Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(26)

I pick up the phone and hit number three on speed dial. “You’re speaking to the future Mrs. Albert Mikrete,” I say when he answers.

“Oh, Maggie!” he says. “I’m so sorry. It seems that Father Bruce was thinking of the wrong person…tell me it wasn’t awful.”

“It wasn’t, actually. He has beautiful grandchildren.”

This causes another shower of laughter, and I lie back on my bed and listen happily.

That Sunday as I field the after-church brunch crowd, I’m surprised to see Al come in. He waves vigorously as I serve the Tabors their pancakes.

“Thought I’d stop by and see you, sweetheart,” he announces loudly, adjusting his hearing aid. The diner becomes quiet. “I wanted to tell you again what a wonderful time I had on our date.”

I smile. “Me, too, Al.” At least this time, I’m not embarrassed. Or drunk.

“WHAT ABOUT KEVIN MICHALSKI?” Father Tim asks the next week, taking his usual seat at the diner.

“I used to babysit him,” I answer, gazing out at April. Sadly, it doesn’t look different from muddy March, though the air is a bit gentler. There may be a slight fuzz of red on the distant oaks, but I can’t really tell.

“Ah. And that puts him out of the running, does it?”

“He must be twelve or thirteen years younger than I am, Father Tim. He’s nineteen years old. I’d like someone who can buy a six-pack.”

“All right, then,” says Father Tim. He seems to have really gotten a tickle out of arranging my dates and consults his list with a serious expression. “I’ve one last man to try, and if that doesn’t work, I’m giving up on the world of dating.”

“You realize how that sounds, don’t you?” I ask him.

“This one’s a winner, mind you,” he says. “I’ve been saving the best for last.”

“Crafty of you,” I murmur.

He grins. “You’ll thank me for this one, Maggie. You will.”

“Good,” I say. “Because this is your last chance. If he doesn’t work out, I’m putting myself on eBay.”

The breakfast crowd is now finished. Octavio is singing in the kitchen, Georgie is packing up leftovers for me to take to the soup kitchen, and Judy is painting her nails in the corner booth. I’ve already baked five dozen chocolate chip cookies for the fire department tonight, and later this afternoon, I’ll do my Meals on Wheels route. Mrs. K. and I have plans to watch a movie together…The Cave, I think she said. She likes a good scare. It’s a typical day, busy, full, tiring. Not a bad day at all.

But loneliness gnaws at me, and filling my time with pleasant tasks ain’t cutting it. While watching a gory movie with Mrs. K. holds its charms, it’s not what I really want. I want to watch a movie with my husband while our kids sleep upstairs. He’ll ask me if I want some ice cream as I go upstairs to check that the covers haven’t slipped off the baby. Then he’ll say, “Hey, move over,” so he can sit next to me and play with my hair. “I love you,” I’ll say, and he’ll answer, “Thank God for that.”

AFTER MRS. K. HAS fallen asleep on our movie, I creep up to the apartment, satisfied that Colonel, even if he isn’t young, would at least alert me to the presence of evil. Then, I supposed, he would watch me be slaughtered by the creature that he barked at, and eventually he’d probably curl up and gnaw one of my bones for the rest of the night.

“You wouldn’t eat me, would you, boy?” I ask, getting him a chew stick just in case. He takes the treat delicately from me and lies down gingerly. His h*ps must hurt. “You’re the best, Colonel.” He glances at me and thumps his tail in agreement.

I go to my little desk in the corner and glance out the window. From here I can see the harbor and the few lights that twinkle sweetly there. I turn on my computer and go on the Internet. I usually don’t surf unless I have a reason, but tonight, that loneliness is waiting to pounce. I’ll just look. No one will ever know.

Last night I babysat for Violet. I love my niece so much, marvel at her perfect dimpled hands, her sweet breath, silky dark hair, her fascinating, pulsating soft spot. After Christy and Will left, I did what I usually do—pretended she was mine. Do I covet her? Absolutely. I cooked her some carrots and oatmeal, ground up some chicken and gave her a mashed banana for dessert. Then I bathed her and let her dump water out of a cup for a half hour, nearly becoming drunk on the smell of Johnson’s baby shampoo.

Holding her on my lap, I read The Big Red Barn seven or eight times. Violet never failed to be charmed at my animal imitations, and every time I said, “Cockadoodle doo! Moo, Moo!” she would turn to me, eyes dancing, her little pearl teeth gleaming with saliva.

When I could keep her awake no longer, I sat in the rocking chair in her room and settled her against my chest, humming tunelessly until she fell asleep, holding her until my arms trembled from not moving. Laying her in the crib, I pulled up her tiny down comforter just so, arranged her bunny and her moose to be close to her head but not too close, and watched her sleep, pink as a new rosebud, her eyelashes a sooty smudge on her cheeks.

“I love you so much,” I whispered. I rather hoped she would wake up and fuss so I could comfort her, but she slept deeply, not moving as I stroked her cheek with my pinky, the least rough of all my fingers.