Maggie Moves On(68)

“Thank you, darlin’.”

She could spend a very long time just staring at his mouth and stay completely entertained, she decided, watching as those firm lips of his curved with amusement.

She realized that Nirina and Kayla were watching them smugly and got the distinct feeling that she’d been played. Ladies’ Night, her ass.

“Hey, guys.” Michael appeared behind Silas, holding a glass of red wine.

“You made it! Have a seat,” Nirina said, pointing at the empty chair next to Dean.

Hmm. It looked like they’d both been played. But with Sy’s arm on the back of her chair, and his thumb stroking lazy circles over her shirt, she couldn’t quite work up to being annoyed.

“I was talking to the dads,” Michael said, clearing his throat and looking away from Dean. He pointed toward the bar, where Maggie spotted Morris, her first aid hero, next to a man she guessed had to be Sy’s father. He was just as tall but on the rangier side. Where Sy’s hair went to blond, his father’s was a few shades darker. But there was no mistaking the same gray eyes. The men raised their glasses at them, and everyone around the table echoed the gesture.

“Mama B’s playing tonight,” Nirina explained to Maggie and Dean. “And my husband better get here quick if he wants to escape her wrath.”

“And by wrath, she means disappointment,” Kayla said.

“That’s Mama B,” Silas said, pointing to the stage.

Breonna Wright had the presence for a stage. She strutted across it in strappy gold stilettos, skinny pants that stopped a few inches above her ankles, and a billowing blouse in reds and golds and oranges. Her skin was dark. Her hair was high. Her smile was a beacon.

The crowd broke into spontaneous applause, and all she’d done was walk onstage.

Maggie glanced around the table and saw nothing but unadulterated adoration directed at the woman.

“It’s impossible not to love her,” Silas said in Maggie’s ear.

It could have been her imagination, but she felt like the woman’s gaze landed on them in that exact moment.

The band members—a guitarist, bass player, drummer, and keyboardist—settled in around her and started warming up.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mama B purred into the microphone, “thank you for coming out tonight to spend a little quality time with your neighbors. I’m Mama B, and this is B’s Blues. We’re here to get your feet tapping and those shoulders shimmying. I want to see you all on the dance floor. You too, Myrtle,” she said, pointing to an older woman in sweatpants and a Boise State Broncos T-shirt.

The crowd laughed along with Myrtle.

“Okay, boys,” Mama B said. “Let’s get this party started.”

The band was good. Mama B was better than good. She crooned her way through some country classics—old favorites, judging by the reaction from the crowd—and then worked in a Sinatra number between an R&B classic and filled out the set list with Taylor Swift.

Morris and Emmett stopped by, and introductions were made. Morris reminded Maggie and Dean that they were both invited to the family cookout the following day. When the band smoothly shifted gears into the adorable “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” by Randy Newman, Emmett bowed low over Nirina’s hand and escorted her onto the dance floor.

Maggie felt a little sliver of jealousy, wondering if Dayana and Sebastian had danced like that at Dayana’s wedding. She did what she always did when she saw daughters and fathers and shook it off.

Around the table, between rounds of applause, they talked work and renovations. Nirina’s husband, Jeremiah, showed up, and more introductions were made. He was a mechanical engineer trying to get as much work off his plate as he could before he took paternity leave in a few months.

Silas bought the next round and enlisted Maggie to help him carry the drinks. At the bar, he caged her between his arms, her back to his chest. There was something so right about it she was starting to think that maybe it was a good thing she’d shaved her legs that afternoon.

“Hey, Sy,” the barback greeted them. He was a big guy with thick silver hair and glasses.

“Hey there, Roy. Heard you were working here,” Silas said.

“I miss my machines at the plant, and it sure fucked with my retirement, but this isn’t half bad. Either of you know how to make a Cosmopolitan?” he said, reading off the ticket in his hand.

“Vodka, cranberry, Cointreau, and lime,” Maggie told him.

He beamed at her. “Thanks. Old Campbell Place, right?”

“That’s me,” she said.

They were making their way back to the table when Mama B stepped back up to the mic. “Would Silas Wright please report to the stage?”

Nirina and Kayla shared an excited whoop while the rest of the crowd cheered him on. Apparently, this was a thing.

“Get on up there, big bro,” Nirina told him, slapping him on the butt when he pretended to balk.

“You sing, too?” Maggie asked him.

He flashed her a wink, gave her shoulder a squeeze, and headed in the direction of the stage.

She sat back down and watched Mama B make room for his big frame on the stage. He traded fresh beer for a guitar and slung the strap over his neck.

Maggie hoped for a Weird Al song. But the way he handled the mic was too smooth, too confident.