Summer's Freedom (5 page)

Generally, he was wary with women, unwilling to risk the betrayals they could perpetrate. But Maggie—

Her mind had been exactly what he’d expected: solid and keen and sympathetic. All he’d hoped for in her physical appearance was a woman he could look upon easily.

Kneeling to affix the wheel to his bike, he shook his head. It was almost incredible how much more she was. This morning the sight of her had made his palms sweaty, his knees weak. It made his gamble all the more exciting.

And the daughter made it more dangerous. A hint of guilt touched him as he considered the dilemma her unexpected presence caused him. He mulled it only briefly.

The game had already begun, and his hand was dealt. With a wry grin, he realized the high stakes had him whistling. Penny-ante had been his game all his life. He’d never realized the thrill to be had in the big time.

A
s Maggie climbed into the car, Sam said, “Looks like I’m not the only one who’s got a new boyfriend.”

“I only met him a few days ago,” Maggie said, starting the car.

“He’s pretty taken with you.”

“Hardly, Samantha,” she said coolly.

“Oh, please,” Samantha said with an air of superiority. “You guys did everything but shuffle your feet.”

A hot flush of embarrassment touched Maggie’s cheeks. Had it really been that obvious? Maybe she’d been working with teenagers too long, she thought darkly. Now she was beginning to act like one. Next she’d be sending him a note in hot purple ink, the
i’s
dotted with tiny hearts.

She ignored the subject after that, as she and Samantha spent the morning wandering around the booths set up in Acacia Park in the heart of Colorado Springs, exploring the displays of arts and crafts, the paintings and performance artists.

Late in the morning, Samantha fell under the spell of a bagpipe that a man in a kilt and a red beard played with considerable skill. Maggie wandered into a booth nearby to admire the handwoven goods, and engaged in a long conversation with the weaver about the merits of various materials and styles. When the woman praised Maggie’s cotton skirt and blouse, then hunted out a heavy shawl in tones of russet and gold to complement it, Maggie couldn’t resist the purchase and went off smiling broadly.

Joining Sam, still entranced, she nudged her. “Are you ready to get some lunch?”

Sam cocked her head. “What about my surprise?”

“After lunch. We’re going to meet Sharon then.”

“Okay.” She shrugged, feigning indifference, and they headed off. “Can we eat at Michelle’s?”

“As if you’d pick any other place.”

Sam flashed a grin that transformed her sullen prettiness into a gleam of impishness. “I just give you an excuse to indulge your sweet tooth.”

“You look five years old when you grin like that.”

“Ornery, right?”

“Heavens yes. You ran me a merry chase the first year.”

“I did?” Sam stopped at the corner. “What changed it?”

Maggie focused on the pedestrian light. “You got chicken pox,” she said. “And I mean you
really
got chicken pox. Couldn’t move for days, fever through the roof. Your dad was on assignment in Israel, and I had to handle you myself.” They stepped off the curb. “When you got well, you were still ornery, but I guess you’d decided I’d be an okay mom.”

Sam absorbed this without speaking, but as she gained the opposite curb, she burst out, “I remember that!” She turned to Maggie, grabbing her arm. “You let me suck on those root beer candy sticks all day, and when I got well, you took me to the carnival to celebrate.”

Maggie nodded. “That’s the time.”

“How cool.” Then she pressed a hand to her cheek. “Thank goodness I didn’t get scars. There’s a girl in my school with a chicken pox scar right in the middle of her forehead.”

“Oh, it’s rare. You have some, though, I’m sure.”

“Where?”

They reached the restaurant. With her hand on the glass door, Maggie whispered, “Your bottom.” Samantha giggled.

In spite of the crowds at the park, they were able to get a table fairly quickly. Michelle’s was known mainly for its chocolates and ice cream delights, but they served an interesting variety of other foods, as well. Maggie ordered a Monte Cristo sandwich; Samantha a Greek salad with feta cheese. Throughout the meal, a series of Greek folk music selections poured over the speaker system.

“When my grandmother used to bring me here,” Maggie commented, “I thought it was the most magical place in the world.” She smiled. “We used to come on Sunday afternoons when I visited over Christmas vacations. She let me order anything I wanted from the pastry cart, but I had to be able to name it.”

