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  My mouth drops open. "Christy!" We start laughing simultaneously, reaching for each other's hands at the same moment.

  Christy and I are identical twins. And we are quite identical still, though Christy had a baby eight months ago. We weigh exactly the same, have the same bra size, shoe size, pants size. We each have a mole on our left cheeks. We both have a slightly crooked pinky on our right hands. Though Christy dresses a little better than I do, most people can't tell us apart. In fact, only Will, Christy's husband, has never once confused us. Even our parents goof once in a while, and, Jonah, who is younger by eight years, doesn't try awfully hard to distinguish us.

  We often call each other only to get a busy signal because the other had the same thought at the same moment. Sometimes we get each other the same birthday card or pick out the same sweater from the L.L. Bean catalog. If I buy tulips for my kitchen table, it's a good bet that Christy has done the same thing.

  But once in a while, in order to create some sense of individuality, one of us will get the urge to try something new. And so, on Monday when the diner was closed, I went to Jonesport and got my hair layered a little, had a few highlights put in. Apparently Christy had the same thought. Once more, we are identical.

  "When did you get yours done?" I ask.

  "Yesterday. You?" She smiles as she reaches out to touch my new 'do.

  "Monday, so the haircut is really mine." I grin as I say it. I don't mind. In fact, I've always kind of liked being mistaken for Christy. "I wear mine in a ponytail most of the time, anyway," I say. "Plus, you have better clothes."

  "Unstained, anyway," she smiles, sitting at the counter. She takes off her coat and drapes it over the next stool. I go over to the stroller, which is one of those complicated Swedish affairs with everything from a wind guard to a cappuccino maker, and twist my head inside. Stretching my lips, I can just about kiss my sleeping niece. "Hello, angel," I whisper, worshiping her perfect skin and feathery eyelashes. "God, Christy, she gets more beautiful every day."

  "I know," Christy answers smugly. "So what's new?"

  "Oh, not much. Father Tim was in. I think he may have heard me tell him I love him."

  "Oh, Maggie." Christy chuckles sympathetically. She knows better than to spout the platitudes that everyone else does... Why are you wasting your time on a priest? Can't you find somebody else? You really should meet someone, Maggie. Have you tried the Internet/volunteering/church/dating services/speed dating/singles clubs/singles nights/singles cruises/prostitution? (This last one was suggested by my brother's friend Stevie, who has been hitting on me since he was twelve years old.)

  I've tried volunteering. And church, of course, contains the root of my problem. But singles nights and those speed dating things... Well, first of all, we don't have much of that in rural Maine. The nearest big city is Bar Harbor, and that's at least an hour and a half south, if the weather is clear. As for the Internet, those services smack of deceit. A person could say anything, after all. What better way to lie about yourself? How many stories have I heard about a person being sorely disappointed by his or her Internet date? So, while there may be merit in that venue, I've never tried it.

  Christy knows. She's suffered with me as much as a happily married person can suffer. She had no problem meeting Will, her lovely, nice-looking and yes, doctor husband. They live in a restored Victorian that was built by a sea captain. They have a beautiful view of the water. They go out to dinner in Machias once a week, and I babysit (for free, of course). And while I don't begrudge Christy all the nice things she's got, it does seem a little unfair. After all, we are genetically identical. She has hit Lotto in life; I've got a crush on the priest.

  "Want to come for dinner tonight, see if we can fool Will?" she says, toying with the ends of her newly cut hair.

  "Sure," I say. "The pies will be out pretty soon. Want me to bring one?"

  "No, that's okay. We'll cook for you, hon. Oh, and I picked this up for you when I was in Machias." She fishes a little bottle from her purse. "Got it at a little shop that sells all sorts of neat stuff, earrings and scarves and little soaps. It's got beeswax in it."

  One of the byproducts of living in northern coastal Maine and owning a diner--and hence, having my hands in water or near hot oil all the time--is that my hands are horribly chapped. Thickened from work, nails cut short, rough cuticles and red patches of eczema, my hands are my worst feature. I wage a constant quest to find a hand cream that will really help them look and feel nicer, sampling every product under the sun with little or no effect.

  "Thanks, Christy." I try some. "It smells lovely. Is that lavender?" I can already tell that it's too lightweight for me.

  "Mmm-hmm. Hope it helps."

