Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(85)

“Thank you,” I say, fiddling with the zipper of my jacket. “How are you? How’ve you been?”

He says nothing, just stares at me from those icy eyes.

“Well, okay, listen, Malone. Um, I’m here to apologize. Remember I said you weren’t my type?” I wince even as I speak…Of course he remembers, dummy, you were such a bitch, who could forget? “Right. So anyway, here’s the thing. I think we might have a laugh over this, actually.”

Malone continues glowering, and he is, I must admit, excellent at it. A true skill.

I sigh. “Malone, look. I thought you were the father of Chantal’s baby. That’s why I broke up with you.”

His eyes widen slightly, then narrow dangerously. My nervousness grows, and my mouth picks up velocity. “Yeah. I—I—I just misunderstood something. See, I was there, that night that Chantal told you she was pregnant. I was listening to you play the piano, and—” God, his scowl could make an Al Qaeda terrorist wet himself. “Okay, I guess I should’ve stayed and heard the whole thing, but I didn’t. But she…I know that I was wrong. And I’m wicked sorry.”

Malone considers me for another long moment. “You thought I slept with Chantal,” he states, as if for clarification.

“Um, yes. Sorry.” Adrenaline makes my feet prickle. I tuck some hair behind my ears and try not to look at that scowling face.

“Ever think about asking me?”

“Should have, but no.” I realize I’m compulsively zipping and unzipping my jacket…zip, zap, zip, zap. “You can be…um, a little, uh, hard. Hard to talk to.” Zip. Zap.

“That’s great, Maggie. So you thought I was two-timing you, with Chantal, no less, and didn’t bother saying anything about it. Great. Thanks for coming over.” He picks up two traps and starts stacking them in the dooryard.

“Malone…”

“What?” he barks, and I jump.

“I thought…I kind of thought…”

“What? What did you think, Maggie?” He drops the pots with a crash and puts his gloved hands on his hips.

I wince. “Um…well, maybe you could…you know. Forgive me. Because I was thinking the wrong thing. That’s why I broke—”

“No thanks, Maggie,” he snarls. “I don’t want the priest’s leftovers.”

Youch! Direct hit, like a blow to the head. My mouth drops open. “Leftovers?”

“Yeah,” he says, coming over to me. I have to force myself not to look away. “You spend half your time drooling over that guy, dropping everything when he crooks his finger. You don’t want to be with a real person. Think it’s an accident you picked a priest to fall in love with?”

My head jerks back. “I’m not—”

“Don’t bother. Any relationship you and I might’ve had was a joke, anyway. You were just killing time with me.”

“I wasn’t killing time!” I yelp. “You never—”

“You didn’t want anyone to know that we were together, did you, Maggie?” Malone asks. He jerks another trap off the truck and I jump out the way. “Think I didn’t notice that?”

“Well, neither did you, Malone!” I snap, my face heating with anger. “It’s not like you were falling over yourself to see me. You never came into the diner. You never came over for dinner or lunch or anything! We were sleeping together. We didn’t do much more than that.” His jaw clenches, and I continue. “What about that day you went overboard? I wanted to see how you were doing and you practically kicked me out of your house. That’s not what happens in a real relationship, Malone.”

Malone hurls the traps onto the pile and turns to face me, folding his arms across his chest. The anger shimmers off him in waves, and I feel my own rising to match it.

“See, the way I see it,” I say tightly, “a relationship would involve, I don’t know—talking? Communication? A little more than just sex, maybe? Now, okay, the thing when Colonel died, that was nice. But Malone, you barely speak to me! Not about your daughter, not about your family, nothing! I don’t even know your first name!”

His whole face looks knotted and furious, but I don’t care. Everything I’m saying is pathetically true, and if he won’t talk, then I will. “Remember that piece of pie?” I snap. “I wanted to give you some pie for helping me out, but God forbid you should come in and eat it, right? God forbid that anyone is allowed to be nice to you, Malone, let alone—” love you, I’m about to say, but fortunately or not, he interrupts.

“Maggie—” he says through clenched teeth. His jaw is iron, his neck stiff. “We’re done here.” And then he turns and walks away.

I’M SHAKING WITH RAGE the whole way home. Stupid Maggie, to think that Malone—Malone!—would forgive me. Ha! The wind snatches the words from my mouth as I mutter aloud. “Of course I thought you were the father! How many times does a woman burst in and say ‘I’m pregnant’ to a man who’s not the father? Not many! So it wasn’t such a stretch. You’d think you could cut me a little slack, Malone!”

Mrs. K. is lying in wait, an arthritic little panther, when I stomp up the porch steps. “Maggie, dear! I need a favor.”

“Right,” I sigh. “What is it?”