Catch of the Day

And every night, now that I mention it. There has been no word from Father Tim, not even his usual calls for help on some committee. There’s got to be a significance to this, I think. I’ve stopped going to Bible study, and aside from Mr. Barkham’s funeral last week, I haven’t seen Father Tim since I pretended to be my sister nearly two weeks ago.

“Can you come over?” Chantal asks. “Actually, this place is a dump. Can I come over to your place?”

“Sure. Come around eight.” I certainly am not going to cook for her. She’s been to the diner twice, but both times I leapt to the grill and asked Judy to wait on her, waving and pretending to be swamped with myriad duties. When she’s asked to get together at night, I’ve put her off three times. I can’t avoid her forever.

At least she doesn’t know about Malone and me, so I don’t have to suffer that particular embarrassment. Then again, he may well have told her. At any rate, they don’t know that I know what I know. She can just tell me her big news and I’ll pretend to be stunned. I practice gasping a few times in the mirror, but my face looks too sad.

When Chantal knocks on my door, an unwilling flare of sympathy goes off in my stony heart. Her face is gaunt and pale, circles smudging under her eyes. She looks thin, and I wonder if she’s even still pregnant. I don’t have to wonder for long.

“So. How have you been?” she asks, sitting on the couch. She grabs a throw pillow and hugs it protectively to her stomach.

“I’m fine. Would you like a glass of wine or anything?” I ask automatically.

“No. Sit down, Maggie, okay? We need to talk.”

I sit stiffly in the club chair, rubbing a healing burn on my index finger. Chantal, as I have noted on many occasions, has lovely hands, plump and pretty with rounded nails that are always painted with clear polish. Malone may have said I don’t have ugly hands, but compared with Chantal’s…

“Maggie, I have something to tell you, and you’re going to be shocked,” Chantal says. I have always admired her bluntness.

“Okay,” I say, forcing myself to look at her.

“I’m pregnant,” she says in a low voice.

I don’t gasp, but even though I knew what she was going to say, my stomach aches. “Really,” I say.

Her face is tormented. “Yeah.”

“Wow. So who’s the father?” I ask cruelly. “Do you know?”

Her mouth drops open. “Um…yeah, I know.”

“And what did he say?” My voice is hard, my posture painfully erect.

“Well, he’s…he’s not really in the picture. I’m gonna have the baby on my own.”

Now I do gasp. “Really?”

This is a huge surprise?Chantal has made no secret of lusting after Malone. Images of Malone’s daughter, the round-cheeked little girl in the photos at his house, flash through my head. The one time I saw him with her?if that really was his daughter, that is?he looked happy. He’d been smiling. I can’t believe he wouldn’t care.

Chantal toys with the fringe on the pillow, not meeting my eyes. “Yeah. So. Just me.”

“But…I can’t believe he doesn’t…that he’s not…” I swallow hard. “What did he say?”

Chantal’s eyes shine with tears. “The truth is, Maggie, I’m not going to tell him. It was a one-night stand, and I really don’t want to ruin his life by dumping this on him.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I blurt. “You didn’t tell him? What about?” Yes, and how does one confess that one was spying? “I thought?I’d think?”

“Look. It was stupid. A bad mistake, and I’m paying for it, aren’t I?”

My mouth is still hanging open. “Why do you think he wouldn’t want a baby?” I manage to ask.

“Because I just know.” Her tears spill over, and she sags back against the couch.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Chantal…” I sit next to her and pat her leg. “Listen, I know who it is.”

“Oh, my God, you do?” She sits bolt upright and looks at me in horror, a hand covering her mouth.

“Yeah. I overheard. At Malone’s.” A lump rises in my own throat. “And…I actually think he’d make a good father, to tell you the truth.”

“Oh, Maggie, I’m so sorry!” she blurts, bursting into sobs. “You won’t tell him, will you?” she pleads. “Don’t tell him, Maggie, please.”

“Well, honey, he already knows,” I say, confused. “I mean, you told him.”

“No. I just told you, I didn’t. And I’m not going to.” She seems to deflate in front of my eyes. “I already screwed up. I’m not going to wreck his life, too, and this would?”

“Okay, hang on one sec,” I interrupt. “Who exactly are we talking about here?”

Chantal freezes. “Um…” She bites her lip. “Who are you talking about?”

I look at her a long moment, my heart thudding in my temples. “Malone.”

Chantal’s breath explodes out of her. “Malone? No. No, no. It’s not Malone. I’ve never even slept with Malone.”

My mouth drops open. I pull back to look at her more closely. “Well, you went to his house and told him you were pregnant.”

“Um, right. Right. I did.”

“But he’s not the father?” I ask, my voice rising in confusion.

Now she won’t look me in the eye. “He, you know…Well, remember I told you how I picked him up that time, in high school? When he was in a fight? See, I guess I figured he…well, he owed me a shoulder to cry on. And he’s the kind of guy who can keep his mouth shut, right? I didn’t know who else to tell.”

“Why not me?” Not that we have that kind of friendship…not that I’ve been all that close with Chantal…or that kind to her, to be honest.

