Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(102)
“You bet,” I say with false bravado. “How are you feeling?”
Christy launches into a description of her fatigue and vomiting, then describes Violet’s newest incisor in thrilling detail. I smile. “You still going out tomorrow?” I ask. “It’s my day to babysit.”
“Only if you want to,” Christy says.
“I certainly do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
ON SUNDAY, I find myself back at St. Mary’s. Christy, Will and Violet sit in the cry room, as Violet has discovered the church’s impressive echo and enjoys piercing eardrums during Mass. Father Daniels is on the altar, his roly-poly figure barely contained in the vestments that once swirled gracefully around Father Tim. No danger in falling for Father Daniels, whose resemblance to Jabba the Hutt has been commented on many times.
My mind wanders as I sit there, a feeling of gentle peace engulfing me. The stained-glass windows, the flickering candles, the rock-hard pews and cracked kneelers seem familiar and dear to me. I’m glad I’m here. This is my church, I think. Father Tim was just a temp here, but the church belongs to me. Or it could, if I showed up once in a while.
Dear God, I pray as Father Daniels lifts the host high, please look after my family. And Octavio and his gang and Georgie and Judy and Chantal and all the rest. And thanks for everything. And this time, I’m sincere.
Mrs. Plutarski gives me the evil eye during the recession, but I don’t care. I smile at my neighbors and wait for Christy and Will to fight their way out of the cry room.
“Nice Mass, wasn’t it?” I ask.
“Was it?” Christy returns. “I couldn’t hear a word. The Robinson twins were screaming the whole time.”
We go outside and I stop dead in my tracks, causing Ruth Donahue to crash into me. “Sorry,” I mutter.
Malone is leaning against the back of a bench, watching the door. Waiting, it seems, for me.
“Ooh, it’s Malone,” Christy murmurs. “What’s he doing here? Hi, Malone!”
“Hi, Christy,” he says. Then his eyes shift to me. “Maggie.”
Adrenaline pricks at my joints, making my hands tingle almost painfully. “Hi, Malone,” I say, and my voice squeaks. I clear my throat. “Hello.”
His hands are cupped over his coat in a rather strange way, I notice, and the lines around his eyes crinkle as I come closer. Hope aches suddenly and sharply in my heart, and I swallow. He looks happyfor Malone, that is. Happy to see me.
Just then, Emory pops over to his side. “I’m starving,” she announces in that perfectly confident way beautiful girls have. “Malone, can we get some breakfast? There’s a cute little diner down the block.” Her eyes light upon me. “Oh, hi. Maggie, right?” She tucks her arm through Malone’s.
“Right. Hello,” I say. I feel the blush creep up my neck, feeling very much like an outsider.
“Dad? What do you say? Breakfast?”
“Sure, Emory. Give me a second, okay?” Malone says.
An awkward silence falls over our little group. My heart is thudding. A crow calls in a nearby tree. Will clears his throat. “Hey, Maggie, we’ll see you later,” he says, towing my sister away.
“Right!” Christy says joyfully. “See you later.” Her eyes are dancing.
Malone gives his daughter a pointed look. “Em, go find something to do for five minutes,” he says.
“Sure, Malone,” she says, trotting up the stairs of St. Mary’s. We both watch her go, then, because there’s no one left to look at, turn to face each other. My face prickles with heat. Malone swallows. It seems neither of us knows what to say.
Then, with one hand still cupping his stomach, Malone reaches into his coat and pulls out a very small puppy.
“For you,” he says, handing the warm little bundle of fur to me. “It’s a girl.”
She’s sound asleep, cuddled against my chest before I’m fully aware that I have her. Pale blond fur, silky ears, black nose. I can feel her little spine through her fur…clearly she needs a good meal. “Oh, Malone,” I whisper, my eyes filling.
“Ten weeks old. Half yellow Lab. She’s had her first shots.”
“She’s so beautiful. Aren’t you, honey? Malone, thank you.” I stroke her tiny little head and give Malone a watery smile.
He’s not smiling back. He’s practically glaring. My smile falters.
“It’s Matthew,” he growls.
I blink. “I thought you said she was a girl.” He doesn’t answer. “You want me to name the dog Matthew?”
“No, Maggie,” he says, looking away. “That’s my name.”
The dog shifts in my hands and groans, a tiny, funny sound. She wakes enough to chew on my thumb with her needle-sharp teeth, but I barely notice.
“It was my father’s name, too,” Malone says, still looking down the block. “My mom called me Little Malone when I was a kid, and then eventually she dropped the ‘little.’ Since my father knocked us around, I didn’t really feel like using his first name anyway, so I just go by Malone.”
His longest speech to me by far. Ever, maybe. “Oh,” I manage.
His eyes snap back to me. “Maggie,” he says, stepping closer. He takes a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, too, about me and how I don’t let people in. Talk. Whatever.” He rolls his eyes, then swallows. “I’m not really the type, Maggie.”