“That sounds like Grandma. She wouldn’t buy me a pair of dress shoes until I found a purse that would match them.” She popped a long olive into her mouth. “She’s really into all that ladylike stuff.”

“But she’s nearly seventy, and I can’t think of anyone with more natural elegance. You could do worse than to follow in her footsteps.”

“You’re pretty elegant, too, Maggie,” Sam said. “When you’re not in one of your back-to-nature moods.”

Maggie shrugged. “Different styles for different days.” She motioned to the waitress. “I’ll let you pick a pastry if you can name it,” she said to Samantha.

“That’s easy,” Sam said. “I want a napoleon.”

“And you’ve known what to call them as long as I’ve known you.”

“It’s the only thing I remember about my mother,” Samantha said quietly, and her emerald eyes darkened with wistfulness. “One afternoon, eating napoleons someplace far away.”

“I didn’t know you remembered her at all,” Maggie said. “That’s remarkable.”

“When I remember that day, it’s all golden around the edges. We must have been in a garden, because there were red flowers near my mother.” She twisted a napkin. “And something I think of as a castle behind her.”

“Probably England. I think you spent a lot of time there.”

Sam nodded.

In light of the surprise Maggie had been exuberantly planning, the luncheon walk down memory lane could not have been better timed. She couldn’t contain her excitement. She hurried Samantha through dessert, then outside toward a gallery several blocks down the street.

As they neared the gallery, Maggie spotted Sharon just climbing out of her car. The assistant editor/photographer was dressed in one of the loose, belted dresses she preferred for assignments. Her braids were drawn back from her tan face into a crown topping her well-shaped head. Her dark eyes glittered as Sam and Maggie joined her, and she winked at Maggie.

“Boy,” Sam commented, looking from one woman to the other, “you two would make terrible poker players.” But her face showed that she, too, had caught the anticipation.

The glass-fronted gallery was two doors down, and as they approached it, Maggie watched her stepdaughter’s face. For a moment, there was a blank look as she took in the posters announcing the photographic display within. Then, as her gaze caught on a large black-and-white likeness of the photographer, her mouth dropped. She hurried forward to stare.

Maggie flashed a smile at Sharon.

Samantha whirled. “I look just like her, don’t I?”

“You sure do, sweetie.”

“Oh, thank you, Maggie,” the girl said, flinging herself into her stepmother’s arms. “This is the best surprise I’ve ever had.”

“Well, silly, go on in. They have a wonderful exhibit of your mother’s work in there. You go ahead and explore. Sharon and I are going to put together a feature story for the paper this week.”

With an enthusiastic kiss to Maggie’s cheek, Sam ran inside.

Sharon looked at the photo of Sarah Sven Henderson. “Samantha’s her spitting image.”

Maggie nodded. The photo had been taken, she knew, by Paul Henderson in Ireland, just days before Sarah’s death. Sarah’s long blond hair floated on a breath of wind, and her expression was serious. “I think it’s wonderful that her work is being revived,” Maggie commented. “She was one of the first women news photographers to gain any attention. Have you seen any of her work?”

Sharon shook her head. “I’m ashamed to admit I’ve never had the opportunity.”

“This is a double treat for you, then. Come on.”

* * *

As Maggie and Samantha walked back to the car two hours later, having left Sharon at her car, Sam was pensive.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Maggie offered softly.

Sam sighed. “I have a lot.”

“I bet.”

“I feel so…
shallow
when I look at her pictures. Like I’m just a conceited little girl for wanting to be a model.”

“Everyone has something different to offer, Samantha. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to model.”

She shrugged. “Not very important, though, is it? I mean, there’s all this stuff wrong with the world, and I want to be beautiful. That doesn’t make me feel too great.”

Maggie said nothing for a moment. “There’s something to be said for beauty, Sam.”

“Like what?” The question held deep skepticism.

“Relief, for one thing. Think about how relaxed you feel in a garden of beautiful roses, or the joy you feel when you look at a sunset.”

Sam shrugged.

“Anyway,” Maggie added, “there’s plenty of time for you to decide.” She linked an arm through Sam’s. “Just keep an open mind. That’s the important thing.”

