Engaged to a Stranger
A miniseries
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Prologue
As a little girl, I was fascinated by the story of Cinderella.
How did she go from rock bottom to a life upgrade that included the adoration of an entire kingdom and the love of a smoking hot prince?
Deep down, I knew it was only a fairy tale, but it gave me hope.
At night, I would close my eyes and imagine myself in that major Cinderella moment, the one that changed her life.
I remember telling my best friend, Jessica about this when we were both seven years old.
It was one of those rare Saturdays Mother took off from work to spend a day with me.
On the weekends, Jessica and I were inseparable. So, that Saturday Mother took both of us to Belle Maison, a plantation in Donaldsonville, Louisiana.
The sprawling mansion had become a tourist attraction, event venue, and restaurant. It also featured a tea service that everyone who was anyone in Louisiana got dressed up for and sampled from time to time.
On our way to the tea service, Mother let me and Jessica take a peek at the plantation’s grand ballroom, which was where wedding receptions and other major events were held.
“It looks like the staff is preparing for an event. So, you’ll have to hurry and take a quick look,” Mother warned as we stepped into the room, the heels of our shoes tapping against the impeccable marble floors.
Awed, Jessica and I looked up at the high ceiling where an oversized chandelier was dripping with diamonds.
“Whoa,” Jessica muttered, and her one-word response to the stunning visuals summed up my feelings entirely.
A slew of Belle Maison workers bustled about, each clad in crisp white shirts and black slacks as they scurried from one task to the next. Some were setting up tables, others cleaned windows and doorknobs, while still others walked around with tape measure, preparing for the set-up of furniture and items that had yet to make an entrance.
I blinked, and in my imagination, the workers were gone.
Their presence was replaced by a well-dressed quartet that played a waltz and dozens of men and women on the dance floor, their movements as elegant as their clothing.
Standing just off to the side was the man of the hour, Prince Charming.
And I was no longer a seven-year-old in a floral dress from Target.
I’d been transformed into Cinderella.
Sighing dramatically, I nudged Jessica and said, “This has to be the ballroom where Cinderella met Prince Charming.”
“Yeah,” Jessica replied, her eyes beaming. “It looks exactly like it.”
“Can’t you just see it?” I pointed to the entrance we’d used. “She walks through there and everyone in the ballroom stops what they’re doing to stare at her. And then she looks at the prince and he looks at her and-”
“Oh, please,” Mother’s bitter laugh shattered our fairy tale.
The dry cackle plucked us from the realms of fantasy and replanted us in the withering garden that is reality.
We turned to Mother as she arched a perfectly drawn dark eyebrow and said, “Fairy tales about love are garbage. Now, tell me ladies, what kinds of creatures feed on garbage?”
Jessica and I exchanged a glance.
“Ladies?” Mother urged.
“Um, I guess, uh,” Jessica hesitantly replied, “like, rats maybe?”
“Yes, rats.” Mother smiled at my best friend in a way that made me protectively slide my hand into Jessica’s and give hers a comforting squeeze. Even then, I recognized that my mother could be a little scary. “Are you a rat, Jessica?”
“She’s not a rat,” I quickly said.
“Correct. You are refined young ladies,” Mother nodded. “And refined young ladies do not feed on garbage. They feed on truth, which is what helps them to blossom. So, if fairy tales about love, like the story of Cinderella, are lies, do we want to feed on them?”
“No,” Jessica said.
Startled by Jessica’s response, I glanced at my friend’s expression and realized she was only telling Mother what she wanted to hear.
Relieved, I knew Jessica still loved our favorite movie as much as I did and that we’d most likely still find ourselves watching it before we went to sleep that night.
I returned my attention to Mother, and she was staring at me expectantly.
“Margaret, do we feed on fairy tales about love?” she demanded.
Gulping, I quickly said, “No, ma’am.”
“Very good. Now, I’m going to tell you a true story, ladies,” Mother ushered us out of the ballroom and began leading us towards Belle Maison’s parlor, which was where the tea service was held. “Are you familiar with the true tale of Adelaide LeBlanc?”
I shook my head and so did Jessica.
Mother slowed her stride as we sauntered down a narrow hallway with walls that were painted a soft blue. She lifted a hand and grazed the wall on her right as we moved along. “It’s a true story that happened right here in this home. Adelaide touched these walls with her own hands, and she walked these hallways just like you girls are right now. She grew up here.”
“Wow,” Jessica softly said. “She grew up here?”
Intrigued, I asked, “So, she was rich? Like a princess?”
“Yes.” Mother’s expression was stern as she glanced at us. “But being as rich as a princess means nothing when one is not intelligent. Adelaide learned that the hard way.”
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“Adelaide fell in love with a man when she was only 20 years old,” Mother said. “He was very good-looking and wealthy. But 20 is too young to fall in love, that was Adelaide’s first mistake. She should have waited until she was older. Because guess what happened?”
I folded my arms across my chest, already disliking the direction this true story was taking. It sounded suspiciously like the things my mother would say when she was angry with my father and ranting about “the mistakes she’d made in her youthful ignorance.”
“What happened?” Jessica asked.
“This handsome man,” Mother said, coming to a halt at the end of the hallway, where the parlor’s entrance was just ahead.
We stopped with her and looked up at her as she continued with her depressing non-fairy tale, “He was the jealous type. Meaning, he didn’t like Adelaide having any friends other than him. He also didn’t want her to get an education. He wanted to keep her all to himself. Does that sound normal to you, girls?”
Jessica and I shook our heads.
Honestly, I only shook mine because if I didn’t, the story would drag on for even longer.
“But Adelaide ignored the warning signs, and when this handsome ‘Prince Charming’ asked her to marry him, she said yes,” Mother continued. “The wedding was going to be the finest event south Louisiana had ever seen. It would’ve happened here, in that Grand Ballroom you girls were just in. The mayor and the governor were planning to attend. But it was a good thing their carriages were late because something horrible happened on the wedding day.”
I’ll admit, I was a bit hooked at this point.
“Horrible?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, my dear,” Mother said, looking into my eyes. “That men cannot be trusted.”
Confused, I asked, “The man she was going to marry, he did something bad?”
“Very bad,” Mother said. “On the day of the wedding, while Adelaide LeBlanc was in her room, being helped into her beautiful white wedding gown, her intended discovered that another man who’d been in love with Adelaide had been invited to their wedding. This sent him into a jealous rage.”
“Jealous rage?” Jessica repeated.
I’d never heard the phrase before either, but I could easily guess what it meant.
“Yes, darling,” Mother said. “He lost his mind, got a gun, and walked into the wedding venue. Then he opened fire and killed everyone in sight before turning the gun on himself.”
I gasped and Jessica covered her open mouth with her hand as tears formed in her eyes.
Mother pointed to Jessica and said, “That’s exactly how Adelaide reacted when she walked into the venue and saw the remains of the bloodbath.”
“They were all dead?” I cried.
Mother frowned and glanced around. “Lower your voice, Margaret. And yes, they were all dead. After such an atrocity, do you think Adelaide was ever the same? Or do you think her capacity to enjoy life was interrupted? What do you think?”
I glanced at Jessica, and she was wiping tears from her eyes.
I slung one of my arms around her shoulder and fed Mother the answer I figured would get her to end the terrible story, “She shouldn’t have trusted the man.”
Mother nodded. “Correct. The man ruined her life. Adelaide was never the same after that, and for the rest of her short life, she sat in Belle Maison’s drawing-room wearing her silk white wedding dress. Day after day, she sat there waiting for her groom to return to her. She died, insane and unreachable when she was only 23.”
Silence sifted between the three of us as guests trickled down the hallway and into the parlor.
Mother smiled down at us and clasped her hands together. “Now ladies, once again, what is the moral of that true tale I just shared with you?”
“Never trust a man,” I repeated.
“Ever,” Jessica whispered.
Mother gave us a thumbs up, “Excellent. Remembering that can save your lives, ladies.”
We just stared at her, horrified.
How did she go from rock bottom to a life upgrade that included the adoration of an entire kingdom and the love of a smoking hot prince?
Deep down, I knew it was only a fairy tale, but it gave me hope.
At night, I would close my eyes and imagine myself in that major Cinderella moment, the one that changed her life.
I remember telling my best friend, Jessica about this when we were both seven years old.
It was one of those rare Saturdays Mother took off from work to spend a day with me.
On the weekends, Jessica and I were inseparable. So, that Saturday Mother took both of us to Belle Maison, a plantation in Donaldsonville, Louisiana.
The sprawling mansion had become a tourist attraction, event venue, and restaurant. It also featured a tea service that everyone who was anyone in Louisiana got dressed up for and sampled from time to time.
On our way to the tea service, Mother let me and Jessica take a peek at the plantation’s grand ballroom, which was where wedding receptions and other major events were held.
“It looks like the staff is preparing for an event. So, you’ll have to hurry and take a quick look,” Mother warned as we stepped into the room, the heels of our shoes tapping against the impeccable marble floors.
Awed, Jessica and I looked up at the high ceiling where an oversized chandelier was dripping with diamonds.
“Whoa,” Jessica muttered, and her one-word response to the stunning visuals summed up my feelings entirely.
A slew of Belle Maison workers bustled about, each clad in crisp white shirts and black slacks as they scurried from one task to the next. Some were setting up tables, others cleaned windows and doorknobs, while still others walked around with tape measure, preparing for the set-up of furniture and items that had yet to make an entrance.
I blinked, and in my imagination, the workers were gone.
Their presence was replaced by a well-dressed quartet that played a waltz and dozens of men and women on the dance floor, their movements as elegant as their clothing.
Standing just off to the side was the man of the hour, Prince Charming.
And I was no longer a seven-year-old in a floral dress from Target.
I’d been transformed into Cinderella.
Sighing dramatically, I nudged Jessica and said, “This has to be the ballroom where Cinderella met Prince Charming.”
“Yeah,” Jessica replied, her eyes beaming. “It looks exactly like it.”
“Can’t you just see it?” I pointed to the entrance we’d used. “She walks through there and everyone in the ballroom stops what they’re doing to stare at her. And then she looks at the prince and he looks at her and-”
“Oh, please,” Mother’s bitter laugh shattered our fairy tale.
The dry cackle plucked us from the realms of fantasy and replanted us in the withering garden that is reality.
We turned to Mother as she arched a perfectly drawn dark eyebrow and said, “Fairy tales about love are garbage. Now, tell me ladies, what kinds of creatures feed on garbage?”
Jessica and I exchanged a glance.
“Ladies?” Mother urged.
“Um, I guess, uh,” Jessica hesitantly replied, “like, rats maybe?”
“Yes, rats.” Mother smiled at my best friend in a way that made me protectively slide my hand into Jessica’s and give hers a comforting squeeze. Even then, I recognized that my mother could be a little scary. “Are you a rat, Jessica?”
“She’s not a rat,” I quickly said.
“Correct. You are refined young ladies,” Mother nodded. “And refined young ladies do not feed on garbage. They feed on truth, which is what helps them to blossom. So, if fairy tales about love, like the story of Cinderella, are lies, do we want to feed on them?”
“No,” Jessica said.
Startled by Jessica’s response, I glanced at my friend’s expression and realized she was only telling Mother what she wanted to hear.
Relieved, I knew Jessica still loved our favorite movie as much as I did and that we’d most likely still find ourselves watching it before we went to sleep that night.
I returned my attention to Mother, and she was staring at me expectantly.
“Margaret, do we feed on fairy tales about love?” she demanded.
Gulping, I quickly said, “No, ma’am.”
“Very good. Now, I’m going to tell you a true story, ladies,” Mother ushered us out of the ballroom and began leading us towards Belle Maison’s parlor, which was where the tea service was held. “Are you familiar with the true tale of Adelaide LeBlanc?”
I shook my head and so did Jessica.
Mother slowed her stride as we sauntered down a narrow hallway with walls that were painted a soft blue. She lifted a hand and grazed the wall on her right as we moved along. “It’s a true story that happened right here in this home. Adelaide touched these walls with her own hands, and she walked these hallways just like you girls are right now. She grew up here.”
“Wow,” Jessica softly said. “She grew up here?”
Intrigued, I asked, “So, she was rich? Like a princess?”
“Yes.” Mother’s expression was stern as she glanced at us. “But being as rich as a princess means nothing when one is not intelligent. Adelaide learned that the hard way.”
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“Adelaide fell in love with a man when she was only 20 years old,” Mother said. “He was very good-looking and wealthy. But 20 is too young to fall in love, that was Adelaide’s first mistake. She should have waited until she was older. Because guess what happened?”
I folded my arms across my chest, already disliking the direction this true story was taking. It sounded suspiciously like the things my mother would say when she was angry with my father and ranting about “the mistakes she’d made in her youthful ignorance.”
“What happened?” Jessica asked.
“This handsome man,” Mother said, coming to a halt at the end of the hallway, where the parlor’s entrance was just ahead.
We stopped with her and looked up at her as she continued with her depressing non-fairy tale, “He was the jealous type. Meaning, he didn’t like Adelaide having any friends other than him. He also didn’t want her to get an education. He wanted to keep her all to himself. Does that sound normal to you, girls?”
Jessica and I shook our heads.
Honestly, I only shook mine because if I didn’t, the story would drag on for even longer.
“But Adelaide ignored the warning signs, and when this handsome ‘Prince Charming’ asked her to marry him, she said yes,” Mother continued. “The wedding was going to be the finest event south Louisiana had ever seen. It would’ve happened here, in that Grand Ballroom you girls were just in. The mayor and the governor were planning to attend. But it was a good thing their carriages were late because something horrible happened on the wedding day.”
I’ll admit, I was a bit hooked at this point.
“Horrible?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, my dear,” Mother said, looking into my eyes. “That men cannot be trusted.”
Confused, I asked, “The man she was going to marry, he did something bad?”
“Very bad,” Mother said. “On the day of the wedding, while Adelaide LeBlanc was in her room, being helped into her beautiful white wedding gown, her intended discovered that another man who’d been in love with Adelaide had been invited to their wedding. This sent him into a jealous rage.”
“Jealous rage?” Jessica repeated.
I’d never heard the phrase before either, but I could easily guess what it meant.
“Yes, darling,” Mother said. “He lost his mind, got a gun, and walked into the wedding venue. Then he opened fire and killed everyone in sight before turning the gun on himself.”
I gasped and Jessica covered her open mouth with her hand as tears formed in her eyes.
Mother pointed to Jessica and said, “That’s exactly how Adelaide reacted when she walked into the venue and saw the remains of the bloodbath.”
“They were all dead?” I cried.
Mother frowned and glanced around. “Lower your voice, Margaret. And yes, they were all dead. After such an atrocity, do you think Adelaide was ever the same? Or do you think her capacity to enjoy life was interrupted? What do you think?”
I glanced at Jessica, and she was wiping tears from her eyes.
I slung one of my arms around her shoulder and fed Mother the answer I figured would get her to end the terrible story, “She shouldn’t have trusted the man.”
Mother nodded. “Correct. The man ruined her life. Adelaide was never the same after that, and for the rest of her short life, she sat in Belle Maison’s drawing-room wearing her silk white wedding dress. Day after day, she sat there waiting for her groom to return to her. She died, insane and unreachable when she was only 23.”
Silence sifted between the three of us as guests trickled down the hallway and into the parlor.
Mother smiled down at us and clasped her hands together. “Now ladies, once again, what is the moral of that true tale I just shared with you?”
“Never trust a man,” I repeated.
“Ever,” Jessica whispered.
Mother gave us a thumbs up, “Excellent. Remembering that can save your lives, ladies.”
We just stared at her, horrified.
***
Sixteen years later, I am once again horrified.
I’m now 24 years old, nearly the same age Adelaide LeBlanc was when she passed away, “insane and unreachable.”
Over the years, I’ve decided that my mother is traumatized and bitter, a state which inaccurately informs her perception of all men as inherently untrustworthy.
That said, I also think she was right about one thing.
Fairy tales about love are garbage.
I believed them and now, here I am, in Belle Maison with my fiancé as he shoves a Glock 19 into my right rib cage and shouts to a room full of guests, “Stand down, or I’ll shoot her.”
My heart is beating so fast it feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest, and I can barely breathe.
I stare at the man who claimed, only days ago, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.
It dawns on me that Adelaide LeBlanc and I are likely to go down in history with a similar fate.
I’m now 24 years old, nearly the same age Adelaide LeBlanc was when she passed away, “insane and unreachable.”
Over the years, I’ve decided that my mother is traumatized and bitter, a state which inaccurately informs her perception of all men as inherently untrustworthy.
That said, I also think she was right about one thing.
Fairy tales about love are garbage.
I believed them and now, here I am, in Belle Maison with my fiancé as he shoves a Glock 19 into my right rib cage and shouts to a room full of guests, “Stand down, or I’ll shoot her.”
My heart is beating so fast it feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest, and I can barely breathe.
I stare at the man who claimed, only days ago, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.
It dawns on me that Adelaide LeBlanc and I are likely to go down in history with a similar fate.
Chapter One- Maggie
Location: Prairieville, Louisiana
Relationship Status: Single
Relationship Status: Single
“Thank you, ma’am,” Helen said as I handed her several paper bags filled with boxed meals. Her two small children, Will and Diamond, were at her side.
They never said much when they stopped by Maggie’s House, they’d just look up at me with big, curious eyes in a way that made me wonder if my hair was sticking straight up or if I had something on my face.
“My pleasure, and there’s a meal in there for your husband, with extra gravy on the side, just how he likes.” I smiled at Helen and waved to the kids. “Hey, you two. It’s great to see you again. In fact, I have a little something extra for you. Hang on just one second, okay?”
Fortunately, Maggie’s House was minutes away from closing for the evening and there was no one in line behind Helen and her family. So, I had time to run and get the surprise I’d stupidly forgotten to stash in the nonprofit’s To-Go Meal Service station.
