Kitabı oku: «Catch of the Day»

Praise forKristan Higgins’s debut novel

Fools Rush In

“Where has Kristan Higgins been all my life? Fools Rush In is a spectacular debut.” —USA TODAY bestselling author Elizabeth Bevarly

“Higgins reached deep into every woman’s soul and showed some heavy truths in a fantastically funny and touching tale. This book is on my keeper shelf and will remain there for eternity. It will be re-read and loved for years to come.”

—Dee & dee Dish…About Books

“A fresh intelligent voice—Kristan Higgins is too much fun!”

—Cindy Gerard, USA TODAY bestselling author

“Higgins is a talented writer [who] will make you want to search high and low for anything that she has written.”

—Chicklit Romance Writers

“Outstanding! This is a story well worth reading.”

—Coffee Time Romance

Catch of the Day
Kristan Higgins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my sisters, Hilary Murray and Jacqueline Decker. You are my dearest friends, and I love you more than I can say.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Terence Keenan, my brave and handsome husband, is patient, tolerant, funny and oh, heck, just wonderful. Flannery and Declan Keenan are my favourite people in the world, and every day I’m quite thrilled to be their mummy.

Thanks to my mum, brother, smart and talented sisters, my lovely grandparents who always let me have two desserts, and the rest of my sprawling, boisterous family. On the business side, thanks to the world’s best agent, Maria Carvainis, who is so wise and gentle with this middle child. Thanks to Abby Zidle for her excellent input and to Tracy Farrell and Keyren Gerlach for putting the final shine on the copy. Thanks also to Cris Jaw, Virginia MacDonald and Gigi Lau for my fantastic covers.

As ever, I am indebted to writer Rose Morris, my great friend from the Pine Tree State, whose input greatly improves everything I write. Brad and Mary Wilkinson helped me fall in love with Maine by taking me to Eggemoggin Reach for two summers, and I will ever be grateful that I got to share their home and their kids on that lovely, rocky shore. When I was seven, my beloved dad brought me to Ogunquit and talked a lobsterman into letting us check pots with him. The boat was called the Ugly Anne.

PROLOGUE

FALLING IN LOVE with a Catholic priest was not my smartest move.

Obviously, I’m well aware of the whole vow-of-chastity, married-to-the-church thing. I realize that yearning for a priest doesn’t exactly further the cause of meeting my future husband. And in case I might have overlooked those little facts, I have an entire town pointing them out to me.

The problem is, even when someone is clearly wrong for you, he might seem…well, perfect. And aside from that one hulking detail, Father Tim O’Halloran is everything I’ve ever let myself dream of in a man. Kind, funny, charming, intelligent, hardworking. He likes the same movies I do. He loves my cooking. He compliments me often and laughs at my jokes. He cares about the people of my hometown, listens intently to their problems, offers gentle guidance when asked. And he’s from Ireland, the icing on the cake, because ever since I was sixteen years old and first saw U2 in concert, I’ve had a thing for Irish guys. So even though Father Tim has never said or done anything vaguely improper, I can’t help dreaming about what a great husband he’d make. I’m not really proud of this, but there it is.

My romantic problems predated Father Tim, though he’s probably the most colorful chapter in the joke book that makes up my love life. First off, it’s not easy being a single woman in Gideon’s Cove, Maine, population 1,407. Ostensibly there are enough males for females, but statistics can be misleading. Our town is in Washington County, the northernmost coastal county in our great state. We’re too far from Bar Harbor to attract many tourists, although we do live in what is undeniably one of the most beautiful areas of America. Grayshingled houses hug the harbor, and the air snaps with the smell of pine and salt. We’re a pretty old-fashioned town—most people make their living either by fishing, lobstering or working in the blueberry industry. It’s a lovely place, but it’s remote, a good three hundred miles north of Boston. Five hundred from New York City. Meeting new people is difficult.

I try. I’ve always tried. There have been a few boyfriends, sure. I cheerfully accept fix-ups and blind dates when they’re thrown my way, I do. I own and operate Joe’s Diner, the only restaurant in town, so I have plenty of chances to meet people. And I volunteer—I volunteer my ass off, to be frank. I deliver meals to the infirm. I cook for the soup kitchen on Tuesday nights and bring whatever leftovers I have on an almost daily basis. I provide dinner at the fire department’s monthly meeting. I organize clothing drives and fund-raisers and offer to cater just about any event for a minimal profit, as long as it’s for a good cause. I am a pillar of society, and truthfully, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

But in the back of my mind, there’s a selfish motive. I can’t help hoping that my good works and cheerful attitude will be noticed by someone…perhaps some rich and handsome grandson of the elderly man whose dinner I delivered, or some new-to-town volunteer fireman who just happens to be, oh I don’t know, a board member of Oxfam and a brain surgeon, too.

However, the charitable neurosurgeon has proved elusive, and as of one year ago, when I was thirty-one years old, I remained single with no credible prospects on the horizon. That’s when I met Father Tim.

I had gone for a bike ride out to Quoddy State Park. We were having a warm snap, for March, anyway—the temperature reached forty degrees, the snow had softened, the breeze was quiet. I’d spent most of the day cooped up inside, and a bike ride seemed like just the thing to do. Clad in layers of fleece and microfiber, I rode further than usual in the brisk air and fading sunlight of the afternoon. Then, with classic New England unpredictability, a drenching, icy rainstorm blew in from the west. I was a good ten miles from town when my bike wheel slid on some ice. I went ass over teakettle down an embankment, right into a wet patch of snow that concealed eight inches of mud and ice. Not only was I filthy, freezing and wet, I had also managed to cut my knee and tear my pants.

