Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(22)

The smell of pine and sea makes my roiling stomach feel better, and the breeze seems to blow all thought from my head. I know what I did last night, but at this moment, my mind is empty. It’s just Colonel and me right now.

I go along the sea to a large outcropping of rock that sits directly over the water. In fact, it’s called Bowsprit Rock, as it resembles that particular part of a boat. Rising behind me like a specter is the granite memorial to fishermen who died at sea. Carved on it are the names of eighteen men Gideon’s Cove has lost to the ravenous ocean. Eighteen men so far, that is.

The wind is a little stronger here, and still quite cold, though it is almost April. The rock is like ice under my bottom, but it feels good, cleansing and solid. I switch off the flashlight and let my eyes adjust. Colonel lies down next to me, contentedly chewing a stick, and I put my arm around his neck and look east. Dawn is far away, but the stars are brilliant enough tonight that I can see whitecaps here and there. The water slaps against the rocky shore, shushing and whispering.

With a sigh, I lie back and look into the Milky Way. It’s so beautiful, so cold and pure and distant, hypnotic. Colonel snuggles against my side, and I idly stroke his thick fur, just looking into the heavens. How long I stay like this, I don’t know, as I’ve forgotten my watch, but the sound of a motor causes me to sit up. There goes a lobster boat, out to check the pots. The lights of the boat seem warm and welcoming compared with the distant ice of the stars. It might be Jonah, though he’s on the lazy side of lobstermen. I squint, but I can’t make out who it is. Malone, maybe. Jonah’s mentioned that he’s usually the first one out, the last one back.

Last year, the story goes, Malone and his cousin, Trevor, a man as sunny as Malone is dark, went in on a new boat. Real pretty, the local gossip sources said. Eighty-five thou, maybe more. They were going to do some more commercial work, perhaps even start a few scallop beds. But Trevor, who often came into Joe’s Diner and flirted equally with Judy and me, disappeared one day. Apparently, he sold the boat out from under Malone and took off with the money, leaving Malone with the payments. Trevor was never seen again. Rumors flew—Mafia, drugs, homosexuality, murder—but Malone remained, silently working his traps himself, using the boat he’d had for the past ten years.

Well. I’d heard about it—you don’t own the only restaurant in town and not hear these things—but I don’t really know Malone. He was five or six years ahead of me in school. As he’s barely spoken to me, ever, I don’t really know what his situation is, a rare event in Gideon’s Cove.

The grinding in my head has subsided to the pulsating of a wounded jellyfish. My ass is numb, my cheeks stiff with cold. With a sigh, I stand up. “Let’s go, big boy,” I say to the dog. We turn and head for the diner as the sky lightens almost imperceptibly on the eastern horizon.

I put on coffee and start pulling together some muffins. Cranberry lemon today, and raisin bran for Bob Castellano, who needs his fiber. Mrs. K. likes them, too.

Soon the diner will start to fill up with people who will want to hear about my little speech last night. Or people who witnessed it and want to relive it. Once again, I’ve embarrassed myself. At least no one can say I’m not entertaining.

By the time the second batch of muffins comes out, I’ve started the potatoes for Octavio’s rightfully famous hash browns. As if summoned, he clatters through the back door, and I wince at the noise. “Hi, boss,” he says cheerfully.

“Hi.” I wait for the questions, but none comes.

Instead, Octavio busies himself at the stove, checks the muffins. “How about some coffee, boss?” He doesn’t wait for the answer, just pours me a cup and hands it to me, then starts cracking eggs into a large bowl. His big hands can handle two eggs at a time, and he’s ambidextrous, at least when it comes to egg cracking. Smack! Four eggs. Smack! Eight. Smack! A dozen eggs lay waiting innocently in their bowl, not realizing they’re about to be whisked without mercy. He glances at me, his face open and friendly.

“Would you like a raise?” I ask.

“It’s okay, boss.”

“You deserve one.”

“Maybe in the summer, then.” He smiles. There’s a space between his two front teeth that I find very appealing.

“So I really told Father Tim I love him, didn’t I?” I ask.

“Yeah, boss. Sorry.” He winks at me and continues frying the hash browns.

“Any questions?”

“Nope.”

“You’re getting a raise this week.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” he agrees.

Octavio is excellent at getting raises. Last year he got a whopper by not talking about that guy I’d met, and now he’ll get one for just being kind. “I wish I were as cool as you, Octavio,” I say.

“Keep trying,” he answers encouragingly.

At eight-thirty, Father Tim comes in and slides into his usual booth. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. “Good morning, Maggie,” he says gently. Rolly and Ben halt their conversation shamelessly, and the board of education members in the corner drop their discussion on cutting the art program. It’s to be expected—I’m the best show in town.

“Oh, Father Tim,” I sigh. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I hope I didn’t embarrass you, though I certainly embarrassed myself.”