Little Pink Slips Part 17

"Very tempting-thanks," Magnolia said. "Someone from my office will let you know by tomorrow. Promise . . . It would be great to see you. I'll bet you haven't changed a bit either." Magnolia wondered whether Misty considered this a compliment.

Her first choice would have been a long weekend in Paris. But for Magnolia Gold, an escape to Fargo would do just fine. Why stay here? To take the heat when Jock saw Bebe's gun cover? She'd rather not.

Magnolia opened the door and returned to Sasha's desk. "Clear my calendar-I'll be gone next Friday," she said. "We're going to need to update my Lady PowerPoint to make it Bebe-specific," Magnolia said.

"Would that 'we' be me?" Sasha asked.

Magnolia smiled. "Book me on Northwest Airlines," she said. "And call Misty tomorrow at six our time to tell her I accept."

"What did you ever do to this woman that there's some return favor you can't refuse?" Sasha asked.

"Change of scenery will do me good," Magnolia said. "What scenery? I saw Fargo twice."

"It's just a trip."

"But it's forty below. North Dakota is the home page of the wind chill factor."

"Sasha," Magnolia said as she walked away, "that's why G.o.d invented fur."

Chapter 2 3.

Aw, Heck, What Would Jesus Do?

Magnolia stood with her luggage at the designated meeting place: directly under the vintage airplane hanging from the ceil ing of Fargo's industrial-chic airport, Great Plainsstyle. Flying to Minneapolis, Magnolia had begun to picture Misty as increasingly wide and soft. Between Minneapolis and Fargo, she had ballooned in her mind to at least size 18. By the time she deplaned, Magnolia sternly reminded herself to be the soul of graciousness and overlook her childhood friend's maternal transformation.

The woman striding confidently through the airport could, how ever, easily pa.s.s for Christy Brinkley's younger sister. Her tall body- buxom but trim-would be comfortably at home on a black diamond ski slope, although you'd have to go to Montana to find one. Misty had tucked her jeans into a pair of Uggs, and under an unzipped white parka Magnolia could see a pink turtleneck which matched her blush free cheeks. Her hair hung as long as when she was crowned home coming queen twenty years ago. Around her enormous blue eyes, fringed with dark lashes, were fans of delicate crow's feet but-over all-Misty appeared as fresh as newly fallen Norwegian snow.

Magnolia despised her on sight. She instantly regretted wearing her sheared mink. I'm the one who looks matronly, she thought. "Maggie?"

"Misty!" Magnolia didn't know whether she should greet her, as she would Abbey or even her top editors, with a kiss on the cheek. Too New York. She settled for a long hug.

"Gosh, look at you," Misty said, sizing her up, top to bottom. "I can't wait for Bucky to see you, city girl," She lingered on Magnolia's high-heeled suede footwear. "But, jeez, I hope those boots don't get ruined."

You can kiss these Manolos good-bye, Magnolia said to herself.

Misty effortlessly grabbed Magnolia's heavy duffel and pointed her toward the exit, where a white Eddie Bauerlogo'd vehicle the size of a small garbage truck spit swirls of vapor into the crackly air. Magno lia pulled her Russian hat low over her forehead. The temperature made her nose run, and as Misty tossed her suitcase in the car's rear end-already crowded with a toboggan, two sleds, a shovel, cross country skis, and a golden retriever-Magnolia turned away to blot the dripping with her black kid glove.

"Hey, Goldfarb!" Bucky got out of the car and swept her toward his barrel chest. She'd forgotten how Bucky had always found her orig inal last name endlessly amusing-or what bruisers the men were here. He made his SUV look like a Matchbox car. "Hop in," he said.

Magnolia hoisted herself into the backseat, where a rosy Polartec swaddled baby slept sweetly in a car seat.

"That's our youngest, Bjorn," Misty said. "We're picking up the big ones on the way to your hotel. Be there in a jiff."

"No rush, guys," Magnolia said. "And thanks for meeting me. I can't believe I'm here."

"Say what?" Bucky asked.

"Excuse me?" Magnolia said.

