Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(54)

“I’ll say,” Will agrees. “That’s all we hear about at work.”

“Are you kidding me?” I ask. “She talks about me at your office?”

Christy shoots Will the “shut up” glare, and he pretends he doesn’t hear me and reads the paper instead.

At that moment, my brother bursts through the door. “You’ll never guess what happened today,” he blurts.

“Three women came to your doorstep, announcing that you’re the father of their babies,” I guess.

“No. Stop joking around, it’s serious.” He flops down into a chair. “Malone went overboard.”

“What?” Christy and I bark simultaneously. Panic floods my limbs, and it feels like my heart drops to my knees.

“He was pulling up a pot, and this M* came by in a speed boat, tangled the line, and bam. Malone went right over.”

“So what happened? Is he okay?” I ask my brother. Adrenaline makes my joints feel too loose and electrified.

“M*?” Will murmurs. He’s from away, having only moved to Maine during his residency.

“Massachusetts tourist,” Christy tells him.

“Jonah, is he all right?” I repeat. My palms are slick with sweat.

“He’s all right,” Jonah says. “He wasn’t caught in the line, thank God, but he was in the water for about twenty minutes, half an hour. Got wicked cold.”

The water in the Gulf of Maine is cold enough to cause death if you’re in it long enough. Every few years, it seems, a lobsterman drowns when he goes overboard, tangled in the line that connects his pot to the buoy. Even if they don’t get pulled under, an arm caught in the line can be torn right off. Or sometimes they simply can’t climb back aboard. A lot of lobstermen work alone, especially in the off season.

“Was he wearing a survival suit?” I manage weakly.

“No,” Jonah says grimly. “Just his coveralls. Must be colder than a witch’s tit.”

“But he’s okay?” I insist.

“Yeah, yeah. He’s fine. Still out there, though,” Jonah said. “Fuckin’ foolish if you ask me. Said he still had to check his traps. At least he had a change of clothes.”

Christy turns to look at me.

“Mom, I gotta go,” I call, standing up. My knees are weak and sick-feeling, and I stagger a little, knocking into the coffee table.

“Maggie, God, you are still the gawmiest girl,” she says from the kitchen. “What do you mean, you’re leaving? I’ve already set the table.”

“Gawmy is clumsy, right?” Will asks.

“Right,” my father tells him, emerging from the den. “And you’re not, sweetheart.” He pats my head as I shove my arms into my coat.

It’s nearly dark by the time I reach the harbor. Malone’s boat isn’t back yet, and the adrenaline continues to zing through my joints. As I stand on the boardwalk, looking down at the many berths, Billy Bottoms come along. He’s a fifth-generation lobsterman and looks the part—white hair, chiseled, leathery face, crisp, snowy beard. In the summer, tourists often ask to take his picture, and his accent puts the rest of us Mainahs to shame.

“Hello theah, Maggie.”

“Hey, Billy,” I answer. “Listen, did you hear what happened today?”

“About Malone? Ayuh. He’s not back yet.”

“So what happened?” I ask.

“Some flatlandah was flyin’ by in a sweet little corker. Buoys so thick you could walk home, but this guy don’t care. Seems Malone was haulin’ a pot when his line got picked up by the out-a-townah and he got pulled in. Flatlandah didn’t even stop. Your brother saw the boat circlin’, came over to see what was what. Said Malone was madder than a bucketful a’ snakes.”

“Shit,” I whisper. “He could have died.”

“Well, now, Maggie, most of us go ovah at one time or anothah. Malone’s fine, I’m sure.” He pats my shoulder. “You have a good night, now, Maggie, deah.”

The images in my head are too terrifying. Malone being towed to the bottom of the ocean by his weighty trap. Malone trying helplessly to climb back aboard the Ugly Anne until his strength is sapped away by the cold. His head slipping under, his body floating—

I can’t bear those thoughts. Before I’ve fully decided what to do, I’m running to the diner, Colonel loping happily at my side, and burst in through the kitchen door. Among the items in the freezer are a quart of potato soup and an apple pie. I grab them, add a block of cheddar and a loaf of pumpernickel and bag them up, then head for Malone’s.

That will be just the thing, I think as I climb the hill. A house filled with the smell of hot apple pie, a hearty soup simmering on the stove, a sympathetic woman and an excellent dog. What could be a nicer homecoming? Certainly, it’s what I’d want after a shitty day. Aside from the woman thing, of course.

His house is locked, which presents a problem. I put the food on the porch and walk around, wondering if there’s a spare key hidden in an obvious place, like under a doormat or in a pot, under a rock near the porch. No such luck. But in the back, the window is cracked, and without too much struggle, I lift the window and manage to boost myself in, flopping onto the floor with the grace of a dying haddock. But I’m in.