Page 3 of The Marigold Trail

A gent Maser starts the SUV and blasts the AC. I brace against the immediate cold and it only increases the already awkward chill in the car. His gaze meets mine as our seatbelts click in unison. It seems Mr. Maser and his self-aggrandized ego—he’s directly under the deputy director and all—was going to attempt small talk the rest of the drive.

“You get to enjoy the nightlife much while living downtown?” His lips congratulate themselves at the break of his question. Then his eyes trail down my face; from my soft angled eyebrows to the extra coat of eyeliner plastered over yesterday’s eye makeup, finally landing on my patchy ivory cheeks thanks to my lack of foundation. He’s noticed the difference; my hazel eyes probably look extra smoky since I didn’t have time to go through the process of washing yesterday’s eye makeup off of my dark Spanish lashes—a gift from my father's side.

“Occasionally,” I say, purposely sticking to one-word answers. I was still bothered by the fact that he had to present himself in a way that made me question my own ranking within the department.

We shuffle out of the vehicle; both of our hands reach for the holsters on our hips, synchronized like a line dance we’ve both known forever but only performed together a handful of times. The pathway to the law firm worms along a nicely architected lawn of flower borders and green shrubbery meticulously spaced between the mulch. My steps become weighted with lingering thoughts of Agent Maser’s failed car conversation and my own clunky HI-TEC brand hiking boots as we approach the russet red brick building held up by modern Doric columns and burnt orange trim.

The lawyer, Brian Hampton, greets us at the door. He looks as if we couldn’t rip the USB out of his hands soon enough and guides us to his office before locking the door behind him. Game face. Agent Maser and I are partners today. I must wipe the dense coat of annoyance off my face and apply cordial, team-player, professional face paint to it. I can do hard things.

I have to repress the urge to roll my eyes every time the words “special counsel review” come out of Agent Maser’s mouth in whispers.

The lawyer begins sharing his background with us and his connection to the USB. His client, the US Senator, had dropped the USB unknowingly and Brian happened to pick it up, out from under the oak chairs facing his desk, late yesterday evening. This morning he popped the device into his computer to crack the mystery of who it belonged to, receiving an answer after just a few clicks, finding his client, the US Senator, appearing in a video onscreen.

Agent Maser turns in toward my ear, invading my personal space. “They really could appoint a special counsel. He’s a government official and they can deem it a conflict of interest.” He mutters the sentence as if the anticipation of a US Senator’s involvement was a positive thing.

This guy. Good thing Mr. Hampton is out of earshot, gathering his files for us on the Senator, or he might have sensed my urgency to forgo my professionalism and swat Agent Maser right then and there with my arm.

Partnering with him was already starting to match a level of irritation akin to someone snapping their gum in my ear! Unreasonable rage, the kind that either carves a path for passionate action or forces you to quit that person altogether, is getting the best of me.

Ben was much easier to work with. Our cohesion and love, the sibling kind of love—his preference, not mine—was directly proportional to Agent Maser and I’s discord and mutual irritation for each other. Ben was professional, a bit intimidating, and very personal when it came to interacting with the general public. He was a natural. I, on the other hand, had to “fake-it-till-you-make-it” and usher in an aura of intimidation, while I chased away the silly, uncomfortable feelings that come from approaching citizens with, oftentimes, difficult subjects.

I’ve managed public professionalism every day for the last five years somehow, but everyone knew I was most useful outside of the scene, when the office analysis began and I could apply game theory or map out systematic search strategies. Not being in my preferred game space and being stuck with Agent Maser made this hand off doubly unpleasant.

Mr. Hampton approaches, eagerly holding out a file and USB for us to grab, looking as if he couldn’t be rid of them fast enough but also concerned for us. “I’ve seen about five minutes. I don’t know how you do things over there, but legally I want nothing to do with it. It’s all yours. Watch it. I would suggest screening who watches this and giving me a call when you need me to come in for additional questioning. Thank you for coming so quickly.” Mr. Hampton’s energy speaks louder than his words, giving off a strong your-soul-is-about-to-get-wrecked vibe. He seems damaged enough. Though for Agent Maser and I, I’m sure it’s nothing special. Bureau agents see disturbing things all the time.

“I’ll be ceasing all contact with him immediately. I’ll also send you the office recording of our interaction from yesterday. ”

“Thank you, Sir,” I say, as Agent Maser finalizes the handoff of the USB. He brandishes it in front of Mr. Hampton with his right hand like it’s an Olympic torch.

“We’ll be off then. We’ll be in touch once it’s reviewed,” Agent Maser says, nodding to acknowledge our departure.

On our drive back, it’s blatantly clear that Agent Maser isn’t familiar with the art of sitting in silence or catching on to the fact that I’d appreciate doing so. He continues talking as I count the narrow planted trees along the sidewalk and the number of homeless people in sleeping bags around the corner passing 26 th street. Only three this week. That’s good. My heart relaxes a bit.

