Catch of the Day (3 page)

“I’m from Ireland, as you might be able to tell, the youngest of seven children. I’m looking forward to getting to know you all, and I hope I’ll see you all at coffee hour after Mass. And now we begin today’s celebration as we begin all things, in the name of the Father, and of the Son—”

“For God’s sake,” I muttered.

I didn’t hear a word during the next hour. I do know that Christy slipped her hand into mine, and that my father was shushed repeatedly by my mother. Jonah, farthest from me, was laughing that awful, unstoppable church laugh full of wheezes and the occasional squeak, and if he’d been closer to me, maybe I would have laughed, too. Or perhaps disemboweled him with my car keys. As it was, I pretended to listen, mouthed nonsensical words to songs I couldn’t read and stood when everyone else stood. I stayed in the pew during communion.

And when at last Mass was over, we filed out with the others. Christy, my sister, my best friend, the person I loved more than anyone on earth, whispered in my ear. “I’m going to pretend we’re talking about something really interesting, okay? And this way no one is going to talk to you. So smile and pretend we’re having a conversation, and we’ll get the hell out of here. Sound like a plan?”

“Christy, I’m so…” My voice broke.

“No, no, it’s fine, just keep going. Too bad they’re rebricking the side entrance. Shitty, shitty luck. Okay, we’re getting close… Can you smile?”

I bared my teeth weakly.

“Maggie!” Father Tim exclaimed. “It’s so good to see you. I was hoping you’d be here.” He shook my hand warmly, his grip strong and welcoming. “And you’ve a twin! Isn’t that marvelous! I’m Father Tim, so nice to meet you.”

Father Tim.
The sound of it was like acid on an open wound.

“Hi, I’m Christy,” my sister said. “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well. Maggie, would you take me home?”

We almost escaped until my idiot brother, whom I heretofore loved, asked, “How could you miss the fact that he was a priest?”

My mother grabbed his arm. “Jonah, honey—”

“What’s that, now?” Father Tim asked, his eyebrows raised.

“Why didn’t you tell Maggie you were a priest?”

Father Tim glanced at me in confusion. “Of course I did. We had that lovely chat at the diner.”

“Of course we chatted,” I blurted. “Of course I knew! Sure! Yes! I knew you were a priest! Absolutely. Yup.”

“But you said you met some hot Irish guy—”

“That was someone else,” I ground out, ready to smite my little brother. “Not Father Tim! Jeez! He’s a priest, Jonah! He’s not— I didn’t mean—he’s…”

But the damage was done. Father Tim’s expression fell. “Oh, dear,” he said.

“Maggie? I need to go,” Christy said. She grabbed my arm and pulled me away to the safety of her car.

But it was too late. Father Tim knew. Everyone knew.

F
ATHER
T
IM CAME TO
the diner the next day and apologized, and I apologized, and we laughed about it. I found that there was no use in trying to pretend. I just had to admit that I made a mistake.
Ha, ha, pretty funny, isn’t it? I can’t believe I missed
that
little piece of information! Ho, ho!
Then he asked if I’d be on one of his committees, and I found myself unable to say no.

In the year that’s passed, the sting of being the butt of a joke has faded. Truthfully, Father Tim is a great friend to me. Though I can’t quite bring myself to go to Mass and see him in action, I somehow joined just about every committee St. Mary’s has—bereavement, altar decoration, Christmas craft sale, community outreach, building maintenance, fellowship, the works.

I know it’s wrong to nurse a crush on a priest. I know I shouldn’t be doing all that church stuff just to be near a Catholic priest who looks like Aidan Quinn’s younger brother. I know that my heart shouldn’t squeeze every time I see him, that adrenaline shouldn’t spurt into my veins when I pick up the phone and hear that gentle voice. I just can’t seem to help it. What I really need to do is simply meet someone else, and this foolish longing in my heart will fade. Someday, I’ll meet a really great guy, someone just as nice as Tim O’Halloran, and everything will be just lovely.

There are definitely days when I believe this.

CHAPTER ONE

“
G
OOD MORNIN’,
M
AGGIE,”
Father Tim says, sliding into his usual booth. “Lovely out, isn’t it?” He smiles pleasantly, and my insides clench.

