“Don’t move around too much, Priscilla.”
“Then don’t say stupid things.”
My head whipped back and forth between the two. I hadn’t been in boardrooms this tense.
“Mom, go! You look too hot not to.”
“Penny’s not here yet,” Margo said.
The doorbell rang, and Priscilla got in the last word, “Go! We don’t need a big meet and greet.”
I wasn’t sure what that was all about, but I didn’t think it was the time to ask.
After another resounding, “Go,” from Priscilla, Margo kissed her on the forehead and said, “I love you.”
Margo let Penny in, hugging her while she eyed me, and then told her to order pizza and to pay for it with the money on the kitchen counter.
I asked Margo if she had a coat, and of course, she did. She was a mother. After helping her put it on, I took her hand in mine and walked her out to the car.
“I was thinking of putting the house on the market,” she said as we sped away. “Not right away. I mean, we have months of paperwork, or longer. But eventually. It’s just not me.”
“I think it’s okay to think that, but not to rush.”
“Eh, forget it. I don’t want to talk about that all night. Or Priscilla. She’s attached to you, and I can’t even imagine—”
“Like you said, let’s not go there,” I said quickly.
I knew what she wanted to discuss. Where this was going? And what happened if it didn’t work out?
As far as I was concerned, those answers were simple.
Far. Andnot going to be a problem.
Knowing Margo wasn’t really ready for either discussion, I let it go, moving the conversation into safer territory. “Tell me about the new articles.”
“Oh, it’s really great. I’m going to do an ongoing series on teenagers and social media, and how to safely and effectively reach them.”
“Wow, sounds like you found your calling.”
“Honestly, thanks to Dale.”
I couldn’t help the rumbling growl that worked its way up my throat.
“Mick? Did you just growl?” She swung her head around, staring at me while I drove.
“It’s a guy thing,” I said, not looking at her as I tried to explain it away.
“You’re upset over Dale?”
“No, I’m not. I’m here, and he’s not.”
The sky began to fade to black, and I was thankful for the cover of darkness. For the first time in a long while, I was being called out by a woman. While I was embarrassed, I loved Margo’s spunk. It did something for me.
“Of course he’s not. He’s just a super-nice guy. A widower. But not you,” she said. Her fingers made their way to my thigh, and she gave my leg a little squeeze. “Not you, okay?”
I glanced at her. “I like hearing you say that. I have to ask, though, are you going to thank him in your article?” I said it with a smile, and hoped she knew I was kidding. Sort of.
“Oh. My. God. Mick!”
