Catch of the Day

Malone is not that guy. After all, there he is out with Maine’s answer to Catherine Zeta-Jones. If he finds me delightful, it’s only in the sack. The only time we’ve spent when we weren’t all over each other like black flies on tourists was the evening he rescued me from the Skipmonster. There was no joy in Mudville that day, that’s for sure. No happy exchange of information took place there, no laughter, nothing other than some primal attraction. It’s not enough. Especially if he’s primally attracted to more than one woman at a time, damn it.

Father Tim is right?people shouldn’t jump into bed with people they don’t know well. Because this is what happens. You make a fool of yourself with someone who doesn’t even care about you, and then you still have to live in the same town.

It’s not enough, I repeat to myself as I refill coffee mugs and bring out breakfasts. I want more.

CHANTAL CALLS ME a day or so later. We’re both suffering from varying degrees of cabin fever induced by three days of rain. Malone hasn’t called me. Bastard. I remind myself that I don’t want him to call. “Sure, I’d love to go out,” I tell her. We agree to meet at Dewey’s for a few drinks. Knowing my low alcohol tolerance, I opt to walk, even though it’s still raining steadily.

I’ve decided that Malone is an indiscretion created by too many months unrelieved by human contact from a nonfamily member. Aside from Georgie and Colonel, Malone is the only male who’s touched me outside of Dad, Jonah and Will. I probably would have humped the eighty-year-old double amputee if I’d gone much longer.

“Hey, Dewey,” I call as I hang up my slicker.

“Hi, Maggie,” he calls. Without my asking, he pours me a glass of wine and brings it over to the booth where Chantal and I usually sit. “That nice Chantal joining you?” he asks.

“She’s not nice, Dewey,” I say, taking the glass. “She’s a wicked, wicked woman.”

“Don’t I know it,” he sighs. My laugh lands somewhere between irritation and amusement. Does every man in town under the age of one hundred and two have to be so damn smitten with Chantal? Do I have to be everyone’s surrogate daughter?

The red-haired temptress comes in, h*ps swaying, blouse revealing, lest anyone forget just how stacked she is. “Hi, Paul,” she sighs, rubbing past him as if we were trapped on a crowded subway car instead of in a nearly empty bar. “Paul, sweetie, could you bring me a martini, hon? Make it a cosmo, okay? My friend and I haven’t seen each other in ages.”

“You sure have a gift with men,” I observe dryly as Paul hurtles to the bar to do her bidding.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she says, batting her eyelashes. “Man, this rain! I’m climbing the walls! Tell me what’s new with you.”

I wrack my brain for something I wish to tell her and come up empty. “Not much. What about you?”

“Well, I had the most incredible sex the other night,” she purrs.

Me too, I almost say, then chide myself. That was just a fling, Maggie! Stop thinking about him. “Oh. Well. That’s very nice. Good for you.”

“Guess with who?” She leans forward, her beautiful dark eyes mischievous.

There’s a strange sinking feeling in my chest, like I swallowed a rock. “I?I don’t know, Chantal. Who?”

“Take a guess.”

“Malone?” I say, my throat tight.

She leans back in the booth. “Malone? No. Not Malone.”

Oh, thank God. I let out a deep breath. “Um…Dewey?”

She laughs. “No, not Dewey. That was just once, a couple of years ago, before he put on all that weight.” She drums her fingers on the table. “Any more guesses?” she asks.

“It better not be Jonah,” I warn.

“No, no, not your precious baby brother,” she answers. “You suck at guessing, so I’ll just have to tell you. Mickey Tatum.”

“The fire chief?” I blurt.

“Mmm-hmm. You know what they say about firemen,” she smiles. “And it’s true.”

I look away. “Actually, Chantal, I don’t know what they say.”

“Guess.”

“Can we not do this twenty questions thing? I don’t know.”

“Come on!” she implores. “Guess.”

Paul brings Chantal her drink, peeks down her lowcut, lacy blouse, squeezes her shoulder and leaves. She looks at me expectantly, smiling.

“Firemen do it hotter?” I guess resignedly.

“No, honey.”

“Um…firemen have longer hoses?”

“No. But that does seem to be the case.” She takes a sip of her pink drink. “Guess again.”

“I really don’t know, Chantal. Please stop making me guess.”

“They still know how to use a split lay.” Chantal laughs merrily.

“I don’t…I don’t know what that means,” I say, laughing in spite of myself. “And please don’t tell me.”

“Well, okay. But I joined the fire department, so say hello to the newest member of Gideon’s Cove’s bravest.”

Chantal launches into far too much detail about Mickey Tatum, who must be sixty if he’s a day. As he was my CCD teacher the year I made my confirmation, I’m not really comfortable hearing this. But Chantal is entertaining, that’s for sure. The bar grows fuller. Jonah comes in and waves, but he’s with a pretty young woman and can’t be bothered with his sister tonight. Some of his pals are there, Stevie, and Ray, who coowns the boat with Jonah. The regulars.

Chantal and I are discussing a movie we both want to see when Malone walks in, alone. No Zeta-Jones tonight. Good. He hangs up his coat, then glances around, sees me, and gives a little jerk of his chin. My smile turns to stone. That’s it? A chin jerk?

“Oh, Malone just came in,” Chantal says. She’s been documenting the arrival of every man here. “Let’s make him sit with us.” She slides out of her seat.

“No, no! You know what? Let’s not. Let’s just have, you know, girls night. Okay? No guys. Chantal?” But she’s already gone up to the bar. She slides her hand across Malone’s back and says something. I pretend to fumble in my purse for something, hoping he doesn’t think I sent her over. Damn. Malone smiles at her, a little, anyway, and I’m embarrassed at a sudden longing to have him smile at me, then immediately disgusted with myself for feeling that way. This is the guy who slept with you and ignored you, Maggie. The guy who may also be sleeping with someone prettier and younger than you. Ignore him back. Say nothing. I mean it.

“Okay if Malone joins us?” Chantal asks, slipping back into the booth, graceful and lithe as a snake. Malone sits down next to her, his face grim and lined?normal, in other words.

“Sure. I don’t care,” I say. “Sit wherever you like. You can sit anywhere, right? Free country.”

“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 br**sts, 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 g*y,” 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.