felt like on Christmas morning, only it was Easter.
Maggie realized that it was she who had changed, not the world. The birds still chirped, the sky was just as blue, the dogwoods still bloomed in spring, and the stars still twinkled at night. And the good news was that she was still here to see it.
She stopped at a roadside flower stand and bought a dozen white roses. When she arrived at the cemetery, she walked over to where her parents were buried and was surprised to see that there was already a huge beautiful bouquet of flowers on their grave. She bent down and opened the card. It read, “Happy Easter. Love, Margaret.” They were from her. She had completely forgotten, but the woman at the Bon-Ton florist had delivered them, right on time as promised. As she stood there looking across the cemetery, Maggie realized just how lucky she was to be here. She wouldn’t have been if Crestview had not come up for sale and if the mattress truck hadn’t hit her and if Brenda hadn’t thought she was having a heart attack and if she hadn’t eaten those chili dogs and had that nightmare. Contrary to what she had always thought, she was one of the luckiest people in the world.
As she stood there, Maggie wondered how many people in those graves would have loved to have lived for one more year, one more day, or even just one more hour. How could she ever have been so ungrateful, to just throw away whatever time she had left? How could she have ever even thought about it? All right, so life wasn’t great and wonderful all the time. So what if she couldn’t work a BlackBerry or program her oven or parallel park? What difference did it make if the napkins weren’t folded properly or the silverware was not set correctly? Who cared?
Suddenly, being her age seemed great. She didn’t have to look perfect. Hooray! And think of all the senior discounts she had to look forward to, not to mention Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid. So what if she was afraid of getting old? Big whoop-de-doo-who wasn’t? She wasn’t alone; everybody her age was in the same boat. She was going to relax and just let herself get older. Who cared if she wore two-inch heels instead of three- and-a-half-inch heels? Her feet hurt, and not only that, she was going to have a piece of cake once in a while, and she wasn’t going to go anywhere she didn’t feel like going anymore, either. Bring on the Depends! And the bunion pads and the Metamucil. And if she liked pretty music and old movies, so what? She wasn’t hurting anyone.
Hazel had always said, “If you’re still breathing, you’re ahead of the game.” And she’d been right. Life itself was something to look forward to, and so for whatever time she had left, she was going to enjoy every minute, wrinkles and all. What a concept! What a relief. She looked down at the flowers again and noticed something. She then bent over and picked a four-leaf clover growing right beside the headstone, and she had to laugh. It was Hazel all right.
ACROSS TOWN BABS Bingington had just picked up Mr. and Mrs. Troupe, her Texas clients, the ones she had stolen from Dottie Figge, to drive them to the airport, and they asked if they could stop by the model unit at Avon Terrace for a few minutes and measure the rooms once again before they left. Babs tried calling both Maggie’s home phone and her cell phone to let her know they were coming by, but she couldn’t reach her, so she guessed she was not home and drove the clients on over to Avon Terrace. She knocked on the door several times, but when no one answered, she used the key in the lockbox, and they went in. As her clients walked around, measuring for their furniture, Babs sat on the stool in the kitchen and waited. Then she noticed a blue envelope addressed to “To Whom It May Concern” lying on top of a stack of papers on the counter. She figured she’d better read it. It might have some instructions about showing the unit that she needed to see.
BACK AT THE cemetery, as was usual on Easter morning, carloads of families started arriving with flowers. Maggie had completely forgotten how pretty children looked on Easter. When she went back to her car, she could hear her cell phone ringing away in her purse, to the tune of “I’m Looking Over a Four-Leaf Clover,” and she had to laugh, since she was holding a four-leaf clover in her hand at that exact moment.
She figured it was Brenda calling. “Hello… Happy Easter!”
“Maggie?”
“Yes?”
“Where the hell are you?”
“At the cemetery-”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Who’s this?”
“Babs Bingington. You haven’t done anything stupid yet, have you?”
“What?”
“You haven’t taken anything, have you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“What do you mean what am I talking about… I read your note.”
“What note?”
“The note you left in the kitchen…”
“What kitchen?”
“Your kitchen, you idiot!”
“My kitchen? What are you doing in my kitchen? What note? I didn’t leave you a note…”
“It says, ‘To Whom It May Concern.’ ”
Maggie felt all the blood drain from her body. Oh, no. And just when she’d thought there was going to be a happy ending.
Babs continued her tirade: “What the hell’s wrong with you, leaving a note like that? You must be nutty as a fruitcake. I’ve got a good mind to call the police.”
Maggie panicked. “Wait, please, don’t do anything. Just stay there, and let me come home and explain.”
“I don’t have time to wait around on you; I have to take my clients to the airport. But you need some serious help, sister.” And she hung up.
Just then, Mrs. Troupe heard Babs yelling in the kitchen and came in and asked, “Is there anything wrong?”
Babs cocked her head to one side, smiled, and said in her phony southern accent, “Why no, darlin’, not a thing.”
Maggie sat with the phone in her hand, wondering what to do. She tried speed-dialing Babs back, but Babs wouldn’t pick up. Of all the people in the world to find her letter, why did it have to be Babs? She had to somehow try to stop her from spreading it all over town, and knowing Babs, it would be just like her to post her letter on the Internet. Oh, God! She had to stop her before it was too late. She started the car and headed out to the airport as fast as she could. When she got there, she parked in front of the Southwest Airlines terminal and waited. This being Easter morning, the airport was almost deserted, and thank heavens, the airport police did not make her move her car the way they usually did. Fifteen minutes later, she saw Babs drive up in her big silver Lexus and let her clients out. Maggie pulled up behind her and got out and walked over just as Babs was smiling and waving goodbye. But as soon as Babs’s clients went inside the glass door, she turned and glared at Maggie. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Maggie leaned in the window on the passenger side and said, “Please, I really need to explain. Can I get in and talk to you for just a minute?”
Babs quickly pushed the locks on all the doors, and they snapped shut with a loud click. “No! I’m not letting you in my car. You’re as crazy as a loon; you might have a knife or a gun.”
Maggie stepped back. “All right, okay, but please, just meet me somewhere and let me talk to you. I need to explain to you about the letter. Please… just for a little bit… let me buy you a drink or coffee or something. It won’t take more than five minutes, I promise; just hear me out, and then you do whatever you want. But please just meet me somewhere.”
Babs looked at her for a moment, then looked at her watch and let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, all right, but I’m still going to the Board of Realtors first thing in the morning to get your license suspended. Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere. You pick it.”
“Wait a minute. It’s Easter, there’s nothing open. Oh, forget it…”
Maggie desperately racked her brain and then said, “Meet me at Ruth’s Chris over at the Embassy Suites Hotel. I know they’ll be open; I’ll meet you there.”
Maggie ran and jumped back into her car and sped across town and arrived at the restaurant
