Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(97)
“That was better, Mom. Better.”
“There’s nothing gorgeous about Maggie,” Jonah mumbles from the corner, apparently not in enough misery to resist bothering me. “Christy’s the pretty one.” I smack him on the head, savoring his yelp of pain, and pour myself some coffee.
“I can’t wear a skirt today, Mom,” I say, giving my mother a kiss, pleased to see her back in the family domicile. “I’m going out with Jonah for the blessing.”
“Not if you don’t stop yelling,” Jonah mutters.
It’s wicked fun to be on the water for the Blessing of the Fleet. Gideon’s Cove looks like a postcard—the rocky shore, tall pines, the houses that dot the hills, the spire of St. Mary’s, the gray wood of the dock. Last year, the whole family went on the Twin Menace; this year, because of Violet, Christy and Will opted to stay ashore, and our parents will keep them company.
Christy’s face appears on the back porch. “Hello,” she calls. She has also worn tan pants and a red top, but her outfit cost more, is made with better materials and generally looks better than mine. She hefts in Violet’s car seat, a diaper bag that’s bigger than my suitcase and a vibrating bouncy seat. Will follows her with a tiny bungy-jumping contraption that’s made to dangle from a doorway and another bag.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“In the bomb shelter,” Jonah answers. “Could you stop yelling, please?”
“Dad!” I yell cheerfully. “We’re all here!” Jonah whimpers.
“Serves you right, Joe,” Christy says. “Jell-O shots. For God’s sake. We were at Dewey’s last night, you know. Saw everything.”
“Did I call you the pretty one?” Jonah says, rising specterlike from his chair. “I changed my mind. You’re both hags.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re all sitting around the dining room table, passing platters of pancakes, scrambled eggs, cranberry scones (my contribution) and bacon. Jonah has swallowed some Advil and looks less green, though he shudders as the eggs pass him. I plop a spoonful on his plate and enjoy the blanching that follows.
“So, Mom, Dad,” Christy begins in what Joe and I call her social-worker voice, “how have things been since you’ve…been apart?” Her voice is carefully pleasant.
“Not bad,” Dad says. “Delicious scones, Maggie. You sure can bake, honey.”
Christy’s eyes close briefly. “Great. Any decisions about what’s next?”
“Scone, sweetie?” Will asks.
“No. Thank you. Mom? Anything to tell us?”
My mother takes a deep breath. “Well, we’ve been talking, of course.” She looks at Dad at the other end of the table. Dad is looking out the window, apparently fascinated with the flock of springtime birds enjoying his handiwork. “Mitch? Would you like to tell the children what we’re planning?”
Dad snaps to attention. “Oh. Sure. Sure. Okay. Well, we…we’re…we’re not getting divorced. For now.”
Christy’s face lights up. I take another piece of bacon and look at my mother. “But…” I prompt.
“Right, Maggie,” Mom says. “But I’m going to stay in Bar Harbor. At least for the foreseeable future.” She looks at me for assurance, and I smile. Christy’s face falls.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Mom says to her. “I know it’s not what you want, but—”
“No, no. It’s fine. It’s okay.” But Christy’s eyes are spilling tears. “I’m sorry….” She starts crying in earnest, and Will puts his arm around her, pulling her face against his shoulder. “It’s what you want that matters, Mom,” she blubbers. “And you, too, Daddy.”
Jonah shoots me a classic little brother smirk, and suddenly, we’re laughing. “Poor little Christy, coming from a broken home,” Jonah murmurs, and she starts laughing, too.
“Oh, shut up, Jonah,” she says, wadding up her napkin and throwing it at him. “I can’t help it if I care about our family. Unlike you, you freakish troglodyte.”
En masse, we head for town, Jonah and me in his truck, our parents with Will, Christy and the baby in the Volvo wagon.
The waxy smell of candles mixes with the lingering scent of spaghetti as we walk into church. Since Father Tim won’t be returning to St. Mary’s after this, the place is as packed as if it’s Christmas Eve. The full choir, all ten of them, is up in the loft, and Mr. Gordon is thumping out a tortuous, wheezing piece on the old organ. My family takes up a whole pew today. We call out quiet hellos, wave to our friends and neighbors and sit on the punishing walnut pews, prepared to offer up our suffering to the Lord.
The altar servers come somberly down the aisle, washed and brushed and looking like angels despite the hightop Keds that peek out from under their robes. Tanner Stevenson holds up the crucifix and Kendra Tan carefully swings the incense burner. Father Tim comes in last, resplendent in purple and gold, handsome as a movie star. He sings along with the entrance hymn, but his eyes meet mine, and he gives a little smile around the words to “Lift High the Cross.”
For the first time in a very long time, I understand why people come to church. Not because they’re forced to be here by their parents, not because the priest is so cute. I listen to the words and don’t notice the brogue that pronounces them. For the first time in my adult life, I imagine that there might be something here for me. Sorry I haven’t been around. And sorry about lusting after one of Your guys, I say silently to God. No harm, no foul, I imagine Him saying. It’s much more comforting than That will be a year in hell, young lady.