Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(57)

So. Malone came here to see Jonah. To thank him. Not to see me, or, God forbid, thank me.

“Good morning, Malone,” I say briskly. “Coffee? Let me guess. Black, murky and bitter. Maybe you’d just like to suck on the grounds?”

Malone turns his clear blue eyes to me. “Maggie,” he mutters.

“Hope you slept well,” I snap. Jonah’s eyes widen, but he wisely refrains from comment. Malone’s eyes don’t flicker from mine. I slosh some coffee into his cup, spilling some, and smack the pot down on the counter. Without looking away, Malone deliberately takes the creamer and dumps about half of it into his cup, then shakes four sugar packets, tears them open and pours them in as well.

“All done, Maggie!” Georgie calls cheerfully.

“Thanks, Georgie. Don’t know what I’d do without you,” I call back, not looking away from Heathcliff of the moors here.

“What a lovely day it is outside. Hello, Mabel, love, how are you this fine morning?” Father Tim is here, but still I don’t look away from Malone’s somber face.

“Have you got something to say to me, Malone?” I say.

“Oh, I’ve got a lot to say to you, Maggie,” he answers grimly. Jonah slips away to join our parents.

“I’m waiting,” I say.

“Excuse me, can we get some ketchup over here?” calls Helen Robideaux from the corner.

“Hello, Maggie dear. How nice you look today.” Father Tim comes behind the counter—he’s a regular, after all—and grabs a mug. Finally, I break the staring contest between Malone and me and turn to greet my friend. My happy, cheerful, dependable friend.

“Father Tim! How nice to see you! And what a great mood you’re in today. You really brighten a place up, you know that?” I believe I hear Malone growl.

“Ah, Maggie, you’re too kind. I’ll just grab some coffee, shall I, and let you get back to work.” He opens the kitchen door a crack and sticks his head in. “Good morning, Octavio, my fine man. Can I throw myself at your mercy and get an order of the pumpkin French toast?”

I have work to do. Malone can go to hell and play with his compatriots there. Stepping around Colonel, I ring up a young couple who’s been waiting patiently, ask about their kindergartner and bring the ketchup to Mrs. Robideaux. Malone sits at the counter, staring straight ahead.

The bell over the door tinkles, and I sigh. Another customer, a man about my age with silvery hair. He looks around uncertainly.

“Be with you in a sec,” I call. Judy has disappeared. Must be time for her ciggie break.

“Maggie, for heaven’s sake, can I please have a fried egg?” my mother asks.

“Fine.” I’ve heard about how, in some fancy New York restaurants, the wait staff spits on the orders of bitchy customers. I’m tempted to give it a whirl. “Hi, Stuart. You want the usual?”

“That’d be great, Maggie,” he says, sitting next to Malone.

“Adam and Eve on a raft, burn the British,” I call to Octavio, slang for two poached eggs on a toasted English muffin.

“Side of hash, too?” Stuart asks.

“Sweep the kitchen!” I call, hearing Octavio grumble; he’s quite proud of his hash and doesn’t like that particular moniker. Stuart, however, laughs.

“Sweep the kitchen,” he repeats to Malone, chuckling. Malone doesn’t chuckle back.

“Hi,” I say to the gray-haired stranger. “Sorry, we’re a little swamped today. Just one?”

“Are you Maggie?” he asks.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Doug,” he says, holding out his hand. “The guy who stood you up,” he adds at my look of incomprehension.

“Oh! Hi!” I shake his hand and look over my shoulder. “Here, why don’t you sit with Father Tim? He kind of fixed us up, right, Tim? This is Doug…oh, sorry, I forgot your last name.”

“Andrews,” he says. He’s a nice-looking man, kind brown eyes with shadows under them.

“Listen, I’d love to sit and chat, but I’ve got to take care of those people. Be right back.”

Malone is gone. There’s a five-dollar bill tucked under his cup. I note that he hasn’t drunk any of the overly sweetened coffee. Should’ve stuck with the grounds.

I clear and wipe and take orders and serve and pour coffee. I don’t have a chance to talk to Doug, who is deep in conversation with Father Tim. Occasionally, I catch a snatch of their conversation…“not for us to understand the reason”…“comfort of knowing she was deeply loved”…and my heart warms at Father Tim’s kind, gentle words. Finally, Doug comes to the register to pay his bill.

“Maggie,” he says, “I just wanted to apologize in person for not meeting you that night.”

“Not at all,” I answer. “I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to talk to you this morning. The joint’s been jumping since six.”

“That’s okay. I really enjoyed talking with Father Tim,” he says. “And I wanted to say again that I’m really grateful for how nice you were about everything. Under different circumstances…” His eyes tear up.

“Well, listen, now, don’t cry. You’re welcome,” I say. “You’re a nice guy, Doug. Take care.”