Page 151 of A Matter of Time

Another snickered. “That’s the girl Dominic set Sam up with on the double date, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right,” First Girl said. “She was nice. Her name’s Margaret something.”

“Yeah, yeah, but she goes by Maggie, doesn’t she?”

“That’s right. Maggie Dixon.”

“So our Sam’s been on two dates with her?” Second Girl arched one perfectly waxed brow. “Well, that’s one more than usual.”

“She’s cute,” another girl chimed in. “What’s she do?”

“I think she teaches school. Third or fourth grade.”

“Awww, a schoolteacher for Sammy? How cute is that?”

“Look at them, they’re adorable together.”

Margaret Dixon was a curvy, petite brunette with deep dimples and big brown eyes. She had a great laugh, a warm demeanor, and was, from what was said, very likable. She was one of those touchy-feely people, so she basically had her hands all over Sam, but it was charming instead of flirty or bold. Her hair curled down to the middle of her back, she had an olive complexion, and her hourglass figure was being well served by tight jeans and a low-cut wrap shirt. She was the kind of girl men lined up for. She was Sam’s type, the girls assured one another, and watching them together it was hard not to agree.

He seemed at ease with Maggie. His eyes were soft when he looked at her, and when he bent over her to show her how to hold the pool cue, the girls all did the aww in harmony. I watched him get her a drink, let her feed him the cherry, and then give her the stem he had tied with his tongue. Some comment was made, because Maggie flushed a very becoming shade of pink and Sam arched one eyebrow and smiled wickedly. The howls of laughter from the table made everyone look. I was ready to go. I slunk off toward the kitchen to see if there was any bottled water anywhere.

The music got louder as the night wore on, but it wasn’t quite as pounding on the second floor. I found a sitting room between two bedrooms that was quiet and filled with back issues of Architectural Digest. I found one with a photo spread of Dane from seven years back and had a good laugh over his clothes, as well as his hair. I took a picture of it with my phone and sent my boss a text message, asking him what had been going on with him in the early nineties. When my phone rang, I expected it.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than annoy me?” he asked irritably.

“No.”

“Why not?”

I explained about what I was doing and where I was, and I was instantly sorry. He was really not pleased with my decision to spend time with Sam, and wondered how I could be sitting in someone’s house pretending to be something I wasn’t. I told him it was my life, and he promptly corrected me. Since I spent more hours with him, at work, than anywhere else, it was technically his life, and as such he had a say in where and with whom I spent the remainder of my time.

“I just want to be with him,” I defended myself.

“Great. Are you?”

There was no argument for that.

“So is the partner’s home nice?” He was changing the subject. It was really decent of him.

“Yeah.”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” I repeated, rolling my eyes. “It’s actually a little too nice.”

“Explain.”

“I think this might be one of Peter Armand’s designs.”

He snorted. “I very much doubt that someone your detective knows is living in an Armand house.”

“Exactly.”

“Go out front and take a picture and I’ll be able to tell you.”

“Okay. Call me back.”

“I will.” He yawned and hung up.