  An hour later, we're at Christy's. A roast is in the oven, and I'm entertaining Violet by dangling some measuring spoons in front of her face. She bats at them, cooing and drooling, and I kiss her hair. "Can you say spoons, Violet?" I ask. "Spoons?"

  "Bwee," she answers.

  "Very good!" Christy and I chorus. The baby smiles, flashing her two teeth, and another waterfall of drool pours out of her rosebud mouth onto my lap.

  We hear Will's car pull into the garage. "Oh, he's home," Christy says. "Quick, give me the baby. I'll go in the living room and you stand at the stove. Here, put on my apron." Giggling, she flings it to me, grabs the baby and scampers off.

  For a brief second, I stand at the stove and let myself imagine that it's my home, my husband, my baby, my roast. That a man who loves me is hurrying in to kiss me, that the beautiful baby will call me Mommy. That this warm and lovely kitchen is a place I've decorated, the place where my family feels closest, laughs the most.

  Will opens the door that joins the kitchen with the garage. My back is to him. "Hey, Maggie. Your hair looks pretty, too." Laughing, he kisses my cheek. "Still trying to fool me?"

  Christy appears, her cheeks bright. "We had to try," she says. "Hi, babe." They kiss, and Violet reaches a chubby hand to caress her father's face. I stir the gravy, smiling. I can envy my sister and rejoice for her, too. The two aren't mutually exclusive.

  "So how was work, Doctor?" I ask. Will is one of two town doctors and sees just about everyone in Gideon's Cove. He hired my mother as his part-time secretary, cementing the idea that Will Jones is a saint.

  "It was great," he says, taking his daughter from Christy. "Daddy was just saving lives, healing wounded bodies, soothing broken spirits, the usual."

  "Does that mean no one barfed on you today?" my sister quips.

  "How about you, Maggie?" Will asks. "Anything new?"

  How I hate that question, second in loathing only to Seeing anyone? "No, not really," I say. "Not that I can think of, anyway. But everything is great. Just fine. Thanks, Will."

  "Hey, hon," Christy says, "remember you mentioned that guy at the hospital? You said you'd try to fix Maggie up with him?"

  Will opens the fridge and pulls out three beers. "Right. Yeah. Roger Martin. Nice guy, Mags. He's a nurse. What do you say? Want to be fixed up?"

  "Sure," I say, taking a long pull on my beer to cover my embarrassment. It still bothers me that I must rely on the kindness of others to get a date. However, I'm thirty-two years old. Time's a-wastin'. "But, you know, only if he is interested. And if he's nice. Is he nice?"

  "Of course he's nice!" Christy exclaims, not that she's met him. "You said he was kind of cute, right, Will?"

  "Yeah, I guess. But you know, I'm straight, so I couldn't really say, Mrs. Jones." He breaks into the song they danced to at their wedding two years ago. "'Mrs... Mrs...Mrs...Mrs. Jo-ones. We've got a thing going on....'"

  "Please stop, you're scaring the baby," Christy says, her cheeks rosy with pleasure.

  I love my sister with all my heart. Violet is the joy of my life, and Will is one of the best people I've ever met, one of the few who might deserve my twin. But tonight, it's hard to be with them, as much as Christy and Will genuinely welcome me into their home. The fact remains that I'm a v
isitor, and I want what they have. The inside jokes, the unconscious affection, the nicknames.

  Christy senses this. After the dinner dishes are done, she walks me to the door. "You want a ride?" she asks.

  "No, no. That's-- It's great out. Great night for a walk." Great in March on the northern coast of Maine is a bit of a stretch, but I could do with a walk. I wrap my scarf around my neck, pull my hat over my ears and call to Colonel, who has been enjoying the bone Will sneaked him.

  "You'll find someone," my sister whispers, hugging me. "You will."

  "Sure! I know. Just a matter of time. Or maybe we could clone Will." I smile and hug her back. "Thanks for dinner, Christy. Love you." I walk down the steps, holding Colonel's collar so he won't fall. His hips are a little arthritic, and stairs can be tricky for him.

  "Love you, too," she calls.

  I have just enough time to go home, help Colonel up my own stairs, get him settled, go back to the diner, pick up the apricot squares and walk to the rectory. There are five other people there already, all women, all half in love with Father Tim, though not to the degree or with the public scrutiny that I myself suffer.

