Frances Housden - The Man For Maggie

“Phew! I’m exhausted. How about you?” Max asked as he watched Carla’s departing figure disappear into the auditorium.

Maggie felt drained, which wasn’t unusual after a meeting with the woman. She shook her head. “It’s all right, I’m used to her.” She laughed out loud at a joke she’d thought long dead. “I never understood her and my father. I mean, their personalities were so different it was like combining candy floss with a lit match, yet I’m sure he loved her. In fact, I always thought he would marry her one day, but they never even got engaged.”

“They say opposites attract. Look at us.” Max dropped the statement into the conversation, reminding her their relationship wasn’t all-business. Truth be known, he’d rather it was pleasure that had brought them to this stage, where Maggie was easy with him holding her hand, and trusting enough to let him warm it against his thigh. He looked at the lush redness of her mouth and wondered how long he would have to wait to taste it again.

But anytime now he would have to get back to the folded paper, and the drawing burning a hole in his pocket.

“At least my father and Carla had some common ground, like opera, flying and wine.” There were questions in Maggie’s eyes, thousands of them floating around in the dark brown depths.

Max didn’t know the answers. He wished he did. All he could do was work his way through them and pray for a miracle. For one clue to jump up and hit him in the eye.

“I like wine, but as for the rest…” Max shrugged. “…I can’t tell Turandot from a tarot card. But tell me, what really did happen to your father?”

“I believe he was murdered!”

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