Part 14 (2/2)
”Doing? Doing what?”
Maggie rolled her eyes. ”Oh, cute. You know darn well what we're doing. Did. We can't keep doing it, okay?”
”Because ... ?”
She stopped to wait while he opened the door to the crowded shop. ”Because we don't know what we're doing, that's because.”
”I beg your pardon, madam,” Saint Just told her, finding himself rather willing to amuse himself at her expense. ”I've been laboring under a misapprehension? I'm not an exemplary lover? Perhaps if you were to be more ... specific with your complaints?”
Maggie winced. ”Would you for crying out loud keep your voice down?” she muttered from between clenched teeth.
But he kept on, enjoying her embarra.s.sment, his mind happily away from Prometheus ... and Pinocchio. ”But I'm serious, my dear. Perhaps if you were to tell me precisely where I've failed? Is it something with the technique? My kisses, perhaps? Are they lacking?”
”I'm going to kill you,” Maggie said, grabbing his arm and all but dragging him back to the narrow pedestrian plaza. ”And I really wanted a truffle. Look, here's the thing. You're a romantic hero, the kind where the Doubleday Book Club puts an explicit s.e.x warning at the end of the book blurb in the catalog. Yet you've been here for a while now, and nothing's been happening for you, right? We won't get into my lack of love life because it's embarra.s.sing.”
”I'll a.s.sume you're trying to make a point here?”
”Yes, I am. We're both ... available to each other. Proximity, you know? It was only natural that at some point we'd ... get together. But it doesn't mean anything.”
”There you go again,” Saint Just said, shaking his head in mock despair. ”If you'll excuse me, I believe I feel a need to go find a woods somewhere and tiptoe inside to fall on my sword.”
Maggie rubbed her mittened fingers against her temples. ”I should write you a note. I do much better writing this stuff down. And it's not that you aren't good. I mean, h.e.l.l, you're perfect. I wrote you, remember? I sort of have an in on what women want, what they like ... what I like. So you're a great lover. I just don't know that this is going anywhere, if it even can go anywhere-you know, that whole poof thing-so maybe we just oughta slow things down for a while, that's all I'm saying.”
Saint Just stepped closer and ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek. ”Is that what you want, Maggie? What you really want?”
She looked up at him at last, her eyes wide. ”Are you nuts? No, of course that's not what I want. You're the freaking perfect hero, remember? What kind of m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t do you think I am? I'm pointing out possible reasons for what happened earlier ... and the first time. I'm just ... I'm simply trying to be adult here.”
Saint Just smiled. ”And you're being very, very adult, my dear. I commend you. And you've had your say, so that I am forewarned and will protect my heart, I promise.” Then he leaned closer, whispered in her ear. ”Of course, it's also only fair to say that it already may be too late for that last small bit.”
Maggie stepped back, her mouth opening and closing rather like a fish-but he adored her, so he believed she looked quite delightful. ”I ... you ... we're slowing down, Alex. You evolve, and I'll go on a hunt for my brain, and we'll ... well, we'll just ... you know. Let's go watch the ice-skaters for a while.”
Believing they had taken this particular conversation as far as it could go without possibly sending Maggie into spasms, Saint Just agreed. They found a place at the railing and looked down at the rink and the people crowding the surface. He tried to understand the concept, but it was proving difficult.
”Everyone is going in the same direction. Round, and round, with nothing to look at but the back of the person in front of you. They look rather like lemmings heading for the sea, except there's nothing but that endless oval, is there? Who's leading?”
”n.o.body's leading, silly. Everyone's just skating, that's all. If they don't all go in the same direction there'll be pileups, and it won't be pretty. Oh, wait, look at that guy.”
Saint Just looked where Maggie was pointing, to see a young man in suit and topcoat, skating backward. Unnecessarily, he said, ”He's going backward.”
”He's plowed, that's what he is. Drunk as a skunk,” Maggie said as the businessman bucked traffic in a rather wobbly reverse. ”Oh! Down he goes. One ... two ... three ... four-and he's up. And he's ... skating backward! He's too drunk to go forward. That's hysterical-oh, he knocked into somebody. That poor girl, he really knocked her down hard, didn't he? Uh-oh, the boyfriend approaches. This should be interesting ...”
Saint Just watched and waited. He didn't have to wait very long.
”That's ... that's Steve. Alex? That's Steve. Steve and a ... Steve and a blonde.” Maggie blinked furiously, leaned over the railing. ”Velcro blonde. Look at her-she's all over him. He ... didn't he say he had to work tonight?”
”I believe he said he had something to do,” Saint Just said, watching Maggie's face for her reaction.
”A date. He had a date. He's probably had a bunch of dates, unless the blonde gets that chummy right out of the gate. Well, huh.” Maggie looked up at Saint Just. ”Why don't you look as surprised as I feel?”
