Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(75)

“I get the point,” Malone says, standing. “Fine. Take care.”

He slams the door behind him, and I burst into tears once more.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“BLESS ME, Father, for I have sinned,” I say. “It’s been twenty-two years since my last confession.” Funny, how the words come racing right back. “Can we get to it, Father Tim? I really need to talk.” So much so that I quick-stepped in front of Mrs. Jensen. I had tried calling Father Tim at the rectory, but he didn’t return my call. He’s been terribly busy lately.

“Well, Maggie, this is the sacrament of reconciliation. We probably shouldn’t rush it. Though of course, I’m very glad to see you in church.”

I take a ragged breath. “I’m sorry, Father Tim,” I say roughly. “The thing is, I’m just so—I can’t seem to—” My throat is gripped by all the misery of the past week. Colonel. My parents. Malone. Chantal. My own future stretches ahead of me, alone, childless, ankles swollen, no one to change my diapers in my dotage…Tears drip down my cheeks and I sniff wetly.

“What is it, Maggie?” Father Tim asks, his voice full of alarm and concern.

“My life is a joke,” I manage. “I know what I want, but I just can’t seem to get it, and I don’t understand why everything is so hard and confusing.”

Why do I miss Malone? Why have I analyzed every second we’ve ever spent in each other’s company? Why does my mother’s fear break my heart the way it does? Why can’t people just meet and get married and be happy like Christy and Will? And worst of all, why does it feel like my last chance will die with Malone, even knowing what I know?

“I broke up with Malone,” I blurt. “You were right. He’s churlish.”

“Ah, Maggie, I’m sorry. Sorry to be right.” He leans forward so I can see his face through the filigreed screen of the confessional. “There are times when life tests us,” he says gently. “Times that seem so lonely and bleak. It’s how we handle these difficult situations that really proves who we are.”

I swallow and wipe my eyes. “I’ve been so jealous of Christy lately,” I admit in a whisper. “She has everything, Father Tim. Everything I want.”

“And you’re happy for her, as well, Maggie,” he says. “You want those same things, there’s no shame in admitting that.”

“But it doesn’t seem fair,” I protest. “I don’t want to end up alone, Father Tim. I get so scared sometimes that I’ll be this weird aunt who’ll be passed around like a virus. Like, ‘It’s your turn to feed Aunt Maggie’—‘No, it was my turn last week! You do it!’”

Father Tim doesn’t laugh, bless him. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. “None of us wants to look into the future and see ourselves alone, Maggie,” he nearly whispers. “No one wants that.”

There it is again, that undercurrent of his own loneliness. Of sadness, maybe. Or am I reading into things? But there’s something. I raise my hand to the screen that separates us, pressing against the pretty scrollwork of the metal, and suddenly…suddenly my old fantasy of being with him doesn’t seem so ridiculous.

“Father Tim?” I whisper. Outside in the church proper, Mrs. Jensen coughs loudly.

“Maggie, you’re such a wonderful person,” he says, so softly I can barely hear him. “Don’t be sad. Something’s going to change, Maggie, and you won’t be alone forever. Have faith.”

I draw a shaky breath, dizzy at the thoughts that pour into my mind.

Mrs. Jensen hacks again, her cough bouncing off the stone walls of the church. Can’t the old bag take some Robitussin? But the moment is over. Father Tim sits back. “Let’s speak again soon,” he says. “God bless you, Maggie.”

FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, my thoughts keep me quiet, almost withdrawn. I go through the motions at Joe’s, calling out diner slang for Stuart, hugging Georgie, joking with Rolly and Ben, passing out ballots. Father Tim doesn’t come in, and the significance of his absence causes all kinds of ideas to flutter like birds against a window—unpleasant thoughts, really, that I don’t want to dwell on. But fragments of words float through my mind…Father Shea…You’re special, Maggie…Something’s going to change.

And yet, while those thoughts are concerning, they’re also just a reflex. When I look at the answering machine every afternoon when I come home, it’s Malone I think of. Did he call? Will he— Then I stop myself. Malone has other problems to take care of. He won’t be calling me. Besides, I don’t even want him to call, do I? Leave me out of it, Malone, I command. He obeys.

Chantal leaves a message, a brief one, asking me to call her when I get a chance, no hurry, but I can hear the solemnity in her tone. There’s a call I’m not eager to return. Slutty Chantal. Slutty Malone, too. Who needs ’em?

On Sunday, the Beaumont children are summoned for dinner as usual. Mom and Dad are painfully civil to each other, Dad carving the roast, Mom setting the side dishes on the table with terrible care. Jonah, Christy and I are very well-behaved and helpful, no jokes, no teasing. It’s freakish and agonizing. Will is covering at the hospital, so there’s no one to ease the tension, just us kids and Violet. Dinner takes an eternity, and even the baby’s cheerful babble can’t break the pall of gloom that hangs over the table. When Jonah actually volunteers to wash the dishes afterward, it’s proof positive that something is dreadfully wrong.