Discovering Maggie

by KT Morrison

  Discovering Maggie

  KT Morrison

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  Models on cover are meant for illustrative purposes only.

  DISCOVERING MAGGIE

  A MAGGIE novella.

  First Edition. July 24, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 KT Morrison

  Written by KT Morrison

  Cover by KT Morrison

  Contents

  1. Ballgown

  2. Prowler

  3. Trothplight

  4. Regency

  5. Couch

  6. Terry

  7. Statue

  8. Game Show

  9. Burgeon

  10. Midnight

  11. Three

  12. Breakup

  Afterword

  Other Books by KT Morrison

  1

  Ballgown

  Saturday, October 7th

  They parked Carol’s Porsche out front of the Seamen’s Church Institute, which prompted a secret smirk that had to be hidden.

  The bridal shoppe her mother had selected was located in a renovated 18th century commercial wharf that overlooked Newport Harbor and Goat Island beyond. Couldn’t see the island today; gray and dim, foggy, a low, cottony brume that sat over the strangely still water of the harbor. They had stepped quickly from the car, along the red brick walk that paved between the buildings of this old wharf revitalized into a stylish and upscale shopping venue and yachting club. Rain seemed imminent, but now, standing in the private, appointment-only boutique, it still hadn’t arrived.

  They were on the second floor of the boutique, the view from the window stabbed repeatedly from the bobbing masts of tied off sailboats immediately below in the harbor. Carol was busy with private and hushed talk with the boutique owner, who sat with Carol on the board for the Rhode Island Preservation Society and the Robert Williams Park Zoo. The two WASPiest boards her Chinese mother could ever sit on, but they welcomed her with wide open arms because Carol Becker got shit done and she sent weaklings running.

  Maggie was engaged with two effusively helpful assistants; bringing her dresses, zipping her up, helping her with shoes, bringing her green tea, fawning and preening. Her hair had been tied up at a salon down the street before they arrived, roughly imitating how it would be done on her wedding day (her mother assuring the stylists that Maggie would have her natural hair color then). The boutique assistants, two girls in their mid-twenties, professionally and sedately dressed, would take strands of her hair and pull them down her shoulders, their knuckles grazing her skin and giving her chills. The whole while only watching her in the reflection of the tall and wide mirror, divided in three and angled in a bay, the edges in elaborate gilded gold frame. To her right stood a sturdy garment rack on heavy rubber wheels. More than a dozen dresses hung on the rack. Mother had arranged for her to try on numerous styles, ranging from Trumpets to A-Lines. All in white—and while she considered herself a bride who should wear white, it felt conspicuous today, even if it were only to her. The events of the last few days, while exciting, were brought into dirty focus by today’s appointment.

  Now, yesterday’s appointment was enraging, and she was still mad at her mother over it. But of course, as usual, she would never say a word, never utter disapproval, though it would drip from every word she said to her mother over the next few days. Carol would know why, but nothing would change.

  The entire day was spent sitting on her ass and playing her cello at a Law Society function her mother hosted. It was dreadfully important and Maggie didn’t put up any fuss, wouldn’t have even if it had been unimportant. Two one-hour performances, then trotted around and shown off to all the executives Carol needed to impress. There were more than a few young and handsome esquires present but she didn’t once entertain any ideas of flirting or even fantasies of one of them slipping a hand up her skirt while she jerked him off underneath his jacket. One: she really did love Max, and the excitement of having him watch her with Jay had worn away, and even the idea of the train-hunk had less appeal twenty-four hours later. In fact, today, if her love could be weighed, she had even heavier affection for young Max Milton. Reason Two: those young lawyer boys knew Carol Becker’s reputation, and were scared shitless of her which meant her (very sexy, thank you) daughter was off-limits. The whole day was lost yesterday, in preparation, travel, tuning, playing, eating, playing again, hobnobbing, more travel...

  “My, my,” the boutique owner sighed, a tall white woman called Pippy, with gray hair rinsed in blonde and held back in tortoiseshell clips. “Look how beautiful your daughter is.”

  “Isn’t she?” Carol said, in a convincing imitation of a human being.

  “She studies art?” the woman asked Carol, the two of them talking about her and not to her.

  “Yes, she’s top of her class at Farmingham. In Vermont.”

  Appreciative nodding and cooing followed, one of the assistants’ eyes met hers in the mirror and she smiled warmly. The girl softly said, “You have the most beautiful skin I’ve ever seen.” Her knuckles grazed along her collar and down her shoulder and Maggie’s nipples went to diamonds under her bustier, the hair flinching along the back of her neck.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “It’s like cream. What do you think of this one? I think you are stunning in it.”

  She held the skirt of the dress out and admired it. The assistants backed away and Maggie twirled left and right, throwing glances over her shoulder. This would be the dress in which she would marry Max.

  “This is it, mother.” she said.

  Carol smiled, nodded to Pippy.

