Catch of the Day (6 page)

I yearn for Colonel. Was I complaining about being single? Foolish me.

“An animal communicator reads the thoughts of animals,” he lectures.

“Oh.” I pause. “Do they speak English?”

“Who?”

“The animals. I mean, if you can read their thoughts, wouldn’t it be in cat language or dog or goat or whatever?”

Roger frowns, clearly displeased. “No, Maggie. It’s no joke, either. Don’t you watch
Pet Psychic
on Animal Planet?”

“You know, I’ve missed that one. But, hmm. Well. Interesting. So you, what, try to read their thoughts and, I don’t know, tell if they’re hurt or if they’ve been abused or something?”

He smiles condescendingly, and my desire to be home, fasting and watching TV, grows. “Some people do that, yes. But I have a more specialized talent, Maggie. I communicate with animals who have passed.”

“Wow. That’s so… Gee.”

He must see the disbelief on my face, because he sits forward suddenly, staring at me intently. “Did you ever have a pet when you were a kid, Maggie?” he asks.

“Yes, we did,” I answer. “A nice—”

“Don’t tell me!” I jump, startled. “Sorry,” he amends. “Just think of this pet. Picture him…or
her
…remember him…or
her
…and all the good times you had with him.”

“Or her,” I add.

“Whatever. Just picture.”

A tickle of laughter wriggles in my stomach. I picture him…or
her
…actually, it’s a him. Dicky, our childhood dog, a lovely chocolate Lab as solid and wide as a barrel. Christy and I used to hold little Jonah on his back and Dicky would walk proudly and slowly around the house, flanked on either side by us girls. Our parents’ photo albums hold many images of this happy pastime.

“Okay, okay,” Roger says. “I’m getting something. Was this pet…a mammal?”

Amazing.
“Bingo,” I answer.

“Good, Maggie, and please just answer with yes or no.” He closes his eyes and I take the opportunity to drain my wineglass.

“Maggie, was this animal…a cat?”

“No.”

Roger frowns slightly but doesn’t open his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Not a cat? You’re sure.”

“Yes.” My voice is tight with the effort of not laughing.

“A dog?”

“Yes.”

“Great!” Roger exclaims. He opens his eyes and frowns at me. “Are you sure you’re picturing the animal?”

Dicky, Dicky, come to me, Dicky…
I press my napkin against my mouth to suppress a laugh. “Yes, I’m really picturing him,” I manage to say.

“You weren’t supposed to tell me it was a him! Come on, Maggie, do you want this reading or not?”

“I really don’t—”

Roger clamps his eyes shut again. “Okay, okay, he’s back. Right…this is a black and white dog. A Dalmatian. Yes.”

“No.” A little snort escapes through my nose. Roger’s trance is not disturbed.

“Okay, right, right… Is this dog black?”

“Nope.”

“An Irish setter?”

“No,” I squeak.

“Are you
sure
it’s not a cat?”

My laughter can’t be contained any longer. “Okay, Roger, thank you. Listen, I really should get going. It was nice meeting you, but I just don’t think we’re right for each other,” I say as kindly as I can.

“No kidding. I could tell that the minute you walked in.” He whips out his wallet, throws some bills on the table and stalks off. Can’t say I’m sorry to see him go. I wonder if the hospital knows about his special gift.

“Is everything all right, miss?” the waiter asks.

“Oh, sure. It was fine. Thank you. Can I have the check, please?”

I’m not surprised to see that Roger has left only enough to cover his lobster. He didn’t even leave enough for his wine. Oh, well. I make up the difference and leave a huge tip for the waiter.

When I get home, there’s a message waiting on my machine—Father Tim asking a question about the spaghetti dinner next week. Perfect. It’s too late to call my sister and tell her about the date, and Father Tim has just given me a great excuse to call him. He keeps late hours, something he’s mentioned in the past and which I stored in the Father Tim encyclopedia I keep in my brain. Besides, I just drove past the rectory and couldn’t miss the fact that the lights were still on.

“Maggie, how are you?” he says warmly.

