Part 17 (1/2)

”Very tempting-thanks,” Magnolia said. ”Someone from my office will let you know by tomorrow. Promise . . . It would be great to see you. I'll bet you haven't changed a bit either.” Magnolia wondered whether Misty considered this a compliment.

Her first choice would have been a long weekend in Paris. But for Magnolia Gold, an escape to Fargo would do just fine. Why stay here? To take the heat when Jock saw Bebe's gun cover? She'd rather not.

Magnolia opened the door and returned to Sasha's desk. ”Clear my calendar-I'll be gone next Friday,” she said. ”We're going to need to update my Lady PowerPoint to make it Bebe-specific,” Magnolia said.

”Would that 'we' be me?” Sasha asked.

Magnolia smiled. ”Book me on Northwest Airlines,” she said. ”And call Misty tomorrow at six our time to tell her I accept.”

”What did you ever do to this woman that there's some return favor you can't refuse?” Sasha asked.

”Change of scenery will do me good,” Magnolia said. ”What scenery? I saw Fargo twice.”

”It's just a trip.”

”But it's forty below. North Dakota is the home page of the wind chill factor.”

”Sasha,” Magnolia said as she walked away, ”that's why G.o.d invented fur.”

Chapter 2 3.

Aw, Heck, What Would Jesus Do?

Magnolia stood with her luggage at the designated meeting place: directly under the vintage airplane hanging from the ceil ing of Fargo's industrial-chic airport, Great Plainsstyle. Flying to Minneapolis, Magnolia had begun to picture Misty as increasingly wide and soft. Between Minneapolis and Fargo, she had ballooned in her mind to at least size 18. By the time she deplaned, Magnolia sternly reminded herself to be the soul of graciousness and overlook her childhood friend's maternal transformation.

The woman striding confidently through the airport could, how ever, easily pa.s.s for Christy Brinkley's younger sister. Her tall body- buxom but trim-would be comfortably at home on a black diamond ski slope, although you'd have to go to Montana to find one. Misty had tucked her jeans into a pair of Uggs, and under an unzipped white parka Magnolia could see a pink turtleneck which matched her blush free cheeks. Her hair hung as long as when she was crowned home coming queen twenty years ago. Around her enormous blue eyes, fringed with dark lashes, were fans of delicate crow's feet but-over all-Misty appeared as fresh as newly fallen Norwegian snow.

Magnolia despised her on sight. She instantly regretted wearing her sheared mink. I'm the one who looks matronly, she thought. ”Maggie?”

”Misty!” Magnolia didn't know whether she should greet her, as she would Abbey or even her top editors, with a kiss on the cheek. Too New York. She settled for a long hug.

”Gosh, look at you,” Misty said, sizing her up, top to bottom. ”I can't wait for Bucky to see you, city girl,” She lingered on Magnolia's high-heeled suede footwear. ”But, jeez, I hope those boots don't get ruined.”

You can kiss these Manolos good-bye, Magnolia said to herself.

Misty effortlessly grabbed Magnolia's heavy duffel and pointed her toward the exit, where a white Eddie Bauerlogo'd vehicle the size of a small garbage truck spit swirls of vapor into the crackly air. Magno lia pulled her Russian hat low over her forehead. The temperature made her nose run, and as Misty tossed her suitcase in the car's rear end-already crowded with a toboggan, two sleds, a shovel, cross country skis, and a golden retriever-Magnolia turned away to blot the dripping with her black kid glove.

”Hey, Goldfarb!” Bucky got out of the car and swept her toward his barrel chest. She'd forgotten how Bucky had always found her orig inal last name endlessly amusing-or what bruisers the men were here. He made his SUV look like a Matchbox car. ”Hop in,” he said.

Magnolia hoisted herself into the backseat, where a rosy Polartec swaddled baby slept sweetly in a car seat.

”That's our youngest, Bjorn,” Misty said. ”We're picking up the big ones on the way to your hotel. Be there in a jiff.”

”No rush, guys,” Magnolia said. ”And thanks for meeting me. I can't believe I'm here.”

”Say what?” Bucky asked.

”Excuse me?” Magnolia said.

”Ya, you're right, Misty,” he said. ”She did get herself a New York accent.”

”Don't be a dork, Bucky,” Misty said. ”She has not.” Misty paused. ”Well, maybe a little. Like that woman on The Nanny reruns.” Magnolia, used to being complimented on her all-American dic tion, faked a laugh and looked out the window. It was only 3:45 in the afternoon but the northern light was rapidly fading. As Bucky drove on the crunchy, snow-packed streets, Misty delivered a voice-over.