“I’ll be right back,” I called over my shoulder as I jogged past the kitchen, where pots and pans were clanging loudly. Beth and her sous-chef Michael were hard at work washing dishes.
Maggie’s House wasn’t your average soup kitchen. It had a huge layout thanks to being a former Super K-Mart. This facilitated the way it was divided: one section was a kitchen, another was a Dine-In Cafeteria, followed by a To-Go Meal Service station, and a Gently Used Clothing Boutique where all of the threads were free.
Transforming the former department store into a massive soup kitchen took eight months and a total of 6.5 million dollars, which was nearly my entire trust fund.
But as I slowed my stride to a fast walk and weaved my way through the clothing boutique, I watched a scene unfold that washed away any lingering reservations about the time and money I’d invested into Maggie’s House.
A middle-aged woman with short, close-cropped hair stood at the register with a t-shirt in her hands. She wore clothing that, sadly, identified her as a person without housing. Her outfit consisted of layers of coats and sweaters that had been thrown over a pair of dirty jeans.
“Are you telling me this is free?” she asked Kiara, the boutique’s manager. The woman pointed to her surroundings and continued, “All of this? I don’t have to pay for any of it?”
Kiara smiled and nodded. “That’s right, Ms. Miller. You can choose up to five free items per week. Is this all you’d like today?”
Ms. Miller’s eyes widened, and she looked at the t-shirt in her hand before returning her attention to Kiara.
“Well, I guess not. And I’ll take that bottled water you offered me earlier.”
Kiara chuckled and grabbed a bottle of water from the small refrigerator behind the register. “Of course. Here you are.”
The older woman accepted the bottled water, looked at it for a moment and then said, “Well, here I am. Thank you.”
Smiling, I moved past the boutique and enjoyed the reassurance that wrapped itself around my heart like a hug.
Maggie’s House was really making a difference. People’s lives were improving because of it.
This is better than anything else I could have done with my trust fund.
Still grinning, I came to a halt at my office and reached into my pocket for my key to unlock the door.
My father may have called me “unrealistic” and “ungrateful” when he found out how I was using the money, and Mother may have openly shed tears for the first time in her life -at least the first time I’d ever seen- but they were wrong to doubt my plans.
Opening Maggie’s House was the right choice, and I honestly couldn’t see myself doing anything else with my money or my life.
I grabbed the Moshling Treehouse and Lego sets, both still in boxes, from behind my desk and hurried out of the office.
Flying past the boutique, I spotted Ms. Miller sipping her water as she examined a wool knit cap and within seconds I was shouting, “Yep,” to Beth as she caught sight of me from the kitchen and asked, “Mags, are we going to plan next week’s menu tonight?”
Nearly out of breath, I came to stop at the To-Go Window and smoothed down my hair as I approached Helen.
“I saw these at the mall the other day and immediately thought of-”
The words got caught in the back of my throat as a lone woman, clad in black from head to toe, approached the To-Go window.
She walked slowly, a picture-perfect middle-aged fashionista with her chin-length brown hair cut into a sleek bob. Her disapproving eyes were concealed behind dark Gucci shades, and her slim figure was tastefully showcased by the black form-fitting turtleneck she’d paired with a matching skirt.
Her entire outfit was worth more than the measly $5,000 left in my trust fund, and I knew this only because she’d told me herself.
She’d shared this fact earlier, at seven in the morning, when she’d called for her daily “You’re-A-Disappointment” speech.
The highlight of this morning’s mother-daughter heart-to-heart had been when she’d said, “Your poor decisions have drained your finances and any hope of a meaningful career. The outfit I’m wearing costs more than what’s left in your trust fund, and don’t you dare, for even a moment, think that I will replenish what you’ve foolishly stolen from yourself.”
Rendered speechless by her words, all I could do was listen and try to hide the fact that I was crying.
Hours later, that helpless feeling returned as I watched my mother saunter towards the To-Go window.
“You alright, Maggie?” Helen asked. She turned around to see what had my attention.
Coming to, I tried to relocate my smile. “Yes, sorry, uh, these are for Diamond and Will. I hope they like them.”
Helen accepted the two boxes of toys and, for the first time that I’d ever seen, both kids grinned from ear-to-ear.
The sight tugged at my heartstrings and nearly managed to distract me from the impending firestorm headed my way.
“Wow,” little Diamond whispered as she hugged her toy to her chest.
“What do you say to Ms. Maggie, kids?” Helen gave them each a gentle nudge.
“Thank you,” the two siblings said in unison.
I grinned. “I’m glad you like them. Have a good evening. See you next time.” I waved and hoped they weren't offended that I was hurrying them off.
Normally, I would’ve chatted longer, but I didn’t want any clients around to hear the ensuing argument.
Helen gave me a funny look and glanced over her shoulder, at my mother. With this, she leaned closer to the window and whispered, “You alright?”
Nope. Not at all.
But I couldn’t admit this. After all, what kind of loser was afraid of her own mother?
I nodded and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Yeah, totally. You guys take care.” I topped this with a fake smile, which I could tell Helen didn’t buy.
Even so, she nodded and gave my mother a lingering glance before wrangling her kids and moving along.
I took a deep breath as Mother peeled off her sunglasses and came to a halt in the spot Helen and her children occupied seconds ago.
“Mother,” I said, clasping my hands together so tightly they were probably turning red. “Would you like to come in? I can give you a tour of-”
She waved this off, her nose wrinkling like she smelled something distasteful. “No. I’m fine here.”
“Okay.” I squared my shoulders as she looked me in the eye.
Her eyes were the same dark brown as mine. Her hair, now dyed to cover a series of white strands, was also the same nut-brown as mine. People often said I was the spitting image of my mother. But that was where the similarities between Camilla Lindenberg and Margaret Lindenberg began and ended.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I felt rather uneasy after our conversation this morning,” Mother said, tapping one of her French manicured nails on the right arm of her sunglasses.
She can’t possibly be here to apologize. No way.
Surprised, I nodded and said, “Me too.”
Mother brushed a strand of her hair aside and took a deep breath before replying, “You’re my daughter, I will never leave you by the wayside. Even if it’s your own decisions that brought you to that point.”
The moment of surprise decidedly gone, I kept my lips firmly pressed together and forced myself to remain silent.
If there was anything I’d learned from being Camilla’s daughter, it was that I fared better when I shut my mouth and let her say whatever it was she felt she needed to express, even if her words were daggers.
“You have a business degree that I encouraged you to use,” Mother said.
I nearly laughed at her use of the phrase, “encouraged you.”
It would have been more accurate if she’d said, “that I forced you” to use.
After graduating from Louisiana State University, I’d wanted to take a year off, but Mother threatened to cut me off financially and limit access to my trust fund if I didn’t open a business and hit the ground running within weeks of graduating.
Hence, the creation of Maggie’s House.
To be honest, a few months into the nonprofit’s construction, I realized I was glad Mother pushed me to start a business.
Maggie’s House had become my heart, and running it made me happier than I’d ever been.
“But this.” Mother gestured to our surroundings with an expression that would’ve told anyone she was looking at a dump. “This is not what I intended for you. This is the sort of investment one makes after they’ve amassed the personal wealth to afford such expenditures. That said, you’re young and it isn’t your fault you failed to realize that.”
Right. I’m still a loser no matter what I do. Whatever.
Trying not to let her insults get to me, I watched Mother carefully and wondered what she was getting at.
She tilted her head and spoke quietly, “So, as your mother, it’s my responsibility to help you get back on track. That’s why I’m presenting you with an option. You can either partner with me and become Vice President of Cam G’s Salon and Spa’s, or I will purchase my friend Vivian’s magazine and hand it over to you to run.”
My mouth fell open in shock.
“Either way,” Mother continued, her eyes locked on to mine. “You will not continue as CEO of this mistaken business venture.”
“Mother.” I shook my head, searching for the right words. “As much as I appreciate your offer, I have no interest in running a bunch of Spas. That’s just not me.”
“Very well.” She nodded. “Then you’ll take over Your Style Magazine, now that Vivian’s stepping down as CEO. I’ll let her know immediately.”
“No, no,” I exclaimed. “That’s not what I meant. I’m saying, um, I’m saying as much as I appreciate your offer, I love this place. And it’s doing well! In the past six months we’ve been open, we’ve served-”
“How much money have you made?” Mother demanded, one of her dark eyebrows arched.
Heat crept into my cheeks as I confessed, “We’ve gotten $8,000 in donations, but I planned for the loss and-”
Mother shook her head. “You will not continue as CEO of this debacle. And if you try to, I am very well-connected, darling. I will have my friends shut this place down. So, shall I call Vivian?”
I stared at her, appalled.
“Why are you doing this?” I finally managed to whisper.
“I’m your mother, I want what’s best for you,” she took a step closer to the To-Go window and in the distance, police sirens wailed. The wind picked up, gently tousling her hair and carrying the scent of Beth’s delicious chicken and rice with gravy from the kitchen. “And this place, though it may come from a place of kindness, is not what’s best for anyone.”
“But-”
“Mark my words,” Mother said, cutting me off. “If I allow you to continue running Maggie’s House, it will collapse in less than three years' time and you will be penniless. You’ll need the very services you once provided to the homeless. Obviously, I won’t allow that to happen to my own offspring.”
I gulped and found myself envisioning Mom’s prediction.
It was easy to picture, considering how little money we’d received in donations and sponsorships.
What if she’s right?
“The community depends on us,” I said, hating how weak I sounded.
“And the community will still be here a decade from now,” Mother’s reply was quick, “when you’ve established yourself as CEO of a flourishing company and you’re financially prepared to make a lasting difference in the community.”
I looked down at my hands. They were so small. Why did I think this would work? That I could actually do something right? I’m so stupid.
“This was an error in judgment, but you’re not alone. You have me. And it’s not too late for the two of us to turn this around,” Mother said. She reached into the window and took one of my hands. “Margaret, let me help you. Alright?”
In the distance, the police sirens grew louder, and my one-word response was barely audible over the noise.
“Alright.”
They never said much when they stopped by Maggie’s House, they’d just look up at me with big, curious eyes in a way that made me wonder if my hair was sticking straight up or if I had something on my face.
“My pleasure, and there’s a meal in there for your husband, with extra gravy on the side, just how he likes.” I smiled at Helen and waved to the kids. “Hey, you two. It’s great to see you again. In fact, I have a little something extra for you. Hang on just one second, okay?”
Fortunately, Maggie’s House was minutes away from closing for the evening and there was no one in line behind Helen and her family. So, I had time to run and get the surprise I’d stupidly forgotten to stash in the nonprofit’s To-Go Meal Service station.
“I’ll be right back,” I called over my shoulder as I jogged past the kitchen, where pots and pans were clanging loudly. Beth and her sous-chef Michael were hard at work washing dishes.
Maggie’s House wasn’t your average soup kitchen. It had a huge layout thanks to being a former Super K-Mart. This facilitated the way it was divided: one section was a kitchen, another was a Dine-In Cafeteria, followed by a To-Go Meal Service station, and a Gently Used Clothing Boutique where all of the threads were free.
Transforming the former department store into a massive soup kitchen took eight months and a total of 6.5 million dollars, which was nearly my entire trust fund.
But as I slowed my stride to a fast walk and weaved my way through the clothing boutique, I watched a scene unfold that washed away any lingering reservations about the time and money I’d invested into Maggie’s House.
A middle-aged woman with short, close-cropped hair stood at the register with a t-shirt in her hands. She wore clothing that, sadly, identified her as a person without housing. Her outfit consisted of layers of coats and sweaters that had been thrown over a pair of dirty jeans.
“Are you telling me this is free?” she asked Kiara, the boutique’s manager. The woman pointed to her surroundings and continued, “All of this? I don’t have to pay for any of it?”
Kiara smiled and nodded. “That’s right, Ms. Miller. You can choose up to five free items per week. Is this all you’d like today?”
Ms. Miller’s eyes widened, and she looked at the t-shirt in her hand before returning her attention to Kiara.
“Well, I guess not. And I’ll take that bottled water you offered me earlier.”
Kiara chuckled and grabbed a bottle of water from the small refrigerator behind the register. “Of course. Here you are.”
The older woman accepted the bottled water, looked at it for a moment and then said, “Well, here I am. Thank you.”
Smiling, I moved past the boutique and enjoyed the reassurance that wrapped itself around my heart like a hug.
Maggie’s House was really making a difference. People’s lives were improving because of it.
This is better than anything else I could have done with my trust fund.
Still grinning, I came to a halt at my office and reached into my pocket for my key to unlock the door.
My father may have called me “unrealistic” and “ungrateful” when he found out how I was using the money, and Mother may have openly shed tears for the first time in her life -at least the first time I’d ever seen- but they were wrong to doubt my plans.
Opening Maggie’s House was the right choice, and I honestly couldn’t see myself doing anything else with my money or my life.
I grabbed the Moshling Treehouse and Lego sets, both still in boxes, from behind my desk and hurried out of the office.
Flying past the boutique, I spotted Ms. Miller sipping her water as she examined a wool knit cap and within seconds I was shouting, “Yep,” to Beth as she caught sight of me from the kitchen and asked, “Mags, are we going to plan next week’s menu tonight?”
Nearly out of breath, I came to stop at the To-Go Window and smoothed down my hair as I approached Helen.
“I saw these at the mall the other day and immediately thought of-”
The words got caught in the back of my throat as a lone woman, clad in black from head to toe, approached the To-Go window.
She walked slowly, a picture-perfect middle-aged fashionista with her chin-length brown hair cut into a sleek bob. Her disapproving eyes were concealed behind dark Gucci shades, and her slim figure was tastefully showcased by the black form-fitting turtleneck she’d paired with a matching skirt.
Her entire outfit was worth more than the measly $5,000 left in my trust fund, and I knew this only because she’d told me herself.
She’d shared this fact earlier, at seven in the morning, when she’d called for her daily “You’re-A-Disappointment” speech.
The highlight of this morning’s mother-daughter heart-to-heart had been when she’d said, “Your poor decisions have drained your finances and any hope of a meaningful career. The outfit I’m wearing costs more than what’s left in your trust fund, and don’t you dare, for even a moment, think that I will replenish what you’ve foolishly stolen from yourself.”
Rendered speechless by her words, all I could do was listen and try to hide the fact that I was crying.
Hours later, that helpless feeling returned as I watched my mother saunter towards the To-Go window.
“You alright, Maggie?” Helen asked. She turned around to see what had my attention.
Coming to, I tried to relocate my smile. “Yes, sorry, uh, these are for Diamond and Will. I hope they like them.”
Helen accepted the two boxes of toys and, for the first time that I’d ever seen, both kids grinned from ear-to-ear.
The sight tugged at my heartstrings and nearly managed to distract me from the impending firestorm headed my way.
“Wow,” little Diamond whispered as she hugged her toy to her chest.
“What do you say to Ms. Maggie, kids?” Helen gave them each a gentle nudge.
“Thank you,” the two siblings said in unison.
I grinned. “I’m glad you like them. Have a good evening. See you next time.” I waved and hoped they weren't offended that I was hurrying them off.
Normally, I would’ve chatted longer, but I didn’t want any clients around to hear the ensuing argument.
Helen gave me a funny look and glanced over her shoulder, at my mother. With this, she leaned closer to the window and whispered, “You alright?”
Nope. Not at all.
But I couldn’t admit this. After all, what kind of loser was afraid of her own mother?
I nodded and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Yeah, totally. You guys take care.” I topped this with a fake smile, which I could tell Helen didn’t buy.
Even so, she nodded and gave my mother a lingering glance before wrangling her kids and moving along.
I took a deep breath as Mother peeled off her sunglasses and came to a halt in the spot Helen and her children occupied seconds ago.
“Mother,” I said, clasping my hands together so tightly they were probably turning red. “Would you like to come in? I can give you a tour of-”
She waved this off, her nose wrinkling like she smelled something distasteful. “No. I’m fine here.”
“Okay.” I squared my shoulders as she looked me in the eye.
Her eyes were the same dark brown as mine. Her hair, now dyed to cover a series of white strands, was also the same nut-brown as mine. People often said I was the spitting image of my mother. But that was where the similarities between Camilla Lindenberg and Margaret Lindenberg began and ended.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I felt rather uneasy after our conversation this morning,” Mother said, tapping one of her French manicured nails on the right arm of her sunglasses.
She can’t possibly be here to apologize. No way.
Surprised, I nodded and said, “Me too.”
Mother brushed a strand of her hair aside and took a deep breath before replying, “You’re my daughter, I will never leave you by the wayside. Even if it’s your own decisions that brought you to that point.”
The moment of surprise decidedly gone, I kept my lips firmly pressed together and forced myself to remain silent.
If there was anything I’d learned from being Camilla’s daughter, it was that I fared better when I shut my mouth and let her say whatever it was she felt she needed to express, even if her words were daggers.
“You have a business degree that I encouraged you to use,” Mother said.
I nearly laughed at her use of the phrase, “encouraged you.”
It would have been more accurate if she’d said, “that I forced you” to use.
After graduating from Louisiana State University, I’d wanted to take a year off, but Mother threatened to cut me off financially and limit access to my trust fund if I didn’t open a business and hit the ground running within weeks of graduating.
Hence, the creation of Maggie’s House.
To be honest, a few months into the nonprofit’s construction, I realized I was glad Mother pushed me to start a business.
Maggie’s House had become my heart, and running it made me happier than I’d ever been.
“But this.” Mother gestured to our surroundings with an expression that would’ve told anyone she was looking at a dump. “This is not what I intended for you. This is the sort of investment one makes after they’ve amassed the personal wealth to afford such expenditures. That said, you’re young and it isn’t your fault you failed to realize that.”
Right. I’m still a loser no matter what I do. Whatever.
Trying not to let her insults get to me, I watched Mother carefully and wondered what she was getting at.
