Catch of the Day

“Well, when you’re ready, then, you let me know and I’ll give you this person’s number. But you don’t have?I mean, I hope…”

You don’t have much time…I hope you won’t wait too long…. I know what she wants to say. But to her credit, she stops herself. “Well. Good luck.”

“I should probably get going,” I say, glancing at my watch. “It’s a long drive.”

Mom’s eyes fill with tears. “All right,” she says, fiddling with her bracelet to hide the fact. “It was so wonderful seeing you, honey.”

We walk together to where we parked. “Drive safely, now,” she says. “Let the phone ring once so I know you made it home all right.”

“Okay, Mom. Will do.”

I kiss her cheek, hug her tight for a minute. It’s still a bit of a shock that I’m taller than my mom. Even though that’s been the case for more than fifteen years, I still expect to look up to her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“I’M SO TIRED of being a joke, Christy,” I tell my sister as we walk along the shore one afternoon. Violet sits in a backpack on my back, babbling happily.

“You’re not a joke,” Christy assures me. “You just drew the wrong conclusions, that’s all. It could happen to anyone.”

That’s the nice thing about having an identical twin. Loyalty. I smile gratefully. Up ahead, a group of puffins scatters at our approach.

“Dird!” my niece yells. “Dird!”

Christy’s mouth drops open in glee. “That’s right, Violet! Bird!”

“Ah-do! Dird!”

“She’s so smart,” I tell my sister. Violet pulls my hair vigorously, jerking my head back.

“No, Violet,” Christy says, unwrapping her daughter’s pudgy fist. “No pulling.”

The air is cool and damp, clouds blowing in from the east. Rain is in the forecast. Gulls cry above us and the waves slap at the shore.

“So what’s wrong with Jonah these days?” Christy asks.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “He’s been a real sad sack. Unlike him.”

“Woman trouble?” Christy guesses.

“Maybe,” I answer. “I saw him with some cute young thing a while back. They were kissing. He hasn’t named names, though, so I really don’t know.”

“What about you?” Christy asks, bending down to pick up a piece of sea glass. She studies it for a moment, then slips it into her pocket. “What about your love life?”

I sigh. “I think I’m just gonna sit tight for a while,” I say. “No more obsessing, no more dates. Someone will come along someday, maybe. And if not…”

“If not, then what?” she asks.

“If not, then I’m still okay,” I tell her with a smile. “Can’t have everything, unless your name is Christine Margaret Beaumont Jones.”

It’s true. It’s taken a while, but I’ve been pretty…happy these days. The weight of Father Tim is off my back, as it were, my crush and wonderings finally gone for good. No more guilt over lusting after a priest, no more wasted hours imagining us together. I feel clean, somehow. Emptier, brighter. Like my apartment.

I smile at my twin, who looks beautiful today, her cheeks flushed with the damp breeze, her hair blowing in wisps around her face. “When are you going to tell me?” I ask her.

She stops dead, her mouth falling open, and I laugh and hug her. “Congratulations, Christy,” I say, tears of happiness pricking my eyes.

“How did you know?” she asks.

“How did I miss it?” I ask back. “So how far along are you?”

She smiles hugely. “A month. It was a surprise, but we’re thrilled.”

“Of course you are. And so am I! Violet,” I say, craning my neck to address my niece. “You’re going to be a big sister!”

“Ah do!” she proclaims. “Go ba!”

When we get back to town, Christy and I part ways, and I watch her walk away. Melancholy pricks my heart. It’s not that I’m jealous of her?I love her more than I love anyone. But she doesn’t feel the same way about me. She has Violet and Will, and now a new little crittah on the way. And while that’s as it should be, there’s a small part of me that feels left behind. Once, we were all we needed, Christy and I. Just the two of us.

I see the Ugly Anne coming into the harbor. There are two figures on deck, a man and a woman. Jonah mentioned that Malone’s daughter is going to be his sternman for the season. It must be nice for Malone, having his child with him all summer. Imagining that closeness, that biological link, causes a sting of jealousy to burn in my heart…and a prickle of shame, too. Because though Father Tim once said I made people feel wonderful, I’m quite sure I didn’t get to do that for Malone. He did it for me, but I didn’t reciprocate.

EARLY WEDNESDAY MORNING, I pack a suitcase and head out of town. Tonight is the Best Awards dinner from Maine Living, all the way down in Portland. Since my car isn’t the most reliable vehicle in the world, Christy loans me the Volvo.

“Good luck! You’ll win! You deserve it!” she calls from her driveway as I back down. “And you look fantastic!”

Last year, I had a great time at the dinner, meeting other restaurant owners, picking up tips on publicity, advertising, media and the like. I had naively thought that Joe’s might at least come in second, but we didn’t. Of course, last year, I didn’t realize the rules let us print out as many ballots as we wanted. The evil innkeepers (actually, they’re quite nice) at Blackstone B&B were not so ignorant and won by hundreds of votes.

I don’t know if it will mean a significant change if Joe’s wins, but I know it would feel different. How thrilling to put “Best Breakfast in Washington County” in the window! Maine Living will feature the winner in an article with a color photo, which I can already picture: me, Octavio, Judy and Georgie?standing in front, the sun bouncing off Joe’s chrome, the impatiens full and healthy.

