Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(89)

“So what are you going to do, Malone?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. If Chantal doesn’t want people to know who the father is, that’s her business.”

“Do you know?” I ask.

He looks at me and doesn’t answer, choosing instead to pull on his coat. Chantal is still in a heated argument with Dewey. “Take care,” he says, heading for the door.

“Malone?” I call, taking a step in his direction. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even turn his head, just pushes open the door and heads out.

“Oh, great!” Chantal huffs. “He left! That’s just great, Dewey. Come on, Maggie, let’s get out of here. I’m very mad at you, Paul.”

“Chantal, honey, I was just—” Dewey attempts, but Chantal is riding a wave of moral outrage, and out we go.

“Poor Malone,” she murmurs as she takes out her keys. “Well, I’m kind of tired anyway, Maggie. See you Thursday?”

Her day for lunch at the diner. “Sure.”

I go back to my lonely, too-empty apartment. It’s looked strange since I purged my little collections; Dad’s birdhouses and pictures of Violet are the only decorations I have left. Colonel dying has left a huge void, too. I click around the TV, too distracted to think about any one thing in particular.

At 2:00 a.m., I jolt awake. I did tell someone. By accident, of course—Billy Bottoms. That day at the dock, I was talking to myself. I didn’t realize he heard me.

Shit.

Sleep is ruined for the night. I assure myself that Billy didn’t hear me that day. And this is a tiny town. Malone and Chantal have spoken at Dewey’s any number of times, so there’s no reason to think that this rumor is my fault. Chantal is generous with her affection, she flirts with Malone (as much as it’s possible to flirt with Malone, anyway), so there you go. Billy didn’t hear me. I’m sure.

I still can’t get back to sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

A FEW DAYS LATER, I walk to St. Mary’s in a gentle, steady, cozy rain. I miss Colonel so much it aches…the past few days have been so quiet, both at the diner and in my personal life, that I’m a little stir-crazy. The diner is closed for the day, the baking done. It’s not my night for Meals on Wheels, and I’ve spent so much time at Christy’s lately that she told me outright to give her a little space. Clearly, it’s time for me to find another dog.

So. The high school had a dance in the church basement this past weekend, and I decide to go over and clean the kitchen, which always suffers during this type of event.

As I cross the street, I see Bishop Tranturo walking out of the rectory. Father Tim stands in the doorway, his arms crossed on his chest. He sees me and lifts his hand in a wave, then goes back in, closing the door behind him.

Bishop Tranturo has been around forever. He’s not often seen in these parts, as we are a tiny parish, but I remember his round, jolly face from years past. When making his annual visit to confirm Gideon’s Cove’s Catholic teenagers, he usually stops by the diner for breakfast. In fact, he presided over my own confirmation.

I wonder what he’s doing here. I wonder—

“Hi, Bishop,” I call out, splashing across the street as he’s about to get into his car.

“Hello, dear,” he says. “I’m sorry, you are…?”

“Maggie. Maggie Beaumont.”

“Oh, yes,” he says, recognition lighting his cherubic face. “You’re Maggie, from the diner. Of course. Nice to see you.” He smiles and waits.

“So how are things?” I ask. “How’s everything?”

“Just fine, dear. And you?”

“I’m fine. I’m…so. We love Father Tim around here. He’s great. A great priest.” My stomach cramps with anxiety.

Bishop Tranturo nods and looks over my shoulder.

“Is he leaving? Is that why you’re here?” I blurt, glancing back at the rectory. “Is Father Tim…?”

The bishop sighs, his breath fogging in the cool air. “I think I’ll let him tell you that himself, dear,” he says. “Take care. God bless you, my child.”

“Okay, yes. Thanks. And you, too,” I say manically. “Drive safely. Bye.”

I step back and let him get into his car. The rain is falling harder now, but I barely notice.

Father Tim is leaving the priesthood.

My heart pounds sickly in my chest and my legs feel weak and shaky. Lost in thought, I drift into the church and slide into the last pew.

It’s empty in here, the smell of lemon oil and candles soothing and welcoming. The door clicks shut behind me, and I am alone in this haven of stillness. The rain patters against the small stained-glass windows, and below me, the furnace kicks on. The candles in the front flicker in the drafts. Only one light is on, shining gently on the cross that hangs over the altar.

I haven’t been in St. Mary’s for a while, too flustered by Father Tim to come here. And it’s a shame, really, because it’s lovely, truly a place to think, to open myself up and listen for a whisper of wisdom. I haven’t done that in a long time. My embarrassment over Father Tim has distracted me from any true spirituality I might have had in the past year.

Father Tim. My mind is oddly blank as I sit there. Fragments of conversations slip through, but I’m unable to hold on to one. Father Tim has been lonely. He cares about me. I’m special to him. He’s counting on that…and he asked me about Father Shea.