How could she have been so stupid? A party, a few drinks too many, but not too many that she didn’t know what she was doing. No, she couldn’t blame it on the drink. She couldn’t blame it on Conner’s persistent advances either. He was, after all, only twenty-one, ten years her junior. He had just been doing what all men his age did, trying to get laid. She was the one who was supposed to know better.
But she’d been flattered by his attention. And when he asked if she’d like to leave the party for someplace more private, she surprised herself by saying yes. He took her to the Marriot out by the Long Beach Airport, not some cheap motel, and that impressed her. He’d been a slow and considerate lover and that impressed her even more. And he didn’t complain afterward when she told him she had to get back to her car, so she could be waiting for her husband when he got home from work.
When Nick got home a little before one in the morning, she was in bed where she belonged. He’d wanted to make love and she responded with a passion she hadn’t shown him since before they were married. She loved her husband and, curiously enough, she didn’t feel guilty about what she’d done with Conner.
That night had been wonderful, wonderful with Conner, wonderful with Nick, but now she was paying for it with an ache that tore at her heart. She couldn’t keep the child, not and have Nick, too. He had two sons from his first marriage, wanted no more and to ensure it, he’d had a vasectomy before the wedding.
After she quit racing, they settled into what Nick called the perfect life. He had his job, she had her work at the magazine. He was happy. She told herself she was too. Now she was shit. She wondered if she’d blame Nick for the abortion later on. It wouldn’t be right, not really. After all, he didn’t even know.
She picked up a pot roast, turned it over in her hand, studied it with a remote detachment.
“Got you!” a voice boomed at her.
“What?” Maggie dropped the roast into her cart. Goosebumps peppered her arms. It was high noon and hot outside, but it was Alaska in the frozen foods section.
The man blocking the aisle was huge, with hammy hands, a flat face, flat nose and black eyes, almost crossed. He wore new jeans and a white T-shirt that almost looked starched, with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his left sleeve, like Marlon Brando or somebody from one of those old black-and-white biker movies. His hair was going to grey and he had a five o’clock shadow. He seemed slow.
“You’re in my way.” She started to back away, but he grabbed her cart. “Let me by,” she said. But the man didn’t let go.
“Saw you in the newspaper.”
“What are you talking about?” She tugged on the cart, but it was no use.
“Leave the woman alone, Virgil,” a squeaky voice coming up behind the big man said.
“It’s the one you showed me, Horace. The one in the paper.”
“Shut up.” Horace slapped the big man on the arm with a magazine. His sportcoat was hanging loose. It parted and Maggie saw the shoulder holster underneath. A policeman. A plain clothes detective.
He turned to look at her. He was short, wiry with a face like a ferret. Close, squinty eyes. Long, thin nose. Scrawny mustache. Hair slicked back, covering his ears. He wore a silk shirt under the sportcoat tucked into baggy pants that just touched spit shined loafers. His thin lipped smile was false and his eyes went wide when he saw Maggie. He looked like a ’50s movie killer. There was danger there, policeman or not.
“It is, it’s her!” Virgil was still holding onto her cart.
“It’s not. Let her go!” Horace grabbed one of Virgil’s wrists and squeezed. Virgil winced and let go of the cart. Horace was stronger then he looked.
“Thanks.” Maggie started to back away.
“Has he been bothering you, ma’am? He can’t help it.” Horace’s stare was as cold as the meat she’d just dropped in the cart.
“No, it’s okay.”
“Pretty women remind him of his mother.”
“I see.”
“He’s harmless.” He shoved Virgil aside, so she could pass.
Maggie pushed her cart on by, turning at the end of the aisle. She passed a Pepsi display, stopped the cart and walked away from it. The big man had unnerved her and that Horace character had sent cold worms curling up her spine. She didn’t want to cook dinner anyway. They could eat out.
For a second, she toyed with the idea of telling Nick about the baby over pizza at Armando’s, then rejected it. No matter how much she hoped Nick would say he forgave her, that they’d raise the child together, it wasn’t going to happen. He’d feel betrayed. He’d want a divorce.
She stepped through the electronic door out into the noonday heat. The temperature was in the nineties, without a hint of breeze, rare for the beach. Normally she’d jump in her air-conditioned Mustang and be on her way, but Nick’s ancient Mercedes was in the shop and he’d never dream of walking. Besides, he’d said, she was the fitness nut.
She started to walk home, stopped. She was supposed to meet Nick in a couple of hours at the Menopause Lounge. If ever she needed a drink, now was the time. She headed east, toward Second Street.
Shouldn’t drink, she thought. Bad for the baby. Oh what the hell. It’ll be dead in two days time.
A bus stopped in front of the Safeway, Nick’s smiling face plastered on its side, an advertising banner for the Eleven O’clock News.
She put on her Ray Bans, Horace and his friend Virgil gone from her mind as she turned on Second Street, strolling on the shady side. She loved the Belmont Shore section of Long Beach-the college kids, the beach, the ritzy bars, the trendy restaurants, the holiday atmosphere. But not even the Saturday buzz could take her mind away from the baby she carried.
“Hey, Maggie.” It was Stacy, waving from behind the counter at Yoghurt Heaven. Maggie gave a half-hearted wave back. She knew people here, had friends. What would they think if they knew about the baby? If she kept it, she’d have to move away. She couldn’t imagine ever leaving.
She caught her reflection in a bookstore window, frowned at the reflected lettering on the UCLA book bag she used as a purse. She hated missing work and she was going to be out for a week. Her T-shirt, peach colored and oversized, would have made a good maternity smock. Would have. It was wrong, but what could she do? Keep the baby and lose her husband? She watched herself start to cry.
If only she hadn’t done it. How stupid. She covered her stomach with her hands, as if she could protect the life inside. She couldn’t. She thought of Conner, tried to picture him behind her in the window mirror. Would the baby have his brilliant green eyes? His jet black hair?
She pushed the sunglasses onto her forehead, wiped her eyes with her fingers. Time for that drink. She turned away from the dismal reflection and pulled her sunglasses back on to hide her puffy eyes. A few minutes later, she took them off and dropped them into her shoulder bag as she entered the dimly lit restaurant.
She saw Nick straightaway, but what was he doing here so early? Three o’clock every Saturday. Three to whenever. Nick was never early. Golf was his religion, Saturday his Sabbath.
He was sitting at the end of the bar. Where else? It was where he greeted his fans. Nick was the local celeb, the Menopause Lounge his hangout, that barstool his throne. He was talking to a redhead young enough to be his daughter, his hands moving as fast as his lips.
Maggie checked out the redhead as she approached. Early twenties, tanned, years younger than her. Cascades of orange hair down her back. Breasts like cannons. Nick liked long hair and tits. But Maggie didn’t mind, because he never touched, only looked.
She sighed.
“Maggie,” Nick said, “this is Stephanie.” She looked like a Stephanie, Maggie thought.
“Hi,” the redhead said.
“I’m starved,” Maggie said.
“I’ve gotta go. See ya.” Stephanie jumped from the barstool, wiggling her ass for Nick when her feet hit the floor.
“Kinda young,” Maggie said as the redhead flowed out the door.