Feeling very sorry for myself, I hauled my bike up the bank at the exact moment a car went by. “Help! Stop!” I yelled, but whoever it was didn’t hear me. Or heard me and was afraid, as I resembled an escaped lunatic at that moment. I watched the taillights of the blue Honda disappear in the distance, noting that the sky was suddenly much darker.

Well, I didn’t have a choice. I started walking, gimping along on my cut leg, until a pickup pulled over. Before I could even tell who it was, the driver grabbed my bike and popped it in the bed of the truck. Squinting through the rain, I saw it was Malone, a silent, slightly scary lobsterman who moored next to my brother. He may have spoken—the words “Get in” ring a bell—so I gingerly crawled into the cab of his truck. In my mind, I could hear an imaginary narrator…Maggie Beaumont was last seen riding her bike one dark and stormy afternoon. Her body was never found.

To allay my nervousness, I talked maniacally until we reached Joe’s Diner, reminding Malone that Jonah was my brother, that I was out for a bike ride (though that was rather obvious), that I should have listened to the forecast, that I fell (again, obvious), that I was sorry to make his truck dirty, et cetera, et cetera.

“Thank you very much, Malone, this was so nice of you,” I babbled when he lifted down my bike. “You should come in and have a piece of pie sometime. It’s good pie. Cup of coffee, too. On the house, okay? I owe you. Thanks again. This was great. Thanks. Bye now.” Malone did not deign to speak, simply lifted his hand and drove away.

As I watched the taillights blur in the rain, I said a prayer. “God, I don’t mean to complain, but I think I’ve been pretty patient here. All I want is a decent man who will stand by me and be a good father to our kids. What do You say?”

I remember all this because the very next day—the very next day—I came out of the kitchen of Joe’s Diner, and there he was, sitting in the farthest booth, the most incredibly appealing man I’d ever seen. Medium height, light brown hair, green eyes, broad shoulders, beautiful hands. He wore a gorgeous Irish fisherman’s sweater and jeans. When he smiled, my knees buckled at the glory of those straight, white teeth. A leaping thrill of attraction and hope shuddered through my entire body.

“Hi, I’m Maggie,” I said, giving myself a quick, mental once-over. New jeans, that was good. Blue sweater, not bad. Hair, clean.

“Tim O’Halloran. A pleasure it is to meet you,” he answered, and I nearly swooned. A brogue! How Liam Neeson! How Colin Farrell! How Bono!

“Would you like some coffee?” I asked, proud that my voice still worked.

“I’d love a spot. Can’t think of anything nicer.” He smiled right into my eyes. Blushing with pleasure, I looked out into the parking lot and saw the blue Honda. Dear God, it was the man who’d passed me!

“You know, I think I saw you last night!” I exclaimed. “Were you on Route 1A, heading for town around five? I fell off my bike, and I was trying to flag you down.”

“I was,” he answered, a concerned frown wrinkling his forehead. “How could I have missed you? Oh, dear, forgive me!”

Done. “Oh, gosh, don’t worry.” His eyes were beautiful, green and golden, like a bed of moss in the sunshine. Lust engulfed me like a thick fog. “Really. It’s—don’t—it’s fine. So. What, um…what would you like for breakfast?”

“What do you recommend, Maggie?” he asked, and it sounded so damn sexy, that accent combined with what seemed to be a mischievous smile and flirting eyes…

“I recommend that you eat here often,” I said. “I made the muffins myself, and they’re just out of the oven. And our pancakes are the best in town.” And the only in town, but hey.

“The pancakes it is, then, thanks.” He smiled up at me again, obviously in no hurry for me to leave. “So you work here, do you?”

“Actually, I own the place,” I said, pleased to be able to impart this nugget. Not just a waitress, but the boss. The owner.

“Do you, now! Brilliant! A classic, isn’t it?”

’Tis, I almost said. “Yes. Thank you. It’s a family business. My grandfather, the Joe in Joe’s Diner, started it up in 1933.”

“Ah, that’s lovely.”

“So, Tim, what are you doing in Gideon’s Cove?” I asked, then realized he might be hungry. “Wait, I’m sorry, let me just get your order in. Sorry. Be right back!”

I raced to the kitchen and called the order to Octavio, my short-order cook, then practically slid across the diner to Tim’s table, ignoring three customers who were waiting at the counter with varying degrees of impatience.

“Sorry. You might actually want to eat, of course,” I said.

“Well, now, there are some things that are nicer than eating, and talking to you is one of them.”

Dear God, You’re the best! Thanks for listening! “So, sorry, I was asking you what you were doing in town. Work related?”

“You might say that, Maggie. I’m—”

It was at this moment that the fatal event occurred. Georgie Culpepper, my dishwasher, burst into the diner. “Hi, Maggie!” he shouted. “Hi! How are you, Maggie! It’s nice out today, isn’t it, Maggie? I saw snowdrops this morning! You want me to wash dishes now, Maggie?” He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me.

