"How isn't it the same, Maggie?" Sterling asked, shielding her as a red-haired woman (clearly a recent, and unfortunate, dye job) and a tall, thin man with what looked to be bits of macaroni glued to his cheeks and chin exited the lobby, Socks prodding from the back.
"I could have made better warts with Silly Putty," Maggie grumbled as Socks herded the people all the way to the corner, and then looked at Sterling once more. "It isn't the same, Sterling, because ... because ... I'm freezing, Sterling, let's go inside while the coast is clear."
They made it to the elevator before Socks trotted back into the lobby. "Maggie? I read in the paper that you don't get the whole three million right away, that they divvy it up over a bunch of years. Maybe twenty? Is that true?"
"I think that's right, Socks," Maggie told him, the look on the doorman's face warning her that another shoe was ready to drop. As it stood now, she had enough footwear falling on her head to open her own shoe store. "Why?"
"Oh, nothing. So, after the Feds take their share, and the rest is split up over that many years—you didn't really win much, did you?"
Maggie grinned at him. "Why, Socks, I didn't know you were from the glass-half-empty school of thought. I think I still get pretty much. I mean, it's better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, right?"
"She's giving it to me," Sterling told him, his expression pained. "For doing nothing."
"Not for doing nothing, Sterling. I already have money. Alex has his own money now that he's modeling for Fragrances by Pierre, not to mention the money he gets from his Streetcorner Orators and Players—not that I ever like mentioning that because I still can't believe the profit he's pulling in with that deal. Anyway, it's only fair, since you're here, that you have some money of your own, too."
"Since I'm here?"
Maggie looked at Socks, and then rolled her eyes at Sterling warningly. "Later, okay?"
"Since I just happened to come along, Maggie? I didn't ask to come along, you know. I only thought Saint Just might need me. I didn't know I was such a burden to you both."
Socks looked from Maggie to Sterling. "Guess I'll ... I'll go see if anyone wants a taxi, huh?"
"Yeah. Why don't you do that, Socks. We'll talk later." Maggie hopped onto the elevator when the doors mercifully opened. "Sterling? Come on, honey. Come upstairs with me."
"If I'm wanted," he said, showing Maggie a heretofore unknown dramatic bent.
The doors closed on them and she turned on him. "What's going on, Sterling? You don't pout. You don't sulk. You're the happiest man I know. And you were happy when Alex and I said we wanted to give our share of the jackpot to you. You already had one third of it, remember?"
"I don't know what's wrong with me, Maggie," Sterling said as he held open the elevator doors when the car reached their floor. "I'm being ungrateful, aren't I? Yes, that's what I'm feeling. Put out. Ungrateful. Snarky? What an uncomfortable feeling. My goodness, how do you people stand it?"
Maggie extracted her keys from her pocket and opened the door to her condo. "Let's go inside, Sterling. Talk about this some more," she said, looking over her shoulder at him, as he was about to open the door to the condo he shared with Alex, and leave her. "Please?"
"I should check on Henry."
"Henry will be fine for another five minutes. Oh, cripes, and here comes the thundering herd," she said as Wellington and Napoleon charged out of the kitchen, to tangle themselves around the legs of the walker. "I'd think you loved me, you fuzzy little rug rats, but I'm guessing this just means you're sick of the self-feeder dry stuff and want a can of the smelly stuff, right?"
The Persians, tails lifted straight in the air, turned as one and padded back toward the kitchen, just as though Maggie would naturally follow, eager to please them. Which she would do. But not until she and Sterling had a small talk.
"Your mail, Maggie," Sterling said, picking up a fairly thick stack of mail that included the familiar red stripe-edged white envelope from Toland Books.
"Probably Christmas cards from people I forgot to send to," she said, sighing. "And that big one? That's fan mail forwarded from Toland Books. It can all wait, Sterling. Come on, sit down. Let's talk about this."
"Must we? I'm feeling quite the ape now, thank you. I'd much rather take myself off to be by myself for a while, attempt to understand what's happening to me that I'm so upset with you and Saint Just for—well, for being you and Saint Just. I only want to apologize for looking a gift horse in the face."
"Mouth. But I know what you mean, Sterling. We love you, you know that. You're most certainly not anything like those two people downstairs, or even Henry Novack. You never ask for anything. That's why it's so terrific to be able to give you everything. Okay? We're okay now?"
"We're fine now, thank you," Sterling told her, but his smile was strained, and Maggie watched him leave, his steps slow and dragging, and fought the urge to call him back.
Because something was really strange here.
Sterling wasn't being Sterling. Well, who else could he be, for crying out loud? She made him as Sterling, hadn't she? He'd popped into her mind all those years ago, and then popped out of it, and into her living room a few months ago, as Sterling Balder. Sweet, lovable, naive, trusting, never angry, never petty, always kind Sterling Balder.
Maggie plopped herself down on the couch beside her stack of mail and sat back, chewed on the side of her thumb as she looked at the closed door.
"So if I know who and what and how Sterling Balder is—who the hell just walked out of my condo?"
She was still sitting there five minutes later, still gnawing on the side of her thumb, when there was a knock on the door. Oh, thank God! He'd come back, and they could talk some more. "Come in, Sterling."
"It's Socks, Maggie."
"Oh," she said, and did her best to push her unproductive thoughts about Sterling out of her mind for a moment. "It's open, Socks."
He entered slowly, bent forward a little, and if he'd been holding a hat, the brim would probably have been clutched in both hands in front of him. He looked like a supplicant timidly approaching the throne.
"Oh, cripes, Socks, not you. Please, not you."
He stopped a good ten feet away, lowered his head. "You're right, I'm sorry. What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking, was I? I'll go now."
"No, no, don't go. Come on, come sit down," Maggie said, waving to the facing couch. "Now tell me what's on your mind. And how much."
Socks rubbed at his wonderfully sculpted chin, which hadn't lent him much help landing a part on Broadway. Nor had his singing skills, or his dancing skills. But what Socks lacked in talent, he made up for in desire. At least to Maggie. "You're giving the money to Sterling."
"We're giving the money to Sterling," Maggie corrected. "It was Alex's hundred bucks, Sterling's finger on the button, and my butt in the seat. That jackpot was a community effort, but Sterling gets the money, because Sterling is a wonderful guy who couldn't get a job in New York if everyone else left town, and the one time he did try to do something good he got mixed up in a terrible scam and could have been hurt. And why am I explaining any of this to you?"
"So that I won't leave here and go straight across the hall to put my proposition to Sterling?"
"Good point," Maggie said, shifting on the cushions. "Would you please do me a favor and feed the cats for me before they mutiny? The cans are in the long cabinet beside the stove. Oh, and I'd love a drink of water. From the refrigerator door—but no ice. Thanks."
Socks hopped to do her bidding with a bit more alacrity than she found comfortable, and Maggie passed the time by picking up the large envelope from Toland Books and ripping it open.