Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(41)

“Well, I for one am glad he’s not,” Christy chides. “Father Tim is a—”

“I know, I know. Save it. What I meant was, I wish Malone would just…open up a little.”

“He will, Mags, he will,” Christy assures me, not that she has any authority over Malone. “You know how they grew up, the Malone kids,” she adds.

“Actually, I don’t,” I say. First Chantal had something on him, now my own sister. Does everyone know more about Malone than I do?

“Oh, no? Well, it—” she pauses, considering. “It wasn’t good.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“His sister was in our class, dummy,” Christy informs me. “Allie Malone. Don’t you remember? She was shy, black hair like Malone’s…pretty quiet.”

I wrack my brain for some recall. “Oh, okay, okay. God, I hardly remember her.”

“Too wrapped up in Skip.”

“Yeah. True. So tell me what you know,” I prod.

Christy takes another sip of her tea. “Well, I never went over there or anything,” she says. “And I don’t exactly remember how much she told me and how much was just what the kids said. But we were lab partners junior year, and we were kind of friendly.”

She stiffens as Violet rolls over, the rustling clearly audible over the monitor, but when no coo or cry follows, she goes on. “I guess the father was abusive. I don’t think sexually, thank God. But there was definitely some bad stuff. The police came once, I remember Allie talking about that. She was crying in the bathroom one day and told me that her brother and father both spent the night in jail…”

“Yikes,” I murmur.

“So, anyway, I really don’t know more than that. She went away to Boston and we never really kept in touch.”

“Did you ever hear that Malone hit his wife?”

Christy frowns. “No. I never did. He’s not—you know, rough or anything, is he, Maggie?”

“Oh, no. No, no.” My cheeks grow hot. “Not rough at all…just…intense.”

“I wish you could see your face right now,” my sister says, laughing.

“Listen, don’t tell anyone about this, okay? About Malone and me. It’s not like we’re actually seeing each other…we’re just…I don’t know….”

“Fuck buddies?” Christy laughs.

“Christy! No! Oh, hell, maybe.” I can’t help laughing, too.

“Can you imagine what Mom would say?”

“I really don’t want to think about that,” I answer truthfully. Mother is not one to be sympathetic to hormonal urges. Young people today are so trashy, she’s fond of saying. Don’t they have any self-respect? Even if Malone and I had a real relationship, he’s not exactly what Mom has in mind for me. Why can’t you meet a doctor, Maggie? Or a lawyer? Or maybe that Microsoft executive on Douglas Point? If you’d just clean yourself up a little, you’d be quite presentable, you know. You need to stop lighting your fire under a bushel.

At this moment, my niece lets out a coo over the monitor, signaling the end of her nap. Christy gets up and goes upstairs, and I sit at the table, mulling over what she’s told me.

I stay to play with Violet, rolling on the floor with her, encouraging her to grab the little moose puppet Jonah gave her at birth. She finally does, and Christy and I cheer as the genius baby stuffs an antler into her drooling mouth and chews on it. Christy convinces me to stay for supper, and I do, drinking in their domesticity and happiness.

On my way home, I try to imagine Malone acting like Will, laughing, pulling me onto his lap the way Will does to Christy, kissing his baby and practically leaping at the chance to change her diaper. I can’t. Malone doesn’t inspire thoughts of husband and father.

So what are you doing with him, Maggie? Mom’s voice asks in my head. Killing time until the real thing comes along? Or just scratching an itch?

I’m pretty sure I don’t want to answer those questions, but I have a long time to think about them. Malone doesn’t come over that night. He doesn’t call, either. And I don’t call him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“SO, MAGGIE, how’s the quest going?” Father Tim asks me as I pour him some coffee.

“The man quest?” I ask.

“Are you on any other kind?” he quips, raising his eyebrows with mock sincerity.

“Oh, how cutting! And you a priest. Tsk, tsk.” I glance around the diner—pretty full, since it’s raining hard outside, and people love to go out for breakfast when it’s raining. “The quest is on hold at the moment, Father Tim,” I answer. “When the time is right, yadda yadda. What can I get you this morning?”

“I guess I’ll have the special, Maggie. Sounds lovely.”

The special is French toast made with homemade sweet almond bread and soaked in a peach glaze. It is lovely, and an original recipe, and if I could get a restaurant critic out here, I’m sure he or she would love it. “You got it,” I tell him. “Bacon with that?”

“You know me well,” he smiles.

“Mmm, yes, and I know you’d better get your cholesterol checked.”

“You’re a wonderful friend,” he says, and unexpectedly, he takes my hand and pats it, looking up at me. And though I have a coffeepot in my other hand and he’s wearing his priest clothes, there’s something very…marriage proposal about our little tableau. For one second, that sense of longing and rightness I always get around Father Tim hits home, and I feel my face grow hot.