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  "Malone, how about a ride home?" I ask before Skip can do anything.

  "Sure," Malone says. He leans across the seat and opens the passenger door for me, which is unexpectedly polite from a man who has uttered only a handful of words this evening. I climb in. Tomorrow, Jonah or my father will have to drive me back here, but at least I'm safe from Skip's eyes for now. Malone starts the truck and pulls out of the parking lot.

  "I really appreciate this," I tell him. He glances at me but doesn't say anything.

  We don't talk on the way home--I'm too engrossed in thought to try to lure Malone out of his cave. When we get into town, I break the silence and direct him to my house. He throws the truck into park and hops out. I get out before he can open my door.

  "I'll walk you in," he growls.

  "No, that's okay, you don't--" But he's already waiting by the porch. I sigh. "I live upstairs," I say. "That's Mrs. K.'s apartment. Mine's up there." Malone waits for me to go first. The stairway is a straight shot to my door, and there's barely enough room for both of us to stand on the tiny landing. I fish out my key and unlock the door, then turn around to thank him.

  "Thanks again, Malone. That was really--" My words are cut off, because Malone leans in and kisses me.

  At first, I'm too shocked to think a damn thing. Malone! Kissing me! Of all the--but then it occurs to me that I'm kissing him right back, and it also occurs to me that Malone knows what he's doing. His mouth is surprisingly soft and warm, and his razor stubble rasps gently against my skin. His hands cup my head, holding me steady, and I realize that my own hands are pressed against his chest. He feels deliciously solid, his heart thudding under my palm. His mouth moves to my jaw, and I breathe in the smell of soap and salt. Then he kisses my mouth again. My knees tingle and grow weak, and I grip his shirt, giving a little sigh. Then Malone pulls back, smooths his thumb across my mouth and looks down at the floor of my porch.

  For a moment, I think he's going to say something, but he doesn't. He just gives a terse nod and heads down the stairs.

  "Um...good night," I call. He lifts his hand and gets into his still-running truck, then drives off in a most ordinary manner, leaving me dazed and stunned on my little porch. "Right," I say. Perhaps I will wake up in the morning and find that this whole night has been just a bizarre dream. Those wiggly knees of mine are telling me different.

  I go inside and kneel down to pet Colonel, who is waiting patiently by the door. "Hey, buddy," I say. "How's my pooch?" He licks my chin, then, satisfied that I am indeed home again, goes back to his doggy bed in the corner and lies down with a groan.

  "Malone kissed me tonight," I tell him.

  Colonel doesn't understand it, either.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I GET A CALL on my cell phone the next day while I'm at the diner, and for a brief second, I think it might be Malone. It's not. Of course not, as he doesn't have the number.

  "Maggie, hi, it's Doug," says the caller.

  Doug? Oh, Doug. "Hi," I say.

  "Listen, I'm so, so sorry about last night," he says. There's a pause. I wait to feel bad, but nothing comes. "I just panicked at the last minute," Doug says. His voice is heavy with misery. "Maggie, I guess I'm not really ready to see someone."

  "That's okay," I tell him. I ring up Stuart and move the phone away from my cheek. "Everything okay today, Stuart?"

  "Wonderful, Maggie." He hands me his filled-out ballot, and I wink at him and resume my conversation. "Don't worry about it, Doug."

  "No, it's not okay. I completely chickened out and didn't even call. I feel awful," he says. I think he's crying.

  Some high school girls open the door in a cloud of giggles. "Sit wherever you'd like, girls," I tell them. "Doug, hang on a sec." I take the phone into the closet that serves as my office and wedge myself inside. "Hi. Sorry, I'm at the diner. But I can talk now."

  "I was all set to meet you," Doug chokes. "I was actually in the car, but I just couldn't do it. You sound like the nicest person--"

  "Listen, Doug," I interrupt gently. "It's okay. To tell you the truth, I ran into an old friend and we had a really nice time." A bit of a stretch, but the truth is rather complicated at this moment.

  "Really?" Doug asks hopefully.

  "Yes," I say. I can hear Georgie making his exuberant entrance, Octavio singing quietly. "It sounds like you're just not ready yet to meet somebody, and that's perfectly fine. When the time is right, you'll know it."

  Doug doesn't answer for a minute, and I realize he's crying in earnest. "Do you think so?" he asks thickly, confirming my guess.

