Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(65)

“Oh, I do, I do,” I answer, tucking my arm through his and continuing up the dock. “The question is, can you?”

“Of course I can, Maggie,” he says. “The question really is, how much money will I lose doing it?”

It’s almost surreal, being here with gloomy old Malone. Arm in arm, no less. There’s a bubble of happiness in me, a strange and lovely new feeling as we head toward the tents on the town green. The smell of fish is drowned out with something deliciously cinnamon.

“Looks like the rod and gun club’s selling breakfast,” Malone says. “You hungry?”

“God, I’m starving. Your bait fish was starting to look good.”

Malone orders me a ham and egg sandwich, a cinnamon roll and a cup of coffee, then the same for himself. We take our food and sit at a table, watching people.

“Can’t say I’ve ever seen you eat much, Malone,” I comment around a mouthful of what is surely the best breakfast sandwich ever made.

“Almost every day,” he says. “Come on, let’s walk around.”

For this part of Maine, it’s a pretty big event. We’re too far south to have driven along the coast…it would have taken us hours, but by boat we were able to go in a fairly straight line. There’s a small midway with a few rides. Kids dash from the merry-go-round to the Ferris wheel, tugging their parents’ hands, asking for more rides, more food, more games. The happy sound of a fair washes over us in waves, the music from the rides, screams of kids, laughter of parents. Before I think about it, I slip my hand into Malone’s. He turns his head to look at me, and as the corner of his mouth pulls up in a smile, my heart pulls, too.

“Win a prize for the lady!” calls a carny. “Shoot the target just three times, win a prize.” A row of battered-looking BB guns lines the counter.

“Oh, goody,” I say. “Here’s your chance, Malone. Prove your manliness and win me, oh, gosh, let’s see…how about that blue stuffed rat?”

“You sure? Don’t you want that the pink zebra instead?”

“Oh, no. I’m a blue rat kind of girl.”

“Blue rat it is, then.”

Twelve dollars later, I am the proud owner of the ugliest stuffed animal I’ve ever laid eyes on. “Thank you, Malone,” I say, kissing my prize.

“You’re welcome. And I want you to know that gun barrel was bent.”

We pass on the rides, as I’m afraid of heights, and aside from the merry-go-round, the rest look like a quick way to die. Instead, we walk over to see the speed-climbing competition, the men scampering up forty-foot wooden posts with the agility of squirrels. When that event is over, we watch a man carve a life-size black bear from a huge block of wood.

“That would look great in front of the diner,” I say, half serious. Malone laughs.

There’s a crafts tent where quilts and afghans and embroidery hang on display, ribbons fluttering in the breeze. I pore over the baking tables, eyeing the coffeecakes and cookies, the beautiful pies and cheesecakes. Malone buys me a slice. “I like a woman who can eat,” he says, and I punch him in the arm.

“So, Malone,” I say as I take a bite of the creamy, lemony cheesecake. “Are you ever going to tell me your first name?”

“Why do you want to know?” he asks. He doesn’t look at me.

“Because…because I just would.”

“Mmm-hmm. Well, too bad.”

“I could ask Chantal, you know. She has all the public records. I bet your name is listed somewhere. Plus, I won’t give you a bite of this cheesecake if you don’t, and as you can see, it’s disappearing fast. Your chances are dying.”

“Another time, maybe.”

I sigh. “You realize you don’t talk that much, don’t you, Malone?” I say, taking the last bite of cheesecake.

“You talk enough for both of us,” he says. He takes my hand again.

It’s a wonderful day, not painfully cold, not raining, which by our standards means gorgeous. A barbershop quartet sings a corny song from World War II, and apparently some bagpipers will make an appearance later in the day.

By one-thirty, we’ve exhausted the event, having seen every little corner of it, and we walk down to shore. There’s a breakwater made from great slabs of rock, and we walk out on it a way, then sit. The stone is cold, but I don’t mind. Malone puts his arm around me.

“Cold?” he asks.

“No,” I answer. I lean my head against his shoulder. “So, Malone,” I say, “tell me about your family.”

He doesn’t stiffen so much as go completely still. “What do you want to know?”

Of course, the first thing I want to ask about is his daughter. A teenage daughter…what must that be like for him? And, let’s be honest, what would that be like for me? Truthfully, I haven’t dared to picture anything with Malone past what we’ve had thus far, but I want to. Would his daughter approve of her dad having a girlfriend? Would we be friends? Would she hate me, refuse to come visit her dad, stick pins in a Maggie-style voodoo doll? I clear my throat. “Well, you have a daughter, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Are the two of you close?”

“Close as you can be when you live on opposite coasts,” he says neutrally.