Catch of the Day (19 page)

“Malone,” Chantal says in her man-seduction voice, a lower, sexier tone that she saves for the X-Y chromosomers. “Maggie and I were just talking about you the other day.” Damn her. She turns to him to offer him a view of her breasts, but he’s staring at me. My jaw grows tight and I take a slug of wine. Malone tips his head to the side slightly, and there might be a little upward movement to one corner of his mouth. His knee brushes mine under the table, and a prickle of lust creeps up my thigh.

Chantal puts her hand on Malone’s bicep, and I can just about feel it, too, that solid, bulging, rock-hard— “Maggie was wondering if you’re gay,” she purrs.

“Jesus! Chantal! I was not!” I look at Malone. The hint of smile is gone. “I wasn’t.”

“So are you, Malone? You don’t seem to like girls. I mean, if you’ve passed over me
and
Maggie…”

I try to come up with an expression that will hide my embarrassment and advertise my indignation. I fail miserably.

“So, Malone, are you?”

Malone finally decides to speak, a decision not reached lightly. “No.”

“But you don’t like women?” Chantal persists. I psychically—and ineffectually—order her to shut the hell up. “Are you just sort of asexual, Malone?”

An image of Malone on top of me flashes through my head. I believe the fading hickey just below my collarbone can prove he’s not exactly asexual. At the thought, my knees start with that watery, wiggly feeling. I gulp down some wine.

“I like some women,” he says, still looking at me. I believe my name has just been removed from his list, judging from the ice in his eyes. My cheeks are on fire, much to my disgust. Chantal, at least, is too busy thrusting her prowlike bosom into Malone’s arm to notice my discomfort.

“Well, too bad Maggie and I aren’t your type,” she pouts.

“Too bad,” he agrees, then turns to look at her, dropping his gaze to her obvious charms.

You know, I kind of hate him at that moment. Make that both of them. Actually, there’s no “kind of” about it. I drain my wine and look away. If he wants to make me feel inadequate, he’s doing a great job.

At that moment, a cry goes up from the bar, and a most welcome cry at that. “Father Tim!”

The cavalry has arrived. He shakes hands, claps a few backs, then sees me, and bless his dear Irish heart, his face lights up. As he makes his way across the now-packed bar, I can’t help the wave of pride I feel. Out of everyone here, he picks me as a seat mate.

“Maggie, how are you, love?” he asks happily. “And Chantal, too, what a treat.” He’s wearing civvies—a beautiful knit sweater, made by his sainted mother, no doubt, and jeans. Yes, jeans. The look is Catholic Rugged, and nicely done. I smile widely and scooch over to make just enough room for him to sit down. I hope Malone notices. I shoot him a glance. Yup. He does, giving the words
thunderous expression
new clarity. My smile grows even more.

“Hello, there,” Father Tim says to Malone. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure. Tim O’Halloran.
Father
Tim, in case you missed that.” He winks at me and extends his hand.

“Malone.” Tall, Dark and Scowling shakes Father Sunshine’s hand.

“Ah, a fine Irish name! Is that your first name or your last?” Father Tim asks.
See, Malone?
I think.
This is how people talk.

“Last,” Malone grunts.

“And your first name? Sorry, I didn’t catch it.”

Chantal intervenes. “He doesn’t use it, Father Tim. It’s a local legend. He’s just listed on the tax registers as plain old M. Malone.”

“Well, that’s all right. Are you Irish, Malone?”

“No.”

For heaven’s sake! To break the awkward pause, I jump in. “How are you, Father Tim?” I ask. “Would you like a beer?” Paul Dewey appears at our side.

“I think the weather calls for something a bit stiffer,” Father Tim says. Chantal raises her eyebrows at me.
Stiffer,
she mouths. My jaw clenches. Luckily, Father Tim doesn’t see her. “How about an Irish whiskey, Dewey, my fine man?”

Malone is staring at the table, which somehow avoids turning into a puddle of black tar. He lifts his gaze suddenly to mine, and I turn instantly to Father Tim.

“So how did the funeral go in Milbridge?”