  "I sure do, Doug." I pause. "From what you said, your wife sounded like a really great person. It'll take some time for you to want to be with someone else."

  "I think you're one of the nicest people I've never met," Doug says with a choked laugh.

  "If you ever want to get together as friends, I'd like that," I tell him. I wonder if I'd be so generous if Malone hadn't given me something else to think about last night.

  Last night, I lay awake in bed for nearly an hour, wondering at the strangeness of humanity. Usually when someone is attracted to someone else, there are signs. Not so with Malone. In fact, I'd have bet my last dollar that he suffered through every minute of our bizarre dinner together. That he didn't like me a bit, especially after I was so catty in the bar with Chantal that night.

  Father Tim comes in at 8:30, right after Mass. "Maggie, I want to hear every detail," he says, rubbing his hands together eagerly. "Oh, and I'll have the eggs benedict today, I think. With regular bacon instead of Canadian, if that's all right?"

  "Sure. One Father Tim special coming up." I smile and pour him some coffee, then go into the kitchen to put his order in. When I come out, Chantal is sliding into the seat across from the priest. Any male, no matter his profession, is open season for Chantal.

  "Hey, Chantal," I say.

  "Hi, Maggie. What's new?" she purrs.

  I feel my cheeks grow warm at her question. Chantal hears everything. Did someone see Malone and me together last night? Were there any Gideon's Cove residents at Jason's Taverne? Did someone perhaps see us kissing? I wonder if he'll call me and ask me out. I mean, why would he kiss me--the mere memory of it causes a flutter--if he didn't want to see me again?

  "She's blushing," Father Tim observes. "Must have been some date last night."

  "Date? What date?" Chantal asks. No, thank God, she doesn't know.

  "Well, actually, I'm sorry to say that Doug isn't quite ready for a relationship," I say. I busy myself by refilling the creamers behind the counter. "Still kind of in mourning for his wife."

  "I can relate to that," Chantal murmurs. I roll my eyes, but Father Tim is tricked and pats her hand.

  "Poor dear," he says, and Chantal sighs hugely, her breasts rising dramatically in her low-cut shirt. Father Tim's compassionate expression doesn't flicker, nor does his gaze drop a millimeter. The man is a saint.

  At lunchtime, the bell over the door tinkles and I look up to see my sister, Violet and my parents. "Good morning!" Christy says.

  "Fashoo," says Violet, reaching out a plump hand for me to smooch.

  "That means 'I love you, Auntie Mags,'" Christy translates, pulling off Violet's pink coat. My parents likewise take off their coats and line up like penguins at the counter. For some reason, no member of the Beaumont family ever sits at a booth.

  "How was your date last night?" my mother asks without preamble. "Did you finally meet someone with potential?"

  "Oh, it was fine," I answer, feeling that heat creep up my neck again. "Doug is very nice, but he's not ready for a relationship. His wife died about two years ago." There. Nothing I said was untrue. An image of Malone's slight smile causes a sudden cramp in my abdomen.

  "Well, he should get out there anyway," Mom says, irritated that a daughter remains single. "A rolling stone gathers no dirt."

  "Well said, Mom," Christy says. Our dad smiles into his coffee cup.

  "Don't laugh. Magg
ie's not getting any younger. Before long, Maggie, you'll have problems getting pregnant, and then where will you be?"

  I stare at her, stunned that the woman whose womb I began my life in could be so cruel.

  "Jeezum, Mom," Christy says.

  "It's true," our mother states.

  "You'll meet someone when the time is right. Don't worry," my father says in a rare show of defiance to Mom. He pats my hand. My mother snorts.

  "Hey, Dad, you know who I ran into last night?" I say, grateful for the chance to change the subject. "You know Malone? The lobsterman?"

  Dad looks blank until Christy says, "You know, Dad. His boat is next to Jonah's."

  "Oh, yes. Dark-haired fellow? Quiet?"

  Pathologically so, yes. "Yeah. Did you have him in school?" Dad taught biology for thirty years and knows just about every person who ever went to school in Gideon's Cove.

  "Sure. I think he transferred in midyear. Why, honey?"

  "Oh, I just was wondering what his first name was. He wouldn't tell me." I realize I have erred as Christy's left eyebrow lifts. No one else notices.