  The bare-shoulder ballgown in pure white made her pale skin seem tan. The bustier swooped in two embroidered clamshells that gave her meager bosom the appearance of volume. The waist came in so narrow, then the skirt bloomed out excitedly.

  The assistant said, “Usually the ball gown is too much for someone so slender and graceful, but you...this one is exquisite on you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, beginning to beam.

  Behind her Carol talked about Max now.

  “Her groom is summa, also at Farmingham. Investment banker. Very handsome.”

  More cooing and small talk while the assistants made notes on adjustments, tabbed pins in certain places and she moved in circles with her arms held out letting them work.

  When the tailoring was arranged, they reversed all the adjustments so she could disrobe. Next to the room they were in was a smaller space for her privacy. In there she stood, one last moment admiring how she would look on her wedding day, head cocking and tilting, looking in the tall mirror in its wooden stand. Light came from a single big window in this space; beyond, stormy Newport Harbor, water eerily still.

  On an upholstered chair angled in the corner her purse sat, and she brought her phone out and regarded her reflection carefully. Smiling now she snapped a few pictures of herself. It brought a weird feeling, something audacious. She’d always been confident, proficient, knowing of her mental abilities and talents, but recently something was brewing. Something like pride. Hopefully not vanity, but it wasn’t far off, she supposed. In the mirror, she realized she looked better than good. Was it possible she was stunning? Now she laughed at her own ridiculous thoughts. Posed quickly, shot a hip out and gave herself a sassy smile, snapped a picture. It was a good one, her creamy skin, as the assistant had noted, looked brilliant and lively in the daylight coming through the maritime window. The edges of the gilded mirror were evident, the shining paint of the old wharf rafters above her, a bouquet of flowers on the table behind her.

  It had to be shared but Max couldn’t see. Drawing up her messenger she dashe
d it off to Cole. Her text read,

  Maggie: What do you think?

  Sat then in her wedding dress and waited to read what he would respond. There was nothing, and she fought a rise of ugly disappointment.

  Outside she heard them talking. Mother tried to explain her daughter’s artwork to Pippy. Pippy said it sounded wonderful. Then her mother said It really was.

  Maggie made a funny face at herself in the mirror, her mother’s rare compliment making her oddly uncertain, like the woman was up to something. Then Pippy asked her where she got the talent from.

  “I suppose from me,” Carol said.

  “You’re an artist?”

  “I was at one time. In Hong Kong. I thought I was quite good. My father straightened me out.” Mutual chuckling.

  “Painting?”

  Carol said, “Yes.”

  Maggie frowned at the door where the sounds traveled through. Her mother thought she was an artist?

  Her phone binged.

  Cole: Jesus Maggie

  Maggie: bad or good?

  Cole: breathtaking I mean it

  Maggie: aw shucks

  Cole: brought a tear to my eye

  Maggie: I might just ruin ur rep after all

  Cole: go ahead

  Maggie: don’t show Max-you know

  Cole: I know the rules

  Maggie: thank you

  Cole: you are by far the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen

  Maggie: ok now you’re going too far

  Cole: wish I saw u first at that Lamda party

  She laughed, frowned, crossed her legs under her gown.

  Maggie: Then I wouldn’t be sending u that picture

  Cole: ha ha. no but I’d see it on the altar.

  She closed off the app, stood, put her phone down on the cushion of the chair and walked to the window, looked up and down the wharf. It had begun to rain out there now, just a light but rapid falling that blurred the sky and burred the surface of the harbor. Pedestrians below stretched out colorful umbrellas.

  Back at her phone she opened that app again, texted Max.

  Maggie: Ur not supposed to see me in my dress but maybe you want to see a preview of what ur getting

  Max texted back instantly.

  Max: you found ur dress?!

  “Found my dress,” she sighed watching her reflection. The skirt was drawn up, bunching it at her waist; hitched a thumb into her panties and pulled them down to her knees, let them fall and stepped out of them. Her labia were bright pink, swollen and moist, and they glistened in this bright but rain-muffled light. Two fingers of her left hand ran through them, back and forth, brought them to life. When she had them posed, beautifully pressed between her long elegant fingers, diamond engagement ring winking back, white wedding dress skirt draping and framing her wet and hungry sex—she snapped a picture for her husband-to-be. She stood upright, skirt falling back to the floor, sent it to Max with bold confidence.

  His response came immediately.

  Max: Oh my God Maggie...I’m convinced ur trying to kill me.

  Maggie: you dying for it?

  Max: my heart is about to explode.

  Maggie: see you tomorrow.

  In the car Maggie asked her mother why she never told her she was an artist. Carol said It’s not something I tell people.

  Maggie asked no follow-up, sat quietly in the Cayenne’s cognac leather seat, purring along the road from Newport to Jamestown and pondered Why not? Was it something Carol missed or something of which she was ashamed?

  When they arrived home father was back from the business trip in Norway. He met her in the hallway on the second floor and took both her hands in his and kissed her cheek. They talked about the dress and he asked careful questions on the style and the tailoring but seemed distracted. The conversation petered, and he asked her to meet him in his study. Father went downstairs to the kitchen, presumably to greet his wife, and Maggie entered the austere, concrete cold of his home office. There were no sailboats on the bay today. The water was still, the sky foreboding.