Now, Georgie’s hugs are usually very pleasant. I’ve been getting them since kindergarten. Georgie has Down syndrome, is wicked affectionate and endlessly cheerful, one of the nicest, happiest people I’ve ever met. But right at this moment, I didn’t want his burr-like head welded to my breast. As I tried to extricate myself and as Georgie continued to tell me about the wonders of spring, Tim answered my question. I didn’t hear him.

Finally, I pried Georgie off me and patted his shoulder. “Hello, Georgie. Tim, this is Georgie Culpepper, and he works here. Our bubble boy, right, buddy?” Georgie nodded proudly. “Georgie, this is Tim.”

Georgie treated Tim to a hug, which was returned warmly. Lucky Georgie. “Hi, Tim! Nice to meet you, Tim! How are you, Tim?”

“I’m excellent, thank you, my friend.”

I smiled even more…could there be a better character reference than someone who knew just how to treat Georgie Culpepper? I immediately added it to the already impressive mental list I had going on Tim O’Halloran: handsome, employed, charming, Irish, comfortable around disabled people.

“I bet Octavio will make you scrambled eggs,” I told Georgie.

“Scrambled eggs! All right!” Though Georgie eats scrambled eggs every day of his life, the thrill has yet to fade. He scuttled to the kitchen and I remained, staring down at Tim. “Well. So. That sounds interesting,” I said, hoping he’d reiterate what it was he did for a living. He didn’t. The ding of the kitchen bell went off, and I excused myself, got Tim’s pancakes and brought them over.

“Can I get you anything else?” The scowls of my regulars were starting to register.

“No, no, thank you ever so much, Maggie. It was a real pleasure meeting you.”

Fearful that this was the last I’d ever see of him, I blurted, “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime?” Please, please don’t say you’re married.

“I’m going back to Bangor, but on Saturday, I’ll be here for good. Do you happen to belong to St. Mary’s?” he asked, stabbing a huge forkful of golden pancakes.

“Yes!” I yelped. Any connection, no matter how thin…

“Then I’ll see you Sunday.” He smiled and took a bite, then closed his eyes in pleasure.

“Wonderful.” My heart thumping, I went back to the counter and apologized to two of my regulars, Rolly and Ben.

Okay, so it was a little…devout…to mention where he went to church, but that was okay, I quickly assured myself. Perhaps the Irish were just more religious. But I was Catholic, technically anyway, and St. Mary’s was indeed my home parish. The last time I’d been there was two years ago, when my sister Christy got married, but my lapsed state didn’t matter. Tim O’Halloran was going to Mass, and so was I.

I called my sister the moment he left. “I think I’ve met someone,” I whispered, massaging cocoa butter into my hands. As Christy’s squeals of excitement pierced my ear, I told her all about Tim O’Halloran, how sweet he was, what a connection we had, how easily we’d chatted. I detailed every aspect of his physical appearance from his sparkling eyes to his beautiful hands, reiterated every word he spoke. “There was such chemistry,” I finally sighed.

“Oh, Maggie. This is so exciting,” my sister sighed back. “I’m thrilled for you.”

“Listen, don’t say anything to anyone yet, okay? Except Will.”

“Of course not! No, no. It’s just so wonderful!”

But Christy wasn’t the one who blabbed all over town. No, no, I did that myself.

I didn’t mean to, of course…it’s just that I see a lot of people. Not only the regulars at the diner, not just the people I work with.

Mrs. Kandinsky, my tiny, frail tenant, whose toenails I trim each week, asked me if anything was new. “Well, not really. But I think I met someone,” I found myself saying.

“Oh, wonderful, dear!” she chirped.

“He’s so handsome, Mrs. K. Brown hair, green eyes…and he’s Irish. He has a brogue.”

“I’ve always loved a man with a brogue,” she agreed.

And then I told my mom’s best friend, Carol.

“Do you think you’ll ever meet someone?” she asked in her forthright way when she came in for pie.

“I may have already,” I said with a mysterious smile. She blinked expectantly, and I was happy to gush.

And on it went.

On Saturday night, I went to Dewey’s Pub, the only other restaurant in town, if you can call it that. Paul Dewey and I are pals, and occasionally I’ll bring some food over, which he offers as daily specials and we split the profit. Otherwise, it’s a bag of chips if you’re looking for sustenance. But Dewey’s does a booming business as the only alcohol-serving institution in town, unless you count the firehouse.

I was meeting my friend…well, a person I hang out with sometimes. Chantal is close to forty and also single. Unlike me, she’s quite happy to stay single, relishing her role as Gideon’s Cove’s sex symbol, a redheaded siren of lush curves and pouting lips. She enjoys the fact that every man under the age of ninety-seven finds her damn near irresistible, as opposed to me, who’s everyone’s surrogate daughter. Even though Chantal never lacks for male companionship, we occasionally get together to lament the dearth of really good men in town.

Having met someone so incredibly appropriate as Tim O’Halloran, I was bursting to tell her, and, I admit, to stake my claim. It certainly wouldn’t do to have Chantal making a go for my future husband. “Chantal, I met someone,” I announced firmly as we sipped our beers in the corner booth. “His name is Tim O’Halloran, and he is so…Oh, my God, he’s so yummy! We really hit it off.”

