She pats me on the cheek and says, "If I was only sixty years younger, sonny boy."
"Did you do what I said?" I say close to her ear. She snorts. "I had Margaret saying that ridiculous sentence we came up with."
Mrs. Reynolds and I are partners in crime tonight. The gazebo is finished. My job here is done. I had the old lady make Maggie drive around town until six o'clock. I've been putting this night together in my head for a week already. A perfect night.
When I turn and catch sight of Maggie, I'm doomed. And speechless.
Mrs. Reynolds says, "Don't look so startled, Caleb. It doesn't suit your face."
Maggie walks up to me, the dress showing off curves I only recently dreamed she had.
"The gazebo looks great," she says.
I don't look away from her. Hell, I can't take my eyes off of her. These two unlikely women are my saving grace.
Maggie blushes, then glides away to join Mrs. Reynolds in the gazebo.
I've set a table inside the gazebo, complete with a three-course meal, compliments of my saved-up lawn mowing allowance and Little Italy Restaurant. I added a little spot heater to keep the gazebo warm, and have a portable radio with music playing softly in the background.
After pulling out a chair for Maggie, I hold my hand out to Mrs. Reynolds. "Would you care to dance, milady?"
She laughs, but I take her hand and pull her into a spin and into my arms. She shrieks. "Caleb, please. I'm an old lady. Where's my cane?"
"I thought old ladies like younger men," I tease, and dance slowly until the song is over.
I lead her to her chair and pull it out. "You better watch out for him, Margaret. He's dangerous."
I wince as I bend down to sit.
"What's wrong?" Maggie asks.
"Nothing," I say after everyone has been served. I take a spoonful of the minestrone and look up. Maggie's not buying it. Neither is Mrs. Reynolds. "Okay, okay. I competed in a wrestling invitational today. No big deal."
"I didn't know you joined the team."
"It was a one-time thing. I think."
Mrs. Reynolds finishes her soup and waves the spoon at me. "You might have a broken rib."
"I'm sure it's just bruised," I say, trying to reassure her as much as myself. Right before I pinned Vic in the second round, he knocked me to the ground and took a five-pointer.
I won the match, but the coach still gave me hell for playing dirty the first round.
"I can't wait until the daffodils bloom," Maggie says, her eyes sparkling with the candles shining on them. My hands are clammy from nervousness, I have no clue why. "You're going to have to take a picture for me and send it to Spain."
I still can't believe she's leaving. Just when I fell for her.
"Speaking of Spain ..." Mrs. Reynolds hands her an envelope. "Enjoy your journey, but always remember where you came from."
Maggie raises a glass with water filled in it. "Who can forget Paradise?"
We clink our glasses together.
After we eat, I open the boxes from Irina, the chef from Auntie Mae's. As I set samples of pies in front of Maggie and Mrs. Armstrong, you'd swear they were related by the elated expressions on their faces. We all take a fork and dig in.
"This has been the most magnificent day of my life since Albert died, may he rest in peace. Thank you both. But these weary bones need a rest."
"Are you okay?" Maggie asks, concern lacing her voice. We both get up to help her.
"No, you two sit down and enjoy. I just need to rest a bit."
Regardless to what the old lady is claiming, Maggie helps her upstairs while I clear the dishes. "She okay?" I ask when Maggie comes back outside.
"I think so. She went to the doctor yesterday. He wants to run some tests on her, but she's too stubborn to go."
I watch Maggie. God, anyone who's with her is infected by her humility and honesty. "Care to dance?"
"I can't," she says. "Not with my leg ..."
I take her hand in mine and lead her back into the gazebo. "Dance with me, Maggie," I urge as I put one arm around her back and pull her close.
We sway to the music. Slowly she relaxes into my arms. "I never imagined it would be like this," she says into my chest.
When her leg starts to hurt, I clear a place on the floor and we lie side by side next to each other.
"What did you ever see in Kendra?" she asks.
Hell, I don't know. "She was popular and pretty. Someone who all the guys wished they could date. She used to look at me as if I was the only guy who could ever make her happy." She sits up. "Okay, now you sound like a jerk." I was one.
She lies next to me, my arm as her pillow.
We watch the candles burn down one by one. When there's only one candle left, I kiss her soft lips and trace her curves with my hands until she's breathless and weak.
"Let me see your scars," I say when we're both panting and coming up for air from making out. I take the hem of her dress in my fist and slowly slide the material up.
She stills my hand with her own and smoothes the material back down. "No."
"Trust me."
"I ... I can't," she murmurs. "Not with my scars."
Her words hit me like a cell door slamming closed. Because even if she thinks she forgave me, even if she made promises of forgiveness, even if she kisses me like I'm her hero, I finally realize she can't get over her anger inside. And never will fully trust me.