“Oh, I just had the funniest date,” I say. By the time I’m finished filling him in on Roger Martin, enemy of lobsters and animal communicator, he’s laughing so hard he’s just wheezing.

“Maggie, you’re a special one,” he says when he’s regained control. “I must say, I was in need of a good laugh, and you came along and answered my prayers.”

I smile and scratch Colonel’s tummy. “Glad to be of service, Father Tim,” I say. “I have to tell you, though, I’m a little…I don’t know. Disappointed. I don’t meet a lot of new people.”

“I know, I do, Maggie,” he says. “But you’ll meet that special someone one day soon, mark my words. You’re a jewel, Maggie Beaumont.” As to
how
the special someone and I will meet is something Father Tim doesn’t address.

“Well. Thanks. You’re sweet to say so.” I pause.

He goes on to tell me about the date change for the spaghetti dinner. As usual, my schedule is free.

“Wonderful!” he exclaims. “I don’t know what St. Mary’s would do without you. One of these days, you’ll join us properly, not just as a volunteer, mind you, and won’t that be a happy day! God bless you, Maggie.”

I never know what to say to that. Amen? Thank you? “God bless you, too,” I say, wincing as he chuckles. “I mean, good night, Father Tim.”

“Good night, Maggie.”

I hang up the phone very gently, then lie back against my pillows and indulge in just one quick fantasy. That it was Father Tim with me at dinner tonight, only he wasn’t a Father. That we were just two people in love, on a date, eager to talk and laugh and share the details of our day. That he played with my hands, which are smooth and lovely in this fantasy, and that his eyes crinkled when he laughed. That he insisted that I order dessert, because he knows how I love dessert.

Colonel groans.

“I know, I know,” I say. “Waste of time.” It’s wrong, dreaming about dating the priest. Unfair to the good father and all that. I’m sick of reminding myself that it’s pointless and stupid…and yet…and yet somehow it’s so easy to see. Tim and Maggie. Maggie and Tim. With a sigh, I glance at my copy of
The Thornbirds,
given to me by my brother the day after I learned what the hot guy I’d met did for a living.

Colonel’s eyes are full of reproach. “Sorry, pooch,” I tell him. “You’re right. I’ll stop now.”

I pat his head, hug my pillow and try to go to sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

I
T WASN’T ALWAYS SO
, my state of solitude. Once, I thought I was going to get married. Once, I was pre-engaged (not that that’s an official title or anything, but I do have a cheap little pearl ring to prove it). Once, I had a steady boyfriend whom I loved and who, I thought, loved me.

Skip Parkinson was a high school god—handsome, reasonably smart, from a well-off family and, most importantly, gifted at sports. Baseball, in particular. And when I say gifted, I mean fantastic. Because of Skip, our school made states each year. Because of Skip, we won three of those four years. Because of Skip, newspapers and college scouts visited Gideon’s Cove, sniffing around, eating at the diner, coming to games.

Skip (somehow short for Henry) played shortstop, the sexiest position of all. He batted .345 freshman year, .395 sophomore, .420 junior and an astonishing .463 our senior year. Stanford called and Skip answered, hoping to join the ranks of the university’s famous alumni: David McCarty of Boston fame, or, less impressive to a son of Red Sox Nation, Mike Mussina of the New York Yankees.

We dated from sophomore year on. I was the chosen one and not a bad match for Skip; I was smart, too, smarter than he was, honestly. It was because he needed to pass trig that we fell in love. I was his tutor, and one day as I attempted to explain the joys of angle conversion capabilities, he suddenly said, “Maggie, I can’t think. You smell too good.” We kissed, and it was magical.

Skip was my first real boyfriend, though I had held hands with Ricky Conway on the bus in fourth grade, danced twice with Christopher Beggins in eighth grade and kissed Mark Robideaux after a football game freshman year. But with Skip, Mom would have to pry the phone out of my sweaty adolescent hand each night and order me to go to bed; Skip would take me to the movies and we’d kiss during the coming attractions, then watch the show in squirming, wonderful discomfort. I loved him with all the intensity that only adolescents can feel, to the point where Christy actually felt jealous.

