Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(71)

“Maybe we can talk later,” Father Tim suggests.

“Sure.” Not that I’m dying to discuss my parents’ marriage with anyone, to tell the truth. I walk over to Noah and ask about his new boat, a subject guaranteed to take any man’s mind off sex, at least on the coast of Maine.

The party is wonderful. Father Tim entertains us, feeds us, pours drinks until we’re all buzzed and laughing at stories of his Irish childhood, the pranks played by his six older brothers and sisters. And I can’t help feeling special—it seems that he’s going out of his way to acknowledge our friendship. “Well, of course, poor Maggie’s heard this one already,” he says at the beginning of a story, or “When Maggie and her daddy and I went to Machias last fall to pick up the statue from Our Lady of Fatima…” Edith Plutarski’s face grows more and more sour, I note through the pleasant fog of wine. Definitely the sign of a happy night.

When we can eat no more, Father Tim walks us to the door. “Drive safely, Jacob,” he calls to our token teetotaler. Jake’ll be driving everyone who lives more than a few blocks from here, though Noah and I will walk back.

“I’ll tag along with the two of you, if you don’t mind,” Father Tim offers. “I could do with a bit of air myself.”

Noah wraps a few shrimp in a napkin and slides them into his pocket. Father Tim and I pretend not to notice. “You coming, Noah?” I ask as he surveys the rest of the leftovers.

“Ayuh,” he grunts.

The night air is cold, feeling more like February than April, but it feels good after being in the stuffy rectory. Noah’s street is a block or two before mine, and Father Tim shakes his hand. “Thank you for coming, my good man,” he says.

“No problem,” Noah responds. “’Night, Maggie.”

“Bye, Noah.”

Father Tim pauses. “Well. I’ll just see you the rest of the way home, shall I?”

“Sure,” I answer. It’s only a block. I can’t help but notice that Father Tim looks…well, quite sad. My heart tugs.

“Is everything okay, Father Tim?” I ask as we walk.

“It’s funny you bring that up,” he says softly, his eyes scanning the heavens before returning to my face. As ever, the old attraction thrills through me as I look at his gentle eyes, his perfect bone structure. He doesn’t say anything for a minute, and my heart starts thumping with nervousness. Or maybe it’s guilt for still finding him so appealing. “Well. Difficult decisions lie ahead,” he says obliquely, sounding more like a fortune cookie than a priest. He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask him to.

It only takes a minute more to get to my little house. Father Tim turns to me. “I hope you know you’re a special friend to me, Maggie,” he murmurs. “A great friend.”

Weird. “Sure.” I swallow. “Right back at you.” I glance up at my house to see if Mrs. K. is spying, then remember that she’s out of town for the weekend.

“You have a way about you, Maggie,” Tim says quietly. “I hope you know that. Even if things change, I hope…well.” He looks at me intently, as if he’s trying to telecommunicate something.

If things change…what the heck does that mean? What’s he trying to say? My face flushes. “That’s nice. You’re so nice. And—and—tonight. Was nice. Really nice. Thank you, Father Tim.”

He doesn’t move, just continues to look deeply into my eyes, then looks away, sighing. “Well. Good night now, Maggie.”

“Good night! Thank you. Thanks, Father Tim! For everything. Bye, now!” I scurry the remaining distance to my porch, then race up the stairs, glad, perhaps for the first time, to put some distance between me and Father Tim.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“I HAVE A DATE with Malone,” I tell my reflection the next afternoon. “Just have to go see Mom, get that over with, and then I have a date. With Malone.”

It’s a calming thought. Malone, after all, is not my angry mother. Nor is he a priest. No vows of chastity for Malone, that’s for sure. “And thank goodness for that,” I grin.

But something is definitely going on with Father Tim, and I’m not sure I want to spend a lot of thought on what it could be. When he didn’t come into the diner this morning, I was surprised to find myself a bit relieved.

However, any sense of reprieve I might feel is cancelled out by the dread I have of seeing my mother. Still, I can’t just ignore her, so I pedal my bike out to my parents’ house, take a few cleansing breaths outside and go in. Dad is nowhere in sight, as usual, but Mom is sitting at the kitchen table.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, bending down to kiss her cheek.

“Oh, Maggie. Hello,” she answers. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I say, pulling out a chair and sitting. “What about you? This must be very…” My voice trails off.

“Mmm. Yes, it is. Very.” She stares at the table. “So. What’s new? Did you get another dog yet?”

“Um, no. I think I’ll wait a while. Mom, are you okay?”

She sighs and looks at the ceiling. “No, Maggie. I’m not. I’m the town laughingstock, dear. Divorce after all these years. Poor Mitchell Beaumont couldn’t stand it another minute. That’s what they’re all saying, you know. Nice old Mitch, married to that bitch.” She gives a grim smile to acknowledge her rhyme.