Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(15)

“Heard you had a crappy date the other night,” Jonah says as I set his plate down in front of him. Judy reads the paper and ignores my brother…he never leaves a tip, so she never waits on him. The morning rush, as it were, has subsided, and only a few lobstermen, back from checking their lines, come in this late.

“Yes, it was kind of bad,” I admit, wiping down the counter. “Want more coffee?”

“Thanks, sissy.” He lets me fill his cup, dumps some cream into it and takes a slurp. “Well, speaking of dates, Christy called me yesterday. Wants me to keep an eye out for you.”

As if summoned, our sister appears in the doorway, pink-cheeked from the wind. “Mmm,” she says, inhaling appreciatively. “It smells so good in here. Can I have some coffee, too, please?”

“Cuppa joe, coming up,” I tell her. I ring up Bob Castellano while Christy takes off her coat and sits next to Jonah. “Thanks for coming in, Bob,” I say, handing him his change. “Did you fill out a ballot?”

“Ayuh. And don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll meet someone. Have a good day, now, hear?”

“Thank you, Bob,” I answer, mortified. I take off my apron, bend down to scratch Colonel, then sit with my siblings. “And I don’t know, maybe we could not talk about my love life in front of my customers, how would that be?”

“Why? You want them to think you’re still stuck on Father Tim?” Jonah asks.

I scowl, then sigh. “I am still stuck on Father Tim, that’s the whole problem.”

“Well, that’s kinda dumb, isn’t it?” Jonah asks needlessly.

“Yes, Jonah, it is. Which is why I asked you to be on the lookout,” Christy answers.

“Christy, Jonah is eight years younger than we are,” I point out. “And in addition to being mere children, his friends are also idiots.”

“Good point,” Jonah murmurs.

“Well, he might run into someone new,” Christy says, staring thoughtfully into her cup. “A new fireman or something. A new boat at the dock. Something like that.”

“Mmm. Unlikely,” I say. “But I like your optimism.”

“So, yeah, I’ll be looking out for you, Mags. Wanted…boyfriend for my sister. Must be…well, what are you looking for, Maggie?”

“Someone who’s not married to Holy Mother Church,” I say. “Let’s start with the basics. No priests, no married men, no alcoholics, drug addicts or prison inmates.”

Jonah laughs. “Well, shit, Maggot, that rules out everyone I know.”

“What about Malone, Joe?” Christy asks, suddenly sitting up straight. “The guy who moors next to you?”

“Malone?” Jonah says. “Yeah, sure. Mags, how about Malone?”

“Maloner the Loner?” I say. “Come on! He’s a mute hermit.” I take a sip from my coffee, remembering my agonizing ride last year from Maloner the Loner. “No hermits.”

“He’s not a bad guy,” Jonah says.

“He’s scary, Jonah,” I answer. “But thanks.”

LATER THAT NIGHT, Chantal and I meet at Dewey’s Pub. She’s at our usual table, facing the bar, flirting with Paul Dewey by tying a maraschino cherry stem in a knot. With her tongue. Paul sits in front of her, slack-jawed, as Chantal’s ripe mouth works seductively. Then her tongue pops out, and voila! There’s the stem, tied in a near-perfect circle.

“Thee?” she lisps. “Ten buckth, pleathe.”

“Jeezum crow,” Dewey mutters, fishing out his wallet. “Hey, Maggie.”

“Hey, Dewey. How did the casserole go over?” I say.

“Sold out already,” he says, dragging his eyes to me. “Twenty bucks for you.”

“Great. Hey, Chantal. Up to your usual tricks, I see.” I force a smile.

I’ll be honest. Chantal is one of those friends of necessity. She has some nice qualities, but it’s probably fair to say that aside from our single status and the fact that we both live and grew up in this town, we don’t have a lot in common. She has the kind of 1940s glamour of Rita Hayworth, the curves of Marilyn Monroe and the ethics of Tony Soprano…at least when it comes to men. Use ’em and lose ’em is her motto.

However, she’s also lively and funny, and a pretty good listener to boot. Like me, she is available, single and looking for a good man (so she says, though it seems like she’ll sleep with just about anyone). And because Christy shouldn’t be the only female friend I have, I try to ignore the fact that Chantal is every man’s fantasy come true.

“How was your date?” she asks. Small town, nothing to talk about except my embarrassing love life, I guess.

“Well…it was freakish.” I get a beer and tell her about Roger, the ruination of the lobster, the attempt to contact Dicky in the great beyond. Like Father Tim, she is crying with laughter by the end of it. I sit back and take a pull of my beer, satisfied that, if I can’t find a good man, I can tell a good story.

“Jesus, what a…God, I don’t even know what to call it,” Chantal says, wiping her eyes. She snorts again, then scans the bar. “We should move,” she muses. “Alaska has a lot of men, doesn’t it? Plenty to screw in Alaska.”