As I spoke, my eyes scanned the bar. Tim had said he’d be back on Saturday, and here it was Saturday night, eight o’clock. The bar was moderately full. Jonah, my brother, stood at the bar with a couple of his pals—Stevie, Pete and Sam, all around Jonah’s age (which is to say, far too young for me). There was Mickey Tatum, the fire chief, famous for terrifying the school children with stories of self-immolation (he shows pictures), and Peter Duchamps, the butcher, a married alcoholic thought to be having an affair with the new part-time librarian.

Also present was Malone, his face as cheerful as an open grave, who glared at me when he walked in as if daring me to mention the ride he’d given me. I dared not. Instead, I lifted my hand weakly, but his back was already turned. No wonder we all called him Maloner the Loner.

That was it. Gideon’s Cove’s offerings to a single girl. Obviously, I was beyond thrilled at meeting Tim.

Jonah, who never missed a chance to flirt with Chantal, drifted over. “Hey, girls,” he said to Chantal’s breasts, earning a smile from their owner. “What’s cooking?”

“Your sister was just telling me about this hot guy she’s met,” Chantal said, dipping a finger into her beer and sucking on it. My brother, then aged twenty-five, was hypnotized. I sighed with irritation.

“What guy?” he managed to mumble.

So I told Jonah, too, my irritation vanishing with the chance to discuss the new man in my life.

We sat there till closing, but Tim never showed. Still, I was optimistic. He had said he’d see me in church, and see me he would.

The next morning, I spent an hour and a half getting ready. Because I’d told my parents, sister and brother about This Guy I’d Met, they were all coming to church, an activity our family usually saved for Christmas Eve (if we weren’t too tired) and the occasional Easter weekend. In we went, Mom, Dad, Jonah, Will, Christy, then pregnant, and myself. Looking around, I noticed that the church was pretty full, more so than usual. Was it a holy day? I wasn’t sure, never having cemented those in my mind. Oh, yes, I remembered hearing something at the diner…apparently, Father Morris retired and some new guy was filling in. Whatever.

I tried to scan casually for Tim, looking over my shoulder, pretending to fix the strap of my pocketbook, getting a tissue, adjusting my mom’s collar. Any chance to glance back. Then the windy old organ started, and I fumbled for the hymnbook. So busy was I studying the pews that I ignored the priest as he walked past. “Do you see him?” I whispered to Christy.

“Yes,” she whispered, her face a frozen mask of horror.

At that moment, the music ended, the church fell silent, and I reluctantly turned to face the priest.

“Before we start our celebration today,” said a voice already imprinted on my brain, “I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Father Tim O’Halloran, and I’m very pleased to have been assigned to your lovely parish.”

Roughly seventy-five faces swung around to look at me. I stared straight ahead, my heart pumping so hard I could hear the blood rushing through my veins. My face burned hot enough to fry an egg. I didn’t look at anyone, just stared at Father Tim O’Halloran’s chest area, and pretended to be fascinated and unsurprised. Tricky combination.

“I’m from Ireland, as you might be able to tell, the youngest of seven children. I’m looking forward to getting to know you all, and I hope I’ll see you all at coffee hour after Mass. And now we begin today’s celebration as we begin all things, in the name of the Father, and of the Son—”

“For God’s sake,” I muttered.

I didn’t hear a word during the next hour. I do know that Christy slipped her hand into mine, and that my father was shushed repeatedly by my mother. Jonah, furthest from me, was laughing that awful, unstoppable church laugh full of wheezes and the occasional squeak, and if he’d been closer to me, maybe I would have laughed, too. Or perhaps disemboweled him with my car keys. As it was, I pretended to listen, mouthed nonsensical words to songs I couldn’t read and stood when everyone else stood. I stayed in the pew during communion.

And when at last Mass was over, we filed out with the others. Christy, my sister, my best friend, the person I loved more than anyone on earth, whispered in my ear. “I’m going to pretend we’re talking about something really interesting, okay? And this way no one is going to talk to you. So smile and pretend we’re having a conversation, and we’ll get the hell out of here. Sound like a plan?”

“Christy, I’m so…” My voice broke.

“No, no, it’s fine, just keep going. Too bad they’re rebricking the side entrance. Shitty, shitty luck. Okay, we’re getting close…can you smile?”

I bared my teeth weakly.

“Maggie!” Father Tim exclaimed. “It’s so good to see you. I was hoping you’d be here.” He shook my hand warmly, his grip strong and welcoming. “And you’ve a twin! Isn’t that marvelous! I’m Father Tim, so nice to meet you.”

Father Tim. The sound of it was like acid on an open wound.

“Hi, I’m Christy,” my sister said. “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well. Maggie, would you take me home?”

We almost escaped until my idiot brother, whom I heretofore loved, asked, “How could you miss the fact that he was a priest?”

My mother grabbed his arm. “Jonah, honey—”

“What’s that, now?” Father Tim asked, his eyebrows raised.

“Why didn’t you tell Maggie you were a priest?”

Father Tim glanced at me in confusion. “Of course I did. We had that lovely chat at the diner.”

“Of course we chatted,” I blurted. “Of course I knew! Sure! Yes! I knew you were a priest! Absolutely. Yup.”

“But you said you met some hot Irish guy—”

“That was someone else,” I ground out, ready to smite my little brother. “Not Father Tim! Jeez! He’s a priest, Jonah! He’s not—I didn’t mean—he’s…”

But the damage was done. Father Tim’s expression fell. “Oh, dear,” he said.