She tilted her head and spoke quietly, “So, as your mother, it’s my responsibility to help you get back on track. That’s why I’m presenting you with an option. You can either partner with me and become Vice President of Cam G’s Salon and Spa’s, or I will purchase my friend Vivian’s magazine and hand it over to you to run.”
My mouth fell open in shock.
“Either way,” Mother continued, her eyes locked on to mine. “You will not continue as CEO of this mistaken business venture.”
“Mother.” I shook my head, searching for the right words. “As much as I appreciate your offer, I have no interest in running a bunch of Spas. That’s just not me.”
“Very well.” She nodded. “Then you’ll take over Your Style Magazine, now that Vivian’s stepping down as CEO. I’ll let her know immediately.”
“No, no,” I exclaimed. “That’s not what I meant. I’m saying, um, I’m saying as much as I appreciate your offer, I love this place. And it’s doing well! In the past six months we’ve been open, we’ve served-”
“How much money have you made?” Mother demanded, one of her dark eyebrows arched.
Heat crept into my cheeks as I confessed, “We’ve gotten $8,000 in donations, but I planned for the loss and-”
Mother shook her head. “You will not continue as CEO of this debacle. And if you try to, I am very well-connected, darling. I will have my friends shut this place down. So, shall I call Vivian?”
I stared at her, appalled.
“Why are you doing this?” I finally managed to whisper.
“I’m your mother, I want what’s best for you,” she took a step closer to the To-Go window and in the distance, police sirens wailed. The wind picked up, gently tousling her hair and carrying the scent of Beth’s delicious chicken and rice with gravy from the kitchen. “And this place, though it may come from a place of kindness, is not what’s best for anyone.”
“But-”
“Mark my words,” Mother said, cutting me off. “If I allow you to continue running Maggie’s House, it will collapse in less than three years' time and you will be penniless. You’ll need the very services you once provided to the homeless. Obviously, I won’t allow that to happen to my own offspring.”
I gulped and found myself envisioning Mom’s prediction.
It was easy to picture, considering how little money we’d received in donations and sponsorships.
What if she’s right?
“The community depends on us,” I said, hating how weak I sounded.
“And the community will still be here a decade from now,” Mother’s reply was quick, “when you’ve established yourself as CEO of a flourishing company and you’re financially prepared to make a lasting difference in the community.”
I looked down at my hands. They were so small. Why did I think this would work? That I could actually do something right? I’m so stupid.
“This was an error in judgment, but you’re not alone. You have me. And it’s not too late for the two of us to turn this around,” Mother said. She reached into the window and took one of my hands. “Margaret, let me help you. Alright?”
In the distance, the police sirens grew louder, and my one-word response was barely audible over the noise.
“Alright.”
Chapter Two- Sid
Location: Warrenton, Virginia
Relationship Status: Single
Relationship Status: Single
“Sid Cullen, you have a bright future ahead.”
I considered my superior’s words.
A bright future?
It seemed highly unlikely that anyone could chart my future with accuracy, considering the unsubstantiated nature of my origins.
To know one’s future, one must know one’s past.
In the five seconds to follow, my nerves blossomed, and a plethora of scenarios ran through my mind. Each crashed into the next like a multi-car pileup in my brain.
What if my father and his father before him both died of hypertrophic cardiomyopathy before the age of 25? That would give me approximately one remaining year of life. I’d classify that as the opposite of a “bright future.”
Or, what if I’m genetically disposed to developing a mental illness that will eventually render me little more than a sociopath?
An untreated condition of that sort, coupled with my tactical training and high IQ, will lead to one of the worst massacres in U.S. history. Once again, not a “bright future.”
There was also the possibility that none of the above scenarios were pertinent. But how was I to know when I had next to nil intel about my origins?
How can anyone know their future when their past is a mystery?
This question had lodged itself in my brain from the moment my parents sat me down and told me I hadn’t come from them, but that I’d been brought to them.
I was seven years old when they explained I’d been adopted, and they had no information relative to the identities of my birth parents.
In the years to follow, that moment became a weight that continued to impose itself on my every major life decision.
So, seventeen years later, as I was seated across from Director Rachel Sipherman, one of the most integral figures in the U.S. Intelligence Community, that moment still affected me even more than the huge compliment the Director had just been generous enough to offer me.
I couldn’t help but react with an inward start as she leaned forward, each of her palms flat on the large desk that separated us, and said, “In only eleven months with the Preliminary Division of our Suspected Criminal Activity Order you’ve done more than any of our senior agents.”
Yes, that does tend to happen to a perfectionist yet soulless workhorse who lacks any ties to family or friends and essentially has nothing to live for.
I maintained eye contact and an appearance of composure, but for the life of me, I could not form the proper response.
Sipherman’s eyebrows rose, and she leaned back in her chair, her expression telling me she’d taken my speechlessness for arrogance.
That would not do.
I cleared my throat and managed to say, “Thank you, ma’am,” in a low voice.
She nodded. “I’ve never done this before, but I’m moving you up to SCA Division II, where you’ll join a team of high-level undercover operatives in their missions to infiltrate and dissolve our nation’s most egregious criminal organizations.”
Shocked, I attempted to register the promotion and what it would mean to my career.
Sipherman was essentially fast-tracking me beyond any remaining training I was due to complete in SCA’s preliminary department as well as SCA Division I. She was moving me up to an advanced position that would put me alongside operatives of unparalleled expertise.
I took a deep breath.
This also meant I’d have unlimited access to information.
“Thank you, ma’am. I look forward to serving in whatever capacity you see fit.”
Her eyes narrowed and she gave me a long look that said she was homing in on something she presumed to be a negative aspect of my personality.
This was an unfortunate, but not unusual occurrence. Especially when I was interacting with females.
There was always something I seemed to lack.
A female teammate had once told me I was “soulless, like a robot.”
It hurt to hear that, but I wasn’t sure how to respond. So, I’d nodded and said, “Noted.”
She’d laughed and pointed to me as she’d said, “See what I mean?”
Now seated across from my superior, I readied myself for the words that would deliver a similarly disheartening blow.
“Formalities aside,” Sipherman leaned forward again and met my eyes. “Agent Cullen. Sid. Tell me, what is it that you want?”
Relieved, yet taken aback, I took a beat to register the fact that she was not accusing me of being odd.
She was simply asking me a question. And I knew the answer.
I want to find out where I come from.
“I want to serve my country,” I carefully replied.
“Why?”
“It’s the right thing to do. When you’re given the gift of freedom, you owe-”
“Spare me.” Sipherman stopped me with a dismissive wave of her right hand. “No need to bare your soul if you’re not in the mood. But don’t stoop to condescension. We’ll get to know each other in time.”
I opened my mouth to apologize, but Sipherman was already speaking, “I need you to be aware that from this moment on, your every move is under observation. You’ve essentially become one of SCA’s sentient weapons, your worth amounting to somewhere near $50 billion. And who wouldn’t keep an eye on a weapon of such value?”
$50 billion? Me?
I thought back to the many cafeteria lunches I’d consumed alone in grade school and then in the campus dining halls of the universities I’d attended.
The words of the last woman I’d asked out ran through my mind. She’d looked at me and frowned as she’d mumbled, “I don’t think so,” before hurriedly turning away.
How does that guy get to be worth $50 billion? Has there been some sort of mistake?
Pushing aside my doubts, I forced my thoughts back into the present and cleared my throat.
“I apologize,” I said, deciding to forge ahead with my confession. “If I may backtrack to your earlier question, ma’am, the one about what I want. I’d like to answer it honestly, if that’s acceptable.”
She nodded, one of her eyebrows arched.
I took a deep breath. “I’m adopted and I’ve been searching for a place to belong for as long as I can remember. SCA, it’s home to me.”
Sipherman regarded me with interest and for a moment neither of us said a word.
“Yes, that sounds more like something close to the truth,” she finally replied.
She was watching me carefully, but I couldn’t read the look on her face, which made me nervous.
So, I said nothing in response.
“And remind me,” Sipherman continued, “how old you were when your adoptive parents passed away?”
As the Director casually mentioned the worst moment of my life, my palate turned to sandpaper.
Attempting to maintain my composure, I said, “I was seventeen. Car crash.”
She nodded. “I’m sure that must have intensified the feelings you described.”
“Yes,” I replied, wondering why this seemingly impromptu psychoanalysis was necessary.
“Did you join SCA hoping to gain access to information about your birth parents?” Sipherman asked.
I blinked back at her, stunned.
How does she know? And how do I answer her without lying and being called out for it or telling the truth and coming across as a fool?
“That was one of my reasons, yes,” I admitted.
“Well, now you can find one of them.” She glanced down at an unopened file on her desk before meeting my eyes and saying, “This is all the intel SCA has on your birth mother.”
I gulped back the lump in my throat and took a deep breath.
Director Sipherman’s lips formed a thin smile, and she arched an eyebrow. “Just promise me you’ll also overthrow the head of the Lindenberg Drug Syndicate. That’s going to be your first assignment.”
Relieved, I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I promise. And thank you.”
One year later...
Chapter Three- Maggie
Location: Prairieville, Louisiana
Relationship Status: Single
At 7 a.m. on the dot, just as I was on a beach with Ryan Reynolds and the world’s hottest Canadian actor was poised to kiss me, my alarm clock yanked me from my dream and plopped me back into reality, where I promptly threw my pillow at the beeping dream-crushing device.
But the pillow was solid, and my aim was not.
I missed the alarm clock and hit both my favorite lamp and a framed picture of me and my bhessy, Jessica.
They fell off my bedside table and a loud crack sounded as the picture made contact with my wood floor.
“Of course,” I mumbled and stumbled out of bed. I looked down at the fractured frame. “Why wouldn’t a loser smash one of her favorite pictures?”
Careful to avoid the glass from the shattered pre-pandemic picture of me and Jessica backstage with Arcade Fire at their 2018 Vegas concert, I slammed a hand down on my stupid alarm clock and silenced its electronic bleating.
“And of course, the one thing in my room that’s a gift from my mother is more curse than gift.” I glared at the alarm clock. She’d gotten it for me after I’d shut down Maggie’s House.
Grabbing my phone from my charger, I sent my cleaning lady, Stella, a quick text:
Hi Stella, this is just a quick heads up that I had a “Maggie moment” and accidentally smashed a framed picture in my bedroom. I’m so sorry about that. I’d clean it up but I have to rush off to work. Please don’t hurt yourself on the broken glass. Thanks for all you do, and be safe XXO
Feeling guilty, I hit send and sighed.
I should leave her an extra tip too.
I ran a hand through my wild bedhead and wondered why every decision I’d ever made ended in disaster, even the small ones. I start a business, it fails. I throw my pillow at my alarm clock, I ruin one of my favorite pictures.
Am I cursed? Or just dumb?
Barely awake and already depressed, I dragged my sleepy self to my bathroom.
As soon as I stepped foot in the bathroom my phone rang and I rolled my eyes, knowing exactly who it was.
Literally, only one person in the world would call me before 8 a.m.
Without bothering to look at my caller ID, I set my phone on my bathroom counter, and answered, “Good Morning, Mother.”
“Not your mother, your sister,” a bored voice said from the other end of the line.
I looked down at my phone in shock and sure enough, my half-sister’s name was on the caller ID.
Celia.
“Cee Cee?” I asked, still recovering from my shock. “What’s wrong? What happened? Are you okay? Is Dad okay?”
“I’m fine, he’s fine. We’re all fine,” she said. In the background, I heard a bell ring.
“Are you at school?” I asked as I picked my phone up and leaned against the bathroom wall.
“It’s 8 a.m. on a Friday. And you just heard a school bell ring. Take a wild guess,” she deadpanned.
I rolled my eyes. “Alright, Celia. What’s up? What do you need?”
She sighed. “I hate asking favors, but I need one.”
“Okay,” I slowly replied. “That’s cool. Just tell me what’s up.”
“You know how I’m, like, an influencer or whatever?”
“Oh, yeah.” I smiled. “I’m one of your eighty thousand followers on Instagram. I check your posts every day.”
Silence.
I looked down at my phone and it didn’t seem my sister had hung up.
“Cee Cee?” I asked. “You there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” she cleared her throat. “You seriously check my posts every day?”
“You’re my little sister, and you’re famous.” I laughed. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Oh.” She paused again and, in the background, I heard someone yell, ‘Get to class!’
“It sounds like you’re going to get in trouble,” I pointed out.
This time it was Celia’s turn to chuckle. “Not likely. I’m Andrew Lindenberg’s daughter. I don’t get in trouble.”
“Must be nice,” I blurted without thinking, “to enjoy the benefits that come with living with your own father.”
She sighed. “Maggie, I get that Dad’s a workaholic who makes bad choices when it comes to family, not to mention he’s distant AF. But he does care about both of us. He might not live with you, but he loves you.”
“Sure,” I said, beginning to feel hot with nerves. “That’s why he decided to live over 1,000 miles away in New York with a new wife and daughter, and that’s why he never calls. Because that’s love. Oh, God. Why am I saying all this? I’m sorry…”
I cringed and shook my head.
“It’s okay,” she said in a surprisingly gentle tone. “That’s your truth. You have a right to speak it.”
“No,” I said, fanning myself with my free hand. “I shouldn’t have gone off like that. I apologize. You called me about something important, so let’s talk about that.”
“But if you want to vent, you totally can,” she hesitated. “It’s okay.”
“No. Forget I said all of that.” I spoke firmly. “Now, tell me how I can help you. That’s what matters right now.”
“Um, alright. I just, like, wanted to know if I could put an ad in your magazine? I can pay for it.”
My heart melted.
“Aw, Cee Cee,” I laughed. “Of course, and I will literally kill you if you try to pay me. You’re my little sister. It would be illegal for me to say no or take money from you.”
“Even though I’m the spawn of the woman who stole your dad and I only call you when I need something?” she deadpanned.
This was actually spot-on, and it struck a nerve that triggered just a touch of resentment.
I laughed too loudly in an attempt to cover my feelings. “Seriously, Celia, uh, maybe we can even set up a feature on you. Let me talk to my writers and get the ball rolling.”
My phone beeped with an incoming call from Camilla Lindenberg.
My heart sank.
“Thanks, Maggie,” Celia said.
“Sure, look, my mother is calling-”
“Oh my God. Please tell me she doesn’t still call you every morning for those horrible ‘pep talks.’” Celia said with a snort.
“Unfortunately, she does,” I said as my phone continued to beep.
“Geez. She’s so controlling,” Celia said. “I don’t know how you can stand it. Don’t you think it’s beyond time for you to tell her to back off?”
I bristled. “She’s sacrificed so much for me. And yes, she’s a lot. But she not only gave birth to me, but fed, clothed, and housed me for eighteen years. I can’t just tell her back off. That would be so disrespectful.”
Celia sighed. “Right. Whatever. I better go and you don’t want to keep Camilla waiting. That’ll just make the conversation even more painful.”
“Yeah,” I said glancing at myself in the mirror. “Bye, Cee Cee.”
I looked like I could use at least four more hours of sleep.
“Later, and thanks again,” she replied before hanging up.
I exhaled, readied myself for a verbal beating, and took my mother’s incoming call.
“Good morning, Mother.”
“Margaret,” my mother’s voice filled my bathroom and I cringed at the sound of my actual name.
I preferred ‘Maggie.’ Everyone knew this, including my mother.
Despite this, she refused to call me anything other than ‘Margaret.’ And when she was angry, she pulled out the full name: ‘Margaret Beatrice Lindenberg.’
Celia was lucky. She got the good name, Celia Marie Lindenberg.
“Where were you last night?” Camilla demanded. “I tried calling you eight times.”
“Sorry,” I muttered. “I had a thing at, uh, at Matthews.”
“Matthews?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause.
“Am I supposed to know what or whom that is?” Mother finally asked.
I tensed in anticipation of her reaction to my explanation, “Matthews Soup Kitchen, in Gonzales.”
“Matthews Soup Kitchen?” Mother repeated the name of the nonprofit in a tone that could only be described as horrified. “What were you doing there?”
“Well, it’s a soup kitchen,” I deadpanned. “So, I was in a kitchen, making soup.”
“Why? Was the press there?”
I sighed. “Not everything is about who sees-”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Being seen is everything,” Mother cut in. “Helping the poor does not in itself make one valuable. Before you help your community, you have to help yourself. Make yourself known, make you brand stand out. That brings in more money and more credibility. So, for now, only invest time in good deeds that are public knowledge. Remember, Margaret, you have to look out for yourself first, because no one else will. Only then can you look out for others. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I rolled my eyes.
Sighing, I had no choice but to listen as she continued, “That’s why you should have gone to the charity gala with me last night. The press was there in droves. That would have done wonders for Your Style, and your magazine needs all the coverage it can get. You must redefine yourself as a CEO who’s visible in the community, who shows up at pivotal charity events. Not at hole-in-the-wall soup kitchens no one’s heard of.”
“Right. Sorry,” I flatly replied.
“And of course, you’re not even at work yet, are you?” Camilla asked with a resigned sigh.
“Your Style isn’t open until 8 a.m.,” I said.
“To the employees. Are you an employee or are you the CEO?”
Rolling my eyes again, I turned on the water at my sink and grabbed my face wash as I snapped, “Yes, Mother, I’m the CEO. But what good would it do for me to be there, half-asleep, and all by myself at seven in the morning?”
Beyond irritated, I slathered the cold face wash on my cheeks, chin, and forehead.
“It boosts morale for employees to see their leader at work early, even if she’s simply checking her emails. Although based on what you’ve let your magazine come to these days, I’m sure you have much more to do than check emails. You could be at your desk right now, coming up with a strategy to get the percentage of readers you lost when you decided to become purely digitally based,” my mother lectured.
I knew she was right. But I also knew I needed at least four hours of sleep before heading back to the pit of darkness for the hellish daily grind.
I lowered myself until I was just above the sink and rinsed off the face wash.