“It was a sad affair, Maggie, quite sad. Thanks for asking. You’re very kind.”

I nod compassionately and give Malone a satisfied glance.

“You were such a comfort to me the other night, Father Tim,” Chantal says, widening her doelike eyes. “At bereavement group,” she explains to me. Malone shoots her a look. “I lost my husband some time ago,” she reminds him. “And dear Father Tim has been very helpful.”

“I’m so glad to hear it, Chantal,” Father Tim murmurs.

I bite my lip. Helpful, my ass. I know—and Chantal knows I know—that she’s there for voyeuristic purposes only. She gives me a look and smirks. Meanwhile, Dewey brings the whiskey, and Father Tim takes a deep sip.

“That’s the thing for a night like tonight,” he says appreciatively, taking another. “So, Malone, is it? Malone, what do you do for a living?” Father Tim grins his beautiful smile, and I find myself smiling sappily back at him.

“Lobsterman,” Malone says tersely.

“Ah, a fine profession indeed. And have you got a wife and children?”

“A daughter.”

“Are you married, then?” Father Tim asks, looking around the room.

“Divorced.”

“That’s such a shame, isn’t it?” Father Tim leans back in the booth, his arm pressed against mine. “A terrible shame for the children. It ruins their world, doesn’t it now?”

Malone’s mouth is rapidly disappearing in a tight line, and his jaw looks ready to pop. He doesn’t answer.

“Maggie, tell me, how did that seafood lasagna go over yesterday?” Father Tim asks, and again, I glance at Malone, hoping to impress upon him that there are people out there interested in more than my girl parts.

“It was really good, Father Tim. Thank you so much for asking. I had some left over, but I brought it to Mrs. Kandinsky. I’ll be sure to save you some next time.”

“Oh, you’re a generous girl.” He smiles at me, that irascible lock of hair dropping over his forehead. It’s all I can do not to smooth it back. “So how do you know Malone here, Maggie?” he asks.

I look at Malone a long minute.
I know him biblically, Father,
I answer silently. “He moors next to Jonah,” I say out loud. Malone stares back.

“And does he know about your little situation?” the priest murmurs.

“Which situation?” I ask.

“How you’re looking for a nice man to marry?”

Shit! Hopefully, Malone didn’t catch that. His scowl tells me otherwise. Ears like a bat, that Malone. Chantal speaks up. “Father Tim, honey, I was wondering how a poor widow like myself, or a nice girl like Maggie, should meet some new people. Because just between the two of us—well, the four of us,” she amends, leaning forward, her cleavage clamoring for release, “we women have certain needs. Desires. And it’s so hard to meet anyone really decent. I mean, a roll in the hay is one thing, but finding a husband is another. Right, Maggie?”

“I think I’ll go say hello to Jonah,” I blurt, ignoring the terror in Father Tim’s eyes. “Didn’t see him today. I’ll just go check in with him. See how he’s doing. If he needs anything.”

I practically fly across the room to my brother, but it’s no use. Malone is right behind me.

“Maggie,” he says. “Listen.” His voice is very quiet, just a bare rumble of distant thunder, and I can barely hear him. He pauses. “My daughter’s been visiting,” he finally says.

“Hey, no problem,” I answer. “You can do whatever you want. See whoever you— What did you say?”

He frowns. “My daughter. Emory. She was visiting for April break.”

“That—that was your daughter?” The woman I saw him with had to be twenty-three, twenty-four at least. Didn’t she?

“Ayuh.”

“How old is she?” I demand. Bob Castellano pushes past me with an apologetic pat on the shoulder.

“Seventeen,” Malone answers, a black eyebrow rising.

“She’s seventeen? Your daughter is seventeen?”

His scowl deepens. “Why, Maggie?”

“Well, how old are you, Malone?” My face burns painfully.

“Thirty-six.”

I do the math…so he was nineteen when his kid was born. Huh. Okay. I guess that fits, given the little I know about Malone.

“Who’d you think she was?”

It takes me a second to realize I’ve been busted. I risk a look at Malone’s face and wish I hadn’t. “You know what?” I babble. “There’s Jonah! I think I’ll go say hi to Jonah.” I gesture to my brother, who is making out with the pretty woman from before. “Actually, I guess I’ll hit the loo.” And I flee.

