I turn back to Maggie. “So, it’s for the garden? I thought it must be for some sort of Dr. Jekyll-type experiment.”
“Ha. Well, if Jim doesn’t finish tinkering with his speech and come downstairs soon, I might need a potion to turn him into less of a perfectionist. But, yes, it’s a rain gauge.” She couldn’t be happier if someone had given her a bag of diamonds. “Stick it in the ground, and you can monitor the rainfall. Perfect, since I’m not sure what the conditions here are like yet.”
Owen’s back disappears into what I think is the formal living room.
“My dear,” Maggie says, putting her hand on my arm. “My handsome nephew is correct. You are drinkless. Let’s fix that.”
We weave around the string quartet and between people in beautiful dresses and fine suits gathered in groups sipping drinks and nibbling hors d’oeuvres. With every step, someone stops Maggie to say “Happy anniversary,” or “Beautiful new home,” or “You’re so lucky.”
She smiles, thanks them, and says she’ll catch up with them in a little while.
We reach the relative quiet of the kitchen, where a couple of the catering staff fill glasses and lay appetizers in rows on trays.
Maggie strokes my sleeve. “Did you make this beautiful top?”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“It’s remarkable. You are as talented as Owen said.”
The knowledge that Owen appreciates my creativity enough to have mentioned it to her, fills me with pride and gratitude that fate sent me this amazing man and his welcoming family. It’s quite something after suffering Alastair’s and his parents’ shitty putdowns.
Maggie stops a server who’s about to leave with a tray of drinks, takes a champagne glass, and hands it to me. “I’m delighted you decided to stay for the evening. And even more delighted Owen met you.”
She gives me a warm smile as she drags a giant catering-sized jar of olives across the counter toward her.
“And I’m happy I met him. I’m extremely lucky.”
“Oh, he’s the lucky one. It’s about time he put some perspective in his life.” She stretches her fingers across the saucer-sized lid, but it’s too big to grip. “I could tell the moment I saw him earlier that a sort of weight had lifted from him.”
She thinks he’s changed? Because of just three days with me? My stomach shimmies and sends a burst of excitement up my body that joins the champagne bubbles zipping up my nose. Possibilities of a future dance in my head.
“Has he been under a lot of pressure?”
She rolls her eyes and grasps the olive lid with both hands. “Only the pressure he puts on himself.” She nods at the jar. “Could you hold the bottom still for me?”
I grasp either side of the glass while Maggie frowns and twists with all her might. The lid doesn’t budge. She screws up her mouth and looks at the jar like it’s a tricky puzzle.
“He’s put pressure on himself since he was a kid and decided to take charge of his own life and make something of himself.”
She bangs her fist down in the center of the lid. The jar bounces on the marble counter, and I jump back in fear it might shatter.
“That sometimes works,” she says. “Hold on to it again.”
I grab the bottom and twist it in one direction while Maggie turns the top the other way.
“He told me about his parents,” I say, as Maggie throws her shoulder into it and goes red in the face. Still the lid doesn’t move.
“Goddamn it.” She checks her bright red palms. “Yes, his parents are still idling their lives away somewhere.” She plants her hands on her hips and gives the jar a hard stare. “But I wanted to get you an olive.”
“Oh.” I smile. “If all that was for me, no need. I don’t like olives.”
She slaps the counter and laughs. “Ha! Me neither. Can’t stand the things. They’re like briny chihuahua testicles.”
If I hadn’t already been sure I liked Maggie, that would have swung it.
She turns to face me. “Anyway, yes, Owen inherited the admirable Dashwood work ethic. But sometimes he doesn’t know when to stop.”
“He was totally stressed out when he showed up at my door the other night.”
