Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(44)

An image of Malone on top of me flashes through my head. I believe the fading hickey just below my collarbone can prove he’s not exactly asexual. At the thought, my knees start with that watery, wiggly feeling. I gulp down some wine.

“I like some women,” he says, still looking at me. I believe my name has just been removed from his list, judging from the ice in his eyes. My cheeks are on fire, much to my disgust. Chantal, at least, is too busy thrusting her prowlike bosom into Malone’s arm to notice my discomfort.

“Well, too bad Maggie and I aren’t your type,” she pouts.

“Too bad,” he agrees, then turns to look at her, dropping his gaze to her obvious charms.

You know, I kind of hate him at that moment. Make that both of them. Actually, there’s no “kind of” about it. I drain my wine and look away. If he wants to make me feel inadequate, he’s doing a great job.

At that moment, a cry goes up from the bar, and a most welcome cry at that. “Father Tim!”

The cavalry has arrived. He shakes hands, claps a few backs, then sees me, and bless his dear Irish heart, his face lights up. As he makes his way across the now-packed bar, I can’t help the wave of pride I feel. Out of everyone here, he picks me as a seat mate.

“Maggie, how are you, love?” he asks happily. “And Chantal, too, what a treat.” He’s wearing civvies—a beautiful knit sweater, made by his sainted mother, no doubt, and jeans. Yes, jeans. The look is Catholic Rugged, and nicely done. I smile widely and scooch over to make just enough room for him to sit down. I hope Malone notices. I shoot him a glance. Yup. He does, giving the words thunderous expression new clarity. My smile grows even more.

“Hello, there,” Father Tim says to Malone. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure. Tim O’Halloran. Father Tim, in case you missed that.” He winks at me and extends his hand.

“Malone.” Tall, Dark and Scowling shakes Father Sunshine’s hand.

“Ah, a fine Irish name! Is that your first name or your last?” Father Tim asks. See, Malone? I think. This is how people talk.

“Last,” Malone grunts.

“And your first name? Sorry, I didn’t catch it.”

Chantal intervenes. “He doesn’t use it, Father Tim. It’s a local legend. He’s just listed on the tax registers as plain old M. Malone.”

“Well, that’s all right. Are you Irish, Malone?”

“No.”

For heaven’s sake! To break the awkward pause, I jump in. “How are you, Father Tim?” I ask. “Would you like a beer?” Paul Dewey appears at our side.

“I think the weather calls for something a bit stiffer,” Father Tim says. Chantal raises her eyebrows at me. Stiffer, she mouths. My jaw clenches. Luckily, Father Tim doesn’t see her. “How about an Irish whiskey, Dewey, my fine man?”

Malone is staring at the table, which somehow avoids turning into a puddle of black tar. He lifts his gaze suddenly to mine, and I turn instantly to Father Tim.

“So how did the funeral go in Milbridge?”

“It was a sad affair, Maggie, quite sad. Thanks for asking. You’re very kind.”

I nod compassionately and give Malone a satisfied glance.

“You were such a comfort to me the other night, Father Tim,” Chantal says, widening her doelike eyes. “At bereavement group,” she explains to me. Malone shoots her a look. “I lost my husband some time ago,” she reminds him. “And dear Father Tim has been very helpful.”

“I’m so glad to hear it, Chantal,” Father Tim murmurs.

I bite my lip. Helpful, my ass. I know—and Chantal knows I know—that she’s there for voyeuristic purposes only. She gives me a look and smirks. Meanwhile, Dewey brings the whiskey, and Father Tim takes a deep sip.

“That’s the thing for a night like tonight,” he says appreciatively, taking another. “So, Malone, is it? Malone, what do you do for a living?” Father Tim grins his beautiful smile, and I find myself smiling sappily back at him.

“Lobsterman,” Malone says tersely.

“Ah, a fine profession indeed. And have you got a wife and children?”

“A daughter.”

“Are you married, then?” Father Tim asks, looking around the room.

“Divorced.”

“That’s such a shame, isn’t it?” Father Tim leans back in the booth, his arm pressed against mine. “A terrible shame for the children. It ruins their world, doesn’t it now?”

Malone’s mouth is rapidly disappearing in a tight line, and his jaw looks ready to pop. He doesn’t answer.

“Maggie, tell me, how did that seafood lasagna go over yesterday?” Father Tim asks, and again, I glance at Malone, hoping to impress upon him that there are people out there interested in more than my girl parts.

“It was really good, Father Tim. Thank you so much for asking. I had some left over, but I brought it to Mrs. Kandinsky. I’ll be sure to save you some next time.”

“Oh, you’re a generous girl.” He smiles at me, that irascible lock of hair dropping over his forehead. It’s all I can do not to smooth it back. “So how do you know Malone here, Maggie?” he asks.

I look at Malone a long minute. I know him biblically, Father, I answer silently. “He moors next to Jonah,” I say out loud. Malone stares back.