“Maggie? I need to go,” Christy said. She grabbed my arm and pulled me away to the safety of her car.

But it was too late. Father Tim knew. Everyone knew.

FATHER TIM CAME TO the diner the next day and apologized, and I apologized, and we laughed about it. I found that there was no use in trying to pretend. I just had to admit that I made a mistake. Ha, ha, pretty funny, isn’t it? I can’t believe I missed that little piece of information! Ho, ho! Then he asked if I’d be on one of his committees, and I found myself unable to say no.

In the year that’s passed, the sting of being the butt of a joke has faded. Truthfully, Father Tim is a great friend to me. Though I can’t quite bring myself to go to Mass and see him in action, I somehow joined just about every committee St. Mary’s has—bereavement, altar decoration, Christmas craft sale, community outreach, building maintenance, fellowship, the works.

I know it’s wrong to nurse a crush on a priest. I know I shouldn’t be doing all that church stuff just to be near a Catholic priest who looks like Aidan Quinn’s younger brother. I know that my heart shouldn’t squeeze every time I see him, that adrenaline shouldn’t spurt into my veins when I pick up the phone and hear that gentle voice. I just can’t seem to help it. What I really need to do is simply meet someone else, and this foolish longing in my heart will fade. Someday, I’ll meet a really great guy, someone just as nice as Tim O’Halloran, and everything will be just lovely.

There are definitely days when I believe this.

CHAPTER ONE

“GOOD MORNIN’, MAGGIE,” Father Tim says, sliding into his usual booth. “Lovely out, isn’t it?” He smiles pleasantly, and my insides clench.

“Good morning, Father Tim. What can I get for you today?”

“I think I’ll be tryin’ your French toast, shall I? Brilliant idea, the almond glaze.”

That brogue is just not fair. “Thanks. I’ll get that right in.” I’ve had sinful thoughts about you. Again. I wrack my brain for something to say. “How was Mass this morning?”

He nods. “Ah, the celebration of the Eucharist always nurtures the spirit,” he murmurs. “You’re welcome to come and see for yourself, Maggie. I’d love to hear your thoughts on my homily any time.”

Father Tim often urges me to drop by. Something stops me. Guilt, no doubt. I might be a lapsed Catholic, but I draw the line at having lustful thoughts about priests in church. “Well. Sure. One of these days. You bet.”

“Mass can give a person a chance for some insight. Sometimes we tend to overlook what’s important in life, Maggie. It’s easy to lose perspective, if you take my meaning.”

Oh, I do. Losing perspective is something at which I excel. Case in point—still in love with the priest. He looks ridiculously appealing in black, though granted, the white collar takes away some of the zing. Rolling my eyes at my own ridiculous thoughts, I turn away, fill a few coffee cups and slip into the kitchen, where Octavio is deftly flipping pancakes. “French toast for Father Tim,” I tell him, grabbing an order of eggs on unbuttered toast. Returning to the counter area, I slide the plate in front of Stuart, one of my regulars. “Chicks on a raft, high and dry,” I say. He nods appreciatively, a big fan of diner slang.

“Anything else for you, Mrs. Jensen?” I ask the seventy-year-old woman in the first booth. She frowns and shakes her head, and I leave her check on the table. Mrs. Jensen has come from church. She goes to confession every week. She’s in Bible study and on the altar decoration committee. It seems I’m not the only one smitten with Father Tim.

Without meaning to, I look once again at the impossible ideal. He’s reading the paper. Profiled against the window, his beauty sends a rolling warmth through me. If only you were a regular guy….

“He’ll catch you looking,” Rolly whispers, another regular fixture at my counter.

“That’s okay,” I admit. “It’s not like it’s a secret. Make sure you fill out a ballot, okay?” I tell Rolly, dragging my gaze off the object of my desire. “You, too, Stuart. I need all the votes I can get.”

“Ayuh. Best coffee in the state,” Rolly announces.

“Best breakfast, Rolly.” I smile and pat his shoulder.

For the last two years, Joe’s Diner has placed fourth in Maine Living’s Best Breakfast contest, and I’m determined to win the county title this year. The magazine holds a lot of sway with tourists, and we could use a little more of the summer nuisance. Last year, we were creamed by Blackstone Bed & Breakfast in Calais (even though they make their pancakes from a box mix).

“We’ll win, boss,” Octavio calls through the window that links the counter area with the kitchen. “We do have the best breakfast.”

I smile back at him. “True enough, but being the best-kept secret on coastal Maine isn’t doing us much good financially.”

“We’ll be fine,” he assures me. Easy for him to say. He makes more than I do, and he doesn’t have to balance the books every month.

“Hey, Maggie, as long as you’re up, can I get a refill?” asks Judy, my waitress. I oblige, then bring Father Tim his breakfast, sneak a glance at his smooth, elegant hands and scurry off to clear a table.

For the last eight years, I’ve run Joe’s Diner, taking it over from Jonah Gray, my grandfather, after he had a heart attack. The diner is one of the larger employers in our tiny town, having four people on the payroll. Octavio is the most irreplaceable, running the kitchen with tireless efficiency. Judy came with the diner. She’s somewhere between sixty and one hundred and twenty, gifted at not working, though when pressed, she can handle a full diner, not that we get that a lot. Georgie gets some help in the summer, when we hire a high school kid to deal with the light tourist business that makes it this far north.

