Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(96)

There are a few more Carleigh types, mostly women who nod sympathetically when I tell them yes, I’m still at the diner. Poor Maggie, they seem to be saying, I may have married an abusive drunk, had to file a restraining order and gotten divorced before I was twenty-three, but at least I got married!

I refuse to feel inferior. Screw ’em, I think. My life is just fine. I make a difference in this town. Violet knees me in the back, and I continue in a fog, absentmindedly waving here and there. A familiar name jerks me out of my daze.

“…and that Malone person won’t admit that it’s his,” the hideous Mrs. Plutarski stage-whispers to one of her wrinkled old cronies, Mrs. Lennon.

“Why not?” Mrs. Lennon asks.

“Because he doesn’t want to be saddled with child support,” Mrs. Plutarski says, as if she had actual information on the subject. “Well, that woman had it coming, if you ask me. All those years of—”

“Excuse me, what are you talking about?” I ask, shoving in between them, a tugboat between two tankers.

“Oh! Maggie. How are you, dear?” Mrs. Lennon asks sweetly. Mrs. P. assumes the lemon-sucking face she does so well.

“Child support? Admitting that something is his? Tsk, tsk, Mrs. Plutarski. Does Father Tim know you gossip like this?” I fold my arms, my moment of righteous indignation somewhat marred by Violet yanking my hair.

“This is a private conversation, Maggie,” Mrs. Plutarski says coldly. “And I’d say you should be worried about what people are saying about you instead of butting into other people’s conversations. Everyone knows that you thought Father Tim was going to leave the church for you.” She smirks and cuts her eyes to Mrs. Lennon.

“You know what, Edith?” I say. “You’re a nasty, gossiping, eavesdropping busybody, and no amount of ass-kissing of priests is going to change that. Mrs. Lennon, you have a nice weekend.”

Enjoying Mrs. P’s squawking rage, I walk away. “How was I?” I ask my niece. She doesn’t answer. Glancing back, I see that she’s fallen asleep. Her angelic face calms my seething anger, but my heart is still pounding, my face hot.

Poor Malone. He’s done nothing wrong, but the town won’t drop it. All day, I hear snatches of damning conversation—Chantal and Malone are the hot topic. During the trap-hauling race, when everyone crowds the dock to see which boat will make it in fastest, Christy and I stand with the firemen to cheer on Jonah and Dad. “Why do you think Malone’s not here?” Fred Tendrey asks as he leans against a post. “Ashamed to show his face, I’d guess.”

“Why should he be ashamed, Fred?” I ask. “He hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s not the one standing around looking down women’s blouses. Maybe he doesn’t want his daughter to hear a bunch of idiots gossiping about him, huh? Ever think of that?”

My protestations fall on deaf ears. Malone’s boat is conspicuously absent from the festivities. Or maybe he never comes to the Blessing. I can’t say I ever noticed before.

“She doesn’t want Malone involved,” I overhear Leslie MacGuire murmuring to her neighbor as they buy cups of chowder. “You know the rumors about his first wife. How she left in the middle of the night.”

“Oh, that’s right,” the neighbor murmurs. My jaw clenches, but I say nothing. There’s no point.

By four o’clock, I can’t take any more.

“Guys, I’m heading out,” I tell my sister and Will. “I’ve got a headache.”

“You okay?” Christy asks, tilting her head.

“Yup. Just tired.”

Though I have a ticket for the spaghetti supper and the rest of my family, including Mom, will be there, I walk away from town. Climbing the hill to my apartment, I glance back at the harbor. The lobster boats are done with racing for the day, bobbing on their moorings like cheerful seagulls, clean and freshly painted for the new season. The Twin Menace gleams, one of the newer boats, made more noticeable because the Ugly Anne is out. My heart squeezes almost painfully, imagining him off with his daughter. In another few weeks, it will be illegal to pull pots after four, but for now Malone is within the rules, if he’s actually working, that is. And it doesn’t seem as if he misses a chance to work very often.

Except for that one day when he took me to Linden Harbor.

I trudge down my street, spying Mrs. Kandinsky sleeping in her chair through the window. Peeking inside, I make sure her chest is still rising and falling with breath, then, assured that she’s not dead, I go upstairs to my dark apartment.

THE NEXT MORNING, the smell of frying bacon and coffee welcomes me to my parents’ house. Each year, we have a special breakfast before the actual Blessing of the Fleet. And we’re all going to church, since it’s Father Tim’s last Mass. Jonah is slumped in a corner, pale and shaky, timidly nursing a cup of coffee. I lean over and kiss him loudly on the cheek.

“Is my wittle brother a wittle hung over?” I ask merrily, ruffling his hair. He moans and turns to the wall. “Hi, Mom.”

“Oh, Maggie, is that what you’re wearing?” she asks.

I look down at my outfit. Tan pants, red sweater, shoes that match each other. I raise an eyebrow at my mother, who sets the spatula down on the counter. “What I meant to say, honey, is why don’t you wear a skirt once in a while? You have such gorgeous legs.”