Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(12)

Roger frowns slightly but doesn’t open his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Not a cat? You’re sure.”

“Yes.” My voice is tight with the effort of not laughing.

“A dog?”

“Yes.”

“Great!” Roger exclaims. He opens his eyes and frowns at me. “Are you sure you’re picturing the animal?”

Dicky, Dicky, come to me, Dicky… I press my napkin against my mouth to suppress a laugh. “Yes, I’m really picturing him,” I manage to say.

“You weren’t supposed to tell me it was a him! Come on, Maggie, do you want this reading or not?”

“I really don’t—”

Roger clamps his eyes shut again. “Okay, okay, he’s back. Right…this is a black and white dog. A Dalmatian. Yes.”

“No.” A little snort escapes through my nose. Roger’s trance is not disturbed.

“Okay, right, right…is this dog black?”

“Nope.”

“An Irish setter?”

“No,” I squeak.

“Are you sure it’s not a cat?”

My laughter can’t be contained any longer. “Okay, Roger, thank you. Listen, I really should get going. It was nice meeting you, but I just don’t think we’re right for each other,” I say as kindly as I can.

“No kidding. I could tell that the minute you walked in.” He whips out his wallet, throws some bills on the table and stalks off. Can’t say I’m sorry to see him go. I wonder if the hospital knows about his special gift.

“Is everything all right, miss?” the waiter asks.

“Oh, sure. It was fine. Thank you. Can I have the check, please?”

I’m not surprised to see that Roger has left only enough to cover his lobster. He didn’t even leave enough for his wine. Oh, well. I make up the difference and leave a huge tip for the waiter.

When I get home, there’s a message waiting on my machine—Father Tim asking a question about the spaghetti dinner next week. Perfect. It’s too late to call my sister and tell her about the date, and Father Tim has just given me a great excuse to call him. He keeps late hours, something he’s mentioned in the past and which I stored in the Father Tim encyclopedia I keep in my brain. Besides, I just drove past the rectory and couldn’t miss the fact that the lights were still on.

“Maggie, how are you?” he says warmly.

“Oh, I just had the funniest date,” I say. By the time I’m finished filling him in on Roger Martin, enemy of lobsters and animal communicator, he’s laughing so hard he’s just wheezing.

“Maggie, you’re a special one,” he says when he’s regained control. “I must say, I was in need of a good laugh, and you came along and answered my prayers.”

I smile and scratch Colonel’s tummy. “Glad to be of service, Father Tim,” I say. “I have to tell you, though, I’m a little…I don’t know. Disappointed. I don’t meet a lot of new people.”

“I know, I do, Maggie,” he says. “But you’ll meet that special someone one day soon, mark my words. You’re a jewel, Maggie Beaumont.” As to how the special someone and I will meet is something Father Tim doesn’t address.

“Well. Thanks. You’re sweet to say so.” I pause.

He goes on to tell me about the date change for the spaghetti dinner. As usual, my schedule is free.

“Wonderful!” he exclaims. “I don’t know what St. Mary’s would do without you. One of these days, you’ll join us properly, not just as a volunteer, mind you, and won’t that be a happy day! God bless you, Maggie.”

I never know what to say to that. Amen? Thank you? “God bless you, too,” I say, wincing as he chuckles. “I mean, good night, Father Tim.”

“Good night, Maggie.”

I hang up the phone very gently, then lie back against my pillows and indulge in just one quick fantasy. That it was Father Tim with me at dinner tonight, only he wasn’t a Father. That we were just two people in love, on a date, eager to talk and laugh and share the details of our day. That he played with my hands, which are smooth and lovely in this fantasy, and that his eyes crinkled when he laughed. That he insisted that I order dessert, because he knows how I love dessert.

Colonel groans.

“I know, I know,” I say. “Waste of time.” It’s wrong, dreaming about dating the priest. Unfair to the good father and all that. I’m sick of reminding myself that it’s pointless and stupid…and yet…and yet somehow it’s so easy to see. Tim and Maggie. Maggie and Tim. With a sigh, I glance at my copy of The Thornbirds, given to me by my brother the day after I learned what the hot guy I’d met did for a living.

Colonel’s eyes are full of reproach. “Sorry, pooch,” I tell him. “You’re right. I’ll stop now.”

I pat his head, hug my pillow and try to go to sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WASN’T ALWAYS SO, my state of solitude. Once, I thought I was going to get married. Once, I was pre-engaged (not that that’s an official title or anything, but I do have a cheap little pearl ring to prove it). Once, I had a steady boyfriend whom I loved and who, I thought, loved me.

Skip Parkinson was a high school god—handsome, reasonably smart, from a well-off family and, most importantly, gifted at sports. Baseball, in particular. And when I say gifted, I mean fantastic. Because of Skip, our school made states each year. Because of Skip, we won three of those four years. Because of Skip, newspapers and college scouts visited Gideon’s Cove, sniffing around, eating at the diner, coming to games.