Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(87)

“You sure it’s what you want, Dad? Are you having second thoughts?” I pick up a tiny scrap of wood shaving and toy with it.

Dad sighs hugely. “I think we need to try being apart,” he says. “Being together hasn’t made either of us real happy. Doesn’t mean I don’t love your mother, of course. I do.”

“I know.” I watch as he taps a shingle, no bigger than a postage stamp, onto the roof of the birdhouse. “That’s a cute one,” I say. “I like the tire swing. Do you think they’ll use it?”

Dad smiles. “You never know.”

Upstairs, my mom is folding some clothes into a suitcase. “Hi, Maggie,” she says brightly.

“Hi, Mom. How are you?”

“Great. Fine.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “A door closes, a window breaks, you know.”

“Right.” I’m going to miss those screwed-up clichés. “Are you scared?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She nods briskly and continues packing.

“Tell me about your job,” I urge, sitting on the bed. It’s hard not to cry, but I swallow and try to be excited for her.

“Well, it’s nothing, really. I’ll just be answering phones,” she says.

“Still, you got a job at a magazine. That’s great,” I say.

“We’ll see.”

I look in the box of things she’s packing, a surprisingly paltry amount. My mother is taking—for now, anyway—only some clothes, a few pictures of us kids and Violet and some books. She’s leaving all the pots and pans, all the Hummel figures, the paintings, all the crap of a three-decade-long marriage, and starting fresh.

“I think you’re really brave, Mom,” I tell her.

She bursts into tears and sinks onto the bed next to me, covering her face with her hands.

“Oh, Maggie,” she sobs. “I’m not. I’m terrified! I have no idea how I’m going to pull this off…. I have this awful image of myself, creeping back here in the dead of night because I just don’t know how to live on my own.”

“Mom, don’t cry. It’ll be okay. You can call me anytime, you know that, right? I’ll come right down. It’s not like you’re going to the moon.” I pat her back. “I’ll help you pick out new towels and pillows and stuff like that. We can go to the outlets and have lunch. It’ll be okay.”

She looks at me hopefully. “You think so?”

I nod. “Absolutely. And if you do come back, it won’t be creeping in the dead of night. It’ll be because you want to, not because you have to.”

She sighs, then blows her nose. “I hope you’re right.” She pauses. “You could come with me, Maggie. The apartment has two bedrooms.” There’s a touching note of hope in her voice, and I smile.

“Thank you, Mom. Thanks for asking. But I’m…I’m really happy here.”

“Are you, honey?”

I think a minute. “Yes. I am, Mom. I know you wanted more for me, but I love what I do. Even if it’s blue-collar, even if I’ve never really lived anywhere else.”

“What about…marriage? Children?” she asks carefully. I can see she’s trying not to have a fight.

“That would be nice. I do want those things,” I acknowledge. “But it’ll happen when it happens, I guess.”

“I just don’t want you to look back on your life twenty years from now, Maggie, and see all the things you could have done,” Mom says, blowing her nose again.

“I think I’ll look back and see all the things I did do, Mom,” I say, a little starch creeping into my voice. “I’ll see that I fed people and welcomed them, I helped them and kept them company…those are good things, Mom.”

“They are, Maggie,” she says, standing up to resume her packing. “But what about you, sweetheart? I want you to have someone to take care of you, too. You deserve that, you know. And if you can’t find someone wonderful, someone like Will, then you need to take care of yourself.”

I don’t answer. It’s hard to disagree with that. “Well,” I say, forcing a smile. “You need to be thinking about your own life, Mom.”

“You are my life, Maggie,” she says matter-of-factly, not looking at me. “The child who needs me the most.”

“WHAT CAN I GET YOU, girls?” Paul Dewey bellows a few days later. “Will the little mother be drinking tonight?”

My mouth drops open. “Dewey knows, too?”

“News travels fast,” Chantal murmurs. “How about cranberry juice, Dewey, hon?”

“I’ll have a Sam Adams, Paul,” I call.

He brings our drinks over and sits with us, gazing lovingly at Chantal’s br**sts, which have grown noticeably in her delicate condition. “So, Chantal, sweetheart, who’s the lucky guy?”

“Most guys in this town have been lucky at one time or another,” I quip. Chantal chuckles, but Dewey turns a scowling face to me.

“That’s no way to talk about a lady in her condition, Maggie. Shame on you.”

“I’m so sorry, Chantal,” I say. “Please forgive me for stating the truth.”

She laughs, and I feel a rush of more affection than I’ve felt for her before. Chantal has never pretended to be anything other than what she is, and for that, I admire her.