Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(55)



After I bring in the food, preheat the oven and find a pot, I take a look around. I’ve only been here twice, I realize, and I haven’t seen much of the house. Not that there’s much to see. It’s a bungalow, three rooms downstairs, a bedroom and bathroom upstairs. It’s a bit sloppier than last time; there are dishes in the sink, a cup and plate in the living room. It’s chilly, too. After a dip in the frigid Atlantic, Malone shouldn’t have to come home to a cold house.

Because I’m a Maine native, I have no problem starting a fire in the woodstove. I tidy up the pile of newspapers in the woodbin and refold the afghan and drape it over the couch.

There are a few photos here and there; snapshots of a younger Malone and the little girl who grew into such a beauty. I study the photos, unable to see Catherine Zeta-Jones in the chubby-faced child. Well. People change. I touch Malone’s image, his chipped tooth smile makes my chest tighten. A few books are scattered around the living room, and I stack them neatly on the coffee table. The Perfect Storm. Cheerful little ditty, that. In the Heart of the Sea, which apparently tells about cannibalism after a whaling accident. Jeezum. No wonder Malone scowls all the time.

Still restless, I walk past the piano, which has a light coat of dust on the top. I push a few keys. The Beethoven sheet music I saw the first time I was here is gone, replaced by a Debussy piece. It looks hard, but I never was any good at reading music, despite four years of clarinet lessons in school, so everything looks hard to me.

Malone can play the piano. So I do know something about him, I realize. He likes classical piano music. It’s a nice little fact.

Colonel is snoring quietly in the kitchen. The oven has reached four hundred and twenty-five degrees, so I brush the top of the pie with some milk, sprinkle it with sugar and pop it in. I look at the clock. It’s seven-thirty, and the temperature is dropping outside. It’ll probably be in the thirties tonight. I hope Malone gets home soon.

The dishes beckon, and as I’m still filled with nervous energy, I wash them, then figure out where they go through a process of elimination. For the most part, Malone is pretty neat. His bed isn’t made, though, and the sheets are tangled and twisted. I open a closet in the hall and find some clean flannel sheets and remake the bed.

There. I turn down the heat on the pie, set the timer, check the soup. What a nice little place this could be with a few personal touches here and there, a few more prints, maybe some better furniture…

I sit on the sofa and wrap up in the afghan. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes. Colonel comes over and sits next to me, putting his big head in my lap. Worn out from worry, I find myself getting drowsy. Poor Malone, I think. But lucky, too, because God knows he was spared today. And I’ll be waiting for him when he comes home from this terrible day, offering both comfort and company. I can’t wait to see him, to make sure he’s okay.

Some point later, I jerk awake at the sound of the door and scramble off the couch. The smell of apple pie is rich in the air. Relief and joy have me leaping off the couch. “Hi, Malone!” I call. “How are you? Are you okay?”

He stands in the doorway, his orange coveralls balled up beside him, a length of line coiled on top. He looks thinner, gaunt instead of lean, and utterly exhausted, the lines on his face seemingly carved by a heavy knife today. I’m already in the middle of the kitchen, headed straight for him, when his voice, scratchy and hoarse, cuts me off.

“What are you doing here?”

I lurch to a stop. “Well, um, I heard about your day…um, Jonah came by and told me you went in the drink.” Suddenly the idea of giving him a hug or kiss or even patting him on the shoulder seems out of the question. “I thought I’d bring you some—”

“I did not ask for this,” he grates out. There are streaks of salt deposits on his sweater, and his hands are shaking with fatigue.

My mouth falls open. “Well, I know. I just thought you might want a hot—”

“Jesus, Maggie! This is the last thing I wanted! You here playing house, for Christ’s sake!” he barks. Colonel comes from the living room at the sound of his voice, wagging gently, but Malone ignores him. The dog takes the hint, flopping down in front of the oven.

“Look, Malone,” I begin, more than a bit confused. “I just brought over some soup and…”

He peers into the living room. “Oh, for God’s sake, did you clean up, too? Damn it, Maggie!” Slamming over to the counter, he bangs his hands down. Colonel startles at the noise.

Okay, now he’s pissing me off. Taking a deep breath, I say calmly, “Excuse me, but what the hell is your problem? I did something nice for you. No big deal. For God’s sake, Malone, you were submerged in the Atlantic Ocean today! I thought you could use a little—” I stop myself from saying “TLC”—“food. That’s all.”

“I’m not one of your little church projects, all right?” he barks. “This is—oh, for Chrissake, you did the goddamn dishes.”

“Okay, Malone. I guess I should have just left you alone to snarl and brood and do whatever else the hell you do. Take the pie out when the timer goes off. Enjoy it, you surly bastard. Come on, Colonel.”

“You don’t get it, do you, Maggie?” Malone growls, and his glare could cut glass. “I don’t want your pie and your soup and whatever the hell else you’ve got in your little picnic basket. Okay? Save it for your priest and your little old ladies and whoever else you’ve got on your list. Not me.”

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