He gives me a look out of the corner of his eye expecting a response to something he said. Maybe an “Oh yeah” or “mhmm” will do. Was he talking about his weekend plans or did he trail back to the personal “Did you know you wanted to be an agent as a kid?” type of question? I opt for “Oh yeah” blending my tone between a statement and a question, hoping that’ll satisfy him.

He raises his arm to the grab handle on the side, exposing the bicep muscle under his fitted polo blocking my view of the blue and white striped, red and yellow Colorado flags hanging across the street poles. He laughs. If it weren’t for my irritation at his overly proud nature, I might actually admire the sculpted arm show. He was tall, muscular, and likely intimidating, even without the FBI uniform on, but since I didn’t respect his show of arrogance, he had the opposite effect on me. To me he was about as intimidating as soup. If his clean-cut style, parted graham cracker-colored hair, and well-defined jaw swapped bodies with someone else’s personality, I might call that person attractive. Still, this was not the case.

“I asked what kind of food you like.” His smile is now directed at me. He must be satisfied, catching me fumbling a reply that doesn’t make sense.

“Anything but curry,” I say, keeping the placid expression. The first and last time I had curry was at Diana’s wedding and its effect on me was just as unappetizing as my relationship with Ben was that night. One minute Ben and I are happily editing each other’s best man and maid of honor speeches, sharing funny drafts and meaningful words—lots of compliments for Diana and maybe even a few slipping out for each other—and the next, I’m tasting what I’d call chalky, herb-filled reception gravy with a side of bitter feelings. Feelings brought on by Ben telling me to keep my distance, then later denying me a dance on the checkered floor. I’ve yet to learn what scared him that day but I’ve made sure to conceal my feelings for him since. Maybe I was too forward with the compliments.

“You want to stop to eat before heading back? It’s past noon,” Agent Maser says. And just like that my stomach moans on cue. My Pop-Tart breakfast was long spent. My stomach echoes a hollow void and a rock band starts to sing from within. I can’t hide my hunger this time. I agree and ask him to choose the place.

We sit in an industrial cafe close to Broadway street. It’s one of those super modernized buildings where exposed pipe and stained wood tabletops are the design theme. We order fancy burgers, the kind that give off a squeaky shine at the peak of the wheat bun. Even the lettuce looks expensive.

After my first bite I exhale a satisfied breath. Whoever concocted this sophisticated spicy blueberry sauce deserves an award. It’s the perfect spicy burn.

As I go in for another bite, I can see Agent Maser is ready to start another groundbreaking conversation. I give him minimal attention while I concentrate on the stinging sensation in my mouth.

I’ve already been briefed on the chemical plant explosion search, heavily aware that it's on pause and under review but nod my head at his reiteration. My mouth starts to burn from the blueberry heat. I need some relief.

Agent Maser must sense I’m in pain or he’s spotted the heat and itchiness reddening my eyes. He snatches my glass of coke and places it in front of his stainless steel tray in a playful manner, leaving me without liquid and absolutely speechless. I sigh through pursed lips but it comes out as more of an aggressive exhale.

Then he starts dipping his fries into my drink. The amusement on his face is uncanny.

“Wilber’s Heat Burger is hot isn’t it?" he says, dipping a second fry into my soda—this time flashing a wide smile at me with naughty eyes. If this was his way of getting my attention, it was working. I can't help but let out a soft, unsure laugh.

He begins mumbling something in between bites of fry, engaging his dimple in a way I hadn’t seen before.

“My mouth is on fire and you’ve contaminated my drink with your fries!” I openly squeal. My voice and laughing eyes have given me away. He knows he’s succeeded in gaining my attention. He gets up from his chair, continues to sip from my drink, and eyes me again.

“You’re seriously going to seize my drink, just like that?” I say.

“Lay off me, I’m starving!” He pulls from a lower pitch imitating an SNL sketch I’m all too familiar with. Butterflies form a kaleidoscope in my stomach and I feel something other than irritation enter my body. Did he really just quote Chris Farley?

I feel a sudden warmth toward Agent Maser, which surprises me.

Chris Farley was a staple in my life, like bread, milk, and eggs. I grew up absorbing his humor, watching all his movies, SNL skits, and even his one music video. Those who’d spent enough time with me quickly figured out I lived for a Chris Farley reference. So this. This was a big deal.

As he heads toward the drinking fountain and fills a glass with coke, I sit in shock, trying to process the idea that Agent Maser might actually have something in common with me.

Maybe I could hear him out in our time away from the office. I’d once been banned by Ben and Diana from suggesting Chris Farley movies, but that didn’t stop me from supplying them Chris Farley mugs at the next game night hosted at my apartment. Ben at least understood and entertained my need for the late night sketch comedian. He’d even dressed up as the coffee-table-crashing motivational speaker for my sixteenth Chris Farley-themed birthday. Maybe there was more to Agent Maser than I thought. Maybe he’d let me spout off as many Chris Farley quotes as I’d like, and maybe if I tried a bit harder to let go of his work arrogance his personality would be a better match than I previously thought. He’d just now grabbed my attention with a grand lasso. I could let him rope me in a little.