”See that house”-she pointed to a tidy split level surrounded by a few, bare trees. ”That's where Scott and Jen live now.” Magnolia guessed she was supposed to remember who they were. ”And that one over there”-a vinyl-sided ranch already heavily illuminated for Christmas-”was Tom and Deb's, but he hooked up with Cynthia.

Deb's a lesbian now. Moved to the Twin Cities.” Misty raised her eye brows in mock shock.

Just as Magnolia began to try to imagine what life might have been like had she never left Fargo-would she be with Tom, a.s.suming she could recall who he was? would she own a set of jumper cables and know what to do with them?-Bucky and Misty stopped in front of a school whose playground had been flooded with water that had frozen to create a skating rink. The jolt awoke the baby, who started to wail.

In one fluid motion, Misty exited the SUV's front pa.s.senger door, popped around and opened the back door, unbuckled the car seat, and plopped the startled child in Magnolia's lap, saying ”We'll be back in two shakes-mind the baby, okay?”

The chunky little boy took one look at Magnolia and cried at twice the volume. She tried to bounce him on her lap-that's what mom mies did-but he felt heavier than Biggie, and her jerks succeeded only in making tears stream down his little chapped face. The child pulled off one red mitten, tossed it on the floor, and shrieked even louder. This roused the sleeping dog, who leaped over the seat and began to s...o...b..r on Magnolia's mink and pant hotly in her face. She could see the dog's breath in the chilly car.

”What's your name again?” Magnolia asked the unhappy infant. Lorne? p.o.r.n? ”Bjorn!” Had Misty named her child for that Swedish tennis champ with the scraggly hair and headband? When they were both thirteen, she dimly remembered his face on a cover of Time plastered to her friend's bedroom wall. Or was Bjorn the cool ethnic name here, the Upper Midwest equivalent of Jaden or Aiden?

She stared out the window, which was getting fogged. Where were Bucky and Misty? The doors opened. Three apple-cheeked cherubs carrying ice skates crowded into the seat behind Magnolia, a blur of primary-colored jackets, pom-pom hats, and boots.

”I'm Brittany,” said a mini Misty. ”These are the twins, Brett and Brendan.”

”Meet Mrs. Goldfarb, kids,” Bucky said.

”h.e.l.lo Mrs. Goldfarb,” Brittany said in a singsong that matched her parents.

”Actually, that's my mother-you can call me Magnolia.”

”That's a dumb name.”

”Company manners, Brittany,” Misty said, not unkindly, to her daughter. ”Maggie can call herself whatever she wants.”

She turned around to face Magnolia as she continued their tour- the coffee bar where Siegel's Menswear used to be, the sewage treat ment plant, the nonexistent landscaping. And in less than five minutes, they were pulling up to her hotel. ”You're going to love it here at the Donaldson-just like South Beach,” Misty said.

I'll be the judge of that, Magnolia thought.

”Pick you up for supper at seven,” Misty shouted out the window as the SUV huffed around the corner.

The last time she'd been in Fargo-twelve years earlier, before her parents abandoned the state for tennis in nonstop 70-degree suns.h.i.+ne-this hotel had been a flophouse. Now, from what Magnolia could tell, the whole town was getting subversively trendy. Loft condos had sprouted up where p.a.w.nshops used to be. A patisserie stood next to a tractor factory rehabbed into a sleek, postmodern office building that appeared to be furnished by Design Within Reach. Where were the endless freight trains whose cars she'd counted as a child, trains that dissected Fargo four times a day and made traffic-such as it was- come to a standstill? Magnolia hadn't seen a one. And had all the lumpy, polyester people of her memory migrated, perhaps to South Dakota?

At the Donaldson, a bellman opened the door to a suite twice the size of Magnolia's first New York studio apartment. The walls were decorator white and the carpeting, sisal. ”Is that a hot tub?” Magnolia asked the bellman, pointing to what looked like a small lap pool.

”Ya, you betcha,” he said. ”Welcome to the HoDo.”

She wondered whether its water would freeze like the skating rink.

As soon as he had left, she jacked up the thermostat to eighty degrees and kept her coat on as she unpacked. Maybe she would cancel Misty.

HBO on the gigantic, flat-screened TV; a run-through of tomorrow's speech; and room service sounded like a fine night. She studied the menu, which promised ”artisa.n.a.l twists on cla.s.sic regional favorites.”