Catch of the Day Page 5

  Yes, I knew it was rare for high school sweethearts to marry...but it certainly happened. Some of the happiest couples out there met in high school. As I scraped the grill or mopped the floors with bleach, took abuse from the summer nuisance and treated grease burns on my hands, I thought of the nice house Skip and I would have. Winter Harbor, maybe. Bar Harbor, even. If he did get re-signed, I'd just travel around with him, be the loving arms he came home to each night, whether he felt discouraged or triumphant. I'd make a great baseball wife.

  So Skip got out of the Lexus. And then he turned and gave his hand to someone else. He always was courtly, Skip.

  She was a beautiful, elegant girl--woman, I guess--bloodred knit suit, blond hair in a French twist. The mayor and high school baseball coach and head of the Little League waited up on the little gazebo, and Skip and his parents and the blond girl went up and took their seats. There were four chairs waiting for them, I noted, and that fourth chair was not for me.

  That was the first time my heart was broken in public.

  There were probably murmurs as I pushed my way through the crowd, away from the gazebo. I didn't hear them. Probably, I was sobbing. I know I was covering my face, because I stumbled a couple of times, my rubbery knees buckling. My parents saw and followed, and it was the most humiliating, painful moment of my life bar none, even counting Father Tim's first Mass in Gideon's Cove.

  People must have said, "Oh, no, poor Maggie... Gosh, Skip's moved on and she didn't even... Poor thing." And while Skip had done an awful, unkind thing, he was nonetheless a star, and it was understandable, wasn't it? I mean, why stick with your little townie girlfriend if the daughter of a Texas oil baron will have you?

  He called me, not right away, but later that weekend. "This thing with Annabelle just happened so fast...I tried to tell you... Things with us were winding down anyway... It's not like we were exclusive."

  Silly me. I thought we were.

  Skip and Annabelle left Gideon's Cove the next week. That same week my father gave me a two-year-old Golden Retriever and hugged me wordlessly, and Christy had me visit her at grad school. Then my grandfather died suddenly, and I had other things to think about. I was a business owner now. I had a dog to train. A little brother who needed help with homework. Lots to do.

  It was with deep satisfaction that I saw Skip sent back to the AA league after an abysmal start with Minnesota. But it didn't stop him from marrying Annabelle later that same year, and they moved to Bar Harbor, to a house on the water purchased, no doubt, with her daddy's money.

  Skip is now a salesman for a high-end car company, and when they come back to Gideon's Cove, which is rare, it's always in some much-admired, sexy sports car or an environment-raping SUV. He never comes to Joe's Diner, thank God. I haven't spoken to him since he dumped me.

  So if my love life is a source of amusement to the town, it's understandable. First Skip, now the priest. I try to take it well. For the most part, I'm very happy with my life. I love the diner, and I love my little apartment. I love the old folks I feed and I certainly love my family.

  But sometimes at night, when I'm folding laundry or watching TV or planning the diner's menu for the week, I pretend I'm married. "What do you think? Will people eat butternut squash bisque in this town?" Or, watching the Fan Cam during a Red Sox game, "Look at that guy. Do you think he could chew with his mouth shut?" Or even, when I just want to test it out, I might say "How was your day, honey?"

  Colonel wags his beautiful tail when he hears me speaking to my imaginary hubby. Sometimes he comes over and pushes his big white head against me until I smile. That dog licked away a lot of tears during our first few weeks together, and he's been my emotional barometer ever since. If he could take on human form, I'd marry him instantly. But since that won't happen, and since Father Tim is not going to leave the priesthood and marry me, I'm a bit helpless when loneliness decides to shove its way so rudely to the front of the line.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "HELLO, BABY BOY," I call to my brother. I'm at the diner, which Jonah visits daily. "How are the traps?"

  "Not bad," he answers. "Got any French toast today, Maggot?"

  Much to my parents' dismay, Jonah is a lobsterman. Having lived in Gideon's Cove their entire lives, our folks know what a hard life it is. Dad's a retired teacher, and my mom recently left the hospital, where she was head secretary of the OB/GYN unit. In fact, she was the one who introduced Christy and Will.

  Mom and Dad didn't really want their kids to go blue collar. They themselves are both college grads, which is rare around here, and my dad's master's degree is even more special. But despite my graduating from college, and Jonah having been given the same chance, Mom and Dad ended up with a diner owner and a lobsterman. Only Christy has done what they hoped--she graduated from college and even went on to get her master's in social work. She loved her career with the Department of Children and Families, then became a stay-at-home mom when Violet was born.

