Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(59)

Colonel doesn’t seem interested in dinner tonight. I give him some EtoGesic and glucosamine and fluff up his doggy bed, then write a note on the blackboard to call the vet and see if there’s anything else I can do.

Maybe my mother is right, I think as I dump the soup down the drain. Maybe the diner is a dead end. It was something I fell into. Granddad put us to work at a young age, washing dishes, clearing tables, working our way up to waiting tables. But is it something that I really want to do for the rest of my life?

I stare out the window toward the harbor, thinking.

The answer is yes.

Maybe it’s not the most illustrious career in the world, but what Joe’s Diner does—what I do—is give a center to our town. A meeting place. Anyone can come in, even if they just want a cup of coffee, and spend the morning catching up on news, seeing their neighbors. There’s Dewey’s, of course, but that’s only open at night, and it has a different attitude. People go there with more of an agenda—meet someone, have a few drinks, and if you’re hardcore, get drunk. But Joe’s is a social center in a town that desperately needs one. And the fact that it’s an authentic Mahoney design doesn’t hurt. I wonder if I could get it listed on a national register or something.

But my mother’s constant nagging has dented my armor lately. When I picture growing old at the diner, I picture a husband and kids coming in and out, or me going home to them. I don’t picture me alone, soaking my swollen feet in Epsom salts every night with only a series of increasingly smelly dogs for company.

I throw a pizza into the oven, wait for it to heat, then eat listlessly. How many dates have I gone on in the past month or so? Four? Five? And let’s not forget Malone, not that we dated, of course. Just sex. Best sex of my life, in fact.

Time to call Christy, I think when the self-pity disgusts even me. I punch number one on the speed dial.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say when Will answers.

“Hi, Maggie. How are you?”

“Okay, I guess. You guys still going out tomorrow? Same time as usual?” I ask. Thursday is my babysitting night.

“Actually, I’m not sure. Christy’s not feeling great. There’s a stomach bug going around, and I think she caught it.”

“Oh, dear. Well, if you need anything, let me know. Tell her I said I hope she feels better fast.”

“Thanks, honey. Will do.”

When Christy met Will, it was instantly clear to both of them that they’d met their soul mate. Six months later, Will, then a resident in Orono, took a rare night off and asked me out for dinner. Alone. He took me to a nice restaurant, and though he was exhausted from a long shift, he was nonetheless funny and charming. While we were eating dinner, he took out a velvet box and handed it across the table to me.

“Um, I think you might have the wrong twin,” I said, wincing.

“I know who you are,” Will smiled.

“So is this a test run or something?” I asked.

“Listen, Maggie,” he said, his face growing serious. “I want to marry your sister. I’ve never met someone as wonderful as she is. Every day I wake up feeling like I’m in a dream because I get to call her or see her or hold her hand.”

“That’s so nice,” I said, my eyes growing misty. At the time, I was quite sure I would soon find someone just as wonderful as Will.

“But I know how close you are, and I know I’m asking…well, not exactly to come between you, because I know I could never do that, and I never want to. But I’m asking you to share Christy with me. I need your blessing, Maggie.” His eyes were teary.

In the box was a beautiful garnet ring, Christy’s and my birthstone.

Of course I gave him my blessing. The thought of my sister spending her life with a man who adored her…well. Who could say no?

I haven’t met anyone like Will. There may be no one like Will in the whole world. The best I’ve come up with is a tearful widower, a sullen lobsterman and a priest. “Well, crap,” I say. I offer the crust of my pizza to Colonel, who eats it delicately. “You feeling better, pal?” I ask him. He puts his head on my lap.

The Red Sox have a travel day, which is just as well. They’ve been playing with all the skill of blind, one-legged five-year-olds lately. I click around aimlessly until nine-thirty or so, then decide to just call it a night. It’s not lost on me that going to bed with my dog is the best thing that’s happened all day.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

COLONEL WON’T GET off the bed in the morning. He wags his tail listlessly but doesn’t even raise his head when I ask if he wants to go out. I check the clock; it’s too early to call the vet.

After yesterday’s rush, the diner is back to normal—my regulars sit at the counter, Ben, Bob and Rolly. Stuart is at his booth at the window, reading the paper. But I’m worried about Colonel, and as soon as the clock hits eight, I make the call. They tell me to come in tomorrow.

“He’s probably just feeling his age,” the nice tech tells me. “He’s in great shape for an old guy. How old is he now, fourteen?”

“Thirteen,” I say.

“That’s pretty good for a big dog like him.”

“I know. But he’s just not himself.”

For the rest of the day, I hop back and forth between the diner and my apartment. I manage to coax Colonel off the bed and outside so he can pee, but he laboriously climbs the steps as soon as he’s done. I help him back onto my bed and give him some water. “What’s the matter, boy?” I ask, stroking his head. “We’ll go see Dr. Kellar tomorrow, okay? He’ll help you out, Colonel.”