I powdered my nose and fluffed my hair, got another breath of barbecue-scented air, and ran down to the backyard.
Lyle set down a bowl of fruit salad and intercepted me as I walked across the patio. He led me by the hand into the kitchen and handed me a wet towel.
“Aren’t you having fun?” he demanded.
“Of course. It’s a great party, Lyle.”
“Then what are you crying about?”
I draped myself on him and buried my face in his neck. “God, I miss you.”
“Not that much, you don’t. You two fighting?”
“No.” I wiped my face again. “Mike’s pushing this marriage thing.”
“So?”
“So, I’m not ready.”
“The new tenants like the house,” he said. “I told them I would talk to you about a lease. What do you want me to say?”
I stood up straight, blew my nose into a paper napkin. “I’ll lease it for two years, four months, three weeks.”
“You have to face things, Maggie,” he said. “Don’t put it off too long.”
“Maybe I exaggerated about how much I miss you.” I walked outside again.
As soon as the sun went down, the air grew chilly. I thought about going upstairs for a sweater, but hesitated when I saw that Mike was not down yet.
Michael was filling a plate for Sly when he called my name. “Where’s Dad?”
“Cleaning up.”
I followed Michael’s gaze up to the balcony. Mike was standing there, leaning on the railing, looking down at me. I helped Sly butter a roll, then excused myself.
Mike was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. I walked into his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his breath hot against my ear. “I was teasing. I didn’t mean to upset you like that.”
His chest heaved under my cheek. I opened the top two buttons of his fresh shirt, ran my hand inside along his smooth, hard chest.
“What’s in the box this time?” I asked.
He laughed, an embarrassed little laugh. But he handed me the damn gold box again. I opened it, like before. Found a gold key inside, like before.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“Back door key this time.”
I wrapped my arms around him. I think it was letdown that I felt. The only reality I knew at that moment was how I felt about Mike Flint.
“We should go down,” I said.
When Mike said, “Why?” and began working on the zipper of my skirt, I couldn’t think of a single reason.
Wendy Hornsby
Wendy Hornsby is the Edgar Award-winning creator of the Maggie MacGowen series. A native of Southern California interested in writing at a young age, she first found professional success in fourth grade, when an essay about summer camp won a local contest. Her first novel, No Harm, was published in 1987, but it wasn’t until 1992 that Hornsby introduced her most famous character: Maggie MacGowen, documentarian and amateur sleuth.She has written seven of the MacGowen novels, most recently The Paramour’s Daughter (2010), and the sprawling tales of murder and romance have won Hornsby widespread praise. For her closely observed depiction of the darker sides of Los Angeles, she is often compared to Raymond Chandler. Besides her nine novels, Hornsby has written dozens of short stories, some of which were collected in Nine Sons (2002). When she isn’t writing, she teaches ancient and Medieval history at Long Beach City College