“You know what I did for ten years at the spa where I worked when you were a little girl?” Camilla went on, “I showed up two hours early every day, which earned me a raise and eventually enough money to open my own line of spas so I could give you the life you deserve.”
Guilt wrapped its tendrils around my heart.
“Yeah, and I’m grateful for that, really. I am,” I said as I shut off the sink’s water and grabbed a paper towel to lightly dry my face.
“Then prove it by your actions,” she retorted. In the background, I heard the loud dance music that was typically played in the lobbies of her salons.
This told me she must have just walked into a Cam G’s location.
“Words mean nothing without supporting deeds,” Mother continued. “If I’d told the realtor’s office I was going to purchase a condo for you and then failed to pay, where would you be living right now?”
My heart was already plummeting faster than a free-falling elevator and it wasn’t even 7:15 a.m.
“With you,” I mumbled, grabbing my makeup kit with such force that I accidentally sent five small bottles of mascara flying into the sink.
“No, my darling,” Mother said. “When I told you no child of mine over the age of 18 would live under my roof, I meant that. So, you would be homeless. But I didn’t allow that to happen because I don’t just say things, I take action. Now, tell me, which aspects of your life are you taking action to control?”
My mind went blank and all I could focus on was wiping down the now-wet bottles of mascara I’d rescued from my bathroom sink.
“Um, I go to work every day,” I replied, knowing that saying anything was better than leaving Camilla without an answer to one of her many questions. “And by doing that I’m executing a plan to put Your Style back in the black.”
“That’s a start,” my mother replied, and in a different tone of voice at a lower volume, she said, “The windows out front were smudged and there were leaves on the sidewalk entrance. See that those issues are immediately resolved. Cam G’s is not a pigsty, and I will not allow it to resemble one.”
Someone, a woman’s voice, quickly replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
As I began to apply eyeliner, Mother’s voice returned to the phone in its normal volume and tone, “As I was saying, that’s a start, but you can do better at executing your plan. You’re drifting. Don’t drift.”
I’m drifting?
“... get to work early and schedule meetings with advisors who can help you turn Your Style around. Wrangle those writers of yours and whip them into shape...” As my mother’s morning pep talk increased in intensity, so did my depression.
I think this was because I knew she was right.
Ever since I’d accepted her offer to take over Your Style in exchange for a generous revival of my near-empty trust fund, I’d been rushing around like a maniac trying to get ahead and accomplishing nothing.
The one thing I’d managed to do was fail at successfully leading an award-winning fashion magazine.
As Mother continued, I couldn’t help but see that she was right… the continual failure comes from the fact that I really am just drifting along, directionless.
“... you must occupy the driver’s seat in your own life, Margaret,” Mother said. “That’s why I’m having you and I consult with a Life Coach. We’re scheduled for a 10 a.m. meeting today. Have your personal assistant note that on your schedule so you don’t forget.”
Horrified, I barely refrained from shouting my objections into the phone. “That’s such short notice! That’s only a few hours away. What if I’d had a meeting?”
“Then you’d cancel it because this is more important. Be ready for us no later than 9:45 and for God’s sake, wear something presentable. You’re head of a fashion magazine. Dress for the role,” Mother said in the tone she used when she was ready to end a phone call. “Now, I’ve got to go and so do you. I love you.”
“Love you too,” I muttered, feeling like a wrecked jigsaw puzzle as I clicked ‘hang up.’
Despite the conversation with Mother amounting to a verbal beating with a massive baseball bat, twenty minutes later, I was dressed in something presentable and sliding into my convertible.
Of course, in the back of my mind, I was also sure I’d be better off still in bed dreaming about Ryan Reynolds.
I didn’t want the job that had been handed to me and I didn’t care about becoming well-known.
All I really wanted was to stop failing at life.
Relationship Status: Single
At 7 a.m. on the dot, just as I was on a beach with Ryan Reynolds and the world’s hottest Canadian actor was poised to kiss me, my alarm clock yanked me from my dream and plopped me back into reality, where I promptly threw my pillow at the beeping dream-crushing device.
But the pillow was solid, and my aim was not.
I missed the alarm clock and hit both my favorite lamp and a framed picture of me and my bhessy, Jessica.
They fell off my bedside table and a loud crack sounded as the picture made contact with my wood floor.
“Of course,” I mumbled and stumbled out of bed. I looked down at the fractured frame. “Why wouldn’t a loser smash one of her favorite pictures?”
Careful to avoid the glass from the shattered pre-pandemic picture of me and Jessica backstage with Arcade Fire at their 2018 Vegas concert, I slammed a hand down on my stupid alarm clock and silenced its electronic bleating.
“And of course, the one thing in my room that’s a gift from my mother is more curse than gift.” I glared at the alarm clock. She’d gotten it for me after I’d shut down Maggie’s House.
Grabbing my phone from my charger, I sent my cleaning lady, Stella, a quick text:
Hi Stella, this is just a quick heads up that I had a “Maggie moment” and accidentally smashed a framed picture in my bedroom. I’m so sorry about that. I’d clean it up but I have to rush off to work. Please don’t hurt yourself on the broken glass. Thanks for all you do, and be safe XXO
Feeling guilty, I hit send and sighed.
I should leave her an extra tip too.
I ran a hand through my wild bedhead and wondered why every decision I’d ever made ended in disaster, even the small ones. I start a business, it fails. I throw my pillow at my alarm clock, I ruin one of my favorite pictures.
Am I cursed? Or just dumb?
Barely awake and already depressed, I dragged my sleepy self to my bathroom.
As soon as I stepped foot in the bathroom my phone rang and I rolled my eyes, knowing exactly who it was.
Literally, only one person in the world would call me before 8 a.m.
Without bothering to look at my caller ID, I set my phone on my bathroom counter, and answered, “Good Morning, Mother.”
“Not your mother, your sister,” a bored voice said from the other end of the line.
I looked down at my phone in shock and sure enough, my half-sister’s name was on the caller ID.
Celia.
“Cee Cee?” I asked, still recovering from my shock. “What’s wrong? What happened? Are you okay? Is Dad okay?”
“I’m fine, he’s fine. We’re all fine,” she said. In the background, I heard a bell ring.
“Are you at school?” I asked as I picked my phone up and leaned against the bathroom wall.
“It’s 8 a.m. on a Friday. And you just heard a school bell ring. Take a wild guess,” she deadpanned.
I rolled my eyes. “Alright, Celia. What’s up? What do you need?”
She sighed. “I hate asking favors, but I need one.”
“Okay,” I slowly replied. “That’s cool. Just tell me what’s up.”
“You know how I’m, like, an influencer or whatever?”
“Oh, yeah.” I smiled. “I’m one of your eighty thousand followers on Instagram. I check your posts every day.”
Silence.
I looked down at my phone and it didn’t seem my sister had hung up.
“Cee Cee?” I asked. “You there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” she cleared her throat. “You seriously check my posts every day?”
“You’re my little sister, and you’re famous.” I laughed. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Oh.” She paused again and, in the background, I heard someone yell, ‘Get to class!’
“It sounds like you’re going to get in trouble,” I pointed out.
This time it was Celia’s turn to chuckle. “Not likely. I’m Andrew Lindenberg’s daughter. I don’t get in trouble.”
“Must be nice,” I blurted without thinking, “to enjoy the benefits that come with living with your own father.”
She sighed. “Maggie, I get that Dad’s a workaholic who makes bad choices when it comes to family, not to mention he’s distant AF. But he does care about both of us. He might not live with you, but he loves you.”
“Sure,” I said, beginning to feel hot with nerves. “That’s why he decided to live over 1,000 miles away in New York with a new wife and daughter, and that’s why he never calls. Because that’s love. Oh, God. Why am I saying all this? I’m sorry…”
I cringed and shook my head.
“It’s okay,” she said in a surprisingly gentle tone. “That’s your truth. You have a right to speak it.”
“No,” I said, fanning myself with my free hand. “I shouldn’t have gone off like that. I apologize. You called me about something important, so let’s talk about that.”
“But if you want to vent, you totally can,” she hesitated. “It’s okay.”
“No. Forget I said all of that.” I spoke firmly. “Now, tell me how I can help you. That’s what matters right now.”
“Um, alright. I just, like, wanted to know if I could put an ad in your magazine? I can pay for it.”
My heart melted.
“Aw, Cee Cee,” I laughed. “Of course, and I will literally kill you if you try to pay me. You’re my little sister. It would be illegal for me to say no or take money from you.”
“Even though I’m the spawn of the woman who stole your dad and I only call you when I need something?” she deadpanned.
This was actually spot-on, and it struck a nerve that triggered just a touch of resentment.
I laughed too loudly in an attempt to cover my feelings. “Seriously, Celia, uh, maybe we can even set up a feature on you. Let me talk to my writers and get the ball rolling.”
My phone beeped with an incoming call from Camilla Lindenberg.
My heart sank.
“Thanks, Maggie,” Celia said.
“Sure, look, my mother is calling-”
“Oh my God. Please tell me she doesn’t still call you every morning for those horrible ‘pep talks.’” Celia said with a snort.
“Unfortunately, she does,” I said as my phone continued to beep.
“Geez. She’s so controlling,” Celia said. “I don’t know how you can stand it. Don’t you think it’s beyond time for you to tell her to back off?”
I bristled. “She’s sacrificed so much for me. And yes, she’s a lot. But she not only gave birth to me, but fed, clothed, and housed me for eighteen years. I can’t just tell her back off. That would be so disrespectful.”
Celia sighed. “Right. Whatever. I better go and you don’t want to keep Camilla waiting. That’ll just make the conversation even more painful.”
“Yeah,” I said glancing at myself in the mirror. “Bye, Cee Cee.”
I looked like I could use at least four more hours of sleep.
“Later, and thanks again,” she replied before hanging up.
I exhaled, readied myself for a verbal beating, and took my mother’s incoming call.
“Good morning, Mother.”
“Margaret,” my mother’s voice filled my bathroom and I cringed at the sound of my actual name.
I preferred ‘Maggie.’ Everyone knew this, including my mother.
Despite this, she refused to call me anything other than ‘Margaret.’ And when she was angry, she pulled out the full name: ‘Margaret Beatrice Lindenberg.’
Celia was lucky. She got the good name, Celia Marie Lindenberg.
“Where were you last night?” Camilla demanded. “I tried calling you eight times.”
“Sorry,” I muttered. “I had a thing at, uh, at Matthews.”
“Matthews?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause.
“Am I supposed to know what or whom that is?” Mother finally asked.
I tensed in anticipation of her reaction to my explanation, “Matthews Soup Kitchen, in Gonzales.”
“Matthews Soup Kitchen?” Mother repeated the name of the nonprofit in a tone that could only be described as horrified. “What were you doing there?”
“Well, it’s a soup kitchen,” I deadpanned. “So, I was in a kitchen, making soup.”
“Why? Was the press there?”
I sighed. “Not everything is about who sees-”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Being seen is everything,” Mother cut in. “Helping the poor does not in itself make one valuable. Before you help your community, you have to help yourself. Make yourself known, make you brand stand out. That brings in more money and more credibility. So, for now, only invest time in good deeds that are public knowledge. Remember, Margaret, you have to look out for yourself first, because no one else will. Only then can you look out for others. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I rolled my eyes.
Sighing, I had no choice but to listen as she continued, “That’s why you should have gone to the charity gala with me last night. The press was there in droves. That would have done wonders for Your Style, and your magazine needs all the coverage it can get. You must redefine yourself as a CEO who’s visible in the community, who shows up at pivotal charity events. Not at hole-in-the-wall soup kitchens no one’s heard of.”
“Right. Sorry,” I flatly replied.
“And of course, you’re not even at work yet, are you?” Camilla asked with a resigned sigh.
“Your Style isn’t open until 8 a.m.,” I said.
“To the employees. Are you an employee or are you the CEO?”
Rolling my eyes again, I turned on the water at my sink and grabbed my face wash as I snapped, “Yes, Mother, I’m the CEO. But what good would it do for me to be there, half-asleep, and all by myself at seven in the morning?”
Beyond irritated, I slathered the cold face wash on my cheeks, chin, and forehead.
“It boosts morale for employees to see their leader at work early, even if she’s simply checking her emails. Although based on what you’ve let your magazine come to these days, I’m sure you have much more to do than check emails. You could be at your desk right now, coming up with a strategy to get the percentage of readers you lost when you decided to become purely digitally based,” my mother lectured.
I knew she was right. But I also knew I needed at least four hours of sleep before heading back to the pit of darkness for the hellish daily grind.
I lowered myself until I was just above the sink and rinsed off the face wash.
“You know what I did for ten years at the spa where I worked when you were a little girl?” Camilla went on, “I showed up two hours early every day, which earned me a raise and eventually enough money to open my own line of spas so I could give you the life you deserve.”
Guilt wrapped its tendrils around my heart.
“Yeah, and I’m grateful for that, really. I am,” I said as I shut off the sink’s water and grabbed a paper towel to lightly dry my face.
“Then prove it by your actions,” she retorted. In the background, I heard the loud dance music that was typically played in the lobbies of her salons.
This told me she must have just walked into a Cam G’s location.
“Words mean nothing without supporting deeds,” Mother continued. “If I’d told the realtor’s office I was going to purchase a condo for you and then failed to pay, where would you be living right now?”
My heart was already plummeting faster than a free-falling elevator and it wasn’t even 7:15 a.m.
“With you,” I mumbled, grabbing my makeup kit with such force that I accidentally sent five small bottles of mascara flying into the sink.
“No, my darling,” Mother said. “When I told you no child of mine over the age of 18 would live under my roof, I meant that. So, you would be homeless. But I didn’t allow that to happen because I don’t just say things, I take action. Now, tell me, which aspects of your life are you taking action to control?”
My mind went blank and all I could focus on was wiping down the now-wet bottles of mascara I’d rescued from my bathroom sink.
“Um, I go to work every day,” I replied, knowing that saying anything was better than leaving Camilla without an answer to one of her many questions. “And by doing that I’m executing a plan to put Your Style back in the black.”
“That’s a start,” my mother replied, and in a different tone of voice at a lower volume, she said, “The windows out front were smudged and there were leaves on the sidewalk entrance. See that those issues are immediately resolved. Cam G’s is not a pigsty, and I will not allow it to resemble one.”
Someone, a woman’s voice, quickly replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
As I began to apply eyeliner, Mother’s voice returned to the phone in its normal volume and tone, “As I was saying, that’s a start, but you can do better at executing your plan. You’re drifting. Don’t drift.”
I’m drifting?
“... get to work early and schedule meetings with advisors who can help you turn Your Style around. Wrangle those writers of yours and whip them into shape...” As my mother’s morning pep talk increased in intensity, so did my depression.
I think this was because I knew she was right.
Ever since I’d accepted her offer to take over Your Style in exchange for a generous revival of my near-empty trust fund, I’d been rushing around like a maniac trying to get ahead and accomplishing nothing.
The one thing I’d managed to do was fail at successfully leading an award-winning fashion magazine.
As Mother continued, I couldn’t help but see that she was right… the continual failure comes from the fact that I really am just drifting along, directionless.
“... you must occupy the driver’s seat in your own life, Margaret,” Mother said. “That’s why I’m having you and I consult with a Life Coach. We’re scheduled for a 10 a.m. meeting today. Have your personal assistant note that on your schedule so you don’t forget.”
Horrified, I barely refrained from shouting my objections into the phone. “That’s such short notice! That’s only a few hours away. What if I’d had a meeting?”
“Then you’d cancel it because this is more important. Be ready for us no later than 9:45 and for God’s sake, wear something presentable. You’re head of a fashion magazine. Dress for the role,” Mother said in the tone she used when she was ready to end a phone call. “Now, I’ve got to go and so do you. I love you.”
“Love you too,” I muttered, feeling like a wrecked jigsaw puzzle as I clicked ‘hang up.’
Despite the conversation with Mother amounting to a verbal beating with a massive baseball bat, twenty minutes later, I was dressed in something presentable and sliding into my convertible.
Of course, in the back of my mind, I was also sure I’d be better off still in bed dreaming about Ryan Reynolds.
I didn’t want the job that had been handed to me and I didn’t care about becoming well-known.
All I really wanted was to stop failing at life.
Chapter Four
Sid
Location: Prairieville, Louisiana
Relationship Status: Single
Prairieville, Louisiana was peaceful and picturesque.
These were two qualities I’d grown to appreciate after critical situations involving the kidnappings of U.S. civilians had shifted our team to Mexico City and then thrust us into a gang war in The Democratic Republic of Congo.
But we’d since been relocated to our initial assignment in the quiet southern city nestled between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. In the six months that we’d taken on the Louisiana-based assignment, I’d found myself in a surprisingly laid-back atmosphere and I’d enjoyed the opportunity to rest.
I thought about this as I concluded my early morning run near one of Prairieville's many cow pastures.
Full of healthy-looking cows and its every blade of grass still wet with morning dew, the meadow sparkled in the sunlight.
When compared to the scenery in our previous assignments, Prairieville was something out of a dream.
I slowed to a walk and observed the cows. There were about a dozen, all of them chewing on their breakfast.
Only a few bothered to glance my way.
The average cow is about two years old when she has her first calf. The fact slipped into my mind as I watched the large animals. I’d recently read it online while researching what life was like on a dairy farm.
I met the gaze of a pleasantly plump brown and white cow who didn’t pause in her rhythmic chewing as she stared me down.
I wonder how old this one is. To know for sure, I would have had to examine her teeth, according to my research.
I turned away from the cows and walked on towards the highway ahead.
I sighed as my thoughts drifted past inane surface questions about cows and came to a halt at the reason for my newfound obsession with dairy farms and domesticated oxen.
Why didn’t anyone at Mount Sinai Hospital bother to find out how old my mother was when she gave birth to me? Or to, at the very least, ask her who the father of her baby was?