Skip and I lost our virginities to each other on the bunk of his parents’ sailboat on Fourth of July weekend, a grave event unlightened by any laughter or humor. I considered going to college in California to be near him, but I ended up at Colby instead, unable to venture farther from home or Christy than that. All through college, Skip and I stayed together, calling each other, writing, e-mailing, reuniting on those happy holidays where we flew into each other’s arms and stayed there till the final call for his plane. His parents, both lawyers, didn’t quite approve of him having a townie girlfriend while the fruits of Stanford were ripe for the picking, but hey. We loved each other.

When Stanford went to the national finals our senior year, Skip was talking to coaches, scouts and reporters. The Minnesota Twins picked him in the draft, and he went to New Britain, Connecticut, to their farm team. That summer, I made the ten-hour drive down four times, cheering and screaming maniacally when my boyfriend—my boyfriend!—came up to the plate. But it was hard. If we managed a night together, it was rare. He was so busy, you see. Traveling so much. I understood completely.

When Minnesota called him up, Gideon’s Cove went wild. A Major League Baseball player…from Gideon’s Cove! It was a miracle. People couldn’t stop talking about it. My family subscribed to the
Minneapolis Star Tribune,
as did about half the people in town, and we pored over it each morning. When Skip’s name was mentioned, the article would be enlarged on the town hall photocopier and hung in the diner, “Skip Parkinson, rookie shortstop” highlighted in yellow so all could see. He would make it, we all said. Our Skip! Little Skip from Overlook Street! He was so good, so talented, so special.

Except in the world of professional baseball, he wasn’t. It’s a lot easier to hit off a twenty-year-old college kid than a forty-year-old veteran who can throw every kind of strike imaginable at ninety-five miles an hour. Skip’s numbers dwindled from an acceptable .294 in New Britain to a dismal .198 in Minnesota. In the field, balls were hit harder, took more vicious bounces. Runners slid into base with damaging accuracy, knowing just how to intimidate a rookie so he’d miss his throw or bobble the ball.

I wrote upbeat letters, called him after every game to try to bolster his spirits. I’d talk about the mechanics of the pitcher, the dive that had been
this close
to being a double play, the unfair call from the second base ump. Relentlessly optimistic, I spent hours that year cajoling Skip into a better mood.

When his first season was over, and when I was helping out at the diner while Granddad had his heart valves replaced, Skip announced that he was coming back to Maine. He’d “reassess” his baseball career, see “what other options” were out there. The town fathers decided that we’d show our support for young Skip, local hero. A big welcome-home parade. Why not? We could use a little boost at this time of year, the brief tourism season over, another long winter ahead of us.

So Skip’s parents picked him up at the airport and drove him into town where the high school band waited, where the cheerleaders stood shivering in their tiny skirts, where dozens of little kids in Little League T-shirts and caps clutched Skip’s rookie card or a baseball they hoped he’d sign. Just about everyone in town gathered to welcome home Gideon’s Cove’s most famous citizen.

And I waited, too, of course, right in the front of the crowd. Skip had been very busy over the past few weeks, and we’d only talked once or twice. I had called his parents and offered to go to the airport with them to pick Skip up, but they didn’t return my call.

My heart leaped when his parents’ car pulled up to the town green, and we the worshipful began to cheer. I couldn’t wait to see him, to run into his arms and give him a kiss, blush as the crowd would no doubt whistle and yell for Skip and his high school sweetheart. College was over, I didn’t have a real job yet, was just working in the diner, and now Skip was back. Were we too young to get engaged? I thought not.

Yes, I knew it was rare for high school sweethearts to marry…but it certainly happened. Some of the happiest couples out there met in high school. As I scraped the grill or mopped the floors with bleach, took abuse from the summer nuisance and treated grease burns on my hands, I thought of the nice house Skip and I would have. Winter Harbor, maybe. Bar Harbor, even. If he did get re-signed, I’d just travel around with him, be the loving arms he came home to each night, whether he felt discouraged or triumphant. I’d make a great baseball wife.