Part 21 (2/2)

”Did he leave a note?” Magnolia asked.

”Nothing.”

”I'll live in suspense, Manuel,” Magnolia said. ”Thanks for the update.”

Earlier in the evening, she'd shared the news of the visitor with Abbey. ”It's getting a little unnerving,” she said.

Abbey convinced her the guy was Harry. ”He needs closure, Mags,”

she said. ”The last word.”

Upstairs, she decided to b.u.t.tress the good mood the evening had brought by slipping into her white Jean Harlow nightgown and try ing on her beads. Abbey was clairvoyant about trends. By next summer, when Magnolia would probably live in the pale lavender trea sure, compliments would rain. She returned the necklace to its silk pouch and started to shut down her computer as an IM popped on the screen.

”Angel Girl,” Preacherman8 said. ”Did u hav a gd evning?”

Magnolia smiled. ”Lovely. U?” she wrote back. It did feel lovely to end the day with someone who asked nothing of her and who made her A and LOL.

”Brrrr. What did u do?”

”Party.”

”Who with?”

”Aren't u being nosy?”

”Jealous type. Miss u. Visit?”

E-mail was Archie and Veronica, chaste and juvenile. An actual visit? Nightmare. Magnolia stared at the screen.

”Cat gt yr tung?” he wrote.

”I hve dogs.”

”Duh. I repeat. Visit?”

”When?” she wrote, regretting the word as soon as she hit SEND.

”Now.”

How slow could a woman be? He must be talking about cybers.e.x.

Was a semirepressed Midwestern preacher really capable of pound ing out wet p.u.s.s.ies, throbbing d.i.c.ks, hot rods, tell me, higher, lower, there! Sucking trembling fondling licking slippery climaxes, oh oh oh yes yes yes!!!!!!! Ahh. . . . was it good for u, 2? Or would it be the equivalent of an electronic dry hump?

Cybers.e.x is definitely on my list of things to do before I die, Mag nolia thought, but not tonight, not with Tyler. She wasn't going to peck away, pretending her keyboard was his p.e.c.k.e.r when it belonged to another woman, not to mention the Lutheran church.

”Gotta headache.”

”Aw, let me make it better.”

”Aren't u worried about J catching u?”

”Impossible.”

”Anything's possible.”

”Like your att.i.tude. Visit?”

There was an easy way to get out of this rabbit hole.

”Merry XMAS & good night!” she wrote, switched off her computer, slammed it closed, and crawled into bed. Yet as she tried to read the bestseller on her nightstand, the unnerving image of Tyler as perv replaced every sentence. Ten minutes later, she turned off her light, pulled the covers to her chin, and begged for sleep.

In her dream, a phone rang. And rang. Magnolia awoke and recog nized that the relentless trill was coming from her intercom. She stumbled to the hall and pressed the TALK b.u.t.ton.

”The funny-accent guy, he's back,” Manuel said. ”Won't say his name.”

”Well, don't send him up, Manuel,” Magnolia said as she s.h.i.+vered.

”I ain't going to do that, Miss Gold. Wanted you to know, though.

Now don't worry.”

But she did. What if this Tommy-Harry-creep was a stalker? Over the last two years she'd received repeated, illiterate scrawls from a Florida prison inmate who, inspired by her Lady editor photo, professed to have fallen in love with her. While Scary's attorneys reas sured her that the matter had been addressed, no one accused them of being a crack legal team. Could Fred the Felon have found out where she lived? Her phone number and address were unlisted, but a dedi cated psycho had his ways.

Or what if Bebe had got completely unglued-enraged by the sum she was going to have to fork over to Prince Fine-and ordered another special delivery for her, this time in the form of someone a lot more like Tony Soprano? Knowing she'd been b.u.t.ted off Bebe might simply be a down payment toward the penance that woman felt she deserved.

Bebe had to blame her for her public humiliation, and she couldn't inform her otherwise without exposing Sasha.

Magnolia was ready to call Abbey, who'd tell her whether she was having an attack of the paranoids, when she thought she heard someone shout her name. The snow was falling heavily now, and her view was blurred. She opened the window, letting a gust of cold rush into her bedroom. Yes, someone was shouting, ”Maggie.” It wasn't Tommy, and it wasn't Harry. Blue Hat was standing below her window. Tyler in his blue ski hat.

”What are you doing?” was all she could think to yell back.

”Freezing my buns off,” he said. ”Can I come up?”

”You must be crazy,” she shouted. She pressed her eyes shut. Was he transported here by burning l.u.s.t, romantic ecstasy, or random lunacy?

”Please,” he shouted back. ”Maggie, I've come all this long way.”

”No!” she shouted, but friends don't let friends wake the cranky couple in 2A, from which place an angry voice was already rumbling, ”Hey, Romeo and Juliet, shut yer traps. People wanna sleep.”

”Okay, I'm coming down,” she gestured. ”Go inside.” She grabbed her parka and threw it over Jean Harlow, stepped into her dog-walk ing boots, and rode the elevator to the main floor. At the end of the hall which led to the entrance, a twelve-foot Christmas tree, switched off for the night, stood guard like a sinister totem. Magnolia's footfalls echoed as she rounded the corner, her nightgown dragging on the marble floor.

”You know this guy?” Manuel asked.

”I do,” Magnolia said. ”Old friend.” She moved out of the door man's earshot and fixed on Tyler. ”Whatever are you thinking?” she whispered.

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