It was New York City for God’s sake, was there really no one in one of the world’s greatest melting pots who spoke Nepali? And if there wasn’t, then how did they know she wanted to give me away?
Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead, and this wasn’t due to the weather.
The morning air was crisp and regularly swept with cool breezes that sent shivers down the spine.
I took a deep breath and attempted to recenter my thoughts as I used the back of my hand to wipe a sheen of sweat from my forehead.
My upgraded SCA clearance may have afforded me access to information about my birth mother, but the so-called “answers” I unearthed were so sparse they only led to more questions.
I knew that my mother’s name was Sanjiya Rai and she grew up on a dairy farm near Kathmandu, Nepal. She was estimated to have been anywhere between 15-18 years of age when she immigrated to New York City, which was where she’d given birth to me.
But her exact age, according to SCA’s records, remained unknown. Also unknown was any information at all about my birthfather.
This, all of it, disturbed me more than I cared to think about.
Most of the time, I was too busy with my assignment to stew.
But during my early morning exercise routine, in the peace and quiet of dawn -and especially when I passed a dairy farm- thoughts of the mother who I’d never met consumed me.
The questions were almost suffocating because as much as I wanted the answers, I couldn’t find the courage to pursue them.
Sometimes it seemed like my life was a half-broken lullaby composed by fate. Soothing notes that inspired joy frequently morphed into more melancholy tunes, and I was powerless when it came to directing the song.
Fate was the conductor. I was nothing more than a man in the audience, listening to the broken song that should have been mine to create.
I exhaled and watched my breath condense into a misty cloud before disappearing.
If I waited too long to find the answers to my remaining questions, any hope of getting to know the truth about the circumstances surrounding my birth would disappear.
She wasn’t going to live forever.
Why am I thinking about this right now? It’s a distraction.
Attempting to redirect my thoughts, I glanced down at my SCA-issued telewatch.
7:29 a.m.
Director Sipherman was likely to call any minute.
I cleared my throat and retrained my focus to the current mission- The Lindenberg Syndicate.
For the past six months, my team had been monitoring Andrew Lindenberg, his current wife Stacey Lindenberg, his ex-wife Camilla Lindenberg, and the children of each union, Celia, and Maggie, respectively.
We knew Andrew was dirty, but he was also a highly intelligent and extremely cautious man. There was no way to press charges against someone who wiped their every dirty move clean.
On paper, he paid his taxes, kept out of trouble, and lived as an upstanding citizen.
But if someone in his family, someone who had connections to the syndicate, was even just a little sloppy- that would be SCA’s in.
Unfortunately for us, so far, there was no proof that anyone in Andrew’s family was even aware of his underhanded dealings.
My watch emitted a series of beeps and I glanced down to see Sipherman’s name and number on the small screen.
Readying myself, I quickly uttered the vocal response that would initiate our conversation, “Answer call.”
“Good morning, Director,” I said as I approached an intersection that would take me from the country road to the highway where my favorite coffee shop was located.
“Agent Cullen,” Sipherman replied, her tone upbeat. “How was your morning run?”
“Scenic.”
She chuckled. “You and your one-word responses. You and my 14-year-old would get along.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I grunted.
“Did you speak with Sanjiya Rai yet?” she asked.
My shoulders suddenly felt heavier and an unpleasant feeling gnawed at my gut.
Why is she asking me about my birth mother? This has nothing to do with my assignment.
“No, ma’am,” I replied.
“Are you planning to?”
“Yes,” my answer lacked the hesitation it deserved.
In truth, I had no idea if my courage would allow me to do anything more than what I’d already attempted.
I’d gotten the available intel on my birth mother and called her home phone number twice. Both times, I’d hung up on the second ring.
That was eight months ago.
I hadn’t called her since.
“Good for you,” Sipherman said.
It seemed she wanted to discuss personal matters, so I cleared my throat and asked, “How’s the weather in D.C.?”
“Not as nice as it is in little old Prairieville,” she said with a chuckle. “It’s raining non-stop here. Speaking of Prairieville, what’s the latest on Maggie and Camilla? Any indication of their involvement with the Andrew’s empire?”
I couldn’t help but smile as my thoughts drifted to last night’s footage of Maggie from our surveillance feed.
After an evening of accidentally spilling soup all over herself while volunteering at Matthews Soup Kitchen, she’d gone home to accidentally spill a cup of hot chocolate on herself. After that, she’d put on Love Actually and cried herself to sleep.
Watching her life on a daily basis was tantamount to sitting through one of those Sandra Bullock movies from the 1990’s. It was funny, endearing, and a little sad.
She reminded me of myself, except sweeter and a lot clumsier, not to mention more attractive.
In fact, Maggie resembled a young Sandra Bullock with curlier hair and softer eyes.
I briefly wondered why she hadn’t left Louisiana and moved to her father’s Manhattan home where she could have pursued modeling or some similar career that good-looking women often vied for.
“Agent Cullen?”
Lost in thoughts of Maggie Lindenberg, I realized I hadn’t replied to my superior.
“I apologize, um, yes, I mean, no. Maggie Lindenberg is,” I paused. “She’s a decent person.”
“Hm. High praise from you,” Sipherman said. “And the mother?”
I looked both ways before jogging across the street, my sights set on a small building with a large sign that said, ‘Prairieville Coffee.’
“Not decent, but not a criminal. I get the impression Camilla may be superficially familiar with her ex-husband’s illicit behavior, but not extensively so,” I replied. “I have no proof of this other than her wariness of him and compulsion to speak ill of him nearly every moment his name arises in conversation.”
“Interesting, but not enough,” Sipherman said. “What about our leak to the tabloids? The fake story about Andrew being spotted with a hooker, did that make any waves?”
She was referring to our Team Leader’s idea, which I hadn’t liked. He’d created a false story about Andrew Lindenberg getting caught with a sex worker and leaked it to disreputable news outlets like Celebrity Gossip.
He anticipated this would stir up social media-based conversations about Andrew’s clandestine activities and perhaps motivate someone to share a legitimate story related to Andrew’s illicit activities.
I’d warned our Team Leader against this course of action. Old-fashioned detective work was preferable to selling lies about someone to a tabloid. I was politely told to, “butt out.”
“No,” I replied. “That did not yield any results.”
Sipherman sighed. “Well, we need to speed this up. Your team has been holed up in Louisiana for months and we need results. I’m going to reach out to Agent Cody and have him consult with you on the implementation of an infiltration strategy centered around either Maggie or Camilla’s companies. There may be some connection between their businesses and Andrew’s Syndicate. I have a hunch about this.”
I frowned. There was no evidence of a link between their companies and Andrew Lindenberg’s criminal activity.
Even so, I kept my tone neutral as I replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
“And remember, these chats of ours don’t need to be mentioned to Agent Cody,” she said, her tone dropping in pitch. “Understood?”
I did.
Agent Michael Cody, our Team Leader, was what my late adoptive mother would have called, “a colorful character.” She would have said this because she never spoke ill of anyone. My late adoptive father frequently spoke ill of people and he would have called Michael Cody a “damned fool with a bad haircut.”
In any case, neither colorful characters nor fools did well as SCA agents. So, despite Michael’s role as Team Leader, he was the type to keep an eye on.
“Understood,” I confirmed.
“Alright, let's see what we can do about getting closer to the Lindenberg ladies,” Sipherman said. “Talk to you again tomorrow.”
“Goodbye.” As I ended the call, I was surprised to feel my spirit’s lift.
Getting closer to the Lindenberg Ladies would be interesting, especially when it came to the younger, and incredibly pretty Lindenberg.
Relationship Status: Single
Prairieville, Louisiana was peaceful and picturesque.
These were two qualities I’d grown to appreciate after critical situations involving the kidnappings of U.S. civilians had shifted our team to Mexico City and then thrust us into a gang war in The Democratic Republic of Congo.
But we’d since been relocated to our initial assignment in the quiet southern city nestled between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. In the six months that we’d taken on the Louisiana-based assignment, I’d found myself in a surprisingly laid-back atmosphere and I’d enjoyed the opportunity to rest.
I thought about this as I concluded my early morning run near one of Prairieville's many cow pastures.
Full of healthy-looking cows and its every blade of grass still wet with morning dew, the meadow sparkled in the sunlight.
When compared to the scenery in our previous assignments, Prairieville was something out of a dream.
I slowed to a walk and observed the cows. There were about a dozen, all of them chewing on their breakfast.
Only a few bothered to glance my way.
The average cow is about two years old when she has her first calf. The fact slipped into my mind as I watched the large animals. I’d recently read it online while researching what life was like on a dairy farm.
I met the gaze of a pleasantly plump brown and white cow who didn’t pause in her rhythmic chewing as she stared me down.
I wonder how old this one is. To know for sure, I would have had to examine her teeth, according to my research.
I turned away from the cows and walked on towards the highway ahead.
I sighed as my thoughts drifted past inane surface questions about cows and came to a halt at the reason for my newfound obsession with dairy farms and domesticated oxen.
Why didn’t anyone at Mount Sinai Hospital bother to find out how old my mother was when she gave birth to me? Or to, at the very least, ask her who the father of her baby was?
It was New York City for God’s sake, was there really no one in one of the world’s greatest melting pots who spoke Nepali? And if there wasn’t, then how did they know she wanted to give me away?
Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead, and this wasn’t due to the weather.
The morning air was crisp and regularly swept with cool breezes that sent shivers down the spine.
I took a deep breath and attempted to recenter my thoughts as I used the back of my hand to wipe a sheen of sweat from my forehead.
My upgraded SCA clearance may have afforded me access to information about my birth mother, but the so-called “answers” I unearthed were so sparse they only led to more questions.
I knew that my mother’s name was Sanjiya Rai and she grew up on a dairy farm near Kathmandu, Nepal. She was estimated to have been anywhere between 15-18 years of age when she immigrated to New York City, which was where she’d given birth to me.
But her exact age, according to SCA’s records, remained unknown. Also unknown was any information at all about my birthfather.
This, all of it, disturbed me more than I cared to think about.
Most of the time, I was too busy with my assignment to stew.
But during my early morning exercise routine, in the peace and quiet of dawn -and especially when I passed a dairy farm- thoughts of the mother who I’d never met consumed me.
The questions were almost suffocating because as much as I wanted the answers, I couldn’t find the courage to pursue them.
Sometimes it seemed like my life was a half-broken lullaby composed by fate. Soothing notes that inspired joy frequently morphed into more melancholy tunes, and I was powerless when it came to directing the song.
Fate was the conductor. I was nothing more than a man in the audience, listening to the broken song that should have been mine to create.
I exhaled and watched my breath condense into a misty cloud before disappearing.
If I waited too long to find the answers to my remaining questions, any hope of getting to know the truth about the circumstances surrounding my birth would disappear.
She wasn’t going to live forever.
Why am I thinking about this right now? It’s a distraction.
Attempting to redirect my thoughts, I glanced down at my SCA-issued telewatch.
7:29 a.m.
Director Sipherman was likely to call any minute.
I cleared my throat and retrained my focus to the current mission- The Lindenberg Syndicate.
For the past six months, my team had been monitoring Andrew Lindenberg, his current wife Stacey Lindenberg, his ex-wife Camilla Lindenberg, and the children of each union, Celia, and Maggie, respectively.
We knew Andrew was dirty, but he was also a highly intelligent and extremely cautious man. There was no way to press charges against someone who wiped their every dirty move clean.
On paper, he paid his taxes, kept out of trouble, and lived as an upstanding citizen.
But if someone in his family, someone who had connections to the syndicate, was even just a little sloppy- that would be SCA’s in.
Unfortunately for us, so far, there was no proof that anyone in Andrew’s family was even aware of his underhanded dealings.
My watch emitted a series of beeps and I glanced down to see Sipherman’s name and number on the small screen.
Readying myself, I quickly uttered the vocal response that would initiate our conversation, “Answer call.”
“Good morning, Director,” I said as I approached an intersection that would take me from the country road to the highway where my favorite coffee shop was located.
“Agent Cullen,” Sipherman replied, her tone upbeat. “How was your morning run?”
“Scenic.”
She chuckled. “You and your one-word responses. You and my 14-year-old would get along.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I grunted.
“Did you speak with Sanjiya Rai yet?” she asked.
My shoulders suddenly felt heavier and an unpleasant feeling gnawed at my gut.
Why is she asking me about my birth mother? This has nothing to do with my assignment.
“No, ma’am,” I replied.
“Are you planning to?”
“Yes,” my answer lacked the hesitation it deserved.
In truth, I had no idea if my courage would allow me to do anything more than what I’d already attempted.
I’d gotten the available intel on my birth mother and called her home phone number twice. Both times, I’d hung up on the second ring.
That was eight months ago.
I hadn’t called her since.
“Good for you,” Sipherman said.
It seemed she wanted to discuss personal matters, so I cleared my throat and asked, “How’s the weather in D.C.?”
“Not as nice as it is in little old Prairieville,” she said with a chuckle. “It’s raining non-stop here. Speaking of Prairieville, what’s the latest on Maggie and Camilla? Any indication of their involvement with the Andrew’s empire?”
I couldn’t help but smile as my thoughts drifted to last night’s footage of Maggie from our surveillance feed.
After an evening of accidentally spilling soup all over herself while volunteering at Matthews Soup Kitchen, she’d gone home to accidentally spill a cup of hot chocolate on herself. After that, she’d put on Love Actually and cried herself to sleep.
Watching her life on a daily basis was tantamount to sitting through one of those Sandra Bullock movies from the 1990’s. It was funny, endearing, and a little sad.
She reminded me of myself, except sweeter and a lot clumsier, not to mention more attractive.
In fact, Maggie resembled a young Sandra Bullock with curlier hair and softer eyes.
I briefly wondered why she hadn’t left Louisiana and moved to her father’s Manhattan home where she could have pursued modeling or some similar career that good-looking women often vied for.
“Agent Cullen?”
Lost in thoughts of Maggie Lindenberg, I realized I hadn’t replied to my superior.
“I apologize, um, yes, I mean, no. Maggie Lindenberg is,” I paused. “She’s a decent person.”
“Hm. High praise from you,” Sipherman said. “And the mother?”
I looked both ways before jogging across the street, my sights set on a small building with a large sign that said, ‘Prairieville Coffee.’
“Not decent, but not a criminal. I get the impression Camilla may be superficially familiar with her ex-husband’s illicit behavior, but not extensively so,” I replied. “I have no proof of this other than her wariness of him and compulsion to speak ill of him nearly every moment his name arises in conversation.”
“Interesting, but not enough,” Sipherman said. “What about our leak to the tabloids? The fake story about Andrew being spotted with a hooker, did that make any waves?”
She was referring to our Team Leader’s idea, which I hadn’t liked. He’d created a false story about Andrew Lindenberg getting caught with a sex worker and leaked it to disreputable news outlets like Celebrity Gossip.
He anticipated this would stir up social media-based conversations about Andrew’s clandestine activities and perhaps motivate someone to share a legitimate story related to Andrew’s illicit activities.
I’d warned our Team Leader against this course of action. Old-fashioned detective work was preferable to selling lies about someone to a tabloid. I was politely told to, “butt out.”
“No,” I replied. “That did not yield any results.”
Sipherman sighed. “Well, we need to speed this up. Your team has been holed up in Louisiana for months and we need results. I’m going to reach out to Agent Cody and have him consult with you on the implementation of an infiltration strategy centered around either Maggie or Camilla’s companies. There may be some connection between their businesses and Andrew’s Syndicate. I have a hunch about this.”
I frowned. There was no evidence of a link between their companies and Andrew Lindenberg’s criminal activity.
Even so, I kept my tone neutral as I replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
“And remember, these chats of ours don’t need to be mentioned to Agent Cody,” she said, her tone dropping in pitch. “Understood?”
I did.
Agent Michael Cody, our Team Leader, was what my late adoptive mother would have called, “a colorful character.” She would have said this because she never spoke ill of anyone. My late adoptive father frequently spoke ill of people and he would have called Michael Cody a “damned fool with a bad haircut.”
In any case, neither colorful characters nor fools did well as SCA agents. So, despite Michael’s role as Team Leader, he was the type to keep an eye on.
“Understood,” I confirmed.
“Alright, let's see what we can do about getting closer to the Lindenberg ladies,” Sipherman said. “Talk to you again tomorrow.”
“Goodbye.” As I ended the call, I was surprised to feel my spirit’s lift.
Getting closer to the Lindenberg Ladies would be interesting, especially when it came to the younger, and incredibly pretty Lindenberg.
Chapter Five
Maggie
Location: Prairieville, Louisiana
Relationship Status: Single
Relationship Status: Single
The cloudless and sunny Friday morning that kickstarted my day was made even more perfect by a reoccurring cool breeze.
Most of my fellow Prairieville residents had probably taken a moment to glance up at the gorgeous sky with gratitude.
I was not most people.
Cursing the heavens and my fate, I pulled into the parking lot of Rouses’ grocery store.
The small lot was surrounded by oak trees and a few happy squirrels were running around while sparrows dove in and out of their favorite crumb-laden parts of the lot.
I rolled my eyes at them and muttered, “At least somebody’s happy this morning.”
My gaze stopped on a baby squirrel as it darted into a tossed Chick Fil A bag and emerged with half of a waffle fry. The fry was twice the size of the squirrel.
Okay, so that might be adorable.
But I bet that happy little squirrel doesn’t have the kind of mother who calls her at 7 a.m. to remind her of her every failure and tell her she’s doing nothing but “drifting” along in life like a pathetic piece of, um… driftwood.
I shook my head, annoyed with myself.
I can’t even come up with decent analogies.
Sighing at my incompetence, I got out of my car and armed it before heading into the grocery store.
The automatic doors at the entrance slid open and as soon as I stepped inside, the deli’s irresistible aroma wafted my way.
I followed the scent of freshly cooked jambalaya and gumbo to its source, where Beth Johnson offered me a wide smile.
