“Which company?” she asks, trying to catch me off guard. When it doesn’t work, we both grin.
This is pretty much how Maggie and I met. We hit the same lunch spot in downtown Phoenix every day and began swapping work stories. She’s smart and funny and lives up to every lawyer stereotype I’ve ever heard. Like me, she’s divorced, but with no kids.
She looks at Callie and Wyatt like they’re especially fascinating museum exhibits. Lots of interest, but hands-off.
Our salads come and she carefully takes a bite. “So, the other day when we met for lunch, your colleague referred to you as ‘Detective Campbell.’ What was that all about?”
“Just a consulting job that turned into a whodunit mystery.”
“How so?”
“They wanted my opinion on a problem employee. Seeing as how they hadn’t fired him yet, I figured he was someone pretty important. Turns out, he’d just gotten a target on his back from overachieving. I suggested they fire the clique that set him up to fail and teach him how to blend in better. He’s one of those guys who says exactly what he’s thinking the second he thinks it.”
“Seems like small-beans work.” She points her fork at my plate. “Eat your salad. You’re making me feel self-conscious about stuffing my face.”
She is not stuffing her face, but I begin eating my salad. “It’s not a corporate takeover, but small jobs build trust. It gets ourfoot in the door. People are cautious about bringing in outside help. You and I both know a bad consultant is worse than no consultant at all.”
“Isn’t that right. Lawyers are the same way.”
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket, and I pull it out to look at the message.
Rosalie: I have a not-urgent request for when you’re on your way home. Enjoy!
I give it a thumbs-up so she knows I saw it and tuck my phone away, smiling to myself.
“Who was that?” Maggie asked. “Rosalie checking in?”
They don’t pay Maggie the big bucks for nothing. I think my face softens when I think or talk about my kids, and that extends to Rosalie. I’m assuming this not-urgent request has something to do with bringing home ice cream, or maybe grabbing something for Wyatt’s basketball game in the morning. If he signed me up for snacks again without telling me, I’ll give him a giant noogie when I get home tonight.
“Yeah, it was Rosalie. I think I’m supposed to stop at the store on the way home. I’ll find out later.” I’m ready to move onto a new topic, or maybe return to our old one, but Maggie has a tenacity like no one I’ve ever met before, and I can see in her face she’s not satisfied yet.
“Couldn’t she run to the store once they’re in bed? Wyatt’s old enough. I walked home to an empty house every day when I was his age.”
“Me too. Sort of.”
“You had a whole staff waiting for you at home, didn’t you?”
“They were waiting for me outside the school, but who’s counting?”
“Me!” She laughs. “I know I shouldn’t make fun of you for coming from the country-club set. It’s just so foreign to me. I lived in a trailer park until I left for college. First to go.”
“Now who’s bragging?”
She frames her face with her hands. “Guilty.”
We go back to eating our salads, and she twirls her fork, looking thoughtful. “I guess I’m just curious about whether it’s you who’s the overprotective parent or her.”
“She’s not a parent.”
“Come on, Liam. That one time I came over and she was there, Callie was sitting in Rosalie’s lap and reaching up to stroke her hair. She’s more Callie’s mom than Esther is.”
As soon as the words are out I can see she regrets saying it, and I want to be the first to gloss over it and move on, but I can’t. I feel like a moth on a board with a pin right through my heart. Isn’t my life oh-so-interesting? Let’s examine it. My relationship with Esther is something I constantly work on, trying to make sure my kids feel safe to love her as their mom, while trusting that I’ll always be there, no matter what.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“I know.” I know she’s sorry, but she’s also deeply curious and opinionated. She’s sorry she said it, not sorry she thought it.
“I didn’t mean—”