Saint Just put his palm to his chest. ”Shall I say that I am aghast, agog?” He tipped his head slightly. ”Would you wish me to call him out? I would, of course, as your every wish is my command. Although perhaps I should first point out that you and I have been more than ... dating.”
Maggie made a face. ”Good point, d.a.m.n it. And you know what? I'm relieved. Really. I mean, I love Steve, he's a doll. But ... but it wasn't going anywhere, was it? Not with you around. The first time in my life I meet a guy I could really like, and my imaginary hero shows up to mess with my mind. I mean, what are the odds?”
”Probably not quite as high as the good left-tenant would have liked to believe,” Saint Just said as he waved to the man, then gestured toward the side of the rink. ”I think he's seen us. Ah, yes, he has, and now he's pointing to a spot over there and leaving the ice. Shall we join him?”
”Yeah, why not,” Maggie said, doing a pretty good imitation of dragging her feet as they made their way to the edge of the crowd. ”Am I smiling? I suppose I should be smiling. Smiling, and cheerful, and delighted to meet the blonde and-this is ridiculous. He's the one who should feel embarra.s.sed, not me. Right?”
”Feel free to cling to me like a limpet if it will help your disposition at all. Oh, and you have my permission to address me as darling. Or, if you wish, we could change our minds and give him the cut direct, depressing his intentions quite effectively, or at least it would with someone more sensitive-which the good left-tenant is not. He confided in me, only a few short weeks ago, that he enjoys professional wrestling exhibitions on television. Imagine that? I would have told you sooner, but I wanted you to see the light, as it were, on your own.”
”Bite me ... darling,” Maggie said, but allowed Saint Just to put his hand on her lower back as Wendell and his female companion, the former nearly tripping over his untied shoelaces, approached them.
”Maggie ... Alex-hi!” Wendell said, much too cheerfully, Saint Just would have told him. ”How about that-meeting you guys here, huh? I mean, who would have thought that-”
”Not you, obviously,” Saint Just drawled, turning his attention to the young lady. ”Left-tenant, if you would be so kind as to introduce us to your friend?”
”What? Oh, right, right. Christine Munch-Maggie Kelly and Alex Blakely.”
Realizing that this would be the extent of Wendell's introduction, Saint Just took it upon himself to take Miss Munch's extended hand and bow over it, saying, ”Charmed, I'm sure.”
Christine Munch giggled and then pressed her cheek against Wendell's sleeve.
Just the sort of female the good left-tenant needed. Saint Just felt much better. ”Ah, Miss Munch, what a delightful laugh. A whisper of springtime on this chilly December evening. Oh, I just realized that Wendell here has been a bit remiss-haven't you, left-tenant? Miss Munch, this dear woman is indeed Maggie Kelly, but she is also Cleo Dooley, a very famous author.”
”Alex, for cripes sakes ...”
”An author? Wow, no, Steve didn't tell me.” Christine's smile faded and she shrugged. ”I'm afraid I don't read. Well, I know how-I just don't do it. Sorry. Does anyone really have time for that anymore? Oh, but I'm sure you're very good.”
”Oh, yes, I'm excellent.” Maggie gave Saint Just a closed-mouth smile accompanied by raised eyebrows, all combining to form a silent I told you not to do this stuff because it always come back to bite you.
”Um ... Maggie?”
She looked at Wendell. ”Yes, Steve?”
”About ... this,” he began, and Saint Just longed to box the lummox's ears, for it was clear that the good left-tenant was about to open his mouth and insert both of his feet. He wasn't certain, but he believed the modern-day parlance was that, when it came to the ways of women, Steve Wendell was a schmuck.
”Wendell,” Saint Just broke in quickly because he was, at the bottom of it, a good-hearted man. ”Maggie and I are so delighted to meet Miss Munch. We've been fretting about you, you know, leading a lonely bachelor life. Have you two been seeing each other long?”
”Since just before Thanksgiving,” Christine Munch said happily. ”He rescued me in the subway when some kid tried to grab my purse.” She looked up at Steve, her huge blue eyes innocent and uncomprehending of any tension. ”My knight in s.h.i.+ning armor.”
”Gag me ...” Maggie whispered out of the corner of her mouth, then said brightly, ”Well, then, that explains it, doesn't it? Alex and I left town on Thanksgiving, didn't we, darling?”
Years of training, most probably employed to keep an unmoved, steely expression when dealing with felons, stood Wendell in good stead, except for a momentary flaring of his nostrils as he looked at Saint Just before the virtual penny, as it were, dropped, and he seemed to realize that he'd just had a very lucky escape.
”Does anyone want to go get some coffee?” he asked in a tone that seemed hopeful that no one would. ”If not, I just want to tell you that Bernie called me on my cell earlier to tell me about this Scott Imhoff fellow. The celebrity stalker? I checked him out, and it's not him. He's been in lockup for a month now.” He grinned. ”You'll never guess who he was after this time-our mutual friend, Holly Spivak.”
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