Beth was about my age and from all appearances, that was where our similarities reached their end.
This was probably why I’d been drawn to her the moment I interviewed her for the Head Chef position at Maggie’s House nearly two years ago.
Beth was everything I wasn’t.
Sure, my life had its thorns, but there were a lot of roses.
I had no worries when it came to paying for college, my car, my condo, and things like that.
But during Beth’s interview, she’d informed me she was already working two jobs to help her mother out and to save up enough to attend culinary school.
Maggie’s House would be her third part-time job, she explained.
Despite this never-ending work schedule, Beth came across as poised, alert, and friendly.
I was none of those qualities, even when I had no job and slept for ten to 12 hours every night.
After she secured the Head Chef position, I depended on her decisive nature when my Queen of Procrastination crown made an unwelcomed appearance on top of my head.
To top things off, she had a goofy side.
We’d spent many an evening planning meals together and then getting sidetracked as we’d shoot the snot about how controlling our mothers were and how different we were from them.
These discussions usually included perfectly executed imitations of our respective mothers and laugh-til-you cry tears.
But then all of that ended because I went and let my mother talk me out of shutting down Maggie’s House.
I sold out and I could only guess what Beth thought of me.
Once Maggie’s House was shuttered, I’d offered her a fairly cushy office job at Your Style, but she thanked me and explained she belonged in the culinary world.
So, that was that.
Since then, every time we spoke, I’d stand in front of her with a sinking heart and a plastic smile that I hoped didn’t betray my deep-seated guilt.
“Hi, Beth.” I donned the Barbie smile and waved as I approached the deli’s display case. I glanced at it and then returned my attention to her. Usually, she wore her long braids pulled up in a bun underneath her hairnet. But today, I spotted a short, auburn and blonde coif under the hairnet. “Oh my God, you cut your hair!”
Beth laughed and playfully batted her eyelashes. “Yeah. Trying to look cute, even if I have to cover it with a hairnet.”
I chuckled, admiring the cut. It reminded me of 1990’s Halle Berry hairstyle, but with blonde highlights.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said, inadvertently touching my own dark brown locks. I hadn’t done anything new with my hair in ages. “Makes me want to cut mine.”
“No, Mags, don’t do that.” Beth shook her head. “You have beautiful hair. Most people wear a weave hoping they can look the way you do naturally.”
A blush crept into my cheeks, and I chuckled. “You’re still way too nice. When are you finally going to get mean like the rest of us?”
Beth smiled. “I’m not that nice, I just think you’re a decent person. That’s all.”
Does she?
Would a decent person have closed the only soup kitchen in town, leaving twenty employees without jobs, not to mention dozens of people without a reliable source of food?
I think not.
I looked down and tried to get my feelings of shame under control.
I didn’t know what to say to Beth, so, I stammered out whatever words popped into my head, “Well, uh, thank you. So, yeah, and also you really do look beautiful.”
“Thanks, that’s sweet, and speaking of sweet,” she pointed to the display case. “Do you want me to add any extra desserts or sides to your usual?”
I examined the food, considering this.
A freshly made green bean casserole caught my eye and I pointed to it, “May I get a large serving of that?”
“You got it,” Beth nodded.
As she scooped the food into a hefty-sized container. I shifted on my feet and searched for something to say.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re just drifting in life?” I heard myself ask.
Beth stopped what she was doing to tilt her head and look me in the eye. “Let me guess. Camilla said that. Am I right?”
I nodded. “This morning, she went on and on about how I need to get my act together. It hurt to hear because she’s right. I’m drifting. And I don’t know why I’m saying all this. Sorry. I guess I miss our conversations, but that’s my fault, isn’t it? If I hadn’t listened to her, Maggie’s House would still exist, and we’d still have our awesome two-hour-long conversations every week.”
I laughed nervously and glanced at Beth.
She smiled but shook her head. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that you can’t look back and get upset about the ‘what ifs.’ You just learn from them and keep moving forward.”
“Hm,” I grunted.
Keep moving forward …
In my mind’s eye, I imagined a girl at the outset of a long, winding path. She wore blinders, like a horse.
Maggie’s House was my path, but I’d ditched the blinders and abandoned the route I wanted for someplace else, someplace where the road ahead was hazy.
“Back then,” Beth continued, “you did what you had to. I mean, even if you hadn’t closed Maggie’s House, your mom would have found a way to forcibly shut it down. You know how determined she is.”
I took a deep breath, registering Beth’s words.
What she’d said was true. Mother had threatened to close Maggie House if I didn’t follow her wishes.
“What happened wasn’t your fault,” Beth spoke gently and held my gaze as she said, “I’m serious, Mags, so I’m going to say that again. What happened wasn’t your fault.”
She doesn’t hate me.
Relieved, I nodded and averted my eyes, because continuing to look at her would have meant bursting into tears.
“Thanks.” Still not quite looking at Beth, I offered her a shaky smile.
“Yeah, friend. It’s just the truth.” She returned my smile. “And you know I get it. I’ve told you about my mom. Every week I have to endure a veritable sermon about why I shouldn’t be working at this deli and picking up shifts at Wendy’s when I could be doing what she thinks I should be doing.”
I nodded in understanding.
“It was the same when I worked at Maggie’s House,” Beth continued. “She didn’t want me working there either, just because it wasn’t what she wanted for me.”
I cringed. “I hate that you have to deal with that. I mean, how do you even deal with that?”
Beth laughed as she covered the green bean casserole with a lid. “I tell myself I know what I’m doing. I have a plan. It may not be my mother’s plan, but it’s my life and the thing about being an adult is that you get to plan your own life. Right?”
Do you?
“Right,” I nodded, wondering if I’d ever even realized that.
Of course, I knew it, logically. But it always seemed like Mother’s plans for me made so much more sense than the things I’d wanted for myself.
After college, I’d wanted to spend a year hanging out with my best friend while she went on an international concert tour. Mother said it would be better to start my career right away and her pushiness did motivate me to create Maggie’s House, which was an awesome experience.
So, while my original plan to spend a year traveling the world with my bestie sounded like fun, it wasn’t logical.
At least I think it wasn’t…
I mean, now that I’m stuck at the so-called “dream job” Mother got for me and I’m making terrible business decisions that are sinking the company, I don’t know if her idea was better than mine.
All at once, I realized I’d been in my head while Beth had continued talking.
“... it’s like that quote, ‘Not all who wander are lost.’ Maybe you’re drifting, but you’re not lost. After all, would someone who’s lost come in here every morning and do what you do?”
Appreciation washing over me, I smiled at her and said, “Thank you. I hope you’re right.”
She nodded and looked me in the eye. “I am. Just watch. One day, my night classes are going to pay off and I’m going to own my dream restaurant and you, my friend, are going to find a way back to feeding every homeless person in this city.”
With this, she leaned down and grabbed my full order.
Find a way back to feeding every homeless person in this city?
As Beth’s words reverberated in my head, a confusing array of emotions gripped my heart.
It felt like fear was playing tag with desire.
Did she forget that I already tried that, and it completely failed?
I frowned as fear won the game of tag.
Clearly, Beth thinks more of me than she should.
“Here you go,” she handed me the huge bag of food, and I abruptly wiped the frown from my brow, forcing another plastic smile.
***
I pulled into Your Style’s parking lot and drove past the white sign that said, “Reserved for CEO.” Turning right, I made my way towards the small, wooded area on the outskirts of the lot.
About three months ago, I got to work super early and happened to see a thin, familiar-looking middle-aged woman with tattered clothing and a shopping cart headed towards this little cluster of trees.
As she walked along, intermittently collecting garbage that was littering the parking lot, it finally dawned on me who I was looking at. It was Ms. Miller, a former client of Maggie’s House.
She was thinner and less cared for than the last time I’d seen her. I watched her move slowly and pause to get her bearings every now and then.
Guiltier than ever and hoping Ms. Miller wouldn’t be upset with me for closing down her one means of sustenance, I’d gathered my courage, made my way towards her, and offered her my untouched sausage, cheddar, and egg sandwich from Starbucks.
The way she nearly ignored me and grabbed the sandwich made my heart ache. Clearly, she hadn’t eaten in a while.
It took her three days of meals to finally recognize me, and once she did, she was kinder to me than I would have been were our situations reversed.
She’d smiled and said, “Don’t look so sad, you did what you could.”
And she let it go at that.
That evening, I sat in front of my television, not hearing or seeing a word of whatever was playing. All I heard was an older woman’s kind pardon. It played over and over in my head, bringing tears to my eyes as I sipped a glass of tear-infused Chardonnay.
Over the next few weeks of food drop-offs and chats, I found out that her first name was Opal and she used to have a nice house, a nice job, and a family. But life wasn’t a friend to Opal Miller.
That’s when I decided that maybe I should be.
Now, after catching sight of Opal in her usual spot, I glanced at the passenger seat to my right, where the large Rouses bag containing three of her favorite meals sat.
Beth’s food smelled delicious, and I could picture Opal smiling appreciatively as she ate it.
At this thought, something near happiness swept over me.
The feeling was like a visit from an old friend I hadn't seen in years.
Relishing the return of the long-gone emotion, I drove towards Opal and tried to label the feeling.
Useful. I feel useful.
As I put the car in park, I thought back to the many hours I’d spent seated behind my intentionally intimidating desk (totally my mother’s choice, as was every aspect of my office’s Cruella Deville-esque decor) for the past year.
Had day after day of strategizing my domination of the fashion magazine industry ever left me feeling useful?
No. It’s left me with a massive migraine and the feeling that I’m sinking into an endless chasm of hopelessness.
Sighing, I pushed thoughts of Your Style aside and focused on my friend.
Opal was a welcomed sight. Seated under a blossoming crepe myrtle tree with her shopping cart full of discarded items, it looked like she was reading something.
When she heard my car’s engine, she looked up and waved.
I smiled when I saw she was finally wearing the Ann Taylor sweater set and jeans I’d given her three weeks ago. She looked great.
And then my gaze stopped at her thick mane of dark brown hair, it was matted and practically screaming for some basic TLC.
It took her weeks to finally put on the clothes. Will she even let me bring her to a beauty salon? How do I ask without hurting her pride?
Thinking this over, I returned her wave and grabbed the bag from Rouses before sliding out of my car.
“Hey, Opal.” I offered her a grin and glanced down at what she had in her hands. It was a fairly thick book. “Reading something good?”
She nodded and held it up so I could see the cover. I moved closer and squinted at the title, Don’t Drift: How to get your life back on track.
I shook my head and chuckled.
Don’t drift? Really? Thanks, universe.
“Looks interesting.” I lifted the bag and lied. “I had to pick up a, um, a plunger at Rouses, so I just thought I’d grab your favorites.”
Opal laughed and accepted the bag as I handed it to her.
“Yesterday it was cat food that you had to pick up,” Opal said with a smile. “I bet you don’t even own a cat, do you?”
She was right, I didn’t have any pets.
I laughed and shrugged. “Uh, you know, well…”
“You’re the world’s worst liar.” She shook her head. “But that’s a good thing. Thank you, Maggie. You’re an angel.”
“Nah, I’m just a woman in need of a plunger. You’re the angel,” I said, glancing at the cart full of garbage that she collected every morning and then brought to a nearby dumpster. “So, anyways, how are you feeling today?”
She gave me her usual response, “I’m fine. How about you?”
“I’m okay,” I slowly replied, glancing at her hair.
It looked even worse up-close.
How can she possibly be fine? I’m not fine and I have a place to live and food to eat.
Maybe clothes and hair are just shallow, temporary fixes. Maybe I need to think more long-term.
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about getting a non-paying roommate, just for the company,” I tentatively said. In the back of my mind, though, I could hear Mother’s objections. She would’ve killed me if she ever found out that someone without a home was staying in the condo she'd bought for me.
“Know anyone who might be interested?” I asked.
Opal grinned like I’d made a joke. “Maggie, there’s not a devious bone in your body. So, when I say this, please take it as the compliment it’s meant to be: You’re terrible at manipulating folks.”
My mouth fell open and as Opal met my eyes, we both burst into laughter.
“Well, thanks.” I feigned offense. Once our laughter completed its rounds, I shook my head and sighed. “You know, maybe that’s why I’m terrible at my job. I’m supposed to know how to manipulate readers, employees, and, well, the entire world. It’s my job to make people obsessed with me and my so-called “brand.” But of course, I can’t do that. I can’t even manipulate one of my friends into accepting my help.”
Opal’s smile faded and she tilted her head as she looked at me. “You do help me. Every day, you go to the store to buy plungers or cat food or -what was it last week that had me shaking my head? Oh, the Pumpkin Spice Latte-Flavored Beer you just had to get from Whole Foods, where you figured you might as well pick me up a rotisserie chicken and more sides than I could even eat.”
I blushed and glanced down.
“Maybe a posh little thing like you does enjoy a sip or two of the stupidest beer I’ve ever heard of,” Opal continued. “But I bet it’s more likely that you hate beer, have never even touched a plunger before and you’re probably allergic to cats. But you want to help me. And I accept the help because I need it and because I trust you.”
She trusts me?
The feeling of usefulness returned, gripping my heart in a bittersweet hug.
I shifted on my feet as the emotion nearly overwhelmed me.
“Three sips,” I admitted, smiling. “That’s how much it took for me to realize the beer was an abomination. And I’m glad you trust me enough to let me help, a little.”
Opal shook her head. “You help a lot.”
“I can help more if you’ll let me,” I blurted. “So much more.”
She looked into the distance, and based on the wistful look in her eyes, I got the feeling she was reliving an old memory.
“Some battles we have to overcome on our own,” Opal’s tone was melancholy and her gaze wasn’t quite meeting mine. All at once, she smiled and looked at me. “But just you watch, one of these days I’ll get a place of my own. I know what I’m doing, Maggie. I have a plan and things will work out. I said I trust you. Right?”
I nodded.
“Well,” she arched an eyebrow at me. “Trust me when I say I have a plan.”
“Okay,” I agreed. Snapping my fingers, I pointed to her and added, “But if I have a hankering for some chocolate hummus and gluten-free boxed water from a specialty store that just happens to also have your favorite strawberry cheesecake, it’s okay if I bring the cheesecake, right?”
She chuckled. “Only if you have a slice if it with me.”
I grinned. “Deal.”
“Thank you, Maggie,” she said. “I hope you have a good day. You deserve it.”
Do I?
“I don’t know about that.” I shrugged. “But thanks, Opal. See you soon.”
I returned to my car and sat there for a few minutes, watching my friend eat the food Beth had prepared for her.
As I reviewed our conversation, the weight of one of Opal’s final statements hit me.
“Trust me when I say I have a plan.”
A plan.
It seemed like everyone in my life had a plan. Jessica had one and was living it, Beth had one, and it sounded like Opal had one too.
What about me? What do I have?
I put my car in reverse and headed for my waiting parking spot, the one near the large glass building’s front steps, the one that was labeled with a sign that said, “Reserved for CEO.”
The closer I got to that parking spot, the more hopelessness began to replace my recently reclaimed feeling of usefulness.
Most of my fellow Prairieville residents had probably taken a moment to glance up at the gorgeous sky with gratitude.
I was not most people.
Cursing the heavens and my fate, I pulled into the parking lot of Rouses’ grocery store.
The small lot was surrounded by oak trees and a few happy squirrels were running around while sparrows dove in and out of their favorite crumb-laden parts of the lot.
I rolled my eyes at them and muttered, “At least somebody’s happy this morning.”
My gaze stopped on a baby squirrel as it darted into a tossed Chick Fil A bag and emerged with half of a waffle fry. The fry was twice the size of the squirrel.
Okay, so that might be adorable.
But I bet that happy little squirrel doesn’t have the kind of mother who calls her at 7 a.m. to remind her of her every failure and tell her she’s doing nothing but “drifting” along in life like a pathetic piece of, um… driftwood.
I shook my head, annoyed with myself.
I can’t even come up with decent analogies.
Sighing at my incompetence, I got out of my car and armed it before heading into the grocery store.
The automatic doors at the entrance slid open and as soon as I stepped inside, the deli’s irresistible aroma wafted my way.
I followed the scent of freshly cooked jambalaya and gumbo to its source, where Beth Johnson offered me a wide smile.
Beth was about my age and from all appearances, that was where our similarities reached their end.
This was probably why I’d been drawn to her the moment I interviewed her for the Head Chef position at Maggie’s House nearly two years ago.
Beth was everything I wasn’t.
Sure, my life had its thorns, but there were a lot of roses.
I had no worries when it came to paying for college, my car, my condo, and things like that.
But during Beth’s interview, she’d informed me she was already working two jobs to help her mother out and to save up enough to attend culinary school.
Maggie’s House would be her third part-time job, she explained.
Despite this never-ending work schedule, Beth came across as poised, alert, and friendly.
I was none of those qualities, even when I had no job and slept for ten to 12 hours every night.
After she secured the Head Chef position, I depended on her decisive nature when my Queen of Procrastination crown made an unwelcomed appearance on top of my head.
To top things off, she had a goofy side.
We’d spent many an evening planning meals together and then getting sidetracked as we’d shoot the snot about how controlling our mothers were and how different we were from them.
These discussions usually included perfectly executed imitations of our respective mothers and laugh-til-you cry tears.
But then all of that ended because I went and let my mother talk me out of shutting down Maggie’s House.
I sold out and I could only guess what Beth thought of me.
Once Maggie’s House was shuttered, I’d offered her a fairly cushy office job at Your Style, but she thanked me and explained she belonged in the culinary world.
So, that was that.
Since then, every time we spoke, I’d stand in front of her with a sinking heart and a plastic smile that I hoped didn’t betray my deep-seated guilt.
“Hi, Beth.” I donned the Barbie smile and waved as I approached the deli’s display case. I glanced at it and then returned my attention to her. Usually, she wore her long braids pulled up in a bun underneath her hairnet. But today, I spotted a short, auburn and blonde coif under the hairnet. “Oh my God, you cut your hair!”