And there’s me, of course. I cook the daily specials, do all the baking, wait tables, balance the books, maintain the inventory and keep the place clean. Our final, though unofficial, employee is Colonel. My dog. My buddy. My precious boy. “Who’s your mommy?” I ask him. “Huh, Colonel McKissy? Who loves you, pretty boy?” His tail thumps at my idiot talk, but he knows not to leave his place behind the register. A Golden Retriever takes up a lot of room, but most people don’t even see Colonel, who has nicer manners than the queen of England. At thirteen, he’s mellow, but he’s always been incredibly well-behaved. I give him a piece of bacon and get back to work.

Father Tim rises to settle his check. “Hello, Gwen, love, how are you today? Don’t you look smart in that lovely shade of yellow,” he says to Mrs. Jensen, who simpers in pleasure. He smiles at me, and my knees soften. “I’ll see you both tonight, won’t I?”

“That’s right,” I answer. I may not be able to bring myself to Mass, but Father Tim has worn me down for Bible study. I stifle the urge to shake my head at myself. Bible study. My social plans for the week. Well, it’s not like I’m turning away dozens of suitors. Sadly, Father Tim is closer to a boyfriend than anything I’ve had in some time.

“Nancy Ringley’s bringing the snack?” Father Tim frowns.

“No,” I smile. “I am. Her daughter’s under the weather, so she called me.”

His face lights up. “Ah, wonderful! About the snack, at any rate. Not her dear little daughter. I’ll see you later, then, Maggie.” He pats my shoulder with avuncular affection, causing lust and exhilaration to flow down my arm, and turns for the door. I love you, I mouth. I can’t help myself.

Did he hear me? My face flushes in mortification as Father Tim glances back at me with a smile and a wink before going out into the cold. He waves as he crosses the street, ever kind where I’m concerned. Mrs. Jensen, who is not so tolerant, glares at me. I narrow my eyes in return. She doesn’t fool me. We suffer from the same disease—I’m just a little more obvious.

It’s a frigid March day, the wind howling off the water, slicing through the thickest wool hats and microfiber gloves. Only a few brave souls venture out, and the day drags. We don’t get more than a handful of people at lunch. I wait for Judy to finish her crossword puzzle before sending her home, as she’s really only here for show, anyway. Octavio takes off his apron as I scrape the grill.

“Tavy, take the rest of the pie, okay? Your kids will like it,” I tell him. He has five children.

“They will if they get to taste it. I already had two pieces.” Octavio grins his engaging gap-tooth smile.

I grin back. “Did Judy get any more ballots?”

“I think she gave out a few.”

“Great.” I’ve been relentless in asking my patrons to fill them out. Last year we lost by two hundred votes, so I need every one who crosses the threshold to pitch in. “Have a nice afternoon, Octavio,” I say.

“You, too, boss.”

“Here, take these cookies, too.” My cook grins his thanks, then goes out the back door.

Colonel knows what time it is. He gets up from his spot and comes over to me for a little pat, pushing his big head against my thighs. I stroke his white cheeks. “You’re such a good boy, aren’t you?” He wags in agreement, then returns to his spot, knowing I’ll be a while yet.

I flip the Open sign to Closed and wipe down the last table. This is one of my favorite times of day…three o’clock. We’re done for the day. Joe’s opens at six, though I usually don’t roll in until seven (the joys of ownership), but I make up my time by doing all the baking each afternoon. I’m proud to say that Joe’s desserts are locally famous, especially the pies and coconut macaroons.

Joe’s is a Jerry Mahoney design. Red-and-cream porcelain with stainless steel siding on the outside, red vinyl seats, cream-colored walls and a black-and-white tile floor on the inside. Ten swivel stools are bolted to the floor at the counter. At one end is the requisite pastry display case where my sweets tempt the patrons. There are seven booths with nice deep backs and seats that are just bouncy enough. At some point, my grandfather had those little jukeboxes installed and, as kids, we loved flipping through to see what the new selections were. The kitchen is through a swinging door with a porthole, and there’s a tiny supply room and unisex bathroom. In the corner window, a neon sign blinks those timeless words, Eat at Joe’s.

For the next half hour, I add up the receipts, check the inventory, print out more ballots and mop the floor. I play the jukeboxes as I work, singing along with Aretha and the Boss. Finally, I go back into the kitchen and start baking the desserts for tomorrow. And the snack for tonight.

Since Father Tim’s face brightened when he heard I was on snack duty, I decide to do something special. In the tiny kitchen, I take out the necessary ingredients and set about making apricot squares, one of his favorites. Once those are in the oven, I roll out a few pie crusts and throw together a couple of blueberry pies.

Colonel’s tail starts thumping, and I hear him scramble to get up off the tile floor. I reduce the heat on the pies and move them to a higher shelf so the bottom crusts won’t burn. Without checking, I know my sister is about to come in.

I’m right, as I usually am about Christy. She’s just pulling the baby stroller in through the door. We haven’t seen each other for three entire days, which is a long spell when it comes to us. “Hey, Christy,” I smile, holding the door for her.

“Hey, Mags,” she answers. She glances at me, then does a double take. “Oh, for God’s sake.” She wrestles the carriage the rest of the way in, Violet sleeping undisturbed, and pulls off her hat. “Me, too.”

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 visitor, 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 Crème. “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, who 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 maître 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.

