Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(46)

He doesn’t, just stands there looking at me, and who the hell knows what he’s thinking.

“I’d love one, Father Tim. You’re so nice. That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.” In case Malone doesn’t get the point, I turn to him. “Always lovely to see you, Malone.”

“Maggie,” he says, giving me the nod. Then he goes back to the bar from whence he came.

Four minutes later, I’m home, watching Father Tim pull away from the curb toward Chantal’s house. Lucky Chantal. She lives twenty minutes outside of town. Twenty extra minutes with Father Tim, chatting, laughing, driving through the pouring rain. Poor Father Tim…well. I’m sure they teach priests how to handle this kind of thing in the seminary.

Loneliness twangs its familiar discordant note. Though it’s a reasonable hour to go to bed, it feels that the night stretches in front of me, endless. I feel it so sharply I even wish—briefly—that Malone would call me.

“Screw it,” I say, filling Colonel’s water bowl. “You just can’t win sometimes, can you, boy?” My dog doesn’t answer.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I MAKE THE MISTAKE of going to see my parents a few days later.

“Hi, Mom,” I say. She’s still in her little uniform from Will’s office—she wears scrubs with bright patterns on them, dogs and cats, flowers, happy faces—although why, we don’t know. She hates sick people and never gets near them if possible, preferring to spend her day fighting with insurance companies instead, usually emerging from her headset in grim victory.

“Oh, Maggie,” she says, slamming a cupboard. “What’s the matter now?”

My mouth drops open. “Um, nothing. Just thought I’d come by.”

“Do you have to bring that dog with you everywhere you go? Honestly, he’s like the security blanket you had when you were three.”

I stare at my mother and stroke Colonel’s head. “Right. Is Dad around?”

“Why? Do you need something?”

“No, he’s just my father, and I love him,” I answer.

“Fine. He’s in the cellar.”

Dad has a little corner in the basement, where he often hides from Mom, pretending to do something constructive. He likes to make birdhouses, and the yard outside is full of tiny creations in every style and color imaginable—Victorian, log cabin, gourd, southwestern, apartment building. His corner has stacks of tiny pieces of wood, a shelf of tools and six or seven birdhouse books. He also has a stash of Robert Ludlum novels and a tiny radio. Dad’s bomb shelter, we call it.

“Hi, Daddy,” I say.

“Go talk to your mother,” he orders, giving me a kiss. “She says you only come here to see me.”

“I’m scared of her today. She’s in quite a mood.”

“Tell me about it. Go.”

“Coward,” I tell him fondly. Obediently, I go upstairs.

“Mom, would you like some tea?” I ask, putting the kettle on.

“When are you going to stop wasting your time at the diner?” she demands, yanking out a chair and slamming herself into it.

Okay. So it’s going to be one of those days. A “Christy Good, Maggie Bad” day.

“I don’t think I’m wasting my time, Mom,” I say resignedly. “I really love it, you know.”

“We didn’t send you to college to be a waitress,” she snaps. “Christy managed to find a decent career. Why can’t you?”

“Right.” I sit down. “I do own the diner, too. And run it. And cook.”

“Well, it’s not as if you bought it. You just took it over from my father. And it’s just a diner, Margaret.” The use of my Christian name indicates that I’ve done something quite heinous. If she calls me Margaret Christine, I’m dead.

“It’s not like you went to cooking school,” Mom continues, her voice brittle and sharp as broken glass. “You just crack eggs and sling hash and fry bacon. Look at your hands, Maggie! Don’t you know people judge you by your hands? Hands make the man, they say.”

Do they, I wonder? “It’s actually clothes, Mom. ‘Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.’”

“What? What are you babbling about?”

“It’s a Mark Twain quote.” She looks blank. “And I might not have gone to culinary school,” I continue, “but the food at Joe’s is great. You know that.”

“So what? Are you going to spend the rest of your life in that greasy little diner?”

“It’s not greasy!”

“That’s your opinion,” she snaps.

“Why are you on my case today, Mom?” I ask through clenched teeth. “Have I done something wrong? I just came to see you and Dad, and you’re all over me.”

“You’d better do something about your life, young lady. And fast. If you want to have a family and do something meaningful with your life, you’d better stop hiding out at the diner.”

I study her. These are the kinds of lectures I’ve heard all my life. In high school, it was Don’t Become Obsessed with That Boy (unfortunately, she was right). In college, it was Study Something That Will Help You Find a Job (again, right on the money…while being an English major at least allows me to quote the classics better than Mummy here, it hasn’t done much to further my career). We’ve since moved on to That Diner is a Dead End and my personal favorite, Your Ovaries Are Shriveling.