  "Maggie!" Father Tim exclaims. He walks over to me, and I can smell the soap he uses. His radiant smile makes my cheeks burn. "There you are! And what have we here? Ah, now, Maggie, you'd tempt a saint." Mrs. Plutarski, St. Mary's gorgon secretary, frowns. Of course, Father Tim is talking about my baking, not my feminine charms. Crooning softly over the dessert, he puts the tray on a sideboard. His ass is a work of art. These sinful thoughts are getting you nowhere, Maggie, I inform myself sternly. But yes, it is a work of art.

  "Now, then, ladies, I believe we were going to discuss this lovely passage from the Book of Wisdom, weren't we? Mabel, love, why don't you get us started and read verses five through eleven?"

  For the next hour, I stare at Father Tim, drinking in his expressive eyes, compassionate and perfect smile, his lilting accent. My feelings flit between lust for him and annoyance with myself. If only I could meet someone else. If only I could get over Father Tim. Better yet, if only he were Episcopalian! Then we could get married and live here in this cozy home with our beautiful, green-eyed children. Liam, maybe, and Colleen. A new baby is on the way. We're considering Conor for a boy, Fiona for a girl.

  "Maggie, what do you think? Do you agree with Louise?" Father Tim asks expectantly.

  "Yes! Yes, I do. Mmm-hmm. Good point, Louise." I have no idea what she just said. I vaguely remember something about light...but no, there's nothing there. Mrs. Plutarski snorts.

  Father Tim winks at me. He knows. I feel my cheeks grow warm. Again.

  When Bible study is over--not that I've become educated, enriched or spiritually moved, mind you--I feel the uncharacteristic desire to leave. The others have already congregated around the sideboard, pouring coffee and falling onto my pretty squares.

  "I've got to go, folks," I say, waving. "Sorry. Enjoy the snack."

  "Thanks, Maggie," Father Tim says around a mouthful. "I'll just drop the tray off at the diner, shall I?"

  "That would be great."

  He waves as he reaches for another square, and I smile fondly, happy to have pleased him. Then I head home, glad that Colonel, at least, is waiting for me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON, I leave the diner, all the goodies ready for baking tomorrow, and head for home. There's a bounce in my step. Will, best brother-in-law in the world, has come through. I have a date.

  It's been a long time. Quite a while. I wrack my brain, trying to remember the last actual date I had, and come up empty. Before Father Tim came to town, that's for sure.

  Oh, well, it doesn't matter. I pat Colonel for reassurance and pull my coat a little closer. Tonight I have a date, and I'm going to enjoy it. A nice dinner and some company, the buzz of potential. I turn at my street and make my way to the small house I bought a few years ago. On the first floor lives Mrs. Kandinsky, my tenant. She is ninety-one years old, a lovely, tiny bird of a woman who knits me sweaters and hats with amazing speed, given that her hands curl in on themselves with arthritis.

  I knock on Mrs. K.'s door and wait. It takes her a while to get up sometimes. Finally, the door opens a suspicious crack. Then she sees that it's just me. "Hello, dear!" she chirps.

  "Hello, Mrs. K.!" I chirp back, leaning down a foot or so to kiss her silky, wrinkled cheek. "I brought you some meat loaf. All the fixings, too."

  "Oh, Maggie, how nice! I didn't know what I was going to cook for dinner! And now I don't have to! You're an angel, you are. Come in, come in." Her emphatic way of talking makes it sound a bit like she's singing, and I find myself unconsciously imitating her after a few minutes in her company.

  Although I don't have to leave for a couple of hours, I want to go upstairs and enjoy the rare feeling of date anticipation. But Mrs. K. is so sweet, and many days, I'm the only person she sees. Her aging children live out of state, and most of her friends are long gone. I usually bring her a meal from the diner for both unselfish and selfish reasons--I don't want her burning my house down, trying to cook. So she gets plenty of blueberry scones and muffins and pot roast, or cheddar mac and cheese or whatever else I've made that day.

  We go into her living room, which is crowded with overstuffed furniture, magazines and a small television. She's tapped into my satellite dish and is currently watching a soccer match between Italy and Russia. The smell of old person, close and medicinal and oddly comforting, tickles my throat.

  "I can't stay, Mrs. K.," I tell her. "I actually have a date tonight." There I go again, blurting out my news. At least this time I know the guy isn't a priest.