Beth laughed and playfully batted her eyelashes. “Yeah. Trying to look cute, even if I have to cover it with a hairnet.”
I chuckled, admiring the cut. It reminded me of 1990’s Halle Berry hairstyle, but with blonde highlights.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said, inadvertently touching my own dark brown locks. I hadn’t done anything new with my hair in ages. “Makes me want to cut mine.”
“No, Mags, don’t do that.” Beth shook her head. “You have beautiful hair. Most people wear a weave hoping they can look the way you do naturally.”
A blush crept into my cheeks, and I chuckled. “You’re still way too nice. When are you finally going to get mean like the rest of us?”
Beth smiled. “I’m not that nice, I just think you’re a decent person. That’s all.”
Does she?
Would a decent person have closed the only soup kitchen in town, leaving twenty employees without jobs, not to mention dozens of people without a reliable source of food?
I think not.
I looked down and tried to get my feelings of shame under control.
I didn’t know what to say to Beth, so, I stammered out whatever words popped into my head, “Well, uh, thank you. So, yeah, and also you really do look beautiful.”
“Thanks, that’s sweet, and speaking of sweet,” she pointed to the display case. “Do you want me to add any extra desserts or sides to your usual?”
I examined the food, considering this.
A freshly made green bean casserole caught my eye and I pointed to it, “May I get a large serving of that?”
“You got it,” Beth nodded.
As she scooped the food into a hefty-sized container. I shifted on my feet and searched for something to say.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re just drifting in life?” I heard myself ask.
Beth stopped what she was doing to tilt her head and look me in the eye. “Let me guess. Camilla said that. Am I right?”
I nodded. “This morning, she went on and on about how I need to get my act together. It hurt to hear because she’s right. I’m drifting. And I don’t know why I’m saying all this. Sorry. I guess I miss our conversations, but that’s my fault, isn’t it? If I hadn’t listened to her, Maggie’s House would still exist, and we’d still have our awesome two-hour-long conversations every week.”
I laughed nervously and glanced at Beth.
She smiled but shook her head. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that you can’t look back and get upset about the ‘what ifs.’ You just learn from them and keep moving forward.”
“Hm,” I grunted.
Keep moving forward …
In my mind’s eye, I imagined a girl at the outset of a long, winding path. She wore blinders, like a horse.
Maggie’s House was my path, but I’d ditched the blinders and abandoned the route I wanted for someplace else, someplace where the road ahead was hazy.
“Back then,” Beth continued, “you did what you had to. I mean, even if you hadn’t closed Maggie’s House, your mom would have found a way to forcibly shut it down. You know how determined she is.”
I took a deep breath, registering Beth’s words.
What she’d said was true. Mother had threatened to close Maggie House if I didn’t follow her wishes.
“What happened wasn’t your fault,” Beth spoke gently and held my gaze as she said, “I’m serious, Mags, so I’m going to say that again. What happened wasn’t your fault.”
She doesn’t hate me.
Relieved, I nodded and averted my eyes, because continuing to look at her would have meant bursting into tears.
“Thanks.” Still not quite looking at Beth, I offered her a shaky smile.
“Yeah, friend. It’s just the truth.” She returned my smile. “And you know I get it. I’ve told you about my mom. Every week I have to endure a veritable sermon about why I shouldn’t be working at this deli and picking up shifts at Wendy’s when I could be doing what she thinks I should be doing.”
I nodded in understanding.
“It was the same when I worked at Maggie’s House,” Beth continued. “She didn’t want me working there either, just because it wasn’t what she wanted for me.”
I cringed. “I hate that you have to deal with that. I mean, how do you even deal with that?”
Beth laughed as she covered the green bean casserole with a lid. “I tell myself I know what I’m doing. I have a plan. It may not be my mother’s plan, but it’s my life and the thing about being an adult is that you get to plan your own life. Right?”
Do you?
“Right,” I nodded, wondering if I’d ever even realized that.
Of course, I knew it, logically. But it always seemed like Mother’s plans for me made so much more sense than the things I’d wanted for myself.
After college, I’d wanted to spend a year hanging out with my best friend while she went on an international concert tour. Mother said it would be better to start my career right away and her pushiness did motivate me to create Maggie’s House, which was an awesome experience.
So, while my original plan to spend a year traveling the world with my bestie sounded like fun, it wasn’t logical.
At least I think it wasn’t…
I mean, now that I’m stuck at the so-called “dream job” Mother got for me and I’m making terrible business decisions that are sinking the company, I don’t know if her idea was better than mine.
All at once, I realized I’d been in my head while Beth had continued talking.
“... it’s like that quote, ‘Not all who wander are lost.’ Maybe you’re drifting, but you’re not lost. After all, would someone who’s lost come in here every morning and do what you do?”
Appreciation washing over me, I smiled at her and said, “Thank you. I hope you’re right.”
She nodded and looked me in the eye. “I am. Just watch. One day, my night classes are going to pay off and I’m going to own my dream restaurant and you, my friend, are going to find a way back to feeding every homeless person in this city.”
With this, she leaned down and grabbed my full order.
Find a way back to feeding every homeless person in this city?
As Beth’s words reverberated in my head, a confusing array of emotions gripped my heart.
It felt like fear was playing tag with desire.
Did she forget that I already tried that, and it completely failed?
I frowned as fear won the game of tag.
Clearly, Beth thinks more of me than she should.
“Here you go,” she handed me the huge bag of food, and I abruptly wiped the frown from my brow, forcing another plastic smile.
***
I pulled into Your Style’s parking lot and drove past the white sign that said, “Reserved for CEO.” Turning right, I made my way towards the small, wooded area on the outskirts of the lot.
About three months ago, I got to work super early and happened to see a thin, familiar-looking middle-aged woman with tattered clothing and a shopping cart headed towards this little cluster of trees.
As she walked along, intermittently collecting garbage that was littering the parking lot, it finally dawned on me who I was looking at. It was Ms. Miller, a former client of Maggie’s House.
She was thinner and less cared for than the last time I’d seen her. I watched her move slowly and pause to get her bearings every now and then.
Guiltier than ever and hoping Ms. Miller wouldn’t be upset with me for closing down her one means of sustenance, I’d gathered my courage, made my way towards her, and offered her my untouched sausage, cheddar, and egg sandwich from Starbucks.
The way she nearly ignored me and grabbed the sandwich made my heart ache. Clearly, she hadn’t eaten in a while.
It took her three days of meals to finally recognize me, and once she did, she was kinder to me than I would have been were our situations reversed.
She’d smiled and said, “Don’t look so sad, you did what you could.”
And she let it go at that.
That evening, I sat in front of my television, not hearing or seeing a word of whatever was playing. All I heard was an older woman’s kind pardon. It played over and over in my head, bringing tears to my eyes as I sipped a glass of tear-infused Chardonnay.
Over the next few weeks of food drop-offs and chats, I found out that her first name was Opal and she used to have a nice house, a nice job, and a family. But life wasn’t a friend to Opal Miller.
That’s when I decided that maybe I should be.
Now, after catching sight of Opal in her usual spot, I glanced at the passenger seat to my right, where the large Rouses bag containing three of her favorite meals sat.
Beth’s food smelled delicious, and I could picture Opal smiling appreciatively as she ate it.
At this thought, something near happiness swept over me.
The feeling was like a visit from an old friend I hadn't seen in years.
Relishing the return of the long-gone emotion, I drove towards Opal and tried to label the feeling.
Useful. I feel useful.
As I put the car in park, I thought back to the many hours I’d spent seated behind my intentionally intimidating desk (totally my mother’s choice, as was every aspect of my office’s Cruella Deville-esque decor) for the past year.
Had day after day of strategizing my domination of the fashion magazine industry ever left me feeling useful?
No. It’s left me with a massive migraine and the feeling that I’m sinking into an endless chasm of hopelessness.
Sighing, I pushed thoughts of Your Style aside and focused on my friend.
Opal was a welcomed sight. Seated under a blossoming crepe myrtle tree with her shopping cart full of discarded items, it looked like she was reading something.
When she heard my car’s engine, she looked up and waved.
I smiled when I saw she was finally wearing the Ann Taylor sweater set and jeans I’d given her three weeks ago. She looked great.
And then my gaze stopped at her thick mane of dark brown hair, it was matted and practically screaming for some basic TLC.
It took her weeks to finally put on the clothes. Will she even let me bring her to a beauty salon? How do I ask without hurting her pride?
Thinking this over, I returned her wave and grabbed the bag from Rouses before sliding out of my car.
“Hey, Opal.” I offered her a grin and glanced down at what she had in her hands. It was a fairly thick book. “Reading something good?”
She nodded and held it up so I could see the cover. I moved closer and squinted at the title, Don’t Drift: How to get your life back on track.
I shook my head and chuckled.
Don’t drift? Really? Thanks, universe.
“Looks interesting.” I lifted the bag and lied. “I had to pick up a, um, a plunger at Rouses, so I just thought I’d grab your favorites.”
Opal laughed and accepted the bag as I handed it to her.
“Yesterday it was cat food that you had to pick up,” Opal said with a smile. “I bet you don’t even own a cat, do you?”
She was right, I didn’t have any pets.
I laughed and shrugged. “Uh, you know, well…”
“You’re the world’s worst liar.” She shook her head. “But that’s a good thing. Thank you, Maggie. You’re an angel.”
“Nah, I’m just a woman in need of a plunger. You’re the angel,” I said, glancing at the cart full of garbage that she collected every morning and then brought to a nearby dumpster. “So, anyways, how are you feeling today?”
She gave me her usual response, “I’m fine. How about you?”
“I’m okay,” I slowly replied, glancing at her hair.
It looked even worse up-close.
How can she possibly be fine? I’m not fine and I have a place to live and food to eat.
Maybe clothes and hair are just shallow, temporary fixes. Maybe I need to think more long-term.
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about getting a non-paying roommate, just for the company,” I tentatively said. In the back of my mind, though, I could hear Mother’s objections. She would’ve killed me if she ever found out that someone without a home was staying in the condo she'd bought for me.
“Know anyone who might be interested?” I asked.
Opal grinned like I’d made a joke. “Maggie, there’s not a devious bone in your body. So, when I say this, please take it as the compliment it’s meant to be: You’re terrible at manipulating folks.”
My mouth fell open and as Opal met my eyes, we both burst into laughter.
“Well, thanks.” I feigned offense. Once our laughter completed its rounds, I shook my head and sighed. “You know, maybe that’s why I’m terrible at my job. I’m supposed to know how to manipulate readers, employees, and, well, the entire world. It’s my job to make people obsessed with me and my so-called “brand.” But of course, I can’t do that. I can’t even manipulate one of my friends into accepting my help.”
Opal’s smile faded and she tilted her head as she looked at me. “You do help me. Every day, you go to the store to buy plungers or cat food or -what was it last week that had me shaking my head? Oh, the Pumpkin Spice Latte-Flavored Beer you just had to get from Whole Foods, where you figured you might as well pick me up a rotisserie chicken and more sides than I could even eat.”
I blushed and glanced down.
“Maybe a posh little thing like you does enjoy a sip or two of the stupidest beer I’ve ever heard of,” Opal continued. “But I bet it’s more likely that you hate beer, have never even touched a plunger before and you’re probably allergic to cats. But you want to help me. And I accept the help because I need it and because I trust you.”
She trusts me?
The feeling of usefulness returned, gripping my heart in a bittersweet hug.
I shifted on my feet as the emotion nearly overwhelmed me.
“Three sips,” I admitted, smiling. “That’s how much it took for me to realize the beer was an abomination. And I’m glad you trust me enough to let me help, a little.”
Opal shook her head. “You help a lot.”
“I can help more if you’ll let me,” I blurted. “So much more.”
She looked into the distance, and based on the wistful look in her eyes, I got the feeling she was reliving an old memory.
“Some battles we have to overcome on our own,” Opal’s tone was melancholy and her gaze wasn’t quite meeting mine. All at once, she smiled and looked at me. “But just you watch, one of these days I’ll get a place of my own. I know what I’m doing, Maggie. I have a plan and things will work out. I said I trust you. Right?”
I nodded.
“Well,” she arched an eyebrow at me. “Trust me when I say I have a plan.”
“Okay,” I agreed. Snapping my fingers, I pointed to her and added, “But if I have a hankering for some chocolate hummus and gluten-free boxed water from a specialty store that just happens to also have your favorite strawberry cheesecake, it’s okay if I bring the cheesecake, right?”
She chuckled. “Only if you have a slice if it with me.”
I grinned. “Deal.”
“Thank you, Maggie,” she said. “I hope you have a good day. You deserve it.”
Do I?
“I don’t know about that.” I shrugged. “But thanks, Opal. See you soon.”
I returned to my car and sat there for a few minutes, watching my friend eat the food Beth had prepared for her.
As I reviewed our conversation, the weight of one of Opal’s final statements hit me.
“Trust me when I say I have a plan.”
A plan.
It seemed like everyone in my life had a plan. Jessica had one and was living it, Beth had one, and it sounded like Opal had one too.
What about me? What do I have?
I put my car in reverse and headed for my waiting parking spot, the one near the large glass building’s front steps, the one that was labeled with a sign that said, “Reserved for CEO.”
The closer I got to that parking spot, the more hopelessness began to replace my recently reclaimed feeling of usefulness.
Chapter Six- Sid
Location: Prairieville, Louisiana
Relationship Status: Single
Relationship Status: Single
Maggie’s face filled the screen and I watched, mesmerized as she sat in her car, staring into space, her face falling and the tip of her nose turning pink.
Don’t cry. I cringed.
Her eyes were dry, but I could tell she was on the verge of tears.
Is she upset because of Opal’s situation, or because of what her mother told her earlier?
Maybe it’s all of the above.
Clasping my hands together, I leaned forward and rested my chin on top of my knuckles.
Maggie sighed and looked down, shaking her head slightly.
“I’m hopeless,” she whispered.
“No, you’re not,” I replied.
Heat crept into my cheeks, and I instinctively glanced around the empty surveillance room, ensuring that neither of my teammates crept in and heard me talking to someone who couldn’t hear a word I said.
It was a foolish concern. My fellow agent, Tasha Morozov, was on her morning run and wouldn’t return for another hour. Our Team Leader, Michael, was also busy with errands that he said would take several hours.
Alone with the live surveillance feed, I rolled my eyes and felt silly for getting too caught up in the suffocatingly “charmed” life of Andrew Lindenberg’s oldest daughter.
On the days I was assigned to monitor the daily activities of Andrew’s ex-wife, Camilla, I watched the older woman’s every move with an appropriate level of interest. On such occasions, I was simply an SCA operative in search of clues that would shed light on a clandestine crime organization.
When it was my turn to monitor Maggie, everything changed.
My investment in the simplest of Maggie’s daily tasks was beyond cursory. Perhaps even beyond professional.
Just the other day, after she microwaved a mug of hot cocoa for six full minutes (for the life of me, I couldn’t fathom why she’d even done that) and immediately brought the steaming mug to her lips, I yelled, “No!” so loudly that both of my teammates had come running into the surveillance room with their guns drawn, ready to fight off an attacker.
That was the moment I realized something quite embarrassing about my current assignment’s effect on my mental health.
I wasn’t simply amused by Maggie’s muttered sarcastic quips, clumsy mishaps, and near childlike curiosity. I was distracted by them.
And though the empathy I felt at watching such a capable and selfless woman cower under the thumb of her suffocating family may have been warranted, when it morphed into a wave of frustrated anger that kept me awake at night, a line had been crossed.
Clearly, I’d allowed myself to develop an inappropriate infatuation with a woman I never even met.
‘Why her?’ I wondered as I watched Maggie run a hand through her hair, and put her car in reverse, finally leaving Opal’s campsite.
My eyes glued to the monitor, I caught myself mirroring her sigh and feeling the pain etched into her features. This made me even more annoyed with myself, and I shook my head.
I cannot possibly be attached to this woman. Is she attractive? Sure. But she’s also an SCA target. I’ve never allowed personal feelings to overrule protocol. So, why now?
Irritated by my own confusion, I closed my eyes and rubbed both of my temples with my thumbs and forefingers.
All at once, an overwhelming need for closure engulfed me.
I opened my eyes, reached for my cell, accessed my Contacts, and searched for a number I hadn’t dialed in nearly eight months.
After a moment’s hesitation, I hit “Call.”
Bringing my phone to my ear, I listened to the phone ring twice.
“Hello?” a woman with a Nepali accent answered. “Hello? Anyone there?”
I opened my mouth, willing myself to speak.
No.
I can’t.
Not yet.
I pressed “End Call” and slid my phone back into my pocket.
Returning my attention to the monitors, I watched Maggie approach Your Style’s entrance, a despondent look in her eyes. She paused in front of the imposing building’s automatic doors and sighed as she muttered one word, “Drifting.” With a shake of her head, she added a sarcastic, “Thanks, Mother,” and stepped forward.
She entered the building with the enthusiasm of a sloth, her shoulders sagging in a crestfallen gait that extended to the expression on her face. It was like watching a prisoner head to the guillotine.
Crossing my arms, I stared at the millionaire daughter of two of the wealthiest entrepreneurs SCA had ever monitored, and I saw myself. Sure, we had different backgrounds.
Opportunities presented themselves to Maggie as easily as Your Style’s automatic doors had parted for her entrance.
But we were the same in that Maggie’s path was already chosen for her. The moment my mother gave me away, my path unfurled before me. Maggie was as controlled by an undue attachment to her mother as I was dominated by an unhealthy detachment to my own.
I blinked back at the screen and rubbed my palm over my face.
Why am I over analyzing this?
I took a deep breath and watched Maggie make her way to her office.
She’s so beautiful.
Catching myself in my thoughts, I chuckled and shook my head at my own foolishness.
