Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(78)

I need to do something, I think as I ride back home. I need to figure out a plan for the rest of my life. If my mother can make a big move, so can I. Last week, she was sitting at the kitchen table tying one on. This week, she’s got a plan. I can do the same thing. I need to forget Malone and move on. Focus on other things. Take action.

Being at Dewey’s has given me an idea. Not the most honorable idea, granted, but a pretty good idea nonetheless. An awful, horrible, wonderful idea.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“MY CAR IS RUNNING a little rough,” I lie to my sister on the phone a few days later. “Can I borrow yours?”

It’s Monday. The diner is closed, the wind is blowing, and it’s a great day to stay home and do nothing, but my idea has been lurking in the corner of my mind, and its patience wearing thin. Besides, I can’t just sit around and think about Malone and Chantal all day.

Christy runs water in the background. “Sure. I’m not going anywhere. Can you believe how cold it is? Cripes, it feels like December out there, not April.”

Maine has tricked us yet again, pretending to embrace spring while all the time getting ready to dump six inches of snow on us, mixing with the muddy ground in a sloppy, tired, icy goop. All four members of the town crew are out, wearily sanding the main roads, defiling the streets they cleaned just last week. I pull my hat down over my ears and wave to them as I slip and slide up Christy’s hill. Then, as planned, I choose a particularly damp-looking splotch of gray snow, trip and land face down in it.

“Oh, jeezum, look at you!” My sister holds the door open, Violet balanced on her hip. “Come in here, you gawmy girl!”

“I slipped,” I confess sheepishly.

“Well, go upstairs and change, dopey,” she chides. “Do you want to stay for lunch?”

“Um, no, no, but thanks. Other plans. I, um…” God, I am the worst liar. “I’m going to the mall. After my errands.”

“The mall?” Christy asks. “That’s two hours away, hon.”

“Right! I know. Maybe not the mall…. I need shoes. New shoes.”

“Are you okay?” Christy gives me that knowing look, and I flee upstairs to raid her closet, as is the plan. I pull out some nice tweed pants and a silk sweater. A little scarf goes into my pocket. I glance at her bureau.

“Christy? Can I borrow some jewelry? I want to look a little nicer. I might, uh…meet a friend? For lunch. If I have time.”

“Sure,” she calls back. “Whatever you want.”

By that, she probably doesn’t mean her anniversary band, a circle of small diamonds that Will gave her to mark their first year together. But, I rationalize, she did say “whatever,” so I take it, first using some of the hand cream she’s got on her night table.

“Oh, you look so nice!” Christy comments. By nice, she means “like me,” but I don’t take offense. She has beautiful clothes, and the point of this little adventure is in fact to look like Christy. Violet, who sits on the kitchen floor banging a whisk on a pot, crawls over to me and drools on my—Christy’s—boot.

“Thank you, baby,” I say. “I’ll be back around four, okay?” I grab the car keys from the counter.

“Take your time,” she says. She smiles from her seat on the floor. “Violet, want to try this one?” She holds up a wooden spoon and demonstrates its banging ability. “Hey, Maggie, don’t forget a coat. Yours is a mess.” She gestures to her beautiful faux shearling coat, which hangs on a hook near the door.

“You’re a great sister,” I say, flushed with guilt. “Thanks a million.”

“Have fun!” she calls.

Fun is not exactly what I have planned. I grab the diaper bag that my sister leaves in the garage, climb in the car, look in the rearview mirror and take out my ponytail. Then I brush my hair to a side part and tuck it behind my ears. The band goes on my left ring finger, the scarf around my neck, and voila—I’m Christy.

This very morning, I had called the rectory. “Mrs. Plutarski, hi, it’s Christy Jones. How are you?”

“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Plutarski said. “How’s that beautiful baby?”

“She’s wonderful,” I answered sweetly. “Listen, I was wondering if Father Tim had a few minutes to spare for me today.”

“Of course, honey,” she cooed, and my jaw clenched. Mrs. Plutarski is such a pill to me. You’d think I routinely crapped on the altar, the way she treats me. When I ask to see Father Tim, she always takes great pains to tell me how busy he is. For Christy, though, he’s wide open.

“How about one o’clock, Christy? I imagine you want to discuss your poor parents,” she suggested, gossipmonger that she is.

“That’s perfect.” Violet takes her nap from noon to three, and the real Christy will be snug at home.

My heart is pounding as I pull Christy’s Volvo into the rectory’s small parking lot. I turn off the car and sit a minute. After being delayed for God knows how long, common sense finally makes an appearance.

Here I am dressed as my sister, about to trick a priest. Nice, Maggie. Very noble. For some reason, I had the notion that if Father Tim thought I was Christy, he’d tell me what was bothering him lately, why he kept dropping those hints about how special “Maggie” was. I roll my eyes in the rearview mirror. No. I don’t think so. I’m not that much of a jerk. Whatever personal issues Father Tim is having, they’re not my business. Maybe it was cabin fever, maybe I was just trying to distract myself from thoughts of Malone, but clearly, this is the stupidest idea I’ve ever had. Maybe the stupidest idea anyone’s ever had.