nothing came out. She gestured toward Maggie, suggesting that she go and waylay him, but Maggie wanted no part of it, and soon enough he was gone. She only had a general image of him, a blur of white hair, laughter.
“Frank Bowman,” Winifred rasped. “I want you to meet him.”
“Are you kidding me?” Maggie said. “Right now, at this moment, when I’ve had a dead man on my lawn and I’m preoccupied with Peter, that’s what you think I need?”
Winifred recovered her voice. “I’ll tell you what you need,” she said.
But Maggie was up and out. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s it.”
Chapter 10
Imagine the idea of it! Maggie thought as she stepped into her car, a red Audi TT that hummed at her touch. The idea was almost amusing. The notion that the exact thing her life was missing right now was a spoiled man. Because if there was one thing Maggie knew it was that there was nothing more of a prince than a single man at a nursing home. Or an adult home, or whatever it was Winifred lived in. All the women would be fighting for a catch like that. She could see him: a neat dresser, self-satisfied, a connoisseur. She’d probably fall in love with him and then he’d dump her for a 91-year-old.
Dating at the age of 62.
What’s new, my darling?
I found a body last night and my feet are killing me.
The sun now shone so bright it didn’t seem possible it had been pouring only a few hours earlier. She passed three cars: two minivans and a Kia. The one great virtue of being 62 years old was that you could drive a bright red car and almost never be pulled over by the police. In an older person, speed is endearing or a sign of dementia. She’d bought the TT years ago when she’d been investigating cars for Inspector Benet. What sort of car would such a man drive, she’d asked herself, going from car dealership to dealership until she found the TT, thrilled at its sleek shape, so excited she’d bought one for herself. She still felt excited every time she got into it.
Could she come back in another life or as another person, she would race cars. Maggie’s one regret, beyond anything to do with her daughter, was that she hadn’t done anything adventurous. Hadn’t skied or gone on safaris. Had preferred to stay home and read a book, which she supposed was an adventure of a kind.
“Frank Bowman,” she muttered.
Imagine going on a date and having to make small talk, she thought, as she raced past Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. She didn’t drive that fast, but she drove fast enough. She wasn’t self-destructive, she just liked feeling the road beneath her. Loved the sound of the engine running. For some reason she’d always loved the smell of oil, maybe because her father had been so handy. He’d had a workroom and he loved to putter. He wasn’t a well-educated man, but he’d loved history and he’d loved Stuart Dove. “And he did not call him Dad,” she said.
Maggie didn’t want to be ridiculous. Bad enough she’d been pitied for so long. She’d been the person people always spoke to gently, asked how are you doing with the frightened hope on their faces that she would not collapse on their watch. That she would just reply, “Fine, thanks.” Which she always did. She’d not wanted to be a burden.
She’d struggled so hard to reach a point that people could talk to her without flinching. Grief was so isolating. People wanted to say the right thing, but they weren’t sure what it was. So better to say nothing at all. She wanted to comfort people, to tell them it was okay to say what they wanted. But she didn’t have the energy and found it hard to speak without crying. Then there were the callous ones who were afraid bad luck was contagious. And those who thought you should get over it. But over the years she’d managed to reclaim her person. She was no longer an object of pity, but friendship. She would not now switch into ridiculousness by dating one of Winifred’s suitors.
Anyway, if
“Frank Bowman,” Winifred rasped. “I want you to meet him.”
“Are you kidding me?” Maggie said. “Right now, at this moment, when I’ve had a dead man on my lawn and I’m preoccupied with Peter, that’s what you think I need?”
Winifred recovered her voice. “I’ll tell you what you need,” she said.
But Maggie was up and out. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s it.”
Chapter 10
Imagine the idea of it! Maggie thought as she stepped into her car, a red Audi TT that hummed at her touch. The idea was almost amusing. The notion that the exact thing her life was missing right now was a spoiled man. Because if there was one thing Maggie knew it was that there was nothing more of a prince than a single man at a nursing home. Or an adult home, or whatever it was Winifred lived in. All the women would be fighting for a catch like that. She could see him: a neat dresser, self-satisfied, a connoisseur. She’d probably fall in love with him and then he’d dump her for a 91-year-old.
Dating at the age of 62.
What’s new, my darling?
I found a body last night and my feet are killing me.
The sun now shone so bright it didn’t seem possible it had been pouring only a few hours earlier. She passed three cars: two minivans and a Kia. The one great virtue of being 62 years old was that you could drive a bright red car and almost never be pulled over by the police. In an older person, speed is endearing or a sign of dementia. She’d bought the TT years ago when she’d been investigating cars for Inspector Benet. What sort of car would such a man drive, she’d asked herself, going from car dealership to dealership until she found the TT, thrilled at its sleek shape, so excited she’d bought one for herself. She still felt excited every time she got into it.
Could she come back in another life or as another person, she would race cars. Maggie’s one regret, beyond anything to do with her daughter, was that she hadn’t done anything adventurous. Hadn’t skied or gone on safaris. Had preferred to stay home and read a book, which she supposed was an adventure of a kind.
“Frank Bowman,” she muttered.
Imagine going on a date and having to make small talk, she thought, as she raced past Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. She didn’t drive that fast, but she drove fast enough. She wasn’t self-destructive, she just liked feeling the road beneath her. Loved the sound of the engine running. For some reason she’d always loved the smell of oil, maybe because her father had been so handy. He’d had a workroom and he loved to putter. He wasn’t a well-educated man, but he’d loved history and he’d loved Stuart Dove. “And he did not call him Dad,” she said.
Maggie didn’t want to be ridiculous. Bad enough she’d been pitied for so long. She’d been the person people always spoke to gently, asked how are you doing with the frightened hope on their faces that she would not collapse on their watch. That she would just reply, “Fine, thanks.” Which she always did. She’d not wanted to be a burden.
She’d struggled so hard to reach a point that people could talk to her without flinching. Grief was so isolating. People wanted to say the right thing, but they weren’t sure what it was. So better to say nothing at all. She wanted to comfort people, to tell them it was okay to say what they wanted. But she didn’t have the energy and found it hard to speak without crying. Then there were the callous ones who were afraid bad luck was contagious. And those who thought you should get over it. But over the years she’d managed to reclaim her person. She was no longer an object of pity, but friendship. She would not now switch into ridiculousness by dating one of Winifred’s suitors.
Anyway, if
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