Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(62)

“You okay, boss?” he asks.

“Peachy,” I say.

“About time you told that woman off,” he says, smiling his nice gap-toothed smile.

I give a grim laugh. “Thanks.”

I SEND JUDY HOME EARLY, preferring to stay as busy as possible. Word has spread, apparently. Chantal comes in for lunch, hugs me with uncharacteristic sweetness and hands me a bunch of tulips.

“Sorry, pal,” she says, sliding into a booth.

“Thanks. What can I get you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe just some coffee today. I’m not feeling great.”

“Right. There’s a stomach bug going around,” I tell her. “Christy and the baby both have it.”

“Yuck. Well, if I don’t have it, I’d be happy to come over tonight, okay? If you want some company?”

“That’s okay. I think I just want to be alone.”

Chantal nods. “Hey, has Father Tim been in today?” she asks, checking her lipstick in the chrome of the little jukebox.

“Actually, no. I have to drop by and tell him about Colonel.” Suddenly, the idea of seeing Father Tim, being comforted by him, maybe having a cup of tea in the rectory living room, overwhelms me with longing. That’s where I’ll finally be able to find some comfort.

I call Beth Seymour and ask her to handle my meals on wheels tonight. When she hears about Colonel, she offers to tell my clients, many of whom loved my dog.

“Thanks, Beth. That would be nice,” I say. My eyes feel grainy and hard.

When I leave the diner, I automatically hold the door open a second too long before it occurs to me that my dog won’t be following me. There’s no one to look out for, no one to talk to…shit. Mom’s right. I’m pathetic.

Mrs. Plutarski glares at me when I ask if Father Tim is in. “He’s quite busy today, you know,” she says, pushing up her glasses on her razor-sharp nose. “This might not be the time for a…social visit.”

“I’ve just had a death in the family, Edith,” I say, knowing she hates it when I call her by her first name. She waits for a name, but I don’t give her one. “Is he in or not?” I demand.

“Maggie? I thought I heard your voice.”

There he is. “Hi, Father Tim. Do you have a minute? In private?”

“For you, Maggie, always. Edith, my darlin’ girl, would you mind faxing this over to the mother ship? It needs to be there today.” He hands her a piece of paper, which she accepts as if it were an engagement ring. “Sorry, Maggie. Official diocese business. Thanks, Edith.”

“Don’t forget you have that meeting in Machias at six,” she says, her eyes on me. Make it short is what she’s really saying.

“What can I do for you today, Maggie?” Father Tim asks, ushering me into the parlor.

I sit in the chair, ready to be comforted. “Father Tim, Colonel…he died last night.”

At first, the news doesn’t register. I suddenly remember that Father Tim said he would call me last night and didn’t. “Oh, dear,” he says, his expectant smile turning to sorrow.

I wait for more. It doesn’t come.

“He died in his sleep,” I say.

“Well, that’s a comfort, then, isn’t it? Better than having him put down, I’d imagine.” He glances at his watch.

“Do you have to go?” I ask brusquely.

“No, no. I’ve got a bit.” He sits back and folds his hands. “Well. You must be feeling quite sad.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“I’m sorry, then.” He smiles kindly, but for the first time ever, I get the feeling that he’s not really listening.

“Father Tim,” I say, “do you think animals go to heaven?” The question comes only from my desire to engage him, not from any spiritual need. I know exactly where Colonel is.

“I’ve been asked that before,” he answers thoughtfully. “And while you might say that though God created them, the truth is that they don’t have the ability to make a choice. That’s a gift God only gave to man, Maggie, free will, don’t you know. And so—”

He keeps talking. I stop listening.

Father Tim is not going to comfort me. He’s not going to say something that’s tender, compassionate and insightful. He’s off on some tangent about church teachings, ignoring my sadness, oblivious to my irritation.

“Okay, whatever,” I interrupt. “Listen, I have to run.”

“Maggie,” he says, standing. “I’m terribly sorry.” He folds me into a hug. It doesn’t do much for me today, but I soften a little. At least he’s trying.

“Thanks, Father Tim,” I say, extricating myself. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mrs. Plutarski doesn’t acknowledge me as I come out, choosing instead to bustle frantically around the room to show just how busy they are. “Father Tim, you’ve really got to get going,” she calls out for extra measure. I hate her.

I walk home slowly. My eyes automatically check for Colonel at each corner, and I almost expect a nose to bump reassuringly against my hand.

Mrs. K. is lying in wait for me. The second my foot hits the step, she opens her door. “Hello, dear,” she says.