Catch of the Day

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 cle**age 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?”

He 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.

“Oh, Maggie,” she says, slamming a cupboard. “What’s the matter now?”

My mouth drops open. “Um, nothing. Just thought I’d come by.”

“Do you have to bring that dog with you everywhere you go? Honestly, he’s like the security blanket you had when you were three.”

I stare at my mother and stroke Colonel’s head. “Right. Is Dad around?”

“Why? Do you need something?”

“No, he’s just my father, and I love him,” I answer.

“Fine. He’s in the cellar.”

Dad has a little corner in the basement, where he often hides from Mom, pretending to do something constructive. He likes to make birdhouses, and the yard outside is full of tiny creations in every style and color imaginable?Victorian, log cabin, gourd, southwestern, apartment building. His corner has stacks of tiny pieces of wood, a shelf of tools and six or seven birdhouse books. He also has a stash of Robert Ludlum novels and a tiny radio. Dad’s bomb shelter, we call it.

“Hi, Daddy,” I say.

“Go talk to your mother,” he orders, giving me a kiss. “She says you only come here to see me.”

“I’m scared of her today. She’s in quite a mood.”

“Tell me about it. Go.”

“Coward,” I tell him fondly. Obediently, I go upstairs.

“Mom, would you like some tea?” I ask, putting the kettle on.

“When are you going to stop wasting your time at the diner?” she demands, yanking out a chair and slamming herself into it.

Okay. So it’s going to be one of those days. A “Christy Good, Maggie Bad” day.

“I don’t think I’m wasting my time, Mom,” I say resignedly. “I really love it, you know.”

“We didn’t send you to college to be a waitress,” she snaps. “Christy managed to find a decent career. Why can’t you?”

“Right.” I sit down. “I do own the diner, too. And run it. And cook.”

“Well, it’s not as if you bought it. You just took it over from my father. And it’s just a diner, Margaret.” The use of my Christian name indicates that I’ve done something quite heinous. If she calls me Margaret Christine, I’m dead.

“It’s not like you went to cooking school,” Mom continues, her voice brittle and sharp as broken glass. “You just crack eggs and sling hash and fry bacon. Look at your hands, Maggie! Don’t you know people judge you by your hands? Hands make the man, they say.”

Do they, I wonder? “It’s actually clothes, Mom. ‘Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.’”

“What? What are you babbling about?”

“It’s a Mark Twain quote.” She looks blank. “And I might not have gone to culinary school,” I continue, “but the food at Joe’s is great. You know that.”

“So what? Are you going to spend the rest of your life in that greasy little diner?”

“It’s not greasy!”

“That’s your opinion,” she snaps.