And, I admit, as I pull onto the interstate, it would be nice to drop that nugget at the Blessing of the Fleet this coming weekend. Each year, the Blessing is a marker for our town. Who’s divorced since last year? Whose kid got arrested for drug dealing? Anyone get married? Graduate from college? Buy a house? Have an affair? Bury a spouse? And each year for nearly a decade, I’ve remained the same. No, still not married. Nope, no prospects. No kids. Not engaged. Not seeing anyone. Just at the diner, you know?

But this year?hopefully?I could say, “Well, maybe you heard that Joe’s Diner just won best breakfast in the county? No? Oh, well, it will be in Maine Living next month…” Each former classmate who returns to town would hear that Joe’s Diner is moving up in the world. That Maggie Beaumont has a real accomplishment to her name.

“Who am I kidding?” I say out loud. “No one cares but me. And maybe Octavio.” I turn on the radio.

It’s a small event when compared with the Pope dying, say, or a U2 concert, but the Best Awards still attract a fair number of people. As a treat, I’ve booked myself in a nice room at the hotel where the awards are being held, a beautiful building on the water in Old Port. I check in, relishing the rarity of the act. The last time I was away for an overnight was last year, for this same event.

The room is small but elegant, and I indulge in a nap on the sleigh bed, enjoying the fine cotton sheets and down pillows. Afterward, I shower and dress carefully. Maybe I’ll meet someone tonight, who knows? But the thought holds little appeal, oddly enough. God knows, I primped as carefully as a prom queen last year, hoping fervently that I would run into a good-looking, kindhearted Washington County restaurateur or innkeeper. I didn’t, but I sure as hell hoped.

Nope. This year is different. I’m not over Malone.

As I let his name enter my consciousness, loneliness wells up in my heart. It would be so much fun if we were together, if I had Malone’s hand to hold tonight. I bet he’d look gorgeous in a suit. And if I didn’t win, well, that would be okay. We’d still have a night in a city together. We could take a walk afterward, or order dessert in our room. We’d sleep past 6:00 a.m. and feel like we’d been away for a week.

“Too bad,” I tell my reflection. “You blew it. Now get down to that ballroom and win that award.”

I DON’T WIN. Blackstone Bed & Breakfast wins for the fifth straight year. I clap dutifully along with the others, congratulate the irritatingly nice couple and order a scotch. Later, when I’m safe in my room, I indulge in a quick cry. Then I call Octavio.

“We came in third,” I tell him wetly.

“Hey, third’s not bad,” my cook says.

“Third sucks, Tavy,” I sniffle. “There are only about three restaurants in the damn county!”

“Okay, now you’re just feeling sorry for yourself, boss,” Octavio says. “Third is pretty damn good when you live where we live. Okay? You should be proud of yourself.”

“Right,” I mutter.

“How much did we lose by?” he asks.

“Sixty-seven votes.”

“Sixty-seven! That’s great! Only sixty-seven! We’ll definitely get it next year, boss.”

I can’t help but smile. “Thanks, big guy.”

“See you Friday?” he asks. “We should have a good crowd this weekend.”

“Yeah. See you then. I’ll open.” I hang up the phone and look out my window. Portland is so clean and bright and lively, but I’m suffering a bad case of homesickness at the moment. Poor Joe’s. Such a cute little place. It deserves better than third. We do serve the best breakfast in Washington County, and next year, so help us God, we’ll have the award to prove it.

This year, I’ll do whatever it takes to get a restaurant reviewer to the diner. And a travel writer. I’ll e-mail every day if I have to. Send letters. Or better yet, send scones or muffins. Bribe them with the quality of my goods. I can redo the menu, jazz up my lunch specials. Tavy’s right. Sixty-seven more votes is not out of the question. My self-pity dries up with my tears. We didn’t win, but that doesn’t mean we’re not the best.

I take the certificate I got from Maine Living and read it. “Congratulations to Joe’s Diner, Gideon’s Cove, Maine. Second Runner Up, Best Breakfast in Washington County.”

To hell with Washington County, I think, smiling wetly. Someday we’ll get best breakfast in Maine.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

THE BLESSING of the Fleet is held annually the third weekend of May. The boats fly their flags, the town decorates our three public buildings, local organizations sell hot dogs and lobster bisque on the green. The high school band plays, the chorus performs a few patriotic songs. Little Leaguers, the fire department, the board of selectmen and our three living veterans march in the five-minute parade. Then on Sunday, every boat in the harbor lines up and motors to Douglas Point, past the granite memorial for lost fishermen. They continue up to the dock, where the local clergy blesses them and prays for a safe and productive year.

Last year, Father Tim had been new in town, and I’d still been getting over the embarrassment of my mistake. In order to show what a good sport I was, I threw myself into the planning committee with a vengeance. I baked cookies for the first communion class to sell, donated my efforts to the Saturday night spaghetti supper at the church hall, helped decorate the podium on which Father Tim and the Congregational minister stood to sprinkle holy water on the passing boats. I may be an idiot, I was trying to convey after humiliating myself in front of the town, but at least I’m a hardworking idiot.

This year, I can admit that maybe Father Tim and I used each other a bit. He got a lot of work out of me this past year, and I, as I can now see quite clearly, got more than a guilty thrill concerning him. It’s safe to be in love with someone you know you’ll never have. Nothing is really risked when you know you can’t lose. He was a distraction, an excuse, and a friend. No more, no less.