“Good morning, Father Tim. What can I get for you today?”

“I think I’ll be tryin’ your French toast, shall I? Brilliant idea, the almond glaze.”

That brogue is just not fair. “Thanks. I’ll get that right in.”
I’ve had sinful thoughts about you. Again.
I wrack my brain for something to say. “How was Mass this morning?”

He nods. “Ah, the celebration of the Eucharist always nurtures the spirit,” he murmurs. “You’re welcome to come and see for yourself, Maggie. I’d love to hear your thoughts on my homily any time.”

Father Tim often urges me to drop by. Something stops me. Guilt, no doubt. I might be a lapsed Catholic, but I draw the line at having lustful thoughts about priests in church. “Well. Sure. One of these days. You bet.”

“Mass can give a person a chance for some insight. Sometimes we tend to overlook what’s important in life, Maggie. It’s easy to lose perspective, if you take my meaning.”

Oh, I do. Losing perspective is something at which I excel. Case in point—still in love with the priest. He looks ridiculously appealing in black, though granted, the white collar takes away some of the zing. Rolling my eyes at my own ridiculous thoughts, I turn away, fill a few coffee cups and slip into the kitchen, where Octavio is deftly flipping pancakes. “French toast for Father Tim,” I tell him, grabbing an order of eggs on unbuttered toast. Returning to the counter area, I slide the plate in front of Stuart, one of my regulars. “Chicks on a raft, high and dry,” I say. He nods appreciatively, a big fan of diner slang.

“Anything else for you, Mrs. Jensen?” I ask the seventy-year-old woman in the first booth. She frowns and shakes her head, and I leave her check on the table. Mrs. Jensen has come from church. She goes to confession every week. She’s in Bible study and on the altar decoration committee. It seems I’m not the only one smitten with Father Tim.

Without meaning to, I look once again at the impossible ideal. He’s reading the paper. Profiled against the window, his beauty sends a rolling warmth through me.
If only you were a regular guy....

“He’ll catch you looking,” Rolly whispers, another regular fixture at my counter.

“That’s okay,” I admit. “It’s not like it’s a secret. Make sure you fill out a ballot, okay?” I tell Rolly, dragging my gaze off the object of my desire. “You, too, Stuart. I need all the votes I can get.”

“Ayuh. Best coffee in the state,” Rolly announces.

“Best breakfast, Rolly.” I smile and pat his shoulder.

For the last two years, Joe’s Diner has placed fourth in
Maine Living
’s Best Breakfast contest, and I’m determined to win the county title this year. The magazine holds a lot of sway with tourists, and we could use a little more of the summer nuisance. Last year, we were creamed by Blackstone Bed & Breakfast in Calais (even though they make their pancakes from a box mix).

“We’ll win, boss,” Octavio calls through the window that links the counter area with the kitchen. “We do have the best breakfast.”

I smile back at him. “True enough, but being the best-kept secret on coastal Maine isn’t doing us much good financially.”

“We’ll be fine,” he assures me. Easy for him to say. He makes more than I do, and he doesn’t have to balance the books every month.

“Hey, Maggie, as long as you’re up, can I get a refill?” asks Judy, my waitress. I oblige, then bring Father Tim his breakfast, sneak a glance at his smooth, elegant hands and scurry off to clear a table.

For the last eight years, I’ve run Joe’s Diner, taking it over from Jonah Gray, my grandfather, after he had a heart attack. The diner is one of the larger employers in our tiny town, having four people on the payroll. Octavio is the most irreplaceable, running the kitchen with tireless efficiency. Judy came with the diner. She’s somewhere between sixty and one hundred and twenty, gifted at not working, though when pressed, she can handle a full diner, not that we get that a lot. Georgie gets some help in the summer, when we hire a high school kid to deal with the light tourist business that makes it this far north.