  But last year, Jonah went in on a boat with another guy and has been making ends meet since. It's backbreaking work and means getting out of bed as early as 3:00 a.m., depending on how many traps you have. Most lobstermen do other kinds of fishing, too--flounder, cod, mackerel, halibut, sea bass, so when the lobstering season finishes, the boats keep running. Occasionally, a tourist will want a charter, and Jonah, who is handsome and good-natured, gets hired quite a bit during the brief Maine summer. But regulations and decreasing sea life and a million other things have turned lobstering into an even more difficult job.

  Jonah lives in a little house with two other guys, a place so filthy and infested with nasty socks, moldy leftovers and dirty underwear that Human Services should shut it down. It's no wonder that he comes into the diner every day. The fact that I feed him for free is an added allure.

  "Heard you had a crappy date the other night," Jonah says as I set his plate down in front of him. Judy reads the paper and ignores my brother... He never leaves a tip, so she never waits on him. The morning rush, as it were, has subsided, and only a few lobstermen, back from checking their lines, come in this late.

  "Yes, it was kind of bad," I admit, wiping down the counter. "Want more coffee?"

  "Thanks, sissy." He lets me fill his cup, dumps some cream into it and takes a slurp. "Well, speaking of dates, Christy called me yesterday. Wants me to keep an eye out for you."

  As if summoned, our sister appears in the doorway, pink-cheeked from the wind. "Mmm," she says, inhaling appreciatively. "It smells so good in here. Can I have some coffee, too, please?"

  "Cuppa joe, coming up," I tell her. I ring up Bob Castellano while Christy takes off her coat and sits next to Jonah. "Thanks for coming in, Bob," I say, handing him his change. "Did you fill out a ballot?"

  "Ayuh. And don't worry, sweetheart. You'll meet someone. Have a good day, now, hear?"

  "Thank you, Bob," I answer, mortified. I take off my apron, bend down to scratch Colonel, then sit with my siblings. "And I don't know, maybe we could not talk about my love life in front of my customers, how would that be?"

  "Why? You want them to think you're still stuck on Father Tim?" Jonah asks.

  I scowl, then sigh. "I am still stuck on Father Tim, that's the whole problem."

  "Well, that's kinda dumb, isn't it?" Jonah asks needlessly.

  "Yes, Jonah, it is. Which is why I asked you to be on the lookout," Christy answers.

  "Christy, Jonah is eight years younger than we are," I point out. "And in addition to being mere children, his friends are also idiots."

  "Good point," Jonah murmurs.

  "Well, he might run into someone new," Christy says, staring thoughtfully into her cup. "A new fireman or something. A new boat at the dock. Something like that."

  "Mmm. Unlikely," I say. "But I like your optimism."

  "So, yeah, I'll be looking out for you, Mags. Wanted...boyfriend for my sister. Must be...well, what are you looking for, Maggie?"

  "Someone who's not married to Holy M
other Church," I say. "Let's start with the basics. No priests, no married men, no alcoholics, drug addicts or prison inmates."

  Jonah laughs. "Well, shit, Maggot, that rules out everyone I know."

  "What about Malone, Joe?" Christy asks, suddenly sitting up straight. "The guy who moors next to you?"

  "Malone?" Jonah says. "Yeah, sure. Mags, how about Malone?"

  "Maloner the Loner?" I say. "Come on! He's a mute hermit." I take a sip from my coffee, remembering my agonizing ride last year from Maloner the Loner. "No hermits."

  "He's not a bad guy," Jonah says.

  "He's scary, Jonah," I answer. "But thanks."

  LATER THAT NIGHT, Chantal and I meet at Dewey's Pub. She's at our usual table, facing the bar, flirting with Paul Dewey by tying a maraschino cherry stem in a knot. With her tongue. Paul sits in front of her, slack-jawed, as Chantal's ripe mouth works seductively. Then her tongue pops out, and voila! There's the stem, tied in a near-perfect circle.

  "Thee?" she lisps. "Ten buckth, pleathe."

  "Jeezum crow," Dewey mutters, fishing out his wallet. "Hey, Maggie."

  "Hey, Dewey. How did the casserole go over?" I say.

