Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(91)
Father Tim closes his eyes in understanding. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry if I ever led you to believe…oh, shite. No, Maggie, Michael Shea, formerly Father Shea, has been in hospice, and I had to ask the bishop if special arrangements might be required for his funeral, being that he was a priest at one time…nothing else, Maggie.” He pauses tentatively. “I’m terribly sorry if I ever gave you any impression whatsoever that…well. I’m not sure what to say.”
At this point, he could say he was pregnant and I wouldn’t care. He’s not leaving the priesthood, he’s not in love with me, and I am simply limp with relief. No doubt other feelings are going to make themselves known sometime soon, but right now, all I feel is utter, beautiful reprieve.
“Let’s not say anything, okay?” I offer. “In fact, if we could just pretend this conversation never took place…”
He offers me an uneasy smile. “That would probably be best,” he agrees. “Though I’m glad to hear your crush on me is done.”
I pause. “St. Mary’s is really going to miss you.”
“And I them. And now, Maggie, I have things I need to take care of….”
On trembling legs, I walk through the rectory. Alas, Mrs Plutarski’s lips are white with disapproval, and I know her too well to believe she wasn’t eavesdropping. She’ll tell everyone. Once more, Gideon’s Cove is going to have a good laugh over me, but right now, I simply don’t care.
A bit numbly, I walk through the rain and find myself at the harbor. The boats are all out, as the demand for lobsters has already risen, though it’s only May. I picture Malone out there, alone. Maloner the Loner.
I miss him irrationally.
CHAPTER THIRTY
ON MONDAY, my day off, I give Mrs. K.’s apartment a quick clean, leave her a chicken and spinach casserole and kiss her goodbye. Then I run back upstairs and survey my closet.
This errand has been a long time coming. I’m not sure what to wear. I’d be happy in a Joe’s Diner T-shirt and jeans, but maybe something nicer would help at the critical moment. Plus, my mother will be happy to see me in something that’s not stained, so I pull out some cream-colored pants that Christy bought me two Christmases ago and top it with a chocolaty silk shirt. I brush my hair and put it into a French twist, add some big gold hoops, a little lip gloss and mascara, a few dashes of blush. Then I hop into my car and head out of town.
It takes about an hour and a half to reach my destination, and the drive is beautiful. The ponds gleam an electric blue under the cloudless sky, the leaves are that engaging shade of pale green. The sun beats through the windshield and I crack my window a little, turn up the radio and sing along.
I haven’t heard from Father Tim since our last conversation a week ago. He hasn’t come into the diner, but the word is out that he’s leaving. Most of Gideon’s Cove is devastated. As for me, my feelings are still a bit mixed; I’ll miss him because he was nice to have around, but I sure won’t miss feeling so stupid when it came to him.
The directions I got off the Internet last night are fairly accurate, and I find the car dealership with no trouble, right next to McDonald’s, as promised on Mapquest. I pull into the lot in my battered Subaru, a lump of coal among diamonds.
A rather pleasant thrill of anticipation and nervousness runs down my legs as I get out. I glance at my reflection in the car windows, then turn and go inside.
“May I help you?” asks a pretty woman behind the desk.
“I’d like to see Skip Parkinson, please,” I say pleasantly.
“Of course.” She presses a button on the phone. “Skip, please come to the front desk. Skip, front desk, please.” Her voice is soothing and robotic.
I glance around the showroom while I wait, admiring the sleek lines and tasteful colors of the expensive cars. Cars are like racehorses to meĀI enjoy looking at them and have little use for them. Given where I live and what I do, I require something far more pragmatic than a seventy-five thousand dollar big-boy toy.
“Hi, can I show you something today?” Skip’s voice comes from behind me. I turn around.
“Hi, Skip,” I say. He’s wearing a beautiful charcoal suit, his blue shirt open at the neck, stylish as a European duke.
His mouth drops open with a quick intake of breath. “Maggie! Wow.”
“Do you have a minute?” I tilt my head and smile. It’s so much more pleasant, being the surpriser, not the surprised.
“Um, sure. Sure. Uh, come on back to my office.” He walks me to a soulless room in the back of the dealership, his windows overlooking the parking lot. A chrome-and-glass coffee table holds some expensive-looking sales brochures. There’s a matching bookcase along one wall, a large desk covered with papers.
I sit in a leather chair and look around. Scattered on the walls and shelves are pictures of the ParkinsonsĀAnnabelle, their children, even one of his snobby parents.
“So, Maggie, what a nice surprise,” Skip says carefully, lowering himself into the chair opposite me. “Are you looking for a car?”
I chuckle. “No. No car, Skip. I’m just here to see you.”
He tugs on his shirtsleeves and tries to look pleasantly interested, but a flush is creeping up from his collar. “Well. How nice.”
I cross my legs and just look at him. Still a handsome devil. But his face is bland, a classic American face, well-proportioned features, brown eyes, the hint of gray in his tidy little beard. Only the lines around his eyes give him any distinction at all. I imagine being married to him, having him come home to our big, lovely house, handing him one of our kids. We might have a cocktail, and I’d feign interest as he told me about the irritating customer who went with the Audi instead of the Lexus SUV he can’t seem to unload.