“You just quoted Chris Farley in the SNL skit with Adam Sandler and David Spade,” I say when he arrives back at the table with a new coke and straw and brushes it across the table so that it sits right under my nose.

“I did, didn’t I?” He smiles back at me from across the table.

“My dad introduced me to Chris Farley when I was young. My dying wish is to watch Tommy Boy just one last time before I go,” I say. He nods and scrunches up his chin so that his lips disappear into his face, amused by my response. “I’ll forgive you this time, but only because you brought him into it,” I say, referring to the man, the myth, the legend.

“Deal.” His honey eyes continue to assess me as he puts a napkin to his mouth. How is it that with one quick mention of my favorite comedian I’m able to see past Agent Maser’s previously slick behavior?

It’s because those who quote Chris Farley on a whim are about as rare as a rainbow eucalyptus and if you’ve ever seen one it’s not something you can ignore.

“I’ve never tried dipping fries in my coke. Is it any good?” I say. Here we go. I’ve opened the gates of conversation. I dip the brittle potato into my soda. The bottom breaks off and floats down into the dark abyss, and I taste what’s left of the experiment, deciding I don’t hate it, but I don’t love it either.

We share a laugh and he pushes my chair in before trailing me out the door to the tinted agency SUV.

Agent Maser kept my attention. It wasn’t necessary to disappear into my own thoughts when his Chris Farley references dart straight for the bullseye. I begin firing unfiltered answers back at his questions throughout the drive back to the Bureau.

“Doing anything fun this weekend?” he asks.

“I have my ten-year class reunion,” I say, coming to accept that it’s now that time in my life where my high school mob is supposed to gather for a night and catch up on all the things we could easily look up on Facebook. We’ll talk about whether or not we managed to leave our parent’s basement, how many kids we reproduced, and gloat about our successful careers or our good-looking spouses—the two were mutually exclusive. I knew from experience.

“Nice. Are you one of those that looks forward to your reunion or are you just going to see how much better you’ve fared than the rest of them?” His lips curl, matching his earlier expression when he claimed ownership of my drink.

“I get to see my best friend Diana, so it’ll be a good time either way. She’s in Fort Collins. We see each other now and then, but it’s been a while. We had a small group that got along really well back then, so I’m looking forward to catching up with the rest of them.” And I was. I only had one real concern. “I still haven’t decided which career I’m going to make up for the night,” I say.

“Oh yeah. Smart move. Need some ideas?”

“Yes. Something that can compete with cute kid names and hot husbands,” I say. We turn onto I-70 from I-25, knitting into uneven rows of a long, stalled traffic scarf. The AC unit finally hits a breath-like state. Agent Maser must have turned down the windstorm aimed at my forearms while I was talking.

“You gotta go with something you know a little bit about. Dental hygienist, accountant, scuba diving instructor?” he says.

“You think I know how to fake being a scuba diving instructor?”

“Probably not.” He gives a quick laugh. “I scuba dive for fun… so it came to mind.” My brows rise. When does this man have time to scuba dive? “You know, you and I could show up as a married couple who do deep sea dive tours in Hawaii during the summer. I own a scuba diving rental store and you own a thriving cupcakery downtown,” he adds. “You’ll check all the boxes on the reunion list of success.”

“Yeah, cuz that would be believable.” I relax at the suggestion. Claiming I own a cupcake shop and have a spouse creates a sense of comfort within me. I consider the possibility.

“You don’t think you can fool your high school class into thinking that you’ve qualified for Food Network’s Bake It or Break It series and have a final interview set up for next week? If that’s not ‘successful’ I don’t know what is.” His expression is as thorough as his suggestion.

I muster an eye roll. This is my natural response, but to be truthful, I like a little spontaneity every now and then. I’ll take him up on this offer. Diana wouldn’t mind. She will probably be elated that I brought a man, even if he’s a fake.

“I can’t bake but enough time has passed they might not question it. It’s not like I take my class reunion seriously anyway. For all I care, they can think we’re sharing scuba kisses underwater and playing footsie with flippers too,” I say, hoping he smells the kittenish sarcasm I just dealt. I was being playful, trying this type of conversation out with Agent Maser, but it didn’t mean I was ready to take my playful words and put them into action just yet.

He parks next to the motorcade of tactfully positioned identical black SUVs, next to the second floor elevator of the parking garage, and turns to face me.

“How fun would that be?” he says, warm and animated. “I’d get a kick out of it, as long as you’re having fun. I bet you’d have a hell of a lot better time getting creative with it rather than picking a stale job to hide your FBI status.” He smiles, quirking that dimple again. “Especially if showing up without a date.”

He wasn’t wrong. I didn’t question his acting skills either. He was good with his words; one of the reasons I found him slick and unlikeable in the first place, but now…

I face him, holding back the words. I don’t want to say it but the spontaneity inside me awakens. My expression already says “I’m in.”

“Let’s make it a date,” he says. He’s blushing, but confidence never leaves his face.

“It’s a date then. You better play up how good my cupcakes taste.” I point a finger in his direction.

“Deal”