  "Hmm. Let's see. Malone. Skinny kid, tall...not a bad student toward the end, but way behind at first. I think there was trouble at home, to tell you the truth. Was it Michael? No, no, not Michael, I'm thinking of the Barone kid. I think it was an Irish name. Liam? No, no, that's not right. Brendan. It was Brendan. Brendan Malone. Or no, that was Brendan Riley. Hmm." Dad thinks for a minute, then shrugs. "Sorry, honey. As I recall, everyone just called him Malone."

  "Oh, well. Not important. I was just curious."

  Christy looks quite speculative, and I turn away to wait on Ben at the counter, since Judy is doing a crossword puzzle.

  Our mother offers to take Violet for the afternoon, claiming that she never gets to see her only grandchild (here with a significant look at me, the daughter who has failed to reproduce). She ignores the fact that she sees Violet almost every day. Once we're alone, Christy pounces.

  "So, why the sudden interest in Malone?" she asks, pretending to help me as I pack my car for meal deliveries.

  "Oh, I just ran into him last night," I say, feigning nonchalance.

  "Mmm-hmm. And?" she prods. Damn this twin thing. She knows far too much.

  "Okay. I'll tell you, but you can't tell anyone else." Knowing she won't, I give her the story from last night--Skip, Annabelle, Malone--but for some reason, I don't tell her the ending.

  "So he drove me home. Jonah brought me out to get my car this morning and, unlike some siblings, he didn't ask prying questions."

  "Well," Christy says. "That was awfully nice, pretending to be your date. Wicked nice."

  "Mmm," I murmur. "Listen, I have to go. Do you want to come? It'll be fun. They'll have Colonel and you."

  "Double the pleasure, double the fun," my sister says. "Sure, I'd love to."

  And it is fun. The fourteen people on my route are always overjoyed to see Colonel and me, and when encountered with my mirror image, they nearly wet themselves in delight. We bring in the meals, tidy up at one house, check a prescription at another, chat with the clients, let them pet my gentle dog. I urge Christy to show pictures of Violet, and a lot of old faces break into tender smiles at the sight of my beautiful niece.

  "She could be yours," Mrs. Banack says, handing the picture to me.

  "True enough," I answer. "I couldn't love her more if she was."

  We finish up our route and head for home.

  "So still no boyfriend," Christy says as we drive home. I don't comment. "Any ideas?"

  "Not really," I say, glancing in my rearview mirror. "I think I'll just give it a rest for a while. I've been on four dates in the last month, and none of them worked out very well."

  "You sure? Idle hands are the devil's workhorse, as Mom would say," Christy advises somberly. I laugh, but at the back of my mind is Malone and his gently scraping kiss.

  When I get home from dropping Christy off, I zip over to the answering machine, hoping to see the blinking light. No blinking. Malone has not called me.

  Nor does he call me that evening. The next day is Sunday, and as I flit between tables, clearing and serving, Malone is on my mind. Why hasn't he called me? Why would he kiss me and then not call me? Should I call him? I shudder at the thought--I wouldn't be able to see him either nod or stare from my apartment, would I? And since that seems to be his main form of communication, it wouldn't be much of a conversation.

  It's not that I really like him, I tell myself. Because really, he's a complete stranger. Almost. I liked kissing him, yes. At the thought, my stomach knots and my knees tingle. The after-church crowd takes their time finishing, and when they're done with breakfast, the Sunday lunch crowd comes in. Finally, by about two, all my customers are gone. I wipe down with unusual speed, opting to skip the floor-washing. I'll just wander down to the dock, I think. See how Jonah's doing. Check on the little brother.

  Jonah's boat is right against the dock, not moored at its usual spot, which is convenient for me. Inconveniently, Malone's boat is out, so I'll just have to hang out with my little bro for a while. "Hey, Jonah!" I call down. It's low tide, so the dock is a good twenty feet lower than it will be six hours from now. Tides in this part of Maine are dramatic, and the gangplank is pitched quite steeply. The smell of fish and salt and tide greet me as I totter down carefully and walk over to Jonah's boat, which is named Twin Menace after his beloved big sisters. My brother is not in sight.

  "Hey, Joe!" I yell.

  "Maggie," he calls back, climbing out of the hold and shutting the door firmly behind him. "What are you doing here?"

  "Oh, nothing. Permission to come aboard, captain?"