"Ya, you're right, Misty," he said. "She did get herself a New York accent."

"Don't be a dork, Bucky," Misty said. "She has not." Misty paused. "Well, maybe a little. Like that woman on The Nanny reruns." Magnolia, used to being complimented on her all-American dic tion, faked a laugh and looked out the window. It was only 3:45 in the afternoon but the northern light was rapidly fading. As Bucky drove on the crunchy, snow-packed streets, Misty delivered a voice-over.

"See that house"-she pointed to a tidy split level surrounded by a few, bare trees. "That's where Scott and Jen live now." Magnolia guessed she was supposed to remember who they were. "And that one over there"-a vinyl-sided ranch already heavily illuminated for Christmas-"was Tom and Deb's, but he hooked up with Cynthia.

Deb's a lesbian now. Moved to the Twin Cities." Misty raised her eye brows in mock shock.

Just as Magnolia began to try to imagine what life might have been like had she never left Fargo-would she be with Tom, a.s.suming she could recall who he was? would she own a set of jumper cables and know what to do with them?-Bucky and Misty stopped in front of a school whose playground had been flooded with water that had frozen to create a skating rink. The jolt awoke the baby, who started to wail.

In one fluid motion, Misty exited the SUV's front pa.s.senger door, popped around and opened the back door, unbuckled the car seat, and plopped the startled child in Magnolia's lap, saying "We'll be back in two shakes-mind the baby, okay?"

The chunky little boy took one look at Magnolia and cried at twice the volume. She tried to bounce him on her lap-that's what mom mies did-but he felt heavier than Biggie, and her jerks succeeded only in making tears stream down his little chapped face. The child pulled off one red mitten, tossed it on the floor, and shrieked even louder. This roused the sleeping dog, who leaped over the seat and began to s...o...b..r on Magnolia's mink and pant hotly in her face. She could see the dog's breath in the chilly car.

"What's your name again?" Magnolia asked the unhappy infant. Lorne? p.o.r.n? "Bjorn!" Had Misty named her child for that Swedish tennis champ with the scraggly hair and headband? When they were both thirteen, she dimly remembered his face on a cover of Time plastered to her friend's bedroom wall. Or was Bjorn the cool ethnic name here, the Upper Midwest equivalent of Jaden or Aiden?

She stared out the window, which was getting fogged. Where were Bucky and Misty? The doors opened. Three apple-cheeked cherubs carrying ice skates crowded into the seat behind Magnolia, a blur of primary-colored jackets, pom-pom hats, and boots.

"I'm Brittany," said a mini Misty. "These are the twins, Brett and Brendan."

"Meet Mrs. Goldfarb, kids," Bucky said.

"h.e.l.lo Mrs. Goldfarb," Brittany said in a singsong that matched her parents.

"Actually, that's my mother-you can call me Magnolia."

"That's a dumb name."

"Company manners, Brittany," Misty said, not unkindly, to her daughter. "Maggie can call herself whatever she wants."

She turned around to face Magnolia as she continued their tour- the coffee bar where Siegel's Menswear used to be, the sewage treat ment plant, the nonexistent landscaping. And in less than five minutes, they were pulling up to her hotel. "You're going to love it here at the Donaldson-just like South Beach," Misty said.

I'll be the judge of that, Magnolia thought.

"Pick you up for supper at seven," Misty shouted out the window as the SUV huffed around the corner.

The last time she'd been in Fargo-twelve years earlier, before her parents abandoned the state for tennis in nonstop 70-degree suns.h.i.+ne-this hotel had been a flophouse. Now, from what Magnolia could tell, the whole town was getting subversively trendy. Loft condos had sprouted up where p.a.w.nshops used to be. A patisserie stood next to a tractor factory rehabbed into a sleek, postmodern office building that appeared to be furnished by Design Within Reach. Where were the endless freight trains whose cars she'd counted as a child, trains that dissected Fargo four times a day and made traffic-such as it was- come to a standstill? Magnolia hadn't seen a one. And had all the lumpy, polyester people of her memory migrated, perhaps to South Dakota?

