"Him and the rest of the free world," Maggie groused, rubbing at her aching thigh, as carrying the cast around with her had begun causing aches and pains in other areas. "Why should Socks be any different?"
"True. But you told him that Sterling is going to be the beneficiary of your good luck, I imagine."
"I did, and then I warned him not to go asking Sterling for a loan. But that's not the point here, Alex. The point here is your plans for the first floor of my new house."
"Yes, I would imagine so. Again, Socks and I were in the realm of what if. I knew you had begun to fret about the cost of our new lodgings, and hence the idea of the bottom floor—clearly once employed commercially—producing some sort of income for you. To offset the cost of the mortgage. I shall disabuse him of the possibility the moment we return to the city."
And that was the problem. Alex knew her so well. How could she turn down the possibility of offsetting some of the cost of the house by renting out the bottom floor? She couldn't, wouldn't turn it down. She just wasn't built that way. Not after years of struggling financially. Her parents would probably call it having a Depression mentality, like so many people who had lived through the crash of 1929 and the lean years that followed. Whatever it was, she had it, and she couldn't seem to shake it.
"No, don't do that. It's having the idea tossed at me like that. That's what bothered me. It's probably a good idea. And I can even see Sterling working with Socks and Jay. The poor guy needs something to do other than stand around and be comic relief for you, the way he is in my books—our books. And he could eat all the pie and soul food he wants and not gain weight, right? The lucky dog."
Again with the quizzing glass? Lifting it, swinging it. Hmm, what was the man's problem?
"Alex? Right?"
"As rain, my dear. Then we're settled? I, of course, will front—the word is front, correct?—half of the funds Socks and Jay feel necessary to their project. Again, forgive me for not speaking with you before Socks could broach the subject."
"No problem. But I do have a problem, Alex."
"Other than your father, your mother, your sister—not to mention your conniving brother?"
"Yeah, well, they're all going to have to take a number and get in line for a minute. Because I want to know, Alex, what you're planning for, as Socks called it, the other side of the ground floor."
Come on, Alex, it's time for you to say something outlandish. Make me mad. I function better when I'm not feeling so damn lovey-dovey. Get me back on point, able to think about more than how we can get alone together, out of here, and the heck with anything else.
"Ah, sweetings, I don't think you really want to know. We've enough on our plates at the moment, don't we?"
She sagged against the back of the uncomfortable rattan chair. Why did beach furniture have to be so damn uncomfortable? And with pictures of shells and lighthouses on every damn wall? "That's okay, Alex," she said sweetly. "There's room on my plate, any time, to hear what you're thinking. You have such interesting ideas. I'm just hoping this one's legal."
"One of the very things I wished to discuss with you, yes."
"Oh, jeez ..."
"Now, now, don't be so quick to fly up into the boughs, my dear. Allow me to expound a moment. You like to watch the older television shows on cable late at night, don't you?"
"You know I do. I'm still thinking about writing a book called I Learned Everything I Ever Needed to Know on 'Seinfeld.' You know—close-talkers, low-talkers, being sponge-worthy, never to do anything George Costanza might think is a good idea. What of it?"
Alex stood, walked over to the sliding glass doors, looked out toward the ocean view that would be there if two blocks of condos weren't in the way. "I happened to find, and become rather enamored with, the premise of one particular show: The Equalizer."
He turned about to look at her. "You've seen the program?"
Maggie felt her stomach drop to her toes, and stay there. "I've seen it. The guy's ex-CIA or one of those agencies, and he puts an ad in the Classifieds. Something about people losing hope, feeling out of options, and suggesting they call the Equalizer. Then he goes out and solves all their problems and saves the day. Usually by killing somebody."
"There is a level of violence at times, yes. But all in honorable causes. The man has abilities, certain talents, and a profound belief that he employ them to help his fellow man. I admire that."
"Yeah, I'll just bet you do, Sparky," Maggie said, feeling more than a little fatalistic. "So you want to set up shop, be the Equalizer now?"
"I'm very blessed, Maggie. A man so blessed may feel the need to give something back. Help mankind."
"Uh-huh. Pull up the pants legs, Maggie, it's too late to save the shoes."
"Excuse me?"
"Old saying. You'd say, 'Pull the other one, it's got bells on.' But the meaning's sort of the same. You want to help people—I believe that. But you also want to get your jollies. You like trouble. You thrive on it."
"And you don't?"
"No! No, I don't. Do you think I'm having fun here—watching my dad get arrested for murder? Watching Bernie get hauled off for murder a while ago? Finding that stupid writer hanging outside my bedroom window? Having some guy send me a dead rat? No, I don't like trouble. I hate trouble. But ever since you ... since you got here, there's been nothing but trouble."
"Very well. I'll abandon the idea."
That was quick. Probably too quick. Maggie opened her mouth to say good, terrific. But then she closed it again.
"Maggie?"
"Don't push. I'm thinking here. You do the Fragrances by Pierre thing. Good money—great money—but you only need to work a couple of times a year for it. You've got the Streetcorner Orators and Players, but you've got Mary Louise and George and Vernon and probably two dozen more like them by now, who do the real work. Are you bored, Alex? Is it boring, being here? Being with me?"
"Do I miss the excitement of my former plane of existence, you mean? The balls, the routs, the gaming, the bruising rides, the mills, the court intrigues, the constant murders and mysteries to be solved? No, not really. We've been fairly well occupied here, Sterling and myself."
"So you weren't pulling my leg? You really feel like you want to give something back? Just plain old help people?"
His handsome face bore an adorably honest expression of resolve and bafflement. "It's what heroes do, Maggie. I am as you made me."
"And I wanted to be mad at you," she said quietly. "You're not helping here, Alex. I need to be mad at you, not like you more and more every damn day."
"Like me, Maggie?"
"Yeah ... well ... you know ..."
"I do, yes. My dearest Maggie. So articulate in our books, so very tongue-tied at any other time, when it comes to subjects remotely emotional. We'll leave the subject for now, shall we? What do you think of my idea, hmm? Not calling myself an Equalizer, but something else. Something that defines the service I wish to offer my fellow citizens of Manhattan—and the boroughs, of course. Shall we think about that, instead?"
"Regency Man," Maggie said, happy to move on to another subject. Any other subject than the sort of words she might use to categorize her feelings for Alex. "No, that's not good. What are some synonyms for help? The Assister? Bleech, that's dumb. The Neutralizer? No, that sounds like an air freshener. We could maybe do a play on Saint Just. You know, like The Saint? Damn, that was a television series title, too. It's like book titles—all the good ones are already taken. You know, Alex, this could be fun. We are pretty good at this solving problems stuff. Will we charge for our services?"