She’s attractive. And yes, of course, there’s more to her than that. She’s kind, and a bit strange, in a way that makes her fascinating. But, if I’m honest, the sum of my intense feelings for her boil down to the fact that she is insanely hot and I am very lonely.
I sighed, my gaze still glued to the screen, and as the next few seconds ticked by, an idea formed in my mind.
Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone…
Sipherman said she wanted our team to get closer to the Lindenbergs.
…maybe I can volunteer to go undercover as Maggie’s love interest. That way, I can find an in with her father and gather intel on her father’s syndicate while ridding myself of this all-consuming infatuation.
The idea simultaneously relieved and scared me.
While the prospect of no longer subjecting my thoughts to frequent invasions by musings about Maggie was a welcome notion, there was also the question of whether or not she’d be interested in me when I presented myself to her.
My track record with women was not impressive.
After several failed attempts at attracting the opposite sex in college, I’d hired a professional sex worker in hopes of at least experiencing love making. This led to a second hiring. The fear of contracting an STD put a stop to further hirings.
Eventually, I discarded all hopes of romance and focused on my career. Hence, my current monk-like love life and nonexistent relationship history.
Maggie, on the other hand, was the sort of woman who would appeal to society’s most eligible icons.
Yeah, that may not be a feasible option. What are the odds she’ll respond any differently than the women I’ve previously attempted to attract?
I ran a hand through my hair and glanced at the monitor containing the live feed of Maggie’s office. Her phone to her ear, she said, “Hi, yes. I have a friend who loves your strawberry cheesecake. I know it’s out of season, but I will pay you triple the cost if you whip one up for her by tomorrow morning.”
I smiled, my concerns nearly dissipating.
I forgot who I’m dealing with.
Beautiful wealthy women are decidedly out of my league, but Maggie isn’t the average socialite. She likes an underdog. So, maybe there’s a chance she’ll like me.
Don’t cry. I cringed.
Her eyes were dry, but I could tell she was on the verge of tears.
Is she upset because of Opal’s situation, or because of what her mother told her earlier?
Maybe it’s all of the above.
Clasping my hands together, I leaned forward and rested my chin on top of my knuckles.
Maggie sighed and looked down, shaking her head slightly.
“I’m hopeless,” she whispered.
“No, you’re not,” I replied.
Heat crept into my cheeks, and I instinctively glanced around the empty surveillance room, ensuring that neither of my teammates crept in and heard me talking to someone who couldn’t hear a word I said.
It was a foolish concern. My fellow agent, Tasha Morozov, was on her morning run and wouldn’t return for another hour. Our Team Leader, Michael, was also busy with errands that he said would take several hours.
Alone with the live surveillance feed, I rolled my eyes and felt silly for getting too caught up in the suffocatingly “charmed” life of Andrew Lindenberg’s oldest daughter.
On the days I was assigned to monitor the daily activities of Andrew’s ex-wife, Camilla, I watched the older woman’s every move with an appropriate level of interest. On such occasions, I was simply an SCA operative in search of clues that would shed light on a clandestine crime organization.
When it was my turn to monitor Maggie, everything changed.
My investment in the simplest of Maggie’s daily tasks was beyond cursory. Perhaps even beyond professional.
Just the other day, after she microwaved a mug of hot cocoa for six full minutes (for the life of me, I couldn’t fathom why she’d even done that) and immediately brought the steaming mug to her lips, I yelled, “No!” so loudly that both of my teammates had come running into the surveillance room with their guns drawn, ready to fight off an attacker.
That was the moment I realized something quite embarrassing about my current assignment’s effect on my mental health.
I wasn’t simply amused by Maggie’s muttered sarcastic quips, clumsy mishaps, and near childlike curiosity. I was distracted by them.
And though the empathy I felt at watching such a capable and selfless woman cower under the thumb of her suffocating family may have been warranted, when it morphed into a wave of frustrated anger that kept me awake at night, a line had been crossed.
Clearly, I’d allowed myself to develop an inappropriate infatuation with a woman I never even met.
‘Why her?’ I wondered as I watched Maggie run a hand through her hair, and put her car in reverse, finally leaving Opal’s campsite.
My eyes glued to the monitor, I caught myself mirroring her sigh and feeling the pain etched into her features. This made me even more annoyed with myself, and I shook my head.
I cannot possibly be attached to this woman. Is she attractive? Sure. But she’s also an SCA target. I’ve never allowed personal feelings to overrule protocol. So, why now?
Irritated by my own confusion, I closed my eyes and rubbed both of my temples with my thumbs and forefingers.
All at once, an overwhelming need for closure engulfed me.
I opened my eyes, reached for my cell, accessed my Contacts, and searched for a number I hadn’t dialed in nearly eight months.
After a moment’s hesitation, I hit “Call.”
Bringing my phone to my ear, I listened to the phone ring twice.
“Hello?” a woman with a Nepali accent answered. “Hello? Anyone there?”
I opened my mouth, willing myself to speak.
No.
I can’t.
Not yet.
I pressed “End Call” and slid my phone back into my pocket.
Returning my attention to the monitors, I watched Maggie approach Your Style’s entrance, a despondent look in her eyes. She paused in front of the imposing building’s automatic doors and sighed as she muttered one word, “Drifting.” With a shake of her head, she added a sarcastic, “Thanks, Mother,” and stepped forward.
She entered the building with the enthusiasm of a sloth, her shoulders sagging in a crestfallen gait that extended to the expression on her face. It was like watching a prisoner head to the guillotine.
Crossing my arms, I stared at the millionaire daughter of two of the wealthiest entrepreneurs SCA had ever monitored, and I saw myself. Sure, we had different backgrounds.
Opportunities presented themselves to Maggie as easily as Your Style’s automatic doors had parted for her entrance.
But we were the same in that Maggie’s path was already chosen for her. The moment my mother gave me away, my path unfurled before me. Maggie was as controlled by an undue attachment to her mother as I was dominated by an unhealthy detachment to my own.
I blinked back at the screen and rubbed my palm over my face.
Why am I over analyzing this?
I took a deep breath and watched Maggie make her way to her office.
She’s so beautiful.
Catching myself in my thoughts, I chuckled and shook my head at my own foolishness.
She’s attractive. And yes, of course, there’s more to her than that. She’s kind, and a bit strange, in a way that makes her fascinating. But, if I’m honest, the sum of my intense feelings for her boil down to the fact that she is insanely hot and I am very lonely.
I sighed, my gaze still glued to the screen, and as the next few seconds ticked by, an idea formed in my mind.
Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone…
Sipherman said she wanted our team to get closer to the Lindenbergs.
…maybe I can volunteer to go undercover as Maggie’s love interest. That way, I can find an in with her father and gather intel on her father’s syndicate while ridding myself of this all-consuming infatuation.
The idea simultaneously relieved and scared me.
While the prospect of no longer subjecting my thoughts to frequent invasions by musings about Maggie was a welcome notion, there was also the question of whether or not she’d be interested in me when I presented myself to her.
My track record with women was not impressive.
After several failed attempts at attracting the opposite sex in college, I’d hired a professional sex worker in hopes of at least experiencing love making. This led to a second hiring. The fear of contracting an STD put a stop to further hirings.
Eventually, I discarded all hopes of romance and focused on my career. Hence, my current monk-like love life and nonexistent relationship history.
Maggie, on the other hand, was the sort of woman who would appeal to society’s most eligible icons.
Yeah, that may not be a feasible option. What are the odds she’ll respond any differently than the women I’ve previously attempted to attract?
I ran a hand through my hair and glanced at the monitor containing the live feed of Maggie’s office. Her phone to her ear, she said, “Hi, yes. I have a friend who loves your strawberry cheesecake. I know it’s out of season, but I will pay you triple the cost if you whip one up for her by tomorrow morning.”
I smiled, my concerns nearly dissipating.
I forgot who I’m dealing with.
Beautiful wealthy women are decidedly out of my league, but Maggie isn’t the average socialite. She likes an underdog. So, maybe there’s a chance she’ll like me.
Chapter Seven- Maggie
Location: Prairieville, Louisiana
Relationship Status: Single
After ordering Opal’s favorite cheesecake, I spent a few minutes putzing around my sad little domain, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do with myself. Well, to be honest, my office didn’t look sad and it wasn’t little. That’s just how it made me feel.
Thanks to Mother, Your Style’s CEO suite oozed swank in a way that was meant to fill guests with insecurity. That plan backfired, and my own office scared me to death.
The design included an overabundance of white, which created a sort of “posh mental institution” ambiance. I hated it. The blinding whiteness did not bother my personal assistant, Dee Whitman, because she wore shades indoors. All the time. Like she thought she was Beyonce.
She and I were the same age and we’d even gone to the same all-girls boarding school for a hot minute. One would assume this shared history might make us friends, and one would be wrong.
Queen Dee hated me when I started school at Northbridge School for Girls. My stint at the Connecticut-based boarding school lasted a mere five months, and I was thankful for that. Dee was the only girl from Louisiana there. When I’d tried to befriend her, she made it abundantly clear friendship wasn’t an option. She and her clique called me ‘Fat Maggie’ and made fun of my hair.
I got so lonely and depressed I stopped eating. Eventually, the school psychologist urged Mother to bring me home. She complied but was openly resentful about my boarding school failure.
In any case, Your Style was worse than boarding school because there was no psychologist to bail me out and I had to deal with Dee on a daily basis. She hadn’t changed in twelve years. One of the most annoying things about her was the way she often waltzed into my office, unannounced, scaring me half to death. In fact, this is exactly what she did after I’d ordered Opal’s cake and turned to my computer with the intention of opening my email.
I jumped as Dee’s heels suddenly sounded on the floor- click clack, click clack. She sashayed to my desk and planted her narrow bum on its right corner.
Dee offered me a phony smile and said, “What are you doing?” in a tone that was more menacing than questioning.
I blinked back at her, disoriented by the fact that I couldn't see her eyes through the pitch black of her shades. I donned a plastic smile of my own. “Just working. What are you up to this morning?”
She tilted her head and looked at me like I was an alien. “I was reading a Celebrity Gossip article about your dad. It was from earlier this week. Did you see it?” she asked with feigned innocence.
My smile withered and died.
Of course, I’d seen the nasty article. There was no way I’d miss a tawdry headline featuring my own father’s name in giant bold letters as it was being retweeted and reposted by millions of people. “I don’t know,” I slowly replied. “Do you mean the article about my father’s three-million-dollar donation to St. Jude Children’s Hospital?”
“No.” Without hesitating, Dee looked me dead in the eye and replied, “I mean the one about him getting caught with some hooker.”
My stomach turned and both of my hands instinctively curled into fists.
“Actually,” I forced an even tone though I wanted to yell at Dee, “he wasn’t caught with anyone. Some paparazzi desperate for a paycheck got a shot of my dad when he happened to walk out of a building at the same time as a woman in a short, low-cut dress. So, no one actually knows who the woman is and my dad issued a statement saying he’d never seen her before in his life.”
Dee grinned as she crossed her arms. “But what was he doing coming out of a hotel at 2 a.m.?”
I looked at Dee in disbelief.
Why is this chick talking to me about something so obviously upsetting?
She lifted a hand and lowered her glasses. The arrogant half-smile on her lips and the eager gleam in her eyes supplied my answer.
Watching me squirm is her pastime.
“Can you answer that, Margaret?” she asked, elongating the syllables of the name she knew I hated. With this, she secured her shades back over her eyes and continued to smirk.
Annoyed, I pulled myself together and vowed not to give Dee the satisfaction of an emotional response.
Turning my attention to my computer, I acted like I was more interested in what was on my screen than our conversation and coolly replied, “I can. My father was attending a charity gala in the hotel that night. His office staff and business partners confirmed their presence as well. And don’t you think it’s sexist to assume a woman in a revealing dress is a prostitute?”
I assumed Dee was looking at me from behind those ridiculous shades. But who knew? My office was silent, except for the sound of the air conditioner.
When Dee finally opened her mouth to reply, I cut in and said, “I’m busy and I need to get back to work. When you’re back at your desk, please add a 10 a.m. meeting to my calendar.”
“Uh-oh. I’m sorry,” Dee said, managing to make an apology sound superior. “You’re not upset, are you?”
I looked up at her and smiled like we were actual friends. “Why would I be upset?”
“Oh.” Slightly flustered, her grin faltered, and she shook her head. “I don’t know, you just seem super busy all of a sudden.”
“I’m swamped, you know how it is,” I said. “And thanks in advance for updating my calendar with the appointment I mentioned.”
“Already done,” Dee said, hopping off my desk and sauntering away. “And it’s actually at 9:45 a.m. Camilla called and told me before you got here.”
Of course, she did.
Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I nodded. “Great. I’ll let you know if I need you, Dee.” without waiting for her reply, I returned my attention to my computer and pretended to work.
A mumbled, “Yeah, sure,” was followed by the wonderful sound of Dee’s kitten heels tapping against my office’s marble floor while she walked away.
Relationship Status: Single
After ordering Opal’s favorite cheesecake, I spent a few minutes putzing around my sad little domain, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do with myself. Well, to be honest, my office didn’t look sad and it wasn’t little. That’s just how it made me feel.
Thanks to Mother, Your Style’s CEO suite oozed swank in a way that was meant to fill guests with insecurity. That plan backfired, and my own office scared me to death.
The design included an overabundance of white, which created a sort of “posh mental institution” ambiance. I hated it. The blinding whiteness did not bother my personal assistant, Dee Whitman, because she wore shades indoors. All the time. Like she thought she was Beyonce.
She and I were the same age and we’d even gone to the same all-girls boarding school for a hot minute. One would assume this shared history might make us friends, and one would be wrong.
Queen Dee hated me when I started school at Northbridge School for Girls. My stint at the Connecticut-based boarding school lasted a mere five months, and I was thankful for that. Dee was the only girl from Louisiana there. When I’d tried to befriend her, she made it abundantly clear friendship wasn’t an option. She and her clique called me ‘Fat Maggie’ and made fun of my hair.
I got so lonely and depressed I stopped eating. Eventually, the school psychologist urged Mother to bring me home. She complied but was openly resentful about my boarding school failure.
In any case, Your Style was worse than boarding school because there was no psychologist to bail me out and I had to deal with Dee on a daily basis. She hadn’t changed in twelve years. One of the most annoying things about her was the way she often waltzed into my office, unannounced, scaring me half to death. In fact, this is exactly what she did after I’d ordered Opal’s cake and turned to my computer with the intention of opening my email.
I jumped as Dee’s heels suddenly sounded on the floor- click clack, click clack. She sashayed to my desk and planted her narrow bum on its right corner.
Dee offered me a phony smile and said, “What are you doing?” in a tone that was more menacing than questioning.
I blinked back at her, disoriented by the fact that I couldn't see her eyes through the pitch black of her shades. I donned a plastic smile of my own. “Just working. What are you up to this morning?”
She tilted her head and looked at me like I was an alien. “I was reading a Celebrity Gossip article about your dad. It was from earlier this week. Did you see it?” she asked with feigned innocence.
My smile withered and died.
Of course, I’d seen the nasty article. There was no way I’d miss a tawdry headline featuring my own father’s name in giant bold letters as it was being retweeted and reposted by millions of people. “I don’t know,” I slowly replied. “Do you mean the article about my father’s three-million-dollar donation to St. Jude Children’s Hospital?”
“No.” Without hesitating, Dee looked me dead in the eye and replied, “I mean the one about him getting caught with some hooker.”
My stomach turned and both of my hands instinctively curled into fists.
“Actually,” I forced an even tone though I wanted to yell at Dee, “he wasn’t caught with anyone. Some paparazzi desperate for a paycheck got a shot of my dad when he happened to walk out of a building at the same time as a woman in a short, low-cut dress. So, no one actually knows who the woman is and my dad issued a statement saying he’d never seen her before in his life.”
Dee grinned as she crossed her arms. “But what was he doing coming out of a hotel at 2 a.m.?”
I looked at Dee in disbelief.
Why is this chick talking to me about something so obviously upsetting?
She lifted a hand and lowered her glasses. The arrogant half-smile on her lips and the eager gleam in her eyes supplied my answer.
Watching me squirm is her pastime.
“Can you answer that, Margaret?” she asked, elongating the syllables of the name she knew I hated. With this, she secured her shades back over her eyes and continued to smirk.
Annoyed, I pulled myself together and vowed not to give Dee the satisfaction of an emotional response.
Turning my attention to my computer, I acted like I was more interested in what was on my screen than our conversation and coolly replied, “I can. My father was attending a charity gala in the hotel that night. His office staff and business partners confirmed their presence as well. And don’t you think it’s sexist to assume a woman in a revealing dress is a prostitute?”
I assumed Dee was looking at me from behind those ridiculous shades. But who knew? My office was silent, except for the sound of the air conditioner.
When Dee finally opened her mouth to reply, I cut in and said, “I’m busy and I need to get back to work. When you’re back at your desk, please add a 10 a.m. meeting to my calendar.”
“Uh-oh. I’m sorry,” Dee said, managing to make an apology sound superior. “You’re not upset, are you?”
I looked up at her and smiled like we were actual friends. “Why would I be upset?”
“Oh.” Slightly flustered, her grin faltered, and she shook her head. “I don’t know, you just seem super busy all of a sudden.”
“I’m swamped, you know how it is,” I said. “And thanks in advance for updating my calendar with the appointment I mentioned.”
“Already done,” Dee said, hopping off my desk and sauntering away. “And it’s actually at 9:45 a.m. Camilla called and told me before you got here.”
Of course, she did.
Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I nodded. “Great. I’ll let you know if I need you, Dee.” without waiting for her reply, I returned my attention to my computer and pretended to work.
A mumbled, “Yeah, sure,” was followed by the wonderful sound of Dee’s kitten heels tapping against my office’s marble floor while she walked away.
Check back here next month for Chapter Eight
