Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(94)

“Good luck! You’ll win! You deserve it!” she calls from her driveway as I back down. “And you look fantastic!”

Last year, I had a great time at the dinner, meeting other restaurant owners, picking up tips on publicity, advertising, media and the like. I had naively thought that Joe’s might at least come in second, but we didn’t. Of course, last year, I didn’t realize the rules let us print out as many ballots as we wanted. The evil innkeepers (actually, they’re quite nice) at Blackstone B&B were not so ignorant and won by hundreds of votes.

I don’t know if it will mean a significant change if Joe’s wins, but I know it would feel different. How thrilling to put “Best Breakfast in Washington County” in the window! Maine Living will feature the winner in an article with a color photo, which I can already picture: me, Octavio, Judy and Georgie—standing in front, the sun bouncing off Joe’s chrome, the impatiens full and healthy.

And, I admit, as I pull onto the interstate, it would be nice to drop that nugget at the Blessing of the Fleet this coming weekend. Each year, the Blessing is a marker for our town. Who’s divorced since last year? Whose kid got arrested for drug dealing? Anyone get married? Graduate from college? Buy a house? Have an affair? Bury a spouse? And each year for nearly a decade, I’ve remained the same. No, still not married. Nope, no prospects. No kids. Not engaged. Not seeing anyone. Just at the diner, you know?

But this year—hopefully—I could say, “Well, maybe you heard that Joe’s Diner just won best breakfast in the county? No? Oh, well, it will be in Maine Living next month…” Each former classmate who returns to town would hear that Joe’s Diner is moving up in the world. That Maggie Beaumont has a real accomplishment to her name.

“Who am I kidding?” I say out loud. “No one cares but me. And maybe Octavio.” I turn on the radio.

It’s a small event when compared with the Pope dying, say, or a U2 concert, but the Best Awards still attract a fair number of people. As a treat, I’ve booked myself in a nice room at the hotel where the awards are being held, a beautiful building on the water in Old Port. I check in, relishing the rarity of the act. The last time I was away for an overnight was last year, for this same event.

The room is small but elegant, and I indulge in a nap on the sleigh bed, enjoying the fine cotton sheets and down pillows. Afterward, I shower and dress carefully. Maybe I’ll meet someone tonight, who knows? But the thought holds little appeal, oddly enough. God knows, I primped as carefully as a prom queen last year, hoping fervently that I would run into a good-looking, kindhearted Washington County restaurateur or innkeeper. I didn’t, but I sure as hell hoped.

Nope. This year is different. I’m not over Malone.

As I let his name enter my consciousness, loneliness wells up in my heart. It would be so much fun if we were together, if I had Malone’s hand to hold tonight. I bet he’d look gorgeous in a suit. And if I didn’t win, well, that would be okay. We’d still have a night in a city together. We could take a walk afterward, or order dessert in our room. We’d sleep past 6:00 a.m. and feel like we’d been away for a week.

“Too bad,” I tell my reflection. “You blew it. Now get down to that ballroom and win that award.”

I DON’T WIN. Blackstone Bed & Breakfast wins for the fifth straight year. I clap dutifully along with the others, congratulate the irritatingly nice couple and order a scotch. Later, when I’m safe in my room, I indulge in a quick cry. Then I call Octavio.

“We came in third,” I tell him wetly.

“Hey, third’s not bad,” my cook says.

“Third sucks, Tavy,” I sniffle. “There are only about three restaurants in the damn county!”

“Okay, now you’re just feeling sorry for yourself, boss,” Octavio says. “Third is pretty damn good when you live where we live. Okay? You should be proud of yourself.”

“Right,” I mutter.

“How much did we lose by?” he asks.

“Sixty-seven votes.”

“Sixty-seven! That’s great! Only sixty-seven! We’ll definitely get it next year, boss.”

I can’t help but smile. “Thanks, big guy.”

“See you Friday?” he asks. “We should have a good crowd this weekend.”

“Yeah. See you then. I’ll open.” I hang up the phone and look out my window. Portland is so clean and bright and lively, but I’m suffering a bad case of homesickness at the moment. Poor Joe’s. Such a cute little place. It deserves better than third. We do serve the best breakfast in Washington County, and next year, so help us God, we’ll have the award to prove it.

This year, I’ll do whatever it takes to get a restaurant reviewer to the diner. And a travel writer. I’ll e-mail every day if I have to. Send letters. Or better yet, send scones or muffins. Bribe them with the quality of my goods. I can redo the menu, jazz up my lunch specials. Tavy’s right. Sixty-seven more votes is not out of the question. My self-pity dries up with my tears. We didn’t win, but that doesn’t mean we’re not the best.

I take the certificate I got from Maine Living and read it. “Congratulations to Joe’s Diner, Gideon’s Cove, Maine. Second Runner Up, Best Breakfast in Washington County.”

To hell with Washington County, I think, smiling wetly. Someday we’ll get best breakfast in Maine.