  "How lovely, dear! I remember when Mr. Kandinsky courted me. My father didn't approve, you know," she said.

  I do know. I've heard this story dozens of times. To remind her of this fact, I say, "Right. He used to show Mr. K. his gun collection, didn't he?"

  "My father used to show Walter his gun collection while he waited for me! Can you imagine!" Her wizened face wrinkles even more as she laughs, a lovely, tinkling sound.

  "Well, Mr. K. must have loved you very much, if he stood for that," I tell her, smiling.

  "Oh, yes. He did. Would you like me to warm up some meat loaf for you, too, Maggie dear?"

  I lean down again and kiss her cheek. "No, I have a date, remember? But I'll warm it up for you." I tuck the dish into the microwave and press the buttons. Mrs. K. often forgets how to use the microwave, though I sometimes smell popcorn late at night. I guess she figures it out for important things. On the counter is a bottle of Eucerin Dry Skin Therapy Plus Intensive Repair Hand Creme. "Mrs. K., is it all right if I try your hand cream?" I ask.

  "Of course! My mother always said, you can judge a lady by her hands."

  "I hope not," I mutter, attacking a cracked spot near my thumb.

  Ten minutes later, I go upstairs to my apartment. Colonel seems stiffer than usual, and I have to boost him up the last few steps. "Here you go, big guy," I tell him, fixing his supper. I press a glucosamine pill and some doggy anti-inflammatories into a spoonful of peanut butter and turn to him. "Peanut butter blob!" I announce. He wags happily as he laps his medicine off the spoon. "Good boy. And here's your supper, Mr. Handsome." Given the state of his hips, I don't make him sit first.

  Responsibilities finished, I take a minute to flop into my chair and relax. My apartment is small--a minute kitchen, living room, tiny bedroom and fairy-sized bathroom that barely has enough room for me to stand. But I love it. A seaman's chest, filled with afghans from Mrs. Kandinsky, serves as a coffee table. Pictures of Violet decorate the fridge, and some African violets, in honor of my niece, blossom on the windowsill. Little collections of matchstick boxes and animal-shaped salt and pepper shakers line a shelf that my father and I put up a few years ago. Some old tin pie plates hang on the wall, and instead of hooks, I use old porcelain or glass doorknobs to hang my coats. Six or seven decorative birdhouses hang on the wall, gifts from my dad, w
ho makes them almost as fast as Mrs. K. crochets afghans.

  Well. Time to get ready for my date! I've already planned what to wear--black pants, red sweater and a nice pair of suede shoes to slip on at the restaurant. The ice, salt and mud between my apartment and my car would ruin anything other than my faithful L. L. Bean boots in a matter of one step. I shower, dry my hair and take care of my face, then take a look in the mirror, pleased. I don't often wear my hair down, but it looks pretty and soft, thanks to the new cut and color. My gray eyes look bigger with makeup, and the blush I applied does wonders for my pale skin. I put on a necklace, give my dog a rawhide chew stick and leave.

  Roger Martin, the nurse with whom I am having dinner, called me three days ago at Will's urging. He sounded pleasant, though we didn't talk too much. We agreed to meet at The Loon, a nice restaurant in Machias that Christy and Will frequent. Why he needs to be fixed up is a bit of a mystery--but then again, I need to be fixed up, so I try to reserve judgment.

  It takes a while to get to the restaurant from Gideon's Cove, as the roads are narrow and twisting out of our little peninsula. I don't mind; I hum along with the one radio station I pick up as I drive. I don't leave town too often, to tell the truth, and I usually walk around town or ride my bike. My car, a Subaru station wagon, is good for loading up at the Wal-Mart in Calais when I need stuff for the diner--gallons of Windex and bleach, trash bags, flour--but for day-to-day, I prefer human-powered transportation.

  I pass the University of Maine campus and continue through town. The restaurant is a cheerful, timber-beam place with fairy lights strewn on the bushes outside. It's lovely inside as well, wide-planked floors, candles twinkling, white tablecloths, a piano in one corner. I ask the maitre d' if Roger is here and am led to a table. Sure enough, there he is, studying the menu. The unfamiliar, nervous thrill of meeting someone new washes over me.

  "Hi, Maggie, I'm Roger," he says, standing to shake my hand. He is somewhat average-looking; neither handsome nor homely, medium height, just a little chubby. His eyes are blue, his hair brown and receding.