Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(84)
“I’m from Florida,” he answers. “Don’t go.”
Stuart slides onto his stool at the counter. “Good morning, Maggie,” he says. “Got any apple pie this morning?”
“Eve with a lid on it, coming up,” I tell him, forcing a smile. “And one blonde with sand.” I pour him his coffee and slide a creamer over.
“Cool,” Stuart says, shaking out two sugar packets. “Eve with a lid. I like that.”
“Mold with that?” I ask.
“Hmm…would that be cheese?” he guesses correctly.
“Yup. Side of cheddar.”
“No, thanks, Maggie. No mold.”
I settle down as I work. The diner, my shining little jewel, calms me. When Granddad owned it, I have to confess, it was much more a diner in the bad sense of the word. Fairly filthy, mediocre, greasy food, lots of prepared stuff that Granddad would just heat. Even if I don’t win the best breakfast title, I know that Joe’s is the heart of our town. Where would Rolly and Ben go? Who would throw Stuart his diner lingo? Where would Georgie work? Where would Judy pretend to work?
Speaking of Georgie, in he bursts, an ebullient ray of sunshine. “Hi, Maggie! Did you see the sunrise today? It was so pretty!” He hugs me tight. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I tell him. “Muffins are still warm if you want one, Georgie. Or two. And Tavy’s waiting to scramble your eggs.”
The regulars are in and out early, and only a couple of people still linger. I wipe down the counters and start the meat loaf for today’s lunch special. Everyone loves meat loaf day, so I know we’ll be busy.
The bell above the door tinkles and in comes Father Tim. I flush, remembering that horrid flash of a moment when I thought he was the father of Chantal’s baby. “Hey, Father Tim!” I call out.
“Good morning, Maggie,” he says. “How are you, Georgie?”
“Great, Father Tim!” Georgie announces. “I’m great!”
“How’s everything?” I ask Father Tim. “I, um, haven’t seen you for a while.”
“Sorry, Maggie,” he says. “I’ve been a bit swamped these days. Some difficult matters to attend to.”
Difficult matters…like how to leave the priesthood? He slides into his booth and smiles up at me. I force a smile back. “I’m thinking it’s the eggs benedict today, love.”
Is it normal for a priest to call his friend “love”? Am I reading into too much here? What did the “counting on it” phrase mean, exactly?
“Maggie? Eggs benedict?” His smile is full of warmth.
“Right. Right, Father Tim. Coming up.”
I FIND MYSELF pedaling up the hill to Malone’s house on Thursday. The late afternoon wind gusts hard enough to make biking difficult, and I have to stand on the pedals to make it to the top. I still haven’t figured out exactly what I’ll say to Malone, but I can’t put it off any more.
Because it’s so windy, the lobster boats are all in today, bobbing wildly on their moorings. I stop and take in the view. The water is deep blue with sprays of foam dancing off the waves. White horses, my dad once called them. The sky is rich, a blue so pure you can almost taste it, thin cirrus clouds streaking across the horizon. The leaves on some of the earlier trees are out, and hyacinth and daffodils poke up here and there. The past few days have been sunny, and the mud has finally dried into earth. Tomorrow we may even hit fifty-five degrees, the weatherman says. People will be wearing shorts, teenagers will grease themselves up with baby oil and iodine and try to fry some color into their skin. Maybe I’ll take a hike up in the blueberry barrens. Maybe Malone will want to come with me.
I knock on his door, but there’s no answer. However, I hear a vague banging from the back, so I walk around to the dooryard. Malone is wrestling some traps off his pickup, and at first he doesn’t see me. I take a minute to study him.
It’s hard to believe I ever called him unattractive, because now he’s the most appealing man I’ve ever seen. Even compared to Father Tim. Long and lanky but with the broad shoulders common to lobstermen, he moves with efficient grace, hefting the pots onto the ground. The lines of his face tell the story of Washington Countysevere, difficult and beautiful, too. His flannel shirt flaps in the breeze, his workboots thunking against the floor of the cab. Then he sees me and freezes, midswing.
“Hi,” I say.
He sets the trap down, then turns to unload the final two or three. Not exactly the warm greeting that would make this a little easier for me, but hey. He’s got reason to be mad at me; more than he knows, in fact.
“Got a minute?” I ask.
He picks up two traps, one in either hand, and walks them to his cellar door, then returns to the pile of traps and repeats the action. Apparently, he’s not going to stop.
“Um, Malone, well…listen, can you take a break for a second? I really…just…I need to…” He tosses the traps down with considerably more emphasis than the last time and finally relents, leaning against the tailgate of his truck, oozing impatience. I inch a little closer so I won’t have to yell to be heard. I’m nervous, I realize. Of course, he’s glaring and that doesn’t do much to put a person at ease. Did he ever actually smile at me? It’s hard to conjure at this moment.