Catch of the Day (22 page)

He looks back at me, not smiling, then covers the space between us, takes my hand and leads me to bed.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A
T LEAST
I
DIDN’T
wake up alone, I think the next day as I slice onions for potato soup. Malone was already dressed, granted, and it was still dark out, but he kissed me gently and said the tender words, “Gotta go.” And he did.

But he kissed me, he woke me up…that must be a step forward, I think. Last night marks the third time we’ve spent the night together. This must be a relationship, right? The fact that I still don’t know much about him rankles, though. What we really need to do is go out and not just go to bed. This idea holds a good bit of appeal in theory, until I remember the night we spent staring at each other at the restaurant. Maybe I should go ahead with that list and just hand it to him.
Please fill in the answers to the following questions. What is your first name? Do you have any hobbies? Are you going to introduce me to your daughter? Am I your girlfriend?

The sun is shining brightly today, the air cool and clean, and business is slow. A few people come in to pick up an order, but that’s about it for the lunch crowd. It’s Octavio’s day off. Since we’re so slow, and since she’s reading a novel anyway, I send Judy home at noon and handle the few customers who actually come in to eat.

After I close, I take Colonel home and swing by the soup kitchen with the vat of soup and a few dozen biscotti. Then I spend an hour or two writing letters to tourism writers and restaurant critics, hoping to lure someone to Joe’s Diner. But my mother is probably right. Even if Joe’s wins best breakfast in our county, or even in the whole state, it wouldn’t change much. Gideon’s Cove is just too far from anywhere to be popular.

I take a walk to the harbor. My brother’s boat is in, but Malone’s, the
Ugly Anne,
is not. I wonder how he picked the name, who Anne is. Another question for the list, I suppose. I walk back home, oddly deflated.

Having cooked all day, the last thing I want to do is make myself some dinner. On a whim, I get into my car, which is caked with dried mud, drive twenty minutes to the next town, which has a car wash. I’ve always loved the car wash, that feeling of surrender to the conveyor belt, the ease with which the car is suddenly sparkling clean. As I’m feeding quarters into the vacuum machine, another car pulls up next to me.

“Maggie, how are you?” says Father Tim, getting out. “Great minds think alike, don’t they?”

“Hi, Father Tim! How are you?” I haven’t spoken to him in several days, and that mere fact gives me pause. He hasn’t come into the diner since…heck, a few days. And I haven’t really noticed.

“We missed you at Bible study last night,” he chides gently, fishing around in his pockets for quarters of his own.

“Right. Shoot. I’m sorry. I guess I had some things to take care of,” I say. My face and other parts grow warm at the thought of just what those things were, but I cover by vacuuming the backseat.

When Father Tim is finished, he straightens up and glances down the street. “Would you care to grab a cup of coffee, Maggie?” he asks. “I thought I saw signs of life at Able’s.”

“Sure! That would be nice.”

Able’s Tables is a tiny little café down the street, and they are indeed open, though business is light at this time. A sign promises open mike night beginning at eight, but I don’t expect Father Tim and I will be around for that. We order coffees—and Father Tim gets a brownie the size of Rhode Island—and sit at a table near the window.

“Imagine, us meeting,” Father Tim says. “There I was, feeling a bit lonely, and who should I run into but you. A happy coincidence. God knows our hearts and hears our prayers, sure enough.”

“Why were you feeling alone, Father Tim? I’d think you’d love a little solitude, away from all your fans.” I smile, taking a sip of my cappuccino.

He laughs morosely. “Sure enough, that’s true sometimes. God speaks to us in the silences, after all. You’re right. But today, I think I’m merely in need of a little companionship, Maggie,” he tells me. “Sometimes, even when a person’s surrounded by others, he can feel a bit on the lonely side of things.”

“Sure,” I murmur sympathetically.

“Ah, yes. You know just what I’m speaking about, don’t you, Maggie?” He gazes at me thoughtfully, his eyes soft and kind on mine. “It must be hard for you, having Christy being married with a baby and all.”