  "Sold out already," he says, dragging his eyes to me. "Twenty bucks for you."

  "Great. Hey, Chantal. Up to your usual tricks, I see." I force a smile.

  I'll be honest. Chantal is one of those friends of necessity. She has some nice qualities, but it's probably fair to say that aside from our single status and the fact that we both live and grew up in this town, we don't have a lot in common. She has the kind of 1940s glamour of Rita Hayworth, the curves of Marilyn Monroe and the ethics of Tony Soprano...at least when it comes to men. Use 'em and lose 'em is her motto.

  However, she's also lively and funny, and a pretty good listener to boot. Like me, she is available, single and looking for a good man (so she says, though it seems like she'll sleep with just about anyone). And because Christy shouldn't be the only female friend I have, I try to ignore the fact that Chantal is every man's fantasy come true.

  "How was your date?" she asks. Small town, nothing to talk about except my embarrassing love life, I guess.

  "Well...it was freakish." I get a beer and tell her about Roger, the ruination of the lobster, the attempt to contact Dicky in the great beyond. Like Father Tim, she is crying with laughter by the end of it. I sit back and take a pull of my beer, satisfied that, if I can't find a good man, I can tell a good story.

  "Jesus, what a... God, I don't even know what to call it," Chantal says, wiping her eyes. She snorts again, then scans the bar. "We should move," she muses. "Alaska has a lot of men, doesn't it? Plenty to screw in Alaska."

  "The last frontier," I murmur. "Of course, we won't move. Well, I won't. Would you?"

  "Nah. You know...too much effort, I guess. Plus, I have a good job and all."

  "Right." Chantal works in the town hall as a secretary, one of four employees there. She knows everyone's business and is free with her gossip.

  "Hey, I went to church this morning," Chantal says with a sly smile. Like a lot of local women under the age of one hundred and four, she's going to church again. "And guess what?" Chantal continued. "I joined the bereavement group."

  I close my eyes and sigh. "Chantal..."

  "For widows and widowers, you know. There was an announcement in the bulletin." Chantal adjusts her shirt so that more of her impressive cleavage shows. Conversation at the bar stops briefly as the men admire the show. Another inch and they'd be able to nurse.

  "And how long have you been a widow?" I ask.

  "Oh, gosh...twenty years, I guess. I was eighteen when we got married, nineteen when he died."

  Chantal mentioned once, when we first starting hanging out, that she was widowed ages ago. It's strange to think that Chantal was married; she's only six years older than I am but has been a widow more than half her life. "What was his name, your husband?" I ask.

  "Chris. Cute guy."

  "That must have been really hard," I say.

  "It sucked," she answers. "At least we didn't have kids."

  "Did you want to?"

  "Oh, shit, no. No, Maggie, I'm not the motherly type." She laughs and takes a swig of her drink, emptying the glass.

  "So you're suddenly seeking the solace of a grief group?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  "Well, I guess I'd rather sit there and have Father Tim comfort me than sit at home, scratching my ass," she says cheerfully. "He gives great hugs. He must lift weights or something."

  I am simultaneously jealous and irritated with my own hypocrisy. Chantal has joined a church group in order to be near Father Tim. Sounds familiar. I picture Father Tim patting my hand, looking sorrowfully and deeply into my eyes as I detail the terrible loss. "Bereavement group. You're so lucky," I say without thinking, then blush. "Sorry, Chantal. That didn't come out right."

  "Well, I'm pretty lucky," she says, shrugging. "Hey, Paul, can we get another round?"

  Dewey nearly soils himself in his haste to get close to Chantal again. "Sorry, what did you say?" he says, staring down her blouse. Chantal smiles and arches her back. I roll my eyes, feeling very flat-chested indeed, my plain little 34-Bs nothing compared to the bounty that Chantal is offering. Dewey licks his lips. My teeth clench.

  "Another round, honey. Maybe on the house, what do you say? For your favorite girls?" Chantal tucks a finger into her shirt and pulls it just a fraction lower.

  "Sure," Dewey whispers.

  "Chantal! Stop," I say. I'm blushing, even if she's not. Paul walks in a trance back to the bar. "I'll have a Grey Goose martini, Paul," she says, as if he carries that high-end stuff.

  "Burnett's okay?" he calls back.

  "Sure, baby." Preening, she turns her attention back to me.

  "Nice floor show," I comment.