“Hi. Hi there. I’m Maggie. How are you? This is a nice place, isn’t it? It’s very cute. My sister says they have great food.” I cringe inwardly, blushing. Really should get that babbling tendency looked at.

Roger smiles. “Have a seat.”

I sit and settle my bag at my feet, then fiddle with the silverware. “So,” I say. “This is nice. Thank you for coming, too. I mean, for, well…oh, shit, I’m sorry.” I laugh nervously. “I don’t go out much.” Stop talking. Stop. Talking. “On blind dates, I mean. I’m a little nervous, I guess. But you seem nice. And you have a good job, nothing scary, just nursing. So, you know. So far, so good.”

Jesus, listen to me. I sound like a chimpanzee on speed. Roger looks on. “Uh, would you like a drink?” he asks.

Alcohol exacerbates my tendency to blather, so I should definitely refuse. “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay,” I tell the waiter. Clamping my lips shut, I force myself to wait for Roger to speak.

“Will is married to your sister, right?” he asks.

“Yes.” Good job, Maggie!

“And am I correct in thinking that you guys are twins?”

“Yes.”

“Identical, right?”

“Yes.”

His eyebrows rise slightly. Perhaps now is not the time to shut up, after all. “Yes, uh-huh. We’re twins. Identical twins, you’re right. She’s older by two minutes, but I like to say that Mom loves me best because I weighed less. Christy was nine pounds. Came out of Mom like a bullet. Caused some pretty nasty tearing.”

No wonder I’m still single.

“I see,” says Roger. His smile has faded.

I turn my burning face to the menu. Relax, I tell myself. This is not a game show. You have nothing to lose. He likes you or he doesn’t. You like him or you don’t. Calm yourself.

The waiter comes and we order dinner. I’m careful to choose a dish that’s neither the cheapest nor the most expensive. I take another sip of wine. “So, Roger, do you like being a nurse?” I ask. That’s more like it, Mags.

“Yeah, I sure do.” He tells me a little about his work, the hospital. And here’s the thing. He’s not right for me. He’s a little dull…instead of talking about the patients and doctors and that sort of human interest thing, he’s off on a tangent about overtime and benefits and his 401K. Give him a chance, I can hear my sister saying. I try.

Our dinners come. Unlike me, Roger has had no compunction about ordering the most expensive item on the menu. The waiter puts down an enormous lobster, red and steaming, and proceeds to tie a bib around Roger’s neck, making him look like a giant toddler. The lobster must weigh four or five pounds, making it a sumo wrestler among its peers. Roger rips off a claw with gladiator-esque machismo and vanquishes it with the provided nutcracker.

“So you’re a chef, Maggie?” he asks. He twists his fork into the claw and wrestles out a huge piece of meat, dunks it in butter and shoves it in his mouth. Butter and lobster juice run down his chin, but he takes his time wiping. The odds that I will love this man for the rest of my life are rapidly waning.

“Oh, no, no. Not a chef. I own Joe’s Diner in Gideon’s Cove. I cook, but I’m not a chef. Big difference.” I can’t take my eyes off his greasy, glistening mouth.

“What’s the difference?” he asks. Crack. Peel. Another crack. It’s like watching Vlad the Impaler conduct an autopsy.

“Um…well, a chef is…has more…uh, training, I guess…” Rip. Dunk. Chew. Slobber. “Um, here, you have some butter on your chin.” I smile weakly and gesture with my own napkin.

“There’ll be more before dinner is through.” He smiles, and I can see the creamy pink lobster meat bulging in his cheek. My own baked scrod sits cooling before me. Unable to look away from my dinner companion, I watch as he rips off a smaller leg and chews it in horrifyingly delicate nibbles, working the lobster meat up with his teeth, sucking, slurping. A sudden vision of sex with Roger deals my appetite the death blow.

“Don’t you like your dinner?” he asks, drowning another lobster chunk. “Hey, can I have some more butter, please?” he asks a passing busboy.

“Oh, it’s good. No, no. Good. Yummy. I like it.” I take a forkful and chew listlessly. Perhaps I’ll become a vegetarian.

I am at a loss for words—a rarity, I assure you—but Roger, drunk with the hedonistic devouring of the poor crustacean, doesn’t notice. And it’s not just the lobster that is laid waste by this locust horde of a man. He smacks and groans his way through mashed potatoes, stuffing overly long green beans into his mouth, then turns his attention to my plate. “You gonna eat that?” he asks, and I shake my head, fascinated and horrified, as he devours my rice pilaf and vegetable medley. Finally, he spears up my barely touched fish, which he dips in the last of his drawn butter, and swallows it joyfully, an orca whale finishing off the hapless seal pup.

Finally, he pushes away the pillaged lobster shell and wipes his mouth, then takes the little wet nap and cleans his hands. “Well, that was fantastic,” he pronounces, leaning back. His girth is noticeably bigger. “Do you want dessert? I could go for some cheesecake.”

“Wow! Are you kidding?” I ask. He frowns. “Oh, I’m…I’m sorry. It’s just…wow! That was a big lobster! Boy! You can eat!” Okay, enough, Maggie. “So, Roger, do you have any interesting hobbies?” I ask. It would be really nice to think of something other than food at this point, and it’s a good date question. Not that there’s any chance of us getting together. The thought of kissing that rampaging mouth…I shudder visibly.