I sit up straighter. “No, it’s not hard,” I say, frowning. “I love Will. And Violet…well, don’t get me started. It’s not hard. I’m very happy for my sister.”

“Good for you, then, Maggie, good for you.” He pauses. “I’m terribly sorry my efforts at finding you a decent man haven’t panned out.”

I shake my head. “No, no, don’t worry about it. Not at all. Thanks for trying.”

“A lovely girl like you should have someone,” he continues almost sadly.

I don’t answer for a moment, just look out at the street. “Well, actually, I might be seeing someone,” I venture.

“Is that right?” Father Tim exclaims. I nod. “Is he good enough for you, Maggie?”

I blush. “Sure.”

“Wonderful, then,” he says. “It’s funny, I was thinking about you the other day and that person we met at Dewey’s, the fisherman. Dark hair?”

“Malone?” I say, my face going from blush to inferno.

“That’s it. Malone. I wouldn’t want you with someone like that, now. Such a churlish fellow, barely speaking. He was hardly civil the whole time we were there. Couldn’t take his eyes off Chantal, either.”

“Actually—” I attempt.

“So I’m glad you’ve found a man with potential, Maggie. I’d hate to see you settling for someone who wasn’t blessed with the same good heart that you have.”

My mouth opens and closes a couple of times before the words come out. “Actually, Malone is the person I’m…seeing.”

Father Tim’s mouth falls open with comical surprise. “Is that—is he? Oh, dear. I’m terribly sorry, Maggie.” He looks away, wincing.

“He’s not really that churlish,” I manage.
Great job, Maggie. Talk about damning with faint praise.
“Let’s change the subject.”

The waitress comes by with a free refill for Father Tim. “Here you go, Father,” she croons. She ignores my now-empty cup.

“Ah, thank you, that’s lovely,” he says, smiling up at her. Her cheeks grow pink.

Is that how
I
am? Oh, God, it is, isn’t it? Gross. I’m mortified. Poor Father Tim, to have us waitresses fawning over him all the time! The woman finally fills my cup and goes back behind the counter, her eyes still on my companion.

“Is it hard being a priest, Father Tim? Always having to be so, um, well-behaved?” I ask.

He laughs, long and hard. “No, Maggie, it’s not hard. It’s a beautiful calling, a privilege, really.”

“But you’re always a little—” I stop, fearful that I’m once again about to put my foot in my mouth.

“A little what?” he asks. He really is just pointlessly good-looking, those soft green eyes, the gorgeous hands.

“A little apart from everyone else,” I venture.

His smile drops. “Mmm. Well, yes, you’ve a point, don’t you, Maggie?” He sets his cup down. “The price we pay to serve the Lord.” He forces a smile and takes another sip of coffee. “Maggie,” he continues, more quietly, “did you know Father Shea when you were growing up?”

I gasp, unfortunately just at the moment I’m sipping my cappuccino, and burning foam drips into my lungs. “I… Yup,” I rasp.

Father Shea was our priest when I was probably ten or eleven. He was handsome, somewhere in his forties or fifties (who can tell when you’re little, right?), a jovial, teasing priest who shamelessly bribed us kids to be good in church by giving us Hershey’s Kisses after Mass.

Then Annette Fournier’s husband dropped dead of a heart attack when he was out for a run one day. Father Shea was a great comfort to the tragic young widow and her three kids. Such a comfort that he left the priesthood and married her a year later. I believe they had one or two more kids themselves, making Father Shea go from Father to plain old Dad.

“Yeah, I remember Father Shea,” I say, still coughing a little. “He was…well, he was pretty nice. But he…you know. Left. Why do you ask?”

Father Tim shakes his head a little, his eyes distant. “No reason. Well, no reason I should be discussing, at any rate, Maggie. Sorry to bring it up. He’s just…never mind. On my mind lately. Enough said.”