And there’s me, of course. I cook the daily specials, do all the baking, wait tables, balance the books, maintain the inventory and keep the place clean. Our final, though unofficial, employee is Colonel. My dog. My buddy. My precious boy. “Who’s your mommy?” I ask him. “Huh, Colonel McKissy? Who loves you, pretty boy?” His tail thumps at my idiot talk, but he knows not to leave his place behind the register. A Golden Retriever takes up a lot of room, but most people don’t even see Colonel, who has nicer manners than the queen of England. At thirteen, he’s mellow, but he’s always been incredibly well-behaved. I give him a piece of bacon and get back to work.

Father Tim rises to settle his check. “Hello, Gwen, love, how are you today? Don’t you look smart in that lovely shade of yellow,” he says to Mrs. Jensen, who simpers in pleasure. He smiles at me, and my knees soften. “I’ll see you both tonight, won’t I?”

“That’s right,” I answer. I may not be able to bring myself to Mass, but Father Tim has worn me down for Bible study. I stifle the urge to shake my head at myself. Bible study. My social plans for the week. Well, it’s not like I’m turning away dozens of suitors. Sadly, Father Tim is closer to a boyfriend than anything I’ve had in some time.

“Nancy Ringley’s bringing the snack?” Father Tim frowns.

“No.” I smile. “I am. Her daughter’s under the weather, so she called me.”

His face lights up. “Ah, wonderful! About the snack, at any rate. Not her dear little daughter. I’ll see you later, then, Maggie.” He pats my shoulder with avuncular affection, causing lust and exhilaration to flow down my arm, and turns for the door.
I love you,
I mouth. I can’t help myself.

Did he hear me? My face flushes in mortification as Father Tim glances back at me with a smile and a wink before going out into the cold. He waves as he crosses the street, ever kind where I’m concerned. Mrs. Jensen, who is not so tolerant, glares at me. I narrow my eyes in return. She doesn’t fool me. We suffer from the same disease—I’m just a little more obvious.

It’s a frigid March day, the wind howling off the water, slicing through the thickest wool hats and microfiber gloves. Only a few brave souls venture out, and the day drags. We don’t get more than a handful of people at lunch. I wait for Judy to finish her crossword puzzle before sending her home, as she’s really only here for show, anyway. Octavio takes off his apron as I scrape the grill.

“Tavy, take the rest of the pie, okay? Your kids will like it,” I tell him. He has five children.

“They will if they get to taste it. I already had two pieces.” Octavio grins his engaging gap-tooth smile.

I grin back. “Did Judy get any more ballots?”

“I think she gave out a few.”

“Great.” I’ve been relentless in asking my patrons to fill them out. Last year we lost by two hundred votes, so I need every one who crosses the threshold to pitch in. “Have a nice afternoon, Octavio,” I say.

“You, too, boss.”

“Here, take these cookies, too.” My cook grins his thanks, then goes out the back door.

Colonel knows what time it is. He gets up from his spot and comes over to me for a little pat, pushing his big head against my thighs. I stroke his white cheeks. “You’re such a good boy, aren’t you?” He wags in agreement, then returns to his spot, knowing I’ll be a while yet.

I flip the Open sign to Closed and wipe down the last table. This is one of my favorite times of day…three o’clock. We’re done for the day. Joe’s opens at six, though I usually don’t roll in until seven (the joys of ownership), but I make up my time by doing all the baking each afternoon. I’m proud to say that Joe’s desserts are locally famous, especially the pies and coconut macaroons.

Joe’s is a Jerry Mahoney design. Red-and-cream porcelain with stainless steel siding on the outside, red vinyl seats, cream-colored walls and a black-and-white tile floor on the inside. Ten swivel stools are bolted to the floor at the counter. At one end is the requisite pastry display case where my sweets tempt the patrons. There are seven booths with nice deep backs and seats that are just bouncy enough. At some point, my grandfather had those little jukeboxes installed and, as kids, we loved flipping through to see what the new selections were. The kitchen is through a swinging door with a porthole, and there’s a tiny supply room and unisex bathroom. In the corner window, a neon sign blinks those timeless words, Eat at Joe’s.

For the next half hour, I add up the receipts, check the inventory, print out more ballots and mop the floor. I play the jukeboxes as I work, singing along with Aretha and the Boss. Finally, I go back into the kitchen and start baking the desserts for tomorrow. And the snack for tonight.