Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(56)

My temper snaps. “I can’t believe you’re mad at me! How can you be mad? I’m just trying to help!”

“That’s the whole point, Maggie! I don’t want your help. I don’t want you doing anything for me!”

“Fine. I’ll send you a bill. And I don’t have a picnic basket.” With that, I snap my fingers at my dog, who lumbers to his feet and follows me. I stomp off the porch and down the street. When I’m safely at the intersection, I sit down on the curb, the cold seeping through my jeans immediately. My breath fogs the air in front of me, but we don’t have any street lights, so I know Malone can’t see me. My legs are shaking.

Colonel nuzzles my hair, and I automatically put my arm around him. My throat is tight with tears and anger, but I don’t cry. “Screw him,” I say. “Ungrateful bastard.”

So, fine. Malone doesn’t want anything from me. Fine. Just fine. He’s made things clear, at least. No, I’m not his girlfriend. Just a roll in the hay now and then. Well, too bad. I want more than that.

“When people care about each other, they show it,” I tell my dog. He licks his chops thoughtfully. “There’s nothing wrong with that. That’s the way things are supposed to be.” The image of Malone rubbing lotion into my long-suffering hands flashes through my brain. Well. That was just a seduction move, and it worked brilliantly. “I don’t think Malone is a very nice person, do you? You don’t, either? Well, you’ve always been smart about these things.” Colonel lies down next to me, but the pavement is too cold for his old bones. I stand up, and my dog does the same. “At least we got that out of the way,” I say. My dog wags reassuringly. Still, my throat stays tight, like there’s a piece of glass wedged there.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

FOR SOME REASON, Joe’s Diner is hopping the next day. It always seems to be the case—something in the tides or the moon causing a mass hysteria for breakfast out. People are actually waiting for tables, which usually only happens on Thanksgiving weekend or during both good weekends of summer. Octavio whips orders out, and both Judy and I are working at top speed, smiling (well, I am, at least), sliding orders to the hungry of Gideon’s Cove, passing out ballots and pens for the best breakfast rating, trying to ring people up before a line forms at the register. Jonah comes in, but I don’t have time to do more than shove a plate of French toast in front of him—as he eats for free, he gets what I give him.

“Thanks, sissy,” he calls as I fly into the kitchen.

My parents, also succumbing to breakfast fever, make a rare appearance. Mom frowns as she surveys noisy crowd. “Well, I guess we’ll have to wait,” she says. When she comes in and things are slow, she tells me I’ll never make a living. If I’m busy, she’s put out. And today, I’m just not in the mood.

“Business looks good today, Maggie,” my dad says.

“It sure is, Dad. Hi, Rolly. How was everything?” I ask.

“Cracklin’,” he says. I take this as a compliment.

“You filled out your ballot, right?” I ask.

“Every day, Maggie, every day.”

Finally, a booth is free for Mom and Dad, since the counter is jammed. “What would you like, Mom?” I ask.

“Oh, I don’t know. I should have eaten a bowl of bran flakes, really.”

“How about pancakes, Maggie, hon?” Dad asks.

“Pancakes it is.” Having been a waitress for half my life, I don’t need to write down orders. “And you, Mom?”

My mother sighs. “Well, I just don’t know. I guess I’ll start with orange juice, only don’t fill the glass. It’s too much. Your glasses are too big. Fill it about three quarters full. Can you do that? Because otherwise, I won’t be able to drink it all.”

“Squeeze one, three quarters. Got it.”

Georgie comes in and attaches himself to my side, his head only reaching my collarbone. “Hi, Maggie! How are you, Maggie?”

I put my arm around him and kiss his crew cut. Mom assumes her lemon-sucking expression. “Hey, buddy,” I say to Georgie. “Someone spilled juice under the last stool. Can you take care of it?”

“Sure, Maggie!” He gives me a squeeze and goes to the back room to get the mop. I glance back to the counter, where people are in various stages of eating and ordering, then do a double take.

Malone’s here.

He’s sitting next to Jonah, talking to him, and his presence causes my face to go hot. He looks my way, his face as blank as a blackboard in July. No sheepish grin. No apologetic shrug, just the penetrating blue stare and the slashing lines of his perpetual scowl. I turn back to my parents.

“Mom?”

“I don’t know, Maggie! There’s too much to choose from.”

“Fine. You get nothing.” I snatch the menu from her hand and fly back into the kitchen, ignoring Malone, ignoring my mother’s squawks of indignation. I grab an order of the spinach omelet special, some pumpkin bread French toast and a plate of silver dollar pancakes. “Another stack for my dad, Tavy,” I tell Octavio.

“Ayuh,” he answers.

I serve the family at the fourth booth, then grab the coffeepot and head for the counter, overhearing Jonah saying, “Oh, shit, it was nothing. You’d do the same for me.”