In the safety of the bathroom, I lean against the sink and take a few cleansing breaths. God, what a stew of emotions out there! No wonder my hands are shaking. I’m mad, frustrated, horny (let’s be honest), guilt-ridden and irritated. I look at my reflection in the mirror. My face is flushed, my hair lank from the humidity. Why does Chantal look like a dew-kissed apricot when I look like a drowned rat? I wet some paper towels and press them against my cheeks.

Malone could have saved me a little trouble with a phone call, couldn’t he? I ask myself.
Hey, my daughter’s in town, and I’ll be a little busy.
But no. We don’t have that kind of relationship. We don’t have any relationship. He can’t even pick up the phone to tell me something simple like Catherine Zeta-Jones is his
child.
For heaven’s sake.

A little voice in my head wonders if he’s telling the truth. During the brief time I was at his house, I didn’t see any pictures of a beautiful young woman, did I? No, there were just pictures of a little girl. No seventeen-year-olds. And frankly, the woman I saw last week looked older than that to me.

Well. If he says she’s his daughter, she probably is…after all, in a small town like Gideon’s Cove, that would be a pretty big lie to pull off. The thing is, it doesn’t matter, does it? Emory—cool name, if I cared to think about it—doesn’t have anything to do with the lack of communication between her dear old dad and me. I’m a roll in the hay as far as Malone is concerned.

I wish I could meld Father Tim and Malone into one. Malone’s sex appeal and single status, Father Tim’s everything else. Well, maybe a few more things from Malone. He’s hardworking, not that Father Tim isn’t, but Malone is the kind of guy who can get things done. Fix-your-car-type things. Father Tim’s helpless at that. And Malone is…well, shoot, I don’t really know what he is, do I? I know he has a certain effect on me. That’s it.

When I come out, our little party appears to be breaking up. Chantal wriggles from her seat, making sure everyone sees her lush behind as she smooths her tight jeans. Malone hands Chantal her coat.

“Thank you, Malone, sweetie. Maggie, Father Tim’s giving me a ride home,” Chantal says. “I think I’ve had too much to drink,” she pretends to confide.

“I see,” I sigh. She could drink a roomful of firemen under the table.

“Would you like a ride, as well, Maggie? The rain’s punishing out there. I’d be happy to drop you off,” Father Tim pleads. His eyes are begging… I’m sure there are rules against priests driving loose women home, and even a
castrati
would need a chaperone when alone with Chantal.

I glance out the window, which is too steamy to give me an actual view. Will Malone offer me the olive branch of a ride? To apologize for not calling, for not telling me his daughter was occupying his time for the past week?

He doesn’t, just stands there looking at me, and who the hell knows what he’s thinking.

“I’d love one, Father Tim. You’re so nice. That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.” In case Malone doesn’t get the point, I turn to him. “Always lovely to see you, Malone.”

“Maggie,” he says, giving me the nod. Then he goes back to the bar from whence he came.

Four minutes later, I’m home, watching Father Tim pull away from the curb toward Chantal’s house. Lucky Chantal. She lives twenty minutes outside of town. Twenty extra minutes with Father Tim, chatting, laughing, driving through the pouring rain. Poor Father Tim…well. I’m sure they teach priests how to handle this kind of thing in the seminary.

Loneliness twangs its familiar discordant note. Though it’s a reasonable hour to go to bed, it feels that the night stretches in front of me, endless. I feel it so sharply I even wish—briefly—that Malone would call me.

“Screw it,” I say, filling Colonel’s water bowl. “You just can’t win sometimes, can you, boy?” My dog doesn’t answer.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I
MAKE THE MISTAKE
of going to see my parents a few days later.

“Hi, Mom,” I say. She’s still in her little uniform from Will’s office—she wears scrubs with bright patterns on them, dogs and cats, flowers, happy faces—although why, we don’t know. She hates sick people and never gets near them if possible, preferring to spend her day fighting with insurance companies instead, usually emerging from her headset in grim victory.