two)