Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) by Joseph Monninger Read Free Book Online

is.”
    â€œBut you’re going to be a diplomat,” she said. “That sounds more exciting.”
    â€œWell, we’ll see. I like the sound of your Maine farm. It reminded me of home when I saw it this morning.”
    He felt his eyes go into hers again. He didn’t mean it to happen, but it did anyway. Lust, probably. People called it love, but maybe it was simple lust. Charlie couldn’t say. But he felt their eyes teetering, holding on to each other’s gaze longer than any required need. He only managed to pull his eyes away when the car veered sharply to the right and the driver tapped his horn. Charlie looked forward. The driver, for the barest instant, met Charlie’s eyes in the rearview mirror and nodded.
    * * *
    Margaret loved a late afternoon rain. Stretched out on the bed, she listened to the rain slash and move against the window. She felt good in her body; her limbs felt warm and solid. Her face, washed and scrubbed, glowed with the polish of soap and Noxzema. She felt a deep, wonderful, guilty luxury. She had nowhere to go, nothing to do, except, perhaps, to get herself something to eat. But even that was a simple matter. She merely had to lift the phone and it would be brought on a silver platter. She could eat what she liked, then pack it all up and stick it outside her door, and then the hotel elves would come and take it away and that would be that. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, she thought, if life always came complete with room service?
    She had nearly fallen into a doze when her cell phone rang. She grabbed it and glanced at the number, but she didn’t recognize it. It was a Washington, D.C., number.
    â€œYes?” she whispered when she opened the phone.
    â€œMargaret, I’m sorry. Did I wake you? This is Charlie King.”
    â€œI dozed off,” she admitted. “Or almost did. Hi, Charlie. Is everything okay?”
    She reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. She felt fuzzy and slightly hungry. She tried to clear her head.
    â€œI wanted to invite you to a ball,” he said. “It’s a spur-of-the-moment thing, and I apologize, but a friend of mine has tickets. They throw these things from time to time and this should be a pretty good one. I thought it might be fun for you.”
    â€œA ball?” she asked, not quite getting her mind around it. But her stomach had started to flutter noticeably. “I have nothing to wear, Charlie. I didn’t come planning to attend a ball.”
    â€œI have a friend . . . she lives here and has helped me with a few things. Anyway, she has a couple ball gowns she can lend you. She has three. She’s looking at me right now and nodding. You can pick, she says. If you want, I could put her on and you two could talk.”
    â€œOh, Charlie, I don’t know.”
    Margaret swung her legs over the side of the bed. Where had this come from? She admitted, deep down, that it felt good to be asked. Very good. At the same time, it made her nervous and a tad distrustful. What was the game here? He knew that she was married. Obviously. Then again, she wondered if she wasn’t overthinking it. Maybe he simply meant to be polite, to give her something to do on a Friday night in D.C. She pushed back her hair at the hairline and switched the phone to her other ear. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate.
    â€œHere, just talk to her for a second,” Charlie said. “Her name is Terry. I’d really like to escort you to a ball tonight, Margaret. If you’d like to go. It should be very pretty. It’s at the French Embassy. It’s sponsored by the London School of Economics.”
    Before she could answer, she heard a woman’s voice on the other end of the phone. Terry, obviously. Terry giggled and the phone rattled as she came on.
    â€œNow, don’t worry about a thing,” Terry said, her voice deep with a southern accent along its edge.