  "Um, no. Actually, I'm just leaving. Sorry."

  Drat. "So, do most people go out on a Sunday?" I ask. I've never really taken note of the patterns of the lobster boats; it's something that's so familiar and constant here that it's like background noise. During the summer, it's against the law to haul traps on a Sunday, that I know, but as for the practices of the off-season, I'm clueless.

  "Nah. Most of us stay in, even now, I guess." He glances back at the stern of his boat.

  "But some go out?" I prod.

  "Ayuh."

  "When do they come back?" I glance casually over the railing at a small school of baby stripers.

  "Dunno."

  I sigh. Malone is rubbing off on Jonah, apparently. Usually, my brother won't stop talking...rather like me, I guess. I give it another try. "So they just come back whenever?"

  "Maggie, I just said I don't know. What's it to you?"

  "Nothing. Just making conversation."

  "Well, I have to tie up, and then I'm going," he says. "See you." When I don't move, he frowns. "Did you want something else?"

  "I-- No. Sorry. Have a nice day."

  He nods and starts the engine, pulling the Twin Menace away from the dock out to his mooring, then disappears back into the hold, busy with whatever keeps him there.

  Clearly, I have to go. I can't be here when Malone comes in, because that would be too obvious and desperate. Hi, Malone, I'm just hanging around waiting for you. How was your day? Want to kiss me again? I wince and wisely decide to go home.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MONDAY IS MY DAY OFF, and I use it to clean my apartment and Mrs. K.'s. As I vacuum up her popcorn crumbs, she follows me around carefully, pointing with her cane at parts I've missed.

  "Right there, Maggie, dear. And gracious! There, too! I can't get over how sloppy I am!" I smile--she says this every week. When I'm done, I check her fridge and make sure she's got enough of the barley soup I brought over yesterday.

  "Need anything, Mrs. K.?" I ask.

  "Dear, I'm fine. But tell me, did you have a friend over the other night?"

  I freeze momentarily. "No, no. Just, you know, someone, um, gave me a ride home."

  "I thought it was a man," she says.

  "Well, yes, actually, it was a man. Malone. My brother's friend." I hope she
doesn't pick up on my blush.

  "Malone? I don't know anyone by the name of Malone. Is he good people? Should you be driving around late at night with strangers?"

  "Well, he's not really a stranger, Mrs. K., because my brother knows him."

  But of course he is a stranger. And he still hasn't called me. I looked up his phone number to make sure he has a phone, and he does. Whether he uses it is another question. Again, I can't imagine why he'd kiss me like that and then just...

  "He's certainly a manly man, isn't he?" Mrs. K. offers. God, did she have binoculars trained on him?

  "Malone? Sure, I guess so." I pause in mopping the floor of the tiny kitchen.

  "I've always liked the manly ones, you know. Mr. Kandinsky wasn't like that, but he was a dear. He never understood why I just loved Charles Bronson, but I did! I think I've seen every Death Wish ever made."

  "Well, we'll have to rent them, won't we?" I say, giving her a kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek.

  Upstairs in my neat little apartment, I still have no messages. My mail contains only credit card offers and my phone bill. Nothing from Malone to indicate he's interested in me.

  By five o'clock, I'm climbing the walls. I've cleaned, baked, dropped in on Chantal at town hall and gone grocery shopping. I've read a little, took Colonel to the beach and then brushed his fur afterward. I decide it's time for a walk.

  Colonel pads after me as we leave the center of our little town. Gideon's Cove hugs the rocky shore, as the town was founded for shipbuilding purposes. I can see the turret of Christy and Will's house, the gold-painted cross of St. Mary's. I head in the opposite direction.

  The air is soft and damp, and while it will probably drop into the low forties tonight, it's still pretty mild. House lights are on, giving a cozy feel to the neighborhood, and I can smell various meals cooking...the Mastersons are having chicken...something garlicky and delicious at the Ferrises' house...Stokowskis are having cabbage... Colonel licks his chops and lingers at that driveway.

  We walk uphill, away from the water. Rolly and his wife are sitting on their porch. "Hello, Christy, dear," calls out Mrs. Rolly.

  "Hello," I call back. "It's Maggie, actually."

  "Oh, I'm sorry, of course. Christy's the one with the baby. What was I thinking?"

  "That's okay," I answer. "Nice night, isn't it?"