  "We're drinking for free, aren't we?" she says smugly. "What were we talking about? Oh, yeah, my husband."

  Jonah comes in and does a double take when he sees Chantal. She smiles back at him. In order to distract Chantal from undressing my baby brother with her eyes, I ask, "So, did you love him?"

  "Who? Oh, Chris? Sure. I guess. I mean, we were teenagers. Screwed our brains out, I'll say that."

  "God, that's so romantic," I say, unable to suppress a smile. "I think Hallmark has a line of cards like that. 'I miss screwing your brains out, my darling departed husband."

  Chantal laughs her big, rolling laugh. "'Baby, no one did me like you.' There's probably a market for that. Should look into it." She excuses herself to go to the bathroom, and I go up to the bar to say hi to Jonah, despite the fact that it's been mere hours since we last saw each other.

  "Hi," I say. "What's up?"

  "Hey, Mags. Nothing. How about you?" he says amiably.

  "Hanging out."

  "Is it okay if I come over to watch TV tomorrow night?" Jonah asks. "There's that crabbing show on Discovery. Looked cool."

  "Sure." I own one of the few satellite dishes in town. The cable service frequently goes out way up here, and as a single woman, well, let's face it. I watch a lot of TV.

  Chantal returns. "Jonah! My, how you've grown," she purrs.

  My earlier amusement at her antics evaporates. Even though Jonah is a grown man (officially, anyway), I don't want him decimated by a man-eater like Chantal. "Chantal, stop. Not my brother. Leave Jonah alone."

  "No, no, no. Chantal, stay. Don't leave Jonah alone," Jonah says, grinning. "Hey, Chantal, you know anyone Maggie here could date? We're trawling for men who will go out with her."

  "Thanks so much, Joe," I say, pinching him. "A little louder, please? I don't think they heard you in Jonesport."

  "Hell, I don't know," Chantal says. "The pickings are certainly slim. Present company excluded." She edges closer to Jonah.

  I get up and wedge myself between them. "If you sleep with my brother, I will be very mad at you, Chantal," I say firmly. "Jonah, Chantal is a diseased woman. Crabs, chlamydia, gonorrhea, herpes, syphilis..."


  "Don't believe her, Jonah. Underneath all this, there's a heart of gold." She gestures to her chest.

  "Is there?" Jonah asks. "Can I see?"

  "Stop, Joe!" I smack my brother on the back of his head.

  Chantal smiles. "Back to your problem, Maggie. How about Malone?"

  "God, you're the second person today who's said that!" I exclaim, jarred out of my irritation. "First Christy, now you."

  "Why not?" Chantal says. "He's kind of cute."

  "This from the woman who said Dick Cheney had that 'sexy bald thing' going on."

  Chantal shrugs. "Well, I can't help it if it's true."

  I stare at her. "Chantal, please. Maybe, I don't know, Andre Agassi or Montel Williams. But not Dick Cheney. Dick Cheney will never have a sexy anything going on."

  "Well, Malone's got that Clive Owen thing going on," she continues, taking a sip of her martini.

  "Clive Owen after being beaten and left for dead, maybe."

  "More importantly, he's single. Right, Jonah?"

  My brother nods sagely at Chantal's breasts. "Ayuh."

  "Malone is surly, scary and ugly," I say. "So I'm gonna pass on him, if you don't mind."

  "I don't know," Chantal says. She looks past me. "What do you say, Malone? Want to go out with Maggie?"

  Crap. Crappety crap crap. I close my eyes and let the mortification wash over me. Big Mouth strikes again. And Chantal led me right into it.

  I open my eyes and glance past my brother. There he is, surly, scary and ugly. "Hi. Sorry."

  As nothing brings my brother as much joy as his sister's humiliation, Jonah is slapping the bar in mirth. "You know Maggie, right, Malone?" he chortles gleefully.

  Malone stares at me, unsmiling, and he is a little scary. But I never noticed, on the rare occasion that I've been this close to him, that his eyes are actually quite nice, light blue contrasting with thick black eyelashes. Short, curly black hair, heavy eyebrows, sharp cheekbones. Deep lines run between his eyebrows, out from his eyes, alongside his mouth, and let me assure you, they're not laugh lines. It occurs to me that I've never really looked Malone straight in the face before. Actually, I can kind of see what Chantal means...a little. He's definitely masculine and--