“All right,” she said, “what’s your opinion?”
“I think you done fell in love on me,” Tat said, mimicking her American drawl. “You’ve got that lovesick look on you. Aren’t you even going to tell me his name?”
“Johnny Foxxe,” she said, looking down at her knees. “Johnny Foxxe Cooper,” she amended.
“Cooper as in Davis?”
Maggie nodded glumly. “Cooper’s son by Anna Naverra.”
Tat narrowed her eyes, looking thoughtful now. “So they had a child, did they? Back in the forties, it must have been. Hmmm. You’ve fallen for an older man.”
“Not exactly,” said Maggie vaguely.
“Then what exactly?” Tat prodded her, nudging Maggie’s foot with the toe of her boot. “And what exactly are you doing here in London, if that’s the case? Not that it’s not fantastic to have you, sweet Magpie. But what are you running from this time?”
Maggie bit her lip, and did not answer her.
“You’re always running from something,” Tat persisted with the brutal honesty that only she could get away with. “You’re always up and gone before your heart can engage—with a place, with a man. Even with writing poems again. Girl, if love outran you this time, I’m not sure that’s so bad.”
Maggie bowed her head and considered Tat’s question. What exactly was she running from? Not Fox. Well, not precisely. And not from the spirits of the mountain. She frowned. “Look, I never imagined ending up in Tuscon, of all places. Loving this man could change my whole life. I’m just not sure I’m ready for that.”
Tat put down the teacup and flashed her a grin of commiseration. “Girlfriend, no one’s ever ready for that. But life changes on us anyway. And I’m not convinced we get to choose who we love, or when it would be most convenient.”
“Now that’s a comforting thought,” Maggie muttered.
“Well, if you’re just going to sit and mope, how about giving me some help here? I have to haul this piece downstairs, and I’m having trouble lifting. Think you can lend me the one good hand you’ve got? Between us we almost make one normal person.”
“Honey, there’s no way either of us is going to make a normal person. But I’ll help. Is this for the show? I thought it was hung? It opens tonight, for gawd’s sake.”
“When have you ever known me to do anything before the last possible minute? Yann and Larry are over at the gallery now, making sure it’s all properly hung.”
“Together?” Maggie asked. Her friend merely shrugged. Only Tat could pull off having two different men in her life, and have both get along.
“I promised them they’d have the last piece by five, which gives us …” Tat consulted her watch. “Bloody hell, we’d better get a move on it. I hope you don’t mind leaving early? I promised them Indian take-out for dinner.”
“How are we supposed to get the print over there? It’s not going to fit in your Morris, you know.”
“I’ve got Yann’s van.”
“The new one? And you’re doing the driving?” Maggie said skeptically, rising to her feet. Tat’s bad driving was notorious, even before the MS. “He’s going to want it back in one piece.”
“What do you suggest? That you drive? What are you going to shift with, your feet?” she growled, grinning at her girlfriend. She picked up one end of the frame. “See if you can lift that side.”
The phone began to ring before they made it out the door. Tat put the print down. “You get it. That’s Nigel,” she predicted. “I’d know that imperious ring anywhere.”
It was indeed Nigel; his third call that week. She hadn’t even told him she was coming to London, and he’d tracked her down within twenty-four hours. She still couldn’t decide if she thought this was endearing, or just annoying.
“Hi,” she said now. “Where are you today? Atlanta? D.C.?”
“Back home in L.A. Atlanta was last week, don’t you remember? The tour is over, thank God. My percussionist’s wife has left him for the soundman, and it’s all a bloody mess.”
He sighed, and Maggie frowned. He sounded genuinely troubled. She knew him too well not to hear it in his voice. Something was wrong besides a colleague’s marriage, and she wondered what it was. But she resisted her old, habitual reaction: to ask, to jump in, to soothe, to help. Whatever it was, it was Nigel’s problem, not hers, she reminded herself firmly.
“Well,” she said simply, “get some rest now that you’re home. See a movie. Go hear a new band. Do something fun, Nige—something that hasn’t got anything at all to do with Estampie.”
He sighed again, waiting for her to pick up the cue and ask him what was wrong. Transatlantic silence stretched between them. Finally Nigel said, “Look, Puck. Well. I’ve got some news.”
He sounded unusually hesitant, and Maggie was suddenly wary. “It’s not about Harvey, is it? Promise me you didn’t sign anything.”
“Harvey?” he said as though he couldn’t place the name. “Oh, no. Not that. It’s about Nicole.”
“What about Nicole?”
He was silent again. It was very unlike him, and Maggie’s mind was racing. Had Nicole left him? Were all the Estampie wives suddenly defecting at once? Would Nigel be a free man again? And if he was, did that even matter to her?
“Come on, Nigel, what is it?”
“Good news, actually. Nicole’s…” He cleared his throat, sounding as if he wasn’t quite certain if it was good news at all. “It seems we’re going to have a baby. It’s due in the middle of June.”
“Oh. Good heavens. That’s great news,” she said. And found, to her relief, that she meant it.
“Yes, great,” he repeated tentatively.
“Nigel, are you happy about this?” she asked her ex-husband with concern. “You always expected to have kids some day, and you’re not getting any younger, dear.” She smiled drily as she
