Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(72)

“Oh, jeezum, Mom, I don’t think people are saying that,” I blurt, though I myself have thought almost those same words verbatim. Many times.

“Well, you’ve always been naive,” she says. “Want a drink?”

“Uh…no.” I watch as she gets a bottle of vodka out of the freezer and pours herself a half a glass, then adds a shot of orange juice. It may be the first time I’ve ever seen her drink anything other than white zinfandel.

She takes a healthy swallow, pats down a stray lock of her curly hair, then sits back down with a thump. “So. What do you want me to say? Or would you like to tell me I’m a bad mother?”

I tilt my head, looking at her. She actually looks quite pretty today, for some reason. Then I see what it is; she’s not wearing makeup. “You’re not a bad mother, Mom.”

“Well, thank you for saying that.” She takes another slug of her pale orange drink.

“Mom,” I blurt, “you were kind of rushed into marrying Dad, being a mother, all that. Maybe this is your chance to have some independence, start a new life, you know. That kind of thing.”

“That’s rich, Maggie,” she says. “I’m fifty-five years old. I don’t want a new life.”

“You didn’t want your old one, either,” I point out cautiously. “You’ve been unhappy most of your life, haven’t you?”

Surprisingly, she reaches out and takes my hand, frowning automatically at the roughness, my short fingernails, the cut on my left middle finger. “I want to tell you that’s not true,” she admits slowly. “I do love you kids. And your father.”

“We know that, Mom,” I tell her. “You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

“You’re so generous, Maggie,” she snaps, and only she could make it sound like such a put-down. “Oh, it makes me mad sometimes! You’re just like my father, and your father, as well! Everything, anything for everyone and anyone! It drives me crazy, honey! You give away everything and never take anything for yourself, you with all the chances I never had! My God, honey, do you want to end up like me?”

My mouth hangs open, but Mom is on a roll. “Take a good look, Maggie! I was all set to have a life I’d dreamed of. Get out of Washington County, get out of Maine and live in a big city, have a career, really do something. I imagined myself climbing up the ladder at some publishing house, becoming like Jackie O or something, surrounded by books and creativity and excitement.” Her fist slams down on the table, her voice rising. “And I ended up here, working in a stupid doctor’s office instead! And now my goddamn husband is divorcing me and I’m terrified!”

My mother bursts into tears. I get up from my seat and kneel next to her, gingerly putting my arm around her shoulders.

“Mom,” I say gently. “Listen. Calm down. It’s going to be okay. Daddy’s not going to kick you into the street or anything. You’ll be fine. And if you want to do something else, you can now. This is a second chance for you. You can move, you can get another job, do anything…Don’t cry, Mom.”

But she continues to sob. “You don’t understand, Maggie,” she chokes out. “It’s too late. I’m too old. You can’t teach an old dog young tricks. And before you know it, honey, you’re going to be just like me.”

SO, OKAY, that didn’t go too well, I think as I ride home. That was definitely not good.

I never thought of my mother as “poor Mom,” but I can’t seem to help it right now. Maybe Father Tim’s right, maybe my parents should work it out. Then again, it seems like my dad has suffered enough. Besides, it’s not like they’d be fighting for their old happy life. Maybe a divorce will give them both a new chance. Clean slate, all that crap. But I’m shaking a little. My mother was never afraid of anything before.

I decide to go to Malone’s house, even though we had said seven at mine. I don’t care. He’ll have to deal with me showing up on his doorstep two hours early.

Malone’s house is at the top of a hill, and I get off my bike and push it up the steep incline. When I’m a few doors away, I hear the nicest sound—someone’s playing the piano. I pause and listen, but the wind is pretty strong, and I can’t catch it all.

Afraid that he won’t play if he knows I’m there, I push my bike into the neighbor’s driveway, then walk into Malone’s small yard, making my way around a couple of lobster traps that are stacked neatly near the side of the house. The living room window is open, and I can hear quite well now. Smiling, I sit down on the ground, resting my back against the sun-warmed shingles. Malone continues to play, so I’m pretty sure I’ve remained undetected.

The song is lovely, a sweet, delicate melody. Occasionally, there’s a change in key, so it goes from happy to sad, though the melody is still essentially the same. It sounds difficult, and once in a while, Malone stops and goes back to repeat a bit of the song. I even hear him swear once—“Shit,” followed by the correct notes, then, “Gotcha.” A car pulls up on the street, not far from Malone’s, and I hope the driver doesn’t see me. It would be embarrassing to be caught sitting here.

I don’t get caught.

Instead, there’s a knock on Malone’s door. He stops playing. I’m about to get up when I hear a familiar voice.