At the Donaldson, a bellman opened the door to a suite twice the size of Magnolia's first New York studio apartment. The walls were decorator white and the carpeting, sisal. "Is that a hot tub?" Magnolia asked the bellman, pointing to what looked like a small lap pool.

"Ya, you betcha," he said. "Welcome to the HoDo."

She wondered whether its water would freeze like the skating rink.

As soon as he had left, she jacked up the thermostat to eighty degrees and kept her coat on as she unpacked. Maybe she would cancel Misty.

HBO on the gigantic, flat-screened TV; a run-through of tomorrow's speech; and room service sounded like a fine night. She studied the menu, which promised "artisa.n.a.l twists on cla.s.sic regional favorites."

What might they be? In the Goldfarb home, artisa.n.a.l food was kugel, brisket, pastrami and rye bread-imported from Winnipeg or Min neapolis-and the occasional Sara Lee coffee cake. Here, who knew?

Lutefisk? Jell-O martinis? Perhaps she'd drop in at the bar and check out the R&B band. Or the poetry reading. Really, her stay was going to be better than Disney World, and all for $144 a night.

The telephone rang. She hoped it was Misty, canceling.

"Maggie?" asked a nervous, high-pitched voice.

It couldn't be.

"I read about your speech tomorrow in the Forun," he said. "Welcome home."

"Tyler! Or do I have to call you Pastor Peterson now?"

"You heard I got ordained?"

"Did you have a choice?"

"Ya, it's kind of a family business." When they grew up, Tyler's dad herded the flock of Fargo's largest Lutheran church, of which there were as many as Forest Gump had shrimp dishes. All of his older brothers had become ministers. "So, anyway, I was wonder ing . . ."

"Yes, Tyler?"

"If you could meet me? I'm in the bar downstairs."

Would Tyler wear a minister's collar? Carry a bible? Say grace? Magnolia threaded her way through the dark, crowded hotel lounge, searching for the dirty-blond hair that used to hang over her high school boyfriend's eyes. Next to several men in orange, deer-hunting clothing, a group of shrill college girls dominated one end of the smoky bar, their male counterparts circling them like the chorus of a Bollywood movie. Magnolia turned in the opposite direction, where a few couples were sipping margaritas and chomping tortilla chips.

No Tyler.

Maybe he wasn't going to show. Worse, maybe it had been a joke instigated by Bucky, who would roar through the door, slapping his beefy thigh and shouting, "Got ya, Goldfarb. Still got the hots for Tyler Peterson, huh?" She sat at a table and waited, crossing her arms against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Even with a layer of silk long johns under her jeans and a thick cashmere turtleneck, Magnolia wondered how she had ever survived here in Iglooville.

She felt a tap on her shoulder. In place of the Tyler she remem bered stood a serious man with wire-rimmed gla.s.ses and a blue knit ski hat. She could easily picture him at a desk in a bank, granting a loan to a customer in a John Deere cap. He stared at her and didn't seem able to speak. Nor could she.

"Maggie," he said, after what felt like minutes. "I like your hair long." He brushed away her bangs, and as his hand grazed her cheek, she s.h.i.+vered-this time not from the cold-and pulled him close, breathing in the clean scent of skin she'd know anywhere.

"Aw, heck, I didn't mean to make you cry," he said, as they sat down together. He pulled off his hat; his hair had turned brown. Magnolia blinked away her tears.

"It's just so great to be home." She lied. The truth was, if she wanted to go to a Starbucks or a Gap, she could find dozens at home in Manhattan, with the same caramel macchiatos and boot-cut jeans.

Nothing about Fargo felt remotely like the sweetly unadorned town of her memory. Nothing except Tyler Peterson. As he settled into his chair, she could picture him on the bench in his football uniform, turning shyly to look for her in the bleachers.

"I don't suppose you want the local specialty, a prairie fire-tequila and Tabasco?" Tyler said, as he smiled for the first time and ordered them a pitcher of beer. "Tell me about your life in New York."

