“They put all kinds of chemicals in tap water. Nasty stuff that causes cancer.”
“They?”
“The government.”
“Mom, I am the government.”
“Of course you’re not, sweetie.” She sat back and smiled, smoothing the cloth napkin into her lap.
“Mom, the FBI is a government agency.”
“But you don’t think like them, Maggie. You’re not part of…” She lowered her voice and whispered, “The conspiracy.”
“Here you are, ma’am.” The waiter presented a beautiful, crystal stemmed water glass filled to the brim and garnished with a wedge of lemon. His efforts were only met with a frown.
“Oh, now, how do I know this is bottled spring water if you bring it to me already in a glass?”
He looked at Maggie as if for help. Instead, she said, “Could you bring me a Scotch? Neat.”
“Of course. One Scotch, neat, and one bottled spring water in the bottle.”
“Preferably from Colorado.”
The waiter gave Maggie an exasperated glance, as if checking for any other demands. She relieved him with, “My Scotch can be from anywhere.”
“Of course.” He managed a smile and was off again.
The waiter barely left before her mother leaned over the table again to whisper, “It’s awfully early in the day to be drinking, Maggie.”
Maggie resisted the urge to remind her mother that perhaps this was a tendency she had picked up from her. Her jaw clenched and her fingers twisted the napkin in her lap.
“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” she offered as an explanation.
“Well, then some coffee might be more appropriate. I’ll call him back.” She started looking for the waiter.
“No, Mom. Stop.”
“Some caffeine is just what you need. Reverend Everett says caffeine can be medicinal if not abused. Just a little will help. You’ll see.”
“It’s okay. I don’t want any coffee. I don’t really even like coffee.”
“Oh, now, where did he run off to?”
“Mom, don’t.”
“He’s over at that table. I’ll just-”
“Mom, stop it. I want the goddamn Scotch.”
Her mother’s hand stopped in midair. “Well…okay.” She tucked the hand into her lap as if Maggie had slapped it.
Maggie had never spoken to her mother like that before. Where the hell did that come from? And now, as her mother’s face turned red, Maggie tried to remember if she had ever seen her mother embarrassed, though there had been plenty of times in the past that would have justified such a response. Like making her daughter drag her half-conscious body up three flights of stairs or waking up in a pool of vomit.
Maggie looked away, watching for the waiter, wondering how she’d get through an entire meal with this woman. She’d rather be anywhere else.
“I suppose that dog kept you awake,” her mother said as if there were no dark cloud of the past hanging over their table.
“No, actually it was my government job.”
She looked up at Maggie. There was yet another smile. “You know what I was thinking, sweetie?” As usual she conveniently changed the subject, a tactical expert at avoiding confrontation. “I was thinking we should do a big Thanksgiving dinner.”
Maggie stared at her. Surely, she must be joking.
“I’ll cook a turkey with all the trimmings. It’ll be just like the good ole days.”
The good ole days? That must be the punch line, but from what Maggie could tell, her mother was serious. The idea that the woman even knew which end of the turkey to stuff seemed incomprehensible.
“I’ll invite Stephen and Emily. It’s about time you met them. And you can bring Greg.”
Ah, no punch line. But definitely an ulterior motive. Of course, why hadn’t she seen that one coming?
“Mom, you know that’s not going to happen.”
“How is Greg? I miss seeing him.” Again, Kathleen O’Dell continued the charade as if Maggie hadn’t spoken.
“I suppose he’s fine.”
“Well, the two of you still talk, right?”
“Only about the division of our mutually accumulated assets.”
“Oh, sweetie. You should simply apologize. I’m sure Greg would take you back.”
“Excuse me? What exactly should I apologize for?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“For cheating on him with that cowboy in Nebraska.”
Maggie restrained her anger by strangling the cloth napkin in her lap.
“Nick Morrelli is not a cowboy. And I did not cheat on Greg.”
“Maybe not physically.”
This time her mother’s eyes caught hers, and Maggie couldn’t look away. She had never told her mother about Nick Morrelli, but obviously Greg had. She had met Nick last year. At the time he had been a county sheriff in a small Nebraska town. The two of them had spent a week together chasing a child killer. Ever since then she hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind for very long, a task made more difficult now that he was living in Boston, an A.D.A. for Suffolk County. But she was not even seeing Nick, had insisted, in fact, that they have little contact until her divorce was final. And, despite her feelings, she had not slept with Nick. She had never cheated on Greg, or at least not in a legal sense. Maybe she was guilty of cheating on him in her heart.
Never mind. It wasn’t any of her mother’s business. How dare she claim that she had some secret access to Maggie’s heart. She had no right. Not after all the damage she had done to it herself.
“The divorce papers have already been drawn up,” Maggie finally said with what she hoped was enough finality to close the subject.
“But you haven’t signed them yet?”
She continued to stare at her mother’s concerned look, puzzled by it as much as she was uncomfortable with it. Was her mother sincerely trying to change? Was she genuinely concerned? Or had she talked to Greg, discovered he was having second thoughts and agreed to some secret alliance? Was that the real reason behind this good ole Thanksgiving plan?
“Whether we sign the divorce papers or not, nothing will change between Greg and me.”
“No, of course not. Not as long as you insist on keeping that government job of yours.”
There it was. The subtle but oh-so-effective jab to the heart. Much more effective than a slap to the face. Of course, Maggie was the bad guy, and the divorce was all her fault. And, according to her mother, everything could be fixed if only Maggie apologized and swept all the messy problems out of sight. No need to solve anything. Just get them the hell out of sight. After all, wasn’t that Kathleen O’Dell’s specialty? What you don’t acknowledge can’t possibly exist.
Maggie shook her head and smiled up at the waiter who had returned and deposited in front of her a tumbler of amber, liquid salvation. She picked up the glass and sipped, ignoring the frown on her mother’s new and carefully made-up face. Indeed, some things never changed.
Her cellular phone began ringing, and Maggie twisted around to pull it out of her jacket, which hung on the back of her chair. Only two rings and the entire restaurant was now joining her mother to frown at her.
“Maggie O’Dell.”
“Agent O’Dell, it’s Cunningham. Sorry to interrupt your Sunday morning.”
“That’s fine, sir.” This new apologetic Cunningham could easily start to grate on her nerves. She wanted her old boss back.
“A body’s been found on federal property. District PD’s on the scene, but I’ve gotten a request for BSU to
