Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(83)

“Okay, hang on one sec,” I interrupt. “Who exactly are we talking about here?”

Chantal freezes. “Um…” She bites her lip. “Who are you talking about?”

I look at her a long moment, my heart thudding in my temples. “Malone.”

Chantal’s breath explodes out of her. “Malone? No. No, no. It’s not Malone. I’ve never even slept with Malone.”

My mouth drops open. I pull back to look at her more closely. “Well, you went to his house and told him you were pregnant.”

“Um, right. Right. I did.”

“But he’s not the father?” I ask, my voice rising in confusion.

Now she won’t look me in the eye. “He, you know…Well, remember I told you how I picked him up that time, in high school? When he was in a fight? See, I guess I figured he…well, he owed me a shoulder to cry on. And he’s the kind of guy who can keep his mouth shut, right? I didn’t know who else to tell.”

“Why not me?” Not that we have that kind of friendship…not that I’ve been all that close with Chantal…or that kind to her, to be honest.

She doesn’t answer for a minute. “I’m telling you now,” she finally says.

I slump back against the cushions. “So Malone’s not…you didn’t…Okay. Okay.”

It’s starting to dawn on me in a slow rise of panic that I’ve mentally accused Malone of something he didn’t do. That I broke up with him over something that didn’t happen. That for weeks now, I’ve been hating him, condemning him…that I said some rather hateful things to him to save my own stupid pride—“Who is the father, Chantal?” I ask through numb lips.

“Listen, Maggie, that doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, the fact remains that I’m pregnant. I’m thirty-nine and a half, and I’m going to have a kid.”

“Is it Chief Tatum?”

“No, no. Definitely not him.” She looks away. “He’s…um…can’t have kids, didn’t you know?”

I wince. No, I didn’t know. Then it comes to me. “Oh, my God,” I whisper, the blood draining to my feet. “Oh, Chantal, tell me it’s not Father Tim….”

Her head jerks back in surprise. “Father Tim? Jesus, no! As if he would ever…come on, Maggie! I might be a little…flirty, but I wouldn’t…you know…with a priest!”

Weak with relief (and yes, definitely shame), I swallow a few times, then stand up. “I need some water. Want some water? How about some water?”

I get the water. Okay. So it’s not Malone, thank God, and it’s not Father Tim. Again, thank God. I gulp down a glass of tap water and bring another to Chantal.

“I’m sorry, Chantal,” I tell her. “This is all…well, hell. I’ve been thinking it was Malone.”

She takes the water gratefully. “It’s okay,” she says. “I can’t believe you thought that. You know he’s not interested in me. I actually thought he kind of liked you, though. Remember that night at Dewey’s?”

A bitter laugh bursts out of my lips. “Right. Well, we…never mind. Listen, if you want to tell me who the father is, you could. You know I wouldn’t tell anyone. I’m your friend, Chantal.” Or I could be, if I put aside the jealousy I’ve always felt toward her.

Her eyes grow sad again. “No. It’s just somebody…somebody from away. No one local.” She forces a smile. “You know me. I like being on my own.”

“It’ll be different when you have a baby, though,” I say. “And you never know, hon. The father might want to be involved.”

“Maybe. Anyway. It’s good to have you know.” She squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back, caught between sympathy and a bit of shame.

“I’ll help you out,” I tell her. “I love kids. I’ll cook for you and babysit and that kind of thing.”

“Oh, Maggie,” she whispers. “I don’t deserve a friend like you.”

“Sure you do! What a silly thing to say.” I blush.

“Maybe you could come to the delivery. Coach me or whatever. Slip me painkillers.”

“I’d love to,” I say, hugging her. “It would be an honor.”

She starts to cry again, and I smooth her beautiful hair. I’ve been a crappy friend, an untrue friend. I will make it up to Chantal.

Making it up to Malone will be a little harder.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE LATE SPRING SNOW finally melts, leaving us in three fresh inches of mud. I slog to work, taking off my boots before going in through the back door and slipping on my cooking clogs. I throw together the batter for some muffins, then start breaking eggs for omelets and scrambles.

I know I need to see Malone, apologize and try to make things right. But it’s going to be hard, and I need a little time to plan what I want to say. Can’t be rambling all over the place as I usually do. Still, it’s hard to find a nice way to say “I thought you were sleeping around on me, fathering children…Want to see a movie?”

“Hey, boss,” Octavio says, coming in the back. “Nice day, don’t you think?”

“I think it sucks, Tavy,” I say. “I’m thinking of moving to Florida or something.”