He didn’t explain himself but he did ask her if she wanted to talk about the lawsuit, the case against her. “Eventually,” she said. “Not yet. Frankly, I get tired of thinking about it and talking about it is even worse. Thanks for offering.”
Wednesday brought Tom for grounds keeping. Cal stocked shelves before getting out the rake and edger to help. Maggie, he noticed, was in the garden, which was beginning to flourish. They were already getting their salads from the backyard and the first tomatoes were coming in. At lunchtime he was headed with Tom back to the store. Maggie was on the porch with a bottled water and a lot of mud on her shoes and knees. She wore a ball cap with a short ponytail pulled through the back and just a look at her, all a mess from gardening, created carnal thoughts he looked forward to acting out later.
“You’ve been farming,” he said.
“How could you tell? Hey, Tom,” she added.
“We’re going to get some lunch,” Cal said. “You want anything?”
“Yes, exactly. Anything. And a green tea?”
“Coming up.”
Tom and Cal returned immediately cradling wrapped sandwiches, a bag of chips, pickles, hard-boiled eggs, drinks. They put everything on the table and Cal pulled napkins and a packet of salt from his pocket. A couple of campers with a small ice chest passed by the porch and yelled out, “Hi, Cal. Hi, Tom. Hi, Maggie.”
Maggie unwrapped her sandwich and froze. She was staring at the drive. “Oh God,” she said.
Pulling up to the store was a shiny BMW convertible, the top down. Inside the car was a woman with dark glasses and an elaborate scarf covering her head.
“What?” Cal asked, his mouth full.
“Phoebe,” she said dismally. “My mother.”
“Really,” Cal said slowly, smiling.
“Oops, I just remembered something,” Tom said, gathering up all his food in his big arms and fleeing the porch, into the store.
“Would you like me to leave you two alone?” Cal asked.
“It really doesn’t matter. But if you stay, I’ll introduce you as my boyfriend.”
“This could surpass interesting. After all you’ve told me about—”
Maggie stood. “Mother, what are you doing here?”
Cal also stood and although he’d just given his hands a good washing in the kitchen, he wiped them on his khaki shorts.
Phoebe proceeded up the steps to the porch. “Is it enough that I’ve hardly seen you in three months?”
“I saw you a couple of weeks ago and called you almost every day. I’m not in Denver. It’s quite a drive.”
“I managed quite nicely, except that last bit. Messy, rotten road. Slow.” Then she looked pointedly at Cal, waiting. She was probably five foot two and slight. She was attractive; her scarf, pushed back, revealed red hair and a beautiful, youthful face. Fifty-nine, Maggie had said. Dressed pretty well for a road trip, designer slacks and jacket, pumps... Pumps? To a campground? She was spit-shined, polished, her jewelry tasteful and expensive. Just her watch was worth a month’s salary. A month of his old salary.
He lost his nerve. She scared him to death. He couldn’t help with this.
“How do you do, Mrs...?”
“Lancaster,” she supplied. “And you are?”
“I’m Cal Jones. I work here. I work for Sully. I’d, ah... I’ll leave you and Maggie. Can I get you anything? How about lunch?”
“Thank you, that would be fine. Is there something like a salad? Undressed, of course. If it’s dressed, skip it and get me fruit. And a San Pellegrino? Glass glass, if you please.”
“I’ll check,” he said, gathering up his food.
“Oh, and, boy? A rag to wipe the table?”
Cal kept his eyes downcast. He couldn’t meet her gaze. His lips twitched. She called a thirty-seven-year-old criminal defense attorney of some moderate fame and sterling reputation boy.
He disappeared as quickly as possible.
*
Maggie sat and left Phoebe to choose a chair. “Very nice, Mother. His name is Cal, not boy. Where were you raised? And the table is perfectly clean, I wiped it myself before I sat down. Now, what is it that brings you here, given you haven’t been here in, how long? Thirty years?”
“I kept hoping you’d visit soon because I have something to ask you that I didn’t want to ask over the phone, but you don’t seem to have the time to— Oh my dear God, your hands!”
Maggie splayed her fingers and examined her hands. Kind of a mess. Chipped nails, calluses, damaged cuticles. “Garden hands,” she explained.
“And what have you done with your hair?”
“Actually, nothing at all.”
“In three months?” Phoebe asked, clearly astonished.
“A little more when you get down to it.” She picked up her sandwich and took a bite. “I’m so amazed you’re here.”
“Well, Walter said it was quite a nice place and that you were doing very well.”
“So, he told you he was here?”
“Of course. Really, Maggie, not exactly the lap of luxury, now, is it? How can you relax in a place like this?”