"Magazine editor. Two wheaten terriers. Good friends. Not a lot to tell," she said. Not a lot she wanted to tell. She didn't know how to edit the caption for her life in a way that wouldn't give Tyler the opportu nity to denounce her as an urban sinner. Divorcee, workaholic, child less woman, big spender. "You?"

"Church in a town where the tallest building is the grain elevator," he said, looking at his hands. "Wife, two kids, small house, big mortgage."

"Circle back to that wife part."

"Jody's the sunniest girl I ever met."

"Sounds perfect," Magnolia said, thinking no one was ever going to call her sunny. "Tell me everything."

"She's a preacher's kid, too; knows the drill; makes a mean ham burger hot dish, teaches bible camp, can sew a Halloween costume that fits over a parka," he said, looking Magnolia straight in the eye for the first time. "But nothing's perfect."

The hue and cry of married men on the make, she thought, then squashed the idea. Don't flatter yourself, Magnolia. Tyler is probably here to save your soul. "I guess it's the not-perfect part that keeps your business alive," she said.

"Secret of my success-people don't show up on Sunday for my sermons."

"Pictures?" Magnolia asked.

Tyler reached into the pocket of his corduroys, pulled out a canvas wallet, and opened it to a shot of two young teenagers-a pudgy, sunburned girl and a boy who looked remarkably like the Tyler who had sat next to her in geometry cla.s.s twenty years earlier. They were standing in front of an RV. "We took this last summer at Yellowstone," he said proudly.

"They're so old," Magnolia stammered. She had prepared herself for babies.

"We sort of had to get married," he said and laughed again, this time nervously, absentmindedly rubbing his bare ring finger. "Tyler Peterson, are you blus.h.i.+ng? It's not like you were a virgin."

As soon as Magnolia said it she wondered if she shouldn't take down the smart-a.s.s tone a notch. When she last knew this man, he did not have an ironic bone in his d.a.m.n good body.

"My wife reads your magazine," he said. "She's been following your career."

"My brilliant career?" Magnolia said, bristling at the "wife" word. "So I guess you know that Bebe Blake runs the show now."

"Jody figured that out. Watches Bebe every day," he said. "I don't get that woman. Can you explain her to me?"

"I doubt it," Magnolia said. But the look on Tyler's face showed he expected an answer.

"Hot-and-cold-running ego. But just when you really start hating her, she does something decent. Then, when you let yourself like her, she ignores you completely."

"Why do you submit yourself to that?" he asked.

"Well . . ." Magnolia said. It was an utterly reasonable question, but she wasn't quite ready for pastoral counseling. Because even a not great job is better than men, who never fail to disappoint? Because she was afraid that living in a place as regular as Fargo would be an e-ticket to h.e.l.l?

"Maggie Goldfarb, are you blus.h.i.+ng?" Tyler asked. He filled their gla.s.ses for the second time, put his hand on top of hers and slowly moved his palm toward her wrist. She felt warm everywhere, as if they'd both stripped and were breathing heavily under the universe's most luxurious duvet. "Soft," he said, as he moved his fingers toward her arm.

Soft, she repeated to herself. She time-traveled to their first date, when they'd French-kissed for hours in the back of the Fargo Theatre and she confirmed firsthand the definition of the term "o.r.g.a.s.m."

Tyler continued to stroke her wrist until he reached her watch.

Magnolia jolted back to reality. "Jesus, Tyler," she said. "Oh, Christ, sorry I said 'Jesus.' What time is it?" She yanked her arm away and quickly stood. "Bucky is picking me up in five minutes." "That fool who hawks cars on Channel Four?" he asked, not sound ing one bit like the Reverend-anything.

"Don't act like you don't remember Bucky," she said. "You were on the same football team." Is he jealous, she wondered? And are they both insane? "It's not a date-it's supper. Misty Knight is the one who invited me to speak tomorrow." Why was she explaining this to Tyler?

"But when will I see you?" he said as he stood up to help her into her coat.

"Tyler, get a grip . . ." she said, but this time she didn't finish her sentence because he leaped forward and kissed her. His tongue tasted like slow dancing, like high-octane teenage hormones, like midnight skinny-dipping at Pelican Lake.