Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(27)

Right. So. Can’t have a baby if I don’t have a mate.

I type in a few terms for Google, then click on the first Web site that comes up without giving myself time to chicken out. Before I am allowed to see who is ripe for the picking in northern Maine, I must first answer some questions. Are you a woman seeking a man? I most certainly am. Then I enter in my approximate date of birth and zip code. Pick a user name, I am ordered. Okay, I think. Something nauseating and memorable. “Booboobear.” Sorry, that name is already taken. Please choose again. “Reallyniceperson.” Sorry, that name is already taken. Please choose again. I glance at my dog. “Colonel McKissy.” Sorry, that name—

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I mutter. I type in some gibberish and finally get through. The next few questions are easy…my body type, hair color, eye color. For these, I’m truthful. Body type, average. Eyes gray, hair…hmm. Am I light brown or dark blond? Dark blond sounds more alluring, so dark blond I am. Then we get to the interesting stuff. Body Art. Does double piercing my ears count? Apparently not. The choices include things like inked all over, fanged and branded. Branded? Do people get branded these days? Should I invest in a brand, perhaps?

“See?” I tell Colonel. “This is why I don’t do Internet dating.”

Still, it’s interesting. I skip the body art section and move onto best feature. Hmm. I guess everyone would say their eyes…so I’ll say smile. I have a nice smile, a ready smile. My teeth are straight and even…Smile it is. But smile is not on the list. Calves are on the list, and forearms, ni**les and navel, but not smile.

Tell us about yourself, the computer form urges. Will do.

“Hometown girl, love my family, love my dog. Want to make a nice life with someone loyal, funny and kindhearted. I love to bake, feed people and ride my bike. Nice-looking and once or twice a year, I can even pull off beautiful.” Yes, if I spend a few hours fussing with my hair, using a pore-minimizing mud mask, soaking my hands and spending a half hour on makeup, that is. Not that I do, mind you, but I can.

“I’m good-natured and don’t mind laughing at myself, either.” As I’ve demonstrated far too often, I think. “Enjoy reading, scary movies and baseball. Want to settle down and have kids.” Why be coy, right?

After numerous other sections, such as religious preferences, turn-ons (fangs are among the choices listed) and my idea of the perfect first date, I am finally allowed to see the eligible men within 75 miles of my zip code. There are two.

Looking for goddess to rain with me as we conquer the universe and all it’s mysteries, explore the depths of our sensual natures and experament on the laws of love. You are big-breasted, young, stunning, adventurous, sexually daring and don’t mind being submissive when your god commands it. So much can be learned from exploring each other physically…why wait is what I say. Come with me and bend to my desires, o goddess, and you will not be sorry.

I’m sorry already, actually. The misspellings are enough to put me off, let alone the gist of the message. I click on the second.

Single father of two, abandoned by whore of a wife and left to deal with everything alone. She cleaned out the bank accounts, took the good car and left me with nothing, and this after fifteen years of sucking my soul dry in the first place. Let alone talk about what it’s doing to the kids. Your mother’s a bitch, I tell them. Sorry kids, but that’s the way it is. So anyways, I’m looking for someone who loves kids and doesn’t mind watching mine. Preferably someone who doesn’t have kids of their own, because you know how f**ked up that can be. I work long hours and won’t be home much, so you should love taking care of the house, too. I’m extremely good-looking and have a great sense of humor.

“I don’t care if you’re Jude Law,” I say. “You need some serious counseling.” Colonel shares my disbelief and rises to put his head on my lap. I stroke his ears, and he burps softly in response, tail wagging. The phone rings.

“Maggie, I’ve got you set up for a phone date,” Father Tim announces.

“Bless you, Father,” I answer. “I think you’re my last hope. Not that I’ve forgotten Oliver and his groin, mind you.”

“I’m asking for your forgiveness on that one, Maggie,” he says. “That was a fluke. This time I’ve a fine fellow by the name of Doug Andrews.”

“What does he do?” I ask.

“I believe he’s a fisherman.”

“Okay.” Plenty of men around here are. “Anything else?”

“Well now, I’ve not met him myself, nor has Father Bruce. He’s from Ellsworth, a member of the church down there, and Father Bruce was kind enough to speak to his pastor. But from the account I’ve heard, our Mr. Andrews is a good-looking man in his thirties.”

“Mmm-hmm. And why does he need to be fixed up by a priest?” I ask. Even though I myself require this service, I’m suspicious of others who also need it.

“He’s a widower,” Father Tim answers. “Lost his wife a couple of years ago.”

“Great!” I answer, then immediately correct myself. “I mean, of course, not great. That’s awful. So sad.” I roll my eyes. “What I mean is, at least he was normal enough to meet someone once. It’s better than just being a weirdo who never was able to get married in the first place.” I pause. “Like me.”