A shout startled Maggie from her quiet discussion just as they reached the car. She glanced over her shoulder. A half a block up, a small crowd had gathered in front of a record store, and Maggie glimpsed one of the silver-studded black leather jackets that so pointedly identified the speed rockers defending Proud Fox.

Instincts quivering, she turned to Samantha. “Grab the camera from the trunk,” she said, throwing her the keys and scrambling for a notepad in her long pockets.

Sam moved quickly and joined Maggie as they hurried toward the crowd. The girl had been trained in the use of a camera at her father’s knee, and she now checked the film count and settings, then slung the strap over her neck, focusing as they ran. In a moment, Maggie heard the whir of the camera motor as Sam snapped a few preliminary shots.

“How much film is there?” Maggie asked.

“Not much. About half a roll.”

“I don’t want you in the middle of this. Shoot from the edges of the crowd.”

“Mother!” Sam protested. “How can I get anything decent from back there?”

With a mental kick, Maggie realized Samantha was burning with purpose. She bit her lip but made a split-second decision. “Do what you have to do,” she said. “Just be careful.”

She was rewarded with a solemn nod from Samantha, who kicked off her high heels near a doorway. Maggie noted the gesture and filed it.

As she reached the knot of curious onlookers, Maggie found two pairs of opposing soldiers in the ongoing war over rock and roll. Two boys, about fifteen, conservatively dressed, faced a couple of speed rockers in leather and long hair. A shouting match was going on.

Maggie forgot being a reporter, forgot her newspaper entirely. “What’s going on here?” she shouted.

All four faces swiveled toward the authority in her voice. “Beat it, lady,” said one of the rockers, his lip curling in a dismissive sneer. “This is none of your business.”

“It is my business,” she said, stepping forward. “You—“she glanced at each face in turn ”—
all
of you, made it my business when your ridiculous fighting gave me seven stitches Wednesday.”

“What are you, a teacher or something?” the same dark-haired boy asked. He was no more than sixteen, with the smooth jaw of one who has not yet seen a razor, but he was a solid six feet tall and exuded an attitude of sullen arrogance.

“No. I’m a reporter for the
Wanderer.”
She addressed the entire group with crossed arms. “I’ve been following this story for two months, and frankly, I’m tired of it. Why don’t you all back off and agree to live and let live?”

All four boys started talking at once, protesting her suggestion of détente with a dozen reasons why it couldn’t work. No, Maggie realized, only three were protesting. The second speed rocker touched the arm of his friend, his blue eyes trained on Maggie. In those eyes, she saw the unmistakable glow of intelligence, and she addressed her next question to him. “Do you really think this is solving anything?”

Long blond lashes swept down to hide his expression. He said nothing.

“Are you going to quit buying records by Proud Fox?”

He frowned at her as though she’d just suggested a walk on Saturn.

“So what’s the big deal?” she asked.

“They started it.” He licked his lower lip, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“I’m not finished yet,” Maggie returned. She could feel the small crowd begin to disperse behind her, the thrill seekers bored with negotiation. She turned to the other boys, with their shorter hair. One even wore a tie. Maggie looked at the other one, who seemed more receptive. “Do you two think you’re going to stop anyone from buying a record by protesting?”

The boy she had spoken to shifted uncomfortably, but the one with the tie spoke up. “That isn’t the point. We believe Proud Fox is evil, and we won’t stand for corruption anywhere in our society. We have a responsibility to protest the godless.”

Maggie lost her tongue for a moment. “But if your actions are causing violence, isn’t that evil, too?”

“We protest nonviolently. If others—“he glanced pointedly at the two rockers “—confront and incite violence, we cannot control that.”

His cold delivery and the almost canned sound of his words bothered Maggie. Fifteen-year-olds didn’t talk like that. She measured him silently for a moment. His lips were faintly twisted, a shape given them not by attitude but by an almost unnoticeable scar that ran from his lip to the corner of his eye.

Maggie saw it would be pointless to argue with him. “Why don’t all of you pack it in for today?” she said with a sigh. “I’m sure there’s something you could find to do with a Saturday afternoon.”

The dark-haired rocker cocked his head at his friend. “Let’s go.” He threw a threatening glance toward the boy with the tie, but to Maggie’s relief, they walked away.