Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(9)

“I’ve got to go, folks,” I say, waving. “Sorry. Enjoy the snack.”

“Thanks, Maggie,” Father Tim says around a mouthful. “I’ll just drop the tray off at the diner, shall I?”

“That would be great.”

He waves as he reaches for another square, and I smile fondly, happy to have pleased him. Then I head home, glad that Colonel, at least, is waiting for me.

CHAPTER TWO

ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON, I leave the diner, all the goodies ready for baking tomorrow, and head for home. There’s a bounce in my step. Will, best brother-in-law in the world, has come through. I have a date.

It’s been a long time. Quite a while. I wrack my brain, trying to remember the last actual date I had, and come up empty. Before Father Tim came to town, that’s for sure.

Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. I pat Colonel for reassurance and pull my coat a little closer. Tonight I have a date, and I’m going to enjoy it. A nice dinner and some company, the buzz of potential. I turn at my street and make my way to the small house I bought a few years ago. On the first floor lives Mrs. Kandinsky, my tenant. She is ninety-one years old, a lovely, tiny bird of a woman who knits me sweaters and hats with amazing speed, given that her hands curl in on themselves with arthritis.

I knock on Mrs. K.’s door and wait. It takes her a while to get up sometimes. Finally, the door opens a suspicious crack. Then she sees that it’s just me. “Hello, dear!” she chirps.

“Hello, Mrs. K.!” I chirp back, leaning down a foot or so to kiss her silky, wrinkled cheek. “I brought you some meat loaf. All the fixings, too.”

“Oh, Maggie, how nice! I didn’t know what I was going to cook for dinner! And now I don’t have to! You’re an angel, you are. Come in, come in.” Her emphatic way of talking makes it sound a bit like she’s singing, and I find myself unconsciously imitating her after a few minutes in her company.

Although I don’t have to leave for a couple of hours, I want to go upstairs and enjoy the rare feeling of date anticipation. But Mrs. K. is so sweet, and many days, I’m the only person she sees. Her aging children live out of state, and most of her friends are long gone. I usually bring her a meal from the diner for both unselfish and selfish reasons—I don’t want her burning my house down, trying to cook. So she gets plenty of blueberry scones and muffins and pot roast, or cheddar mac and cheese or whatever else I’ve made that day.

We go into her living room, which is crowded with overstuffed furniture, magazines and a small television. She’s tapped into my satellite dish and is currently watching a soccer match between Italy and Russia. The smell of old person, close and medicinal and oddly comforting, tickles my throat.

“I can’t stay, Mrs. K.,” I tell her. “I actually have a date tonight.” There I go again, blurting out my news. At least this time I know the guy isn’t a priest.

“How lovely, dear! I remember when Mr. Kandinsky courted me. My father didn’t approve, you know,” she said.

I do know. I’ve heard this story dozens of times. To remind her of this fact, I say, “Right. He used to show Mr. K. his gun collection, didn’t he?”

“My father used to show Walter his gun collection while he waited for me! Can you imagine!” Her wizened face wrinkles even more as she laughs, a lovely, tinkling sound.

“Well, Mr. K. must have loved you very much, if he stood for that,” I tell her, smiling.

“Oh, yes. He did. Would you like me to warm up some meat loaf for you, too, Maggie dear?”

I lean down again and kiss her cheek. “No, I have a date, remember? But I’ll warm it up for you.” I tuck the dish into the microwave and press the buttons. Mrs. K. often forgets how to use the microwave, though I sometimes smell popcorn late at night. I guess she figures it out for important things. On the counter is a bottle of Eucerin Dry Skin Therapy Plus Intensive Repair Hand Crème. “Mrs. K., is it all right if I try your hand cream?” I ask.

“Of course! My mother always said, you can judge a lady by her hands.”

“I hope not,” I mutter, attacking a cracked spot near my thumb.

Ten minutes later, I go upstairs to my apartment. Colonel seems stiffer than usual, and I have to boost him up the last few steps. “Here you go, big guy,” I tell him, fixing his supper. I press a glucosamine pill and some doggy anti-inflammatories into a spoonful of peanut butter and turn to him. “Peanut butter blob!” I announce. He wags happily as he laps his medicine off the spoon. “Good boy. And here’s your supper, Mr. Handsome.” Given the state of his hips, I don’t make him sit first.

Responsibilities finished, I take a minute to flop into my chair and relax. My apartment is small—a minute kitchen, living room, tiny bedroom and fairy-sized bathroom that barely has enough room for me to stand. But I love it. A seaman’s chest, filled with afghans from Mrs. Kandinsky, serves as a coffee table. Pictures of Violet decorate the fridge, and some African violets, in honor of my niece, blossom on the windowsill. Little collections of matchstick boxes and animal-shaped salt and pepper shakers line a shelf that my father and I put up a few years ago. Some old tin pie plates hang on the wall, and instead of hooks, I use old porcelain or glass doorknobs to hang my coats. Six or seven decorative birdhouses hang on the wall, gifts from my dad, who makes them almost as fast as Mrs. K. crochets afghans.