Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(28)
“Maggie, you’re not a weirdo. Granted, you talk a bit too much, and you’ve a way of sticking your foot in your mouth, but you’re a jewel. And if a girl as wonderful as you needs a bit of help in finding someone, doesn’t it stand to reason that there’s a wonderful man out there who does, as well?”
“Um…I guess so.” Did Father Tim just insult me or compliment me? A little of both, it seems. “Well, is he going to call me?”
“He is, yes. Tomorrow night. Nine o’clock. I assume you’ll be in?”
“Yup.” I hop up and make the note on my blackboard. “Father Tim, I really hope something turns out with this guy,” I say. “I’m so tired of first dates. I just don’t know why it’s so hard to meet someone.”
He sighs in my ear. “Nor do I, Maggie. As I said, you’re a fine person. And you will find someone. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
“A priest finding me a boyfriend is on the mysterious side, Father Tim.” His laughter warms my heart.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DOUG ANDREWS DOES INDEED sound very nice. We spoke for almost an hour and agreed to meet at a restaurant between Ellsport and Gideon’s Cove. There aren’t that many restaurants open year round up here, but Jason’s Taverne is, which makes it a fairly popular place. It’s a squat, unremarkable structure sitting at the edge of Route 187, easy to get to, clearly visible from both directions. Half of the place is the bar area, which has a big-screen TV permanently set to the New England Sports Channel. Because of this, and because it’s open twelve months a year, the bar is always busy. The restaurant section is quieter, and the food is simple and good.
This afternoon, Christy came over and helped me pick out what to wear, even lent me a beaded necklace and hair clip to “bling” me up a little. It was fun, like high school, almost, when Christy, who didn’t have a boyfriend until senior year, would help me get ready for a Saturday night with Skip. The end result is that I look pretty nice, in my own opinion. My hair style is elegant but casual, the streaks that I got a few weeks ago going a long way to turn me from light brown to dark blond. I’m wearing a black shirt with a pretty, curving neckline and velvety black pants. I even put on makeup.
Although I caution myself not to get excited, I can’t help it. Doug and I talked easily. He sounded so reassuringly normal, talking about work (he’s a manager at a fisheries plant), sailing, even a little about his wife, who died in a small plane accident. There were no warning bells, no awkward pauses. He seemed interested in me, wanted to hear about Joe’s Diner, asked nice questions about Christy and Colonel, my two favorite people.
I get to the restaurant early, go inside and ask the hostess if Doug has arrived. At the bar are a couple of men engrossed in the Red Sox pregame show, and although I can only see their backs, I know Doug isn’t among them. He told me he is prematurely gray, and the guys there are dark-haired.
The hostess shows me to a table near the gas-fueled fireplace. I sit facing the door, my back to the bar and the giant TV, so that I can see Doug when he comes in.
“Would you like a drink?” the hostess asks.
“Well, maybe I should wait for my friend. Actually, no. I’ll have a, um…I don’t know. Glass of wine? How about a pinot grigio? Do you have that by the glass?”
“Santa Margarita?” she asks.
“Sounds great,” I say.
Trying to look comfortable when you’re waiting for someone in a restaurant is difficult. I study the few other diners. An older couple eats in silence two tables away, and a young woman and a much older woman chat animatedly in the corner. Grandmother and granddaughter, I’d guess. Aside from them and the guys at the bar, the restaurant is fairly deserted.
I glance over at the door. The hostess is reading a book. I should have brought one, too. I hate waiting. I turn in my seat and glance at the game. The Sox are trying out a rookie pitcher. If I were home tonight, I’d be watching. It’s nice to have somewhere else to be.
A waitress comes over with my wine. “Would you like to see a menu?” she asks.
“No, no, I’m sure my friend will be along soon. But thanks,” I say. I glance at my watch. It’s ten after seven, and we agreed to meet at seven. I take a sip of wine to take the edge off my nervousness. He’ll come, I tell myself. He sounded so promising. And eager to meet me. He’d even said how nice I sounded.
Please, God, I pray silently, straightening out the salt and pepper shakers. Don’t let this turn out to be a disaster, because I don’t think I can take another one. I hate to bother you when I’m not dying or lost at sea or a soldier or whatever, but if you have just a sec, can you please, please send me a good guy this time? I don’t need much…just a decent, goodhearted man. Please. Sorry to bug you. Over and out.
The table now looks quite tidy. Nothing left to straighten. I take another sip of wine, then check my cell phone. No missed messages. I sneak another look at the door. We did say we’d meet in the restaurant, didn’t we? Yes, I’m sure we did. Let’s meet in the restaurant so we can talk, Doug had said. The bar is pretty noisy. That’s right. He’s been here before. So he’s not lost. Just a little late. Well, not so little any more. Sixteen minutes.
The waitress brings the older couple their food, then glides over to me. “Would you like to order an appetizer?” she asks.