Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(21)

Then I see Father Tim. He’s chatting up Mr. and Mrs. Rubricht, laughing, clapping Mr. on the back. Mrs. Plutarski, his self-appointed bodyguard, preens in her proximity to the priest. Preening proximity to the priest. I chuckle. “Preening,” I say out loud. Dad turns to me, concerned, but I can’t take my eyes off Father Tim.

He’s so nice, Father Tim. We had so much fun the other night, didn’t we? That man is a great guy. He’s no ass**le, not like Skip. Nope, Father Tim is my best friend. I love him.

When everyone is just about finished and eying the dessert table with unabashed greed, Father Tim takes the microphone and clicks it on. His beautiful Irish lilt fills my ears.

“It warms my heart to see so many people here tonight, in spite of the nasty weather,” he says, smiling at his flock. “And what a lovely dinner we’ve all been enjoying! Thank you, Maggie and Octavio, for putting together such a fine feast, as always.”

People clap and turn toward me. I stand up, stagger back a little, but decide that no one really noticed. “You’re welcome!” I call out.

“And thanks in advance to the hospitality committee, too, who’ll be doing all the hard work of cleaning up afterwards,” Father Tim continues. “I’m happy to say that we’ve raised more than—”

“Can I just say something?” I call out, waving to dear, kind Father Tim.

“Oh, stop her, Daddy,” Christy murmurs, her voice urgent.

No! They will not stop me! I scoot with surprising agility around our table, only bumping into six or ten chairs as I make my way to the front of the room, where Father Tim stands smiling with a little uncertainty.

“Can I have the mike?” I ask him. I am not so drunk that I miss Mrs. Plutarski’s mouth purse in jealousy. Yeah. That’s right. Because I’m Father Tim’s friend. She’s not the only one who adores him.

“Ah…sure, Maggie,” he says, handing it over to me.

I’ve never spoken into a microphone before. It’s kind of neat, holding it. I feel a little like Ellen DeGeneres, like I have my own show. I wriggle onto the edge of the stage where last year’s confirmation class butchered Godspell and blow into the mike. The rushing sound reassures me that it’s on.

“Thank you so much, Father Tim,” I say, proud not to slur. “Oh, that’s funny! I sound like Christy!”

Everyone laughs. I’m a hit!

“So, I guess I just wanted to say how grateful we all are to be here, on this beautiful planet, in this great little town. It’s so nice, isn’t it?”

My mother is staring at me, her face a mixture of disapproval and horror. I think she might be mad at me. “Hi, Mom!” I say, waving. “Anyway, I also want to say thanks to Father Tim. We are so lucky to have him in our parish, aren’t we? I mean, remember Father What’s-His-Name, that weird little fat guy? The guy at Christy’s wedding? He was no fun, no fun. Uh-uh. Not funny, that guy. And now we have Father Tim! He’s so good, right? I mean, he’s like a holy man, don’t you think?”

“Thanks, Maggie. I’ll just be taking that microphone back, shall I?” Father Tim says, making a move toward me.

“No! No, no. No.” I scoot back further, then stand, so that if Father Tim wants to get me, he has to come and get me. Ha! I point to him as he stands frozen, and waggle my index finger. “This is good. You should hear this, holy man. Because we all love you. Really. Don’t we?” I ask the assembled guests. They are certainly paying excellent attention. “Everyone here loves you, Father Tim. Me, too. I just…you’re such a…and we all just…I love you, Father Tim.”

I keep talking, but now I can hardly hear myself, the place has gotten so loud. Will is suddenly standing next to me, clever lad, and he takes the mike from me.

“I wasn’t done,” I protest.

“Oh, you’re done, honey,” he says. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

CHAPTER SIX

FRAGMENTS OF LAST NIGHT WHIZ around in my brain like ice being crushed in a blender. Snatches of conversation, images, a deep concern that yes, I really did say that.

It’s three-twenty in the morning. I’m not really sure what time Will and my father tucked me in. My brain grinds against my skull, and my right eye apparently has an ice pick in it. My teeth have sprouted fur, and my mouth feels like something reptilian and evil died in there.

I stagger into the bathroom and swallow two Motrin and two Tylenol at the sink. I know this isn’t good to take these on an empty stomach, but I don’t care. The thought of drinking milk causes ugly things to happen in my digestive tract. I take a shower and feel that I’ve advanced an inch toward normal humanity.

My apartment feels stuffy and close, and I certainly don’t want to be around food right now, so the diner is out. I pull on my coat, my wool hat, mittens, and grab a flashlight.

“Colonel,” I say, and my brain recoils from the awful noise. “Come, boy,” I whisper.

Colonel has never needed a leash; he just follows me everywhere with breathtaking devotion. We head out into the pitch-black morning.

The town is quiet; there is only the gentle sound of water shushing against the rocky shore. The wind is still at this hour, and the moon long gone, making the stars glitter in the inky black sky. I walk down dark streets, past sleeping houses, until I get to a little path that will take me up to Douglas Point. It’s not a nature preserve precisely, but it’s close. There’s just one house up there, owned by a wealthy Microsoft executive, and he only visits it once or twice a year. He’s quite nice about letting us locals use the grounds for hiking and fishing.