Killer Summer. Lynda Curnyn
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I also knew that if Maggie wasn’t on the beach, she was in the house cooking. She was like some kind of Martha Stewart on speed, the way she was always whipping something together. When Maggie cooked, she was usually looking for someone to sample the goods. And since it was lunchtime, and since I thought a nice beer in the cool house might be a good idea, I went inside.
Two beers later, I was chowing down on leftover filet mignon that Maggie had made sandwiches with on some crusty bread. I was feeling pretty good—so good in fact, I started telling her about my label, in case she had the idea that I was just some sandwich-mooching shareholder. I guess I didn’t expect her to get so excited about it. At first, I thought she just wanted to fuck me. She had that greedy look women get sometimes when they’ve had too much wine, and she’d had three glasses of white to my two beers and it was only 3:00 p.m. Then she said she had a little money set aside she’d wanted to do something with, which wasn’t hard to believe, considering she and Tom not only own the oceanfront spread we’re staying in this summer, but a triplex on the Upper East Side. She started asking details, like what my promotional plans were and whatnot. So I told her, and she was getting more and more excited. Could have been that she’d cracked a second bottle of wine, but the next thing you know, she’s talking dollars. As in the dollars she thought I might need to get started. Her dollars. It was almost too much to believe, but as it turned out, Maggie Landon had been a bona fide rock-and-roller at one time in her life. Over glass of wine number four, she told me that she’d followed the Dead around as a teenager. Not that I’m a Dead fan, but I wasn’t about to argue her taste in music at that point. I guess I should have figured she had some interest in good old-fashioned rock and roll, considering she named her dog Janis Joplin. Not that I’m a fan of Janis either, but I’m capable of showing a little respect for talent—especially when Maggie seemed ready to open her prissy little pocketbook.
I hadn’t told Sage about Maggie yet, mostly because I don’t like to talk about things that I think are gonna happen until they happen. Now I was glad I hadn’t, because something about the Maggie situation was funky. For one thing, she begged me not to tell Tom about our discussion. Which kinda weirded me out a little, ’cause I know she’s attracted to me by the way she’s always touching me. You should have seen the way she looked at me when she asked me to keep our plans a secret from Tom. Made me feel like she was asking for something else, you know what I’m saying? Of course, she said it was because it was her money and Tom didn’t have a say over what she did with her money, which was weird, too, ’cause they’re married and shit.
Now there’s a good reason not to get married: women are fucking sneaky. Just like Bern. Who knew she had even applied for a job in San Francisco until suddenly she was moving out of our apartment. Of course, she wanted me to come. Like I got nothing better to do than follow her around. She knew I was trying to get Revelation off the ground.
At least Maggie understands my dreams a little bit. Maybe a little too much. That’s why I need to talk to her before things get outta hand. She keeps referring to the business plan for Revelation in the plural. As in, “our” business plan.
Which kinda pisses me off, you know? Her money notwithstanding, this is my business plan. That’s the thing about people with money. As soon as they offer to put a little down, they think they own you. And Maggie—well, let’s just say she’s more territorial than most. I started to explain my position after Tom left tonight, but she seemed a tad wound up. Actually, she looked a little pissed herself, even muttered something that suggested she might not be so willing to put up money for a venture she didn’t have a voice in. Which was why I suggested perhaps we should discuss it further over drinks. I wasn’t worried. I figured I could get her to see things from my point of view over a couple of cocktails. If there was one thing I could handle, it was chicks. All this required was a little Maggie-management. As soon as she got here, I would explain that I was going to be handling the business plan and that she would be more like a silent partner. As soon as she got here, I would set her straight.
If she ever got here.
“Dude, what’s it gonna be? Another beer or what?”
I glared at him. This guy was a pest. Even if I had any money left, I wouldn’t buy another beer here.
Maybe it was the reminder I was broke that had me standing up. “Nah, I’m outta here, man.”
There was no use waiting any longer. Besides, I’m not really the type to wait around for anyone. Now that I had a few beers in me, it was time to talk business. And the first order of business was finding Maggie.
And letting her know just who was boss.
4
Zoe
No rest for the weary. Or the wicked, for that matter.
No one was waiting for me at the ferry. And why should anybody be waiting for me? I was technically supposed to be here ten ferries ago.
Not that that stopped me from having a pity party for myself as I lugged a wheelie suitcase, a shopping bag and a knapsack down the long dark roads to the house. I had definitely brought too much stuff, but somehow the thought of leaving Manhattan without at least two pairs of shoes, four pairs of shorts, two bathing suits, six books and my camera (I never left home without my camera) had been even more anxiety-producing than lugging it all here.
So with my wheelie firmly in one hand, the shopping bag in the other and my knapsack clamped to my back, I made my way slowly down the long path that would lead me to the beach and Maggie’s Dream, though I was sure that by now I was Maggie’s nightmare. I had discovered on opening weekend that Maggie didn’t tolerate tardiness in her dinner guests. Even more so, I imagined, from the houseguest bringing the key ingredients.
Good thing I had been to the house once before, because the streets—or I should say trails?—through the tall grasses and brush that covered most of Fire Island were pretty dark. I could barely even see some of the houses, which were set back a distance from the road. And there wasn’t a soul around. But that was Kismet for you. Since the nightlife wasn’t exactly on a par with your usual Manhattan scene, most people stayed home after dark, getting soused behind closed doors, judging by the lights I saw coming from the windows of houses set deep in tall grasses that rustled ominously in the soft breeze.
Creepy. Maybe it was the thought of what might be lurking in the underbrush that sent me hurrying along, despite the fact that my shoulders had begun to ache from my pack and that my wheelie was bumping none too easily across the cracked pavement.
The only disadvantage to an oceanfront share was that it was generally the farthest walk from the ferry. But since Fire Island was only about a quarter mile wide, it wasn’t usually an issue, unless, like me, you couldn’t leave Manhattan at home when you came to Fire Island. But I got to Maggie’s Dream eventually, though my right hand was raw from the handle of my heavy shopping bag, my wheelie was practically on its last wheel and I was on the verge of a permanent back disorder from my pack. Now I understood why Sage never brought more than a tote bag. But then, I guess if your clothes were as tiny as Sage’s and all your other entertainment needs would likely be met by most of the male population, you really didn’t need much.
I felt a shot of relief at the sight of the lights burning as I made my way up the walkway to the deck. But it was only momentary. I wasn’t sure what state everyone would be in at this point. Hungry and dissatisfied? Hopefully Maggie had been able to whip something together to soothe the hungry crowd. She was supposed to be some kind of culinary whiz anyway. Yeah, they were probably all drunk by now and yucking it up, I thought, remembering the well-stocked bar that Tom had opened up to us on Memorial Day weekend and we partook in until we were all practically prone on the carpet in the living room. At least Nick and Maggie were likely yucking it up, I thought, remembering how they had sat out on the deck last time I was here while the rest of us played Scrabble inside. I remembered glancing out at them, wondering at the way they leaned in close to talk to one another. Nick knew Maggie about as well as I did, which made me curious how they could possibly have so much to say to one another. Not that Tom seemed to mind, which was even weirder. He just sat there laying down letter tiles,