Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(79)



Disgusted, I restart the car. I’ll drive down to Machias and catch a movie, get a big bag of popcorn and some Swedish fish—

I scream as a knock comes on the car window.

“Father Tim! Oh! Wow!”

“Hello, there, Christy!” he beams. “Come in, dear girl, come in.”

My stomach contracts with the agony of being caught. “Hi, Father Tim,” I mutter.

Well, it looks like I’m going to have to go through with it, because I just can’t think of anything else. Wobbling a bit in Christy’s boots, which have a higher heel than I’m used to, I grab the diaper bag from the back seat—my prop, further evidence that I am my sister.

“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Plutarski says from her position of power in the rectory office. “How nice to see you! Don’t you look smart.”

“Oh, Mrs. Plutarski, you are so sweet,” I simper. “I just love that color on you! Would you call that oatmeal or liver? It’s wonderful!” Don’t blow it, I warn myself savagely. You got yourself into this mess, now just get out as fast as you can. If they figure out you’re Maggie, you’re dead.

“Make yourself comfortable, Christy,” Father Tim says, holding the door of his office for me. My toes curl in discomfort.

“Thank you for seeing me, Father Tim,” I say, glancing around, trying not to make eye contact.

“You’re welcome, my dear, you’re welcome. How are Will and little Violet?”

“They’re just great. Just great. Wonderful.” Okay, stop babbling. It’s a dead giveaway. I sit down, cross my ankles and try to have good posture. My gaze flits around the office. There’s a note on his desk, and a prickle of warning goes through me at the sight of it. Though it’s upside down to me, I can read Father Tim’s writing…Ask Bishop—

“What can I do for you, Christy?” the priest asks. I look away from the note.

“Well, um, I guess you’ve heard about my, my, um, parents,” I stammer.

“I have, yes.” He smiles encouragingly. Ask Bishop T. about—

“And of course we’re all…saddened. Quite saddened.”

“It’s a tragedy, thirty some-odd years of marriage,” he murmurs. Ask Bishop T. about the Father Shea situation.

Holy moley! Jeezum! The Father Shea situation? The left-the-priesthood-for-a-pretty-woman-situation? Oh, my God! I gulp in a huge breath.

“Christy, ah, dear, don’t cry, now. There’s still hope, and if you turn to prayer, perhaps it will help your parents remember how sacred those vows were and still are.”

How are your vows, Father Tim? Everything rock solid there? I realize that a response is required. “Mmm. Right. We’re all taking it pretty hard. Uh, Maggie and me, I mean.” I take a sharp breath at referring to myself in third person, then swallow. “And you know. Jonah, too.”

“I’ve spoken with Maggie a bit. But how can I help you, Christy?”

“Oh, I suppose I was wondering…” Yes, Maggie/ Christy. What exactly can you wonder about? My mind drains of all intelligent thought. “How I can…um, support my parents? Other than pray?” I sound like an idiot because all I can think is Father Shea, Father Shea, oh, shit, Father Shea.

Father Tim glances out the window. “Well, as their daughter, Christy, you could remind them of all the good things their marriage has given them. You three children, of course, and their darlin’ grandbaby. A life together, rich with family and happy memories, trials and tribulations, as well, of course…” His voice trails off, his eyes still focused outside. I get the strong impression he’s phoning it in today. Lucky for me.

“You’re right. Excellent advice.” I swallow, then decide to risk it. “So, Father Tim, how are you? I mean, do you like it here? Being our parish priest and all? It’s been, let’s see now…a year?”

“Yes, yes, about that,” Father Tim says, dragging his gaze back to me and forcing a smile.

“Well, the community is so lucky to have you, Father Tim. You’re a great priest. Very, um, holy. Devout, I mean.” There. Said it, even if I sound like a jerk. “Will and the baby and I, we love church. I hope you won’t leave.”

His attention is suddenly laser-sharp. “Why? Have you heard something?” he blurts, leaning forward.

“Um…no. No, not really…No. Nothing.”

Father Tim stares at me a minute, then sits back in his chair, relaxing. “Well,” he says. “Change is inevitable, and we’re none of us in control of our futures. That’s in God’s hands, as is everything.”

Again with the clichés. “Well. Yes.” I tuck some hair behind my ear. God, I feel guilty! Lying, tricking, deceiving a man of the cloth. I am surely damned. Sweat trickles down my neck.

“You have a wonderful family, Christy,” Father Tim says, appropos of nothing.

“Thanks.”

“I hope that you and Maggie…well. Never mind.”

Desperate to somehow set Father Tim straight regarding my own feelings while not blowing my cover, I swallow convulsively. “You…you’re a, um, a good friend to Maggie. It’s nice for her to have a friend who’s a priest. Very comforting. And she, you know, values your friendship.”

“I’m counting on that,” he says, smiling and rising. “She’s very special.”

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