Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(10)

Well. Time to get ready for my date! I’ve already planned what to wear—black pants, red sweater and a nice pair of suede shoes to slip on at the restaurant. The ice, salt and mud between my apartment and my car would ruin anything other than my faithful L. L. Bean boots in a matter of one step. I shower, dry my hair and take care of my face, then take a look in the mirror, pleased. I don’t often wear my hair down, but it looks pretty and soft, thanks to the new cut and color. My gray eyes look bigger with makeup, and the blush I applied does wonders for my pale skin. I put on a necklace, give my dog a rawhide chew stick and leave.

Roger Martin, the nurse with whom I am having dinner, called me three days ago at Will’s urging. He sounded pleasant, though we didn’t talk too much. We agreed to meet at The Loon, a nice restaurant in Machias that Christy and Will frequent. Why he needs to be fixed up is a bit of a mystery—but then again, I need to be fixed up, so I try to reserve judgment.

It takes a while to get to the restaurant from Gideon’s Cove, as the roads are narrow and twisting out of our little peninsula. I don’t mind; I hum along with the one radio station I pick up as I drive. I don’t leave town too often, to tell the truth, and I usually walk around town or ride my bike. My car, a Subaru station wagon, is good for loading up at the Wal-Mart in Calais when I need stuff for the diner—gallons of Windex and bleach, trash bags, flour—but for day-to-day, I prefer human-powered transportation.

I pass the University of Maine campus and continue through town. The restaurant is a cheerful, timber-beam place with fairy lights strewn on the bushes outside. It’s lovely inside as well, wide-planked floors, candles twinkling, white tablecloths, a piano in one corner. I ask the maître d’ if Roger is here and am led to a table. Sure enough, there he is, studying the menu. The unfamiliar, nervous thrill of meeting someone new washes over me.

“Hi, Maggie, I’m Roger,” he says, standing to shake my hand. He is somewhat average-looking; neither handsome nor homely, medium height, just a little chubby. His eyes are blue, his hair brown and receding.

“Hi. Hi there. I’m Maggie. How are you? This is a nice place, isn’t it? It’s very cute. My sister says they have great food.” I cringe inwardly, blushing. Really should get that babbling tendency looked at.

Roger smiles. “Have a seat.”

I sit and settle my bag at my feet, then fiddle with the silverware. “So,” I say. “This is nice. Thank you for coming, too. I mean, for, well…oh, shit, I’m sorry.” I laugh nervously. “I don’t go out much.” Stop talking. Stop. Talking. “On blind dates, I mean. I’m a little nervous, I guess. But you seem nice. And you have a good job, nothing scary, just nursing. So, you know. So far, so good.”

Jesus, listen to me. I sound like a chimpanzee on speed. Roger looks on. “Uh, would you like a drink?” he asks.

Alcohol exacerbates my tendency to blather, so I should definitely refuse. “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay,” I tell the waiter. Clamping my lips shut, I force myself to wait for Roger to speak.

“Will is married to your sister, right?” he asks.

“Yes.” Good job, Maggie!

“And am I correct in thinking that you guys are twins?”

“Yes.”

“Identical, right?”

“Yes.”

His eyebrows rise slightly. Perhaps now is not the time to shut up, after all. “Yes, uh-huh. We’re twins. Identical twins, you’re right. She’s older by two minutes, but I like to say that Mom loves me best because I weighed less. Christy was nine pounds. Came out of Mom like a bullet. Caused some pretty nasty tearing.”

No wonder I’m still single.

“I see,” says Roger. His smile has faded.

I turn my burning face to the menu. Relax, I tell myself. This is not a game show. You have nothing to lose. He likes you or he doesn’t. You like him or you don’t. Calm yourself.

The waiter comes and we order dinner. I’m careful to choose a dish that’s neither the cheapest nor the most expensive. I take another sip of wine. “So, Roger, do you like being a nurse?” I ask. That’s more like it, Mags.

“Yeah, I sure do.” He tells me a little about his work, the hospital. And here’s the thing. He’s not right for me. He’s a little dull…instead of talking about the patients and doctors and that sort of human interest thing, he’s off on a tangent about overtime and benefits and his 401K. Give him a chance, I can hear my sister saying. I try.

Our dinners come. Unlike me, Roger has had no compunction about ordering the most expensive item on the menu. The waiter puts down an enormous lobster, red and steaming, and proceeds to tie a bib around Roger’s neck, making him look like a giant toddler. The lobster must weigh four or five pounds, making it a sumo wrestler among its peers. Roger rips off a claw with gladiator-esque machismo and vanquishes it with the provided nutcracker.

“So you’re a chef, Maggie?” he asks. He twists his fork into the claw and wrestles out a huge piece of meat, dunks it in butter and shoves it in his mouth. Butter and lobster juice run down his chin, but he takes his time wiping. The odds that I will love this man for the rest of my life are rapidly waning.

“Oh, no, no. Not a chef. I own Joe’s Diner in Gideon’s Cove. I cook, but I’m not a chef. Big difference.” I can’t take my eyes off his greasy, glistening mouth.