Maggie Moves On(86)

Silas had been delighted. Maggie had been mildly appalled. She blamed Bonus Day and underwater orgasms for her out-of-character spending spree.

When the bed was assembled and the cloud of a mattress in place, she tipped the movers and walked them out.

She waited until the van disappeared and then headed around to the side of the house to panic over the lack of work being accomplished. Where the uneven terrace and tumbling retaining wall had been was now an expanse of freshly flattened dirt. The terrace stone, what was salvageable of it, was stacked neatly in the backyard.

The fountain and its four horses, frozen in time, had been cleared of the decade of debris and stood silent and empty. The undertaking seemed more out of reach than on other days.

She blew out a breath and looked at the house. The siding was spectacular, she had to admit. The new windows, with their pops of white and the sharp lines of the grilles, added to the fresh look.

The glass and architectural details on the third floor broke up the dark of the siding. She needed to figure out what she was doing with the third story of the turret. It was too much of a selling point to leave unfinished.

A party, she imagined. With people gathered on the terrace, spilling out of the house from the kitchen and the sunroom. There would be enough room for tables and chairs. Even a dance floor. She could string lights from the house. Guests, dancing or drinking wine, would pause to look up at the lights and then see the expanse of sky beyond, admiring the glow from the windows.

Something tugged at her subconscious. There was something off. Something not quite right. But before she could zero in on it, Silas pulled her attention away.

“You’re not thinking about work, are you?” he said, ambling down the porch steps.

“Not on Bonus Day,” she lied.

“That’s my girl. How do you feel about getting a little dirty?” he asked.

“I feel pretty good about it,” she said, linking her hands behind his neck.

“Good. Get your shovel,” he said with a wink.



“This is not what I had in mind when you said getting dirty,” Maggie complained as she helped him drop the rootball of the five-foot-tall Black Hills spruce.

“Help me break up the roots a bit,” Silas instructed, reaching into the hole while Kevin romped by, the kittens on his heels.

She did as he asked and then sat back on her heels to admire it. “It looks like a Christmas tree,” she observed.

“That’s right,” he said, swiping his forearm over his brow. “Figured the family tree would go back in the library with the fireplace and all those windows. And this is close enough to the house to run lights to it.”

“Your family is obsessed with Christmas trees,” she observed, although she couldn’t help but think about peering out of the back windows and seeing warm white lights on a snowy December night.

“Between Morris and Mom’s twenty-four/seven Christmas carols from Thanksgiving on, Michael’s spiked hot chocolate, and Mama B and Dad’s nine-foot tree so covered in ornaments and lights you can’t see needles, we all go a little crazy over Christmas. I’ll hold her straight while you dig,” he said.

She worked the dirt back into the hole and patted it down with the flat of the shovel. It was oddly therapeutic, she realized. Putting something in the ground that was going to be appreciated for generations to come.

Silas pulled the hose around. “Let’s give her a good soaking,” he said, handing her the nozzle and slipping his arms around her waist. She wondered how tall it would be in a year, ten years.

Leaning against him, Maggie squeezed the trigger and watched the water pool at the base of the tree before being absorbed into the fresh dirt. This time it was Taco and Dolly that raced past first. Kevin paused his chase to bite at the water spouting from the hose.

She laughed, and Silas kissed her on the top of the head.

“That should about do it. We’ll give her another drink later,” he said, taking the hose from her and giving the dog a squirt in the rump.

“What’ll we do for the next hour or so before Cody comes home?” she asked slyly.

“I’m about to introduce you to the second-best part of Bonus Day,” he told her, leading her toward the back door and up the stairs.

She paused just inside the bedroom door. The room had instantly changed from a temporary camp to an actual bedroom. He’d made the bed when she’d walked the movers out, she noted. The pillows—because six hadn’t seemed too crazy in the store—were stacked in a sumptuous pile against the headboard. The duvet was very precisely spread across the mattress, folded over to show the crisp white of the sheets.

“Wow, you really know how to make a bed,” she said, unexpectedly delighted at his show of domesticity.

“I’m even better at unmaking it. Now, pick a side,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

“Pick a side, darlin’. Do you want to be closer to the window or the bathroom?”

She had a bed big enough to have a dedicated side.

“What if I want to sleep in the middle?” she asked just to be contrary.

“Then you’ll be sleeping on top of me, and I have no problem with that.”

“I’ll take the window,” she decided.

“Good girl. Now, get in.”

“Are you really ready for another round?” She was impressed. And a little exhausted. Okay. A lot exhausted.