I stare out the window, my face hot. Guilt flashes like heat lightning—how many times have I wished Father Tim wasn’t a priest? In truth, I don’t really…he’s a very good priest, from all accounts, anyway, and I’d hate for him to scandalize the town as did Father Shea. Leave the priesthood. Break his vows.

“Well, I’d best be getting back,” Father Tim announces, putting down a dollar for the waitress. “Thanks, Maggie, for the nice chat. You’re a lovely friend.” He squeezes my shoulder. “The church’s doors are always open to you, you know. God is waiting, and His patience never wears thin.” He grins and winks, ever campaigning.

“Okay. Thanks. Nice to see you, Father Tim,” I say, slipping another couple bucks for the waitress, glad that he’s back to his normal, chipper, priestly self. I get into my newly clean car and head for home, but the trickle of discomfort remains. Why would he ask about Father Shea? Why would he ask
me,
in particular? Surely the dragon Plutarski would give him every salacious detail at the merest flicker of interest.

By the time I get back to Gideon’s Cove, the sky glitters with stars overhead, the air so clear that I can see the Milky Way swirling above me. Standing on my front porch, I take a deep breath. The smell of wood smoke from the many fireplaces and stoves mingles with the faint smell of pine and sea, and to me, it’s the best smell there is. I suck in another breath, then jump at the sound of the door behind me.

“Maggie, dear!”

“Oh, hi, Mrs. K. You startled me,” I laugh.

“Dear
me,
I’m terribly
sorry.
” She motions for me to come in, and I obey. “There was a
man
here earlier,” she says. “That
dark
man who came over the other day. The tall one.”

I am simultaneously thrilled and nervous, which seems to be the hallmark combination of emotion Malone evokes. “Malone? He was here? When was that?”

“About an
hour
ago, dear.” She shuffles over to her chair and lowers herself carefully into it. “Maggie, would you find the remote control? There’s
nothing
on tonight, nothing! Three hundred
channels
and nothing worth seeing!”

The remote sits in plain sight on the coffee table. I hand it to her. “So, um, did you talk to the…to Malone?”

“Well, I must say, I
tried.
He didn’t say much in return, Maggie. He seemed quite
angry,
if you ask me.” Mrs. K. flips through the channels.

“Angry? Are you sure? I mean, I can’t think of why he’d be mad.”

Mrs. Kandinsky stops on a station. Linda Blair’s head rotates around as Father Damian looks on in horror. “Oh, look, Maggie!
The Exorcist
is on! Damn it all to
hell,
I’ve missed the first
part!
”

“Mrs. K.,” I say, trying to steer her back to our conversation, “did Malone say anything?”

“Hmm? Oh, the angry man? Malone, you say his name is? Well,
yes,
I told him I didn’t know where you were, and he said he’d see you soon.”

“That doesn’t sound
angry,
” I say.

“Oh, my! Isn’t she
hideous,
” Mrs. K. croons appreciatively. “My
word.
”

“Okay, well, this one is too
scary
for me.” The priest, however, is quite good-looking, but I have enough good-looking priests in my life. “I’m gonna go, Mrs. K. Enjoy the movie.” She doesn’t acknowledge me as I kiss her goodbye, too engrossed in the terror on the telly. I head up to my apartment.

There’s no note or phone message from Malone. I pick up the phone book, look up his number and call. The line is busy. Fifteen minutes later, I try again. Still busy. The idea that Malone can speak for this long is somewhat surprising. Certainly, he never speaks to me that much. No, we seem to have other things to do than speak.

Well. He said he’d see me soon. Maybe he wasn’t angry. What does he have to be angry about, anyway? It’s not like I was out with my boyfriend… Father Tim is a friend, and I don’t have to feel guilty about having a cuppa joe with him. Besides, he needed me. He was lonely. We spent an hour talking. Just talking. Nothing to feel guilty about at all.