She doesn’t answer for a minute. “I’m telling you now,” she finally says.

I slump back against the cushions. “So Malone’s not…you didn’t…Okay. Okay.”

It’s starting to dawn on me in a slow rise of panic that I’ve mentally accused Malone of something he didn’t do. That I broke up with him over something that didn’t happen. That for weeks now, I’ve been hating him, condemning him…that I said some rather hateful things to him to save my own stupid pride?“Who is the father, Chantal?” I ask through numb lips.

“Listen, Maggie, that doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, the fact remains that I’m pregnant. I’m thirty-nine and a half, and I’m going to have a kid.”

“Is it Chief Tatum?”

“No, no. Definitely not him.” She looks away. “He’s…um…can’t have kids, didn’t you know?”

I wince. No, I didn’t know. Then it comes to me. “Oh, my God,” I whisper, the blood draining to my feet. “Oh, Chantal, tell me it’s not Father Tim….”

Her head jerks back in surprise. “Father Tim? Jesus, no! As if he would ever…come on, Maggie! I might be a little…flirty, but I wouldn’t…you know…with a priest!”

Weak with relief (and yes, definitely shame), I swallow a few times, then stand up. “I need some water. Want some water? How about some water?”

I get the water. Okay. So it’s not Malone, thank God, and it’s not Father Tim. Again, thank God. I gulp down a glass of tap water and bring another to Chantal.

“I’m sorry, Chantal,” I tell her. “This is all…well, hell. I’ve been thinking it was Malone.”

She takes the water gratefully. “It’s okay,” she says. “I can’t believe you thought that. You know he’s not interested in me. I actually thought he kind of liked you, though. Remember that night at Dewey’s?”

A bitter laugh bursts out of my lips. “Right. Well, we…never mind. Listen, if you want to tell me who the father is, you could. You know I wouldn’t tell anyone. I’m your friend, Chantal.” Or I could be, if I put aside the jealousy I’ve always felt toward her.

Her eyes grow sad again. “No. It’s just somebody…somebody from away. No one local.” She forces a smile. “You know me. I like being on my own.”

“It’ll be different when you have a baby, though,” I say. “And you never know, hon. The father might want to be involved.”

“Maybe. Anyway. It’s good to have you know.” She squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back, caught between sympathy and a bit of shame.

“I’ll help you out,” I tell her. “I love kids. I’ll cook for you and babysit and that kind of thing.”

“Oh, Maggie,” she whispers. “I don’t deserve a friend like you.”

“Sure you do! What a silly thing to say.” I blush.

“Maybe you could come to the delivery. Coach me or whatever. Slip me painkillers.”

“I’d love to,” I say, hugging her. “It would be an honor.”

She starts to cry again, and I smooth her beautiful hair. I’ve been a crappy friend, an untrue friend. I will make it up to Chantal.

Making it up to Malone will be a little harder.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE LATE SPRING SNOW finally melts, leaving us in three fresh inches of mud. I slog to work, taking off my boots before going in through the back door and slipping on my cooking clogs. I throw together the batter for some muffins, then start breaking eggs for omelets and scrambles.

I know I need to see Malone, apologize and try to make things right. But it’s going to be hard, and I need a little time to plan what I want to say. Can’t be rambling all over the place as I usually do. Still, it’s hard to find a nice way to say “I thought you were sleeping around on me, fathering children…Want to see a movie?”

“Hey, boss,” Octavio says, coming in the back. “Nice day, don’t you think?”

“I think it sucks, Tavy,” I say. “I’m thinking of moving to Florida or something.”

“I’m from Florida,” he answers. “Don’t go.”

Stuart slides onto his stool at the counter. “Good morning, Maggie,” he says. “Got any apple pie this morning?”

“Eve with a lid on it, coming up,” I tell him, forcing a smile. “And one blonde with sand.” I pour him his coffee and slide a creamer over.

“Cool,” Stuart says, shaking out two sugar packets. “Eve with a lid. I like that.”

“Mold with that?” I ask.

“Hmm…would that be cheese?” he guesses correctly.

“Yup. Side of cheddar.”

“No, thanks, Maggie. No mold.”

I settle down as I work. The diner, my shining little jewel, calms me. When Granddad owned it, I have to confess, it was much more a diner in the bad sense of the word. Fairly filthy, mediocre, greasy food, lots of prepared stuff that Granddad would just heat. Even if I don’t win the best breakfast title, I know that Joe’s is the heart of our town. Where would Rolly and Ben go? Who would throw Stuart his diner lingo? Where would Georgie work? Where would Judy pretend to work?

Speaking of Georgie, in he bursts, an ebullient ray of sunshine. “Hi, Maggie! Did you see the sunrise today? It was so pretty!” He hugs me tight. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I tell him. “Muffins are still warm if you want one, Georgie. Or two. And Tavy’s waiting to scramble your eggs.”

The regulars are in and out early, and only a couple of people still linger. I wipe down the counters and start the meat loaf for today’s lunch special. Everyone loves meat loaf day, so I know we’ll be busy.