  A familiar dread settled on her, sitting in the leather chair across the desk from where her father reigned. There was something objectionable she had done, wasn’t there? She knew it now, and her palms began to sweat and her heart fluttered lightly and timidly. This was all too familiar.

  Before she could work herself into fearful panic father was there, coming in from the wide, doorless archway that separated his room from the main hallway. Wordlessly, he crossed behind her, came around the desk and sat himself on the other side.

  He nodded his chin to her, raising it in a straight vertical line, a motion meant to instruct her to sit straighter. She did. Bottom lip pulled between teeth, she straightened her back and clasped her hands in her lap.

  His hands came together on the blank, glass desk in front of him, big fingers weaving together. His hair was brushed back perfectly, thick, blonde, working its way to gray. He had powerful hands. Clothing today was typically austere and professional. Tailored suit in steel gray, a Sea Island cotton dress shirt open at the neck; tieless, but she knew he must have worn a tie earlier when he was traveling.

  “Margaret,” he began, like this was some troubling weight. “There are video cameras in this house arranged for security reasons.”

  Her insides frosted. Her outward demeanor was implacable—she was a Becker—but she had become an ice sculpture that someone draped creamy skin over, dressed it in fine casual clothing. She gave him nothing. Her face stayed blank and expectant. An innocent girl, patiently waiting for the rest of the story. If Martin had seen a video of his daughter taking two men at once, in the conservatory he'd built for her as a child, she would be on the floor right now.

  “On the last weekend, in the evening when your mother and I had gone to bed, can you explain what I saw?”

  Jaw seizing and aching, she opened her mouth and creaked, “I don’t understand...”

  “Can you explain what is in the video?”

  “No,” she said, her stomach cramping. “What did you see?”

  “Ah. That is the point,” he said, his gaze lingering on her eyes.

  If he had seen what happened, there would be no discussion, there would have been no dress-fitting today. She would have been punished. Quite surely she would have been forcefully admitted to a facility...some secluded Gothic mansion that treated the mentally ill offspring of the fabulously wealthy.

  Her father said, “There wasn’t a thing to see.”

  She held her poise, her mind racing at warp speed, trying to hurtle this conversation forward to its potential grand finale, desperate to know what he knew, desperate to know her level of punishment...

  He continued, “Isn’t that odd?”

  “Why is it odd, sir?” she said, every muscle in her neck squeezing the shakiness from her voice, shaping artificial strength into it.

  “Shouldn’t there have been something to see? People in my house, moving around...the cameras, you see, are motion activated. So you can imagine my wonder at how my children, my daughter’s fiancé, and their Best Man were able to get in and out of my house without moving at all.”

  Her face, struggling to remain composed and not give away any knowledge, sank now. Down into twisted, honest bewilderment. Why hadn’t there been any video?

  Martin prompted her, “Isn’t that odd?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “It is.”

  “Why do you suppose there is no indication of any action transpiring in the halls and rooms while so many people were moving around?”

  “I didn’t know you had security cameras,” she said as evenly and as calmly as she could. “Were they working during the evening? During dinner? When we had company? ...”

  He sighed now, worked his head around in a contracted circle, hunched his shoulders up and leaned forward.

  “How well do you know your friend Cole, Margaret?”

  “Cole? Very well.”

  He held her gaze coolly, drawin
g out this dreadful moment til it stretched thin as wire, said, “Someone has tampered with the security system.” Saying no more, he let it hang, shrinking her in his gaze, making her shake.

  “You think Cole...”

  “What do you think?”

  “No. If I didn’t know there were cameras, how would he? And I don’t think he would know how to...and...and why?”

  “Exactly, Margaret. Why?”

  Her father’s face clouded. His usual dominant but calm demeanor stirring up like the stinging rain on the surface of the bay. Then it passed. That was the moment she feared. When she had earned her father’s genuine chagrin, and he was compelled to do something. To punish. It was delivered with cold, steely discipline, but it was always initialized with a tremor that passed through him. Like a trigger, something within him building up with his daughter’s displeasure, clouds coming across, skies threatening to break...then they did. And her father would punish her.

  Behind him, over his left shoulder, stood a handmade bar. Cabinets below, shelving above, all straight lines and geometrical precision. At waist height there was a table top to prepare drinks. On the table were crystal glasses, a silver tray, a decanter and a wooden bucket. The table top was lined with a narrow, stainless railing. When she was punished, her father would make her grip that railing with both hands. Her skirt would be lifted and she would be spanked. Ten times. Never more, never less—despite the level of her punishable indiscretion, the number was the same. With her father, the punishment was discipline, the message not that striking her was parallel with the crime but that there was a threshold. Displeasing her parents was binary. You did, or you didn’t. It was meant to indicate to her the displeasure she brought.