“You cold?” he asks.

“No, no. Tell me about your hobbies,” I order.

“Well,” he says, “actually, I’m glad you asked. I love being a nurse, of course, but what I find really fascinating, what I think might be my true calling, is animal communication.” He looks at me expectantly.

“Oh! That sounds neat,” I say. I’m not really sure what it is, but anything is better than watching him eat. “So is that like, um, animal training?” Our waiter is glancing our way, and I try to wave him off discreetly. Any more food, and Roger’s belt will slice him in half.

“No. It’s not training at all, Maggie. I’d think a smart girl like yourself would know that.”

I yearn for Colonel. Was I complaining about being single? Foolish me.

“An animal communicator reads the thoughts of animals,” he lectures.

“Oh.” I pause. “Do they speak English?”

“Who?”

“The animals. I mean, if you can read their thoughts, wouldn’t it be in cat language or dog or goat or whatever?”

Roger frowns, clearly displeased. “No, Maggie. It’s no joke, either. Don’t you watch Pet Psychic on Animal Planet?”

“You know, I’ve missed that one. But, hmm. Well. Interesting. So you, what, try to read their thoughts and, I don’t know, tell if they’re hurt or if they’ve been abused or something?”

He smiles condescendingly, and my desire to be home, fasting and watching TV, grows. “Some people do that, yes. But I have a more specialized talent, Maggie. I communicate with animals who have passed.”

“Wow. That’s so…gee.”

He must see the disbelief on my face, because he sits forward suddenly, staring at me intently. “Did you ever have a pet when you were a kid, Maggie?” he asks.

“Yes, we did,” I answer. “A nice—”

“Don’t tell me!” I jump, startled. “Sorry,” he amends. “Just think of this pet. Picture him…or her…remember him…or her…and all the good times you had with him.”

“Or her,” I add.

“Whatever. Just picture.”

A tickle of laughter wriggles in my stomach. I picture him…or her…actually, it’s a him. Dicky, our childhood dog, a lovely chocolate Lab as solid and wide as a barrel. Christy and I used to hold little Jonah on his back and Dicky would walk proudly and slowly around the house, flanked on either side by us girls. Our parents’ photo albums hold many images of this happy pastime.

“Okay, okay,” Roger says. “I’m getting something. Was this pet…a mammal?”

Amazing. “Bingo,” I answer.

“Good, Maggie, and please just answer with yes or no.” He closes his eyes and I take the opportunity to drain my wineglass.

“Maggie, was this animal…a cat?”

“No.”

Roger frowns slightly but doesn’t open his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Not a cat? You’re sure.”

“Yes.” My voice is tight with the effort of not laughing.

“A dog?”

“Yes.”

“Great!” Roger exclaims. He opens his eyes and frowns at me. “Are you sure you’re picturing the animal?”

Dicky, Dicky, come to me, Dicky… I press my napkin against my mouth to suppress a laugh. “Yes, I’m really picturing him,” I manage to say.

“You weren’t supposed to tell me it was a him! Come on, Maggie, do you want this reading or not?”

“I really don’t—”

Roger clamps his eyes shut again. “Okay, okay, he’s back. Right…this is a black and white dog. A Dalmatian. Yes.”

“No.” A little snort escapes through my nose. Roger’s trance is not disturbed.

“Okay, right, right…is this dog black?”

“Nope.”

“An Irish setter?”

“No,” I squeak.

“Are you sure it’s not a cat?”

My laughter can’t be contained any longer. “Okay, Roger, thank you. Listen, I really should get going. It was nice meeting you, but I just don’t think we’re right for each other,” I say as kindly as I can.

“No kidding. I could tell that the minute you walked in.” He whips out his wallet, throws some bills on the table and stalks off. Can’t say I’m sorry to see him go. I wonder if the hospital knows about his special gift.

“Is everything all right, miss?” the waiter asks.

“Oh, sure. It was fine. Thank you. Can I have the check, please?”

I’m not surprised to see that Roger has left only enough to cover his lobster. He didn’t even leave enough for his wine. Oh, well. I make up the difference and leave a huge tip for the waiter.

When I get home, there’s a message waiting on my machine—Father Tim asking a question about the spaghetti dinner next week. Perfect. It’s too late to call my sister and tell her about the date, and Father Tim has just given me a great excuse to call him. He keeps late hours, something he’s mentioned in the past and which I stored in the Father Tim encyclopedia I keep in my brain. Besides, I just drove past the rectory and couldn’t miss the fact that the lights were still on.

“Maggie, how are you?” he says warmly.

“Oh, I just had the funniest date,” I say. By the time I’m finished filling him in on Roger Martin, enemy of lobsters and animal communicator, he’s laughing so hard he’s just wheezing.

“Maggie, you’re a special one,” he says when he’s regained control. “I must say, I was in need of a good laugh, and you came along and answered my prayers.”

I smile and scratch Colonel’s tummy. “Glad to be of service, Father Tim,” I say. “I have to tell you, though, I’m a little…I don’t know. Disappointed. I don’t meet a lot of new people.”

“I know, I do, Maggie,” he says. “But you’ll meet that special someone one day soon, mark my words. You’re a jewel, Maggie Beaumont.” As to how the special someone and I will meet is something Father Tim doesn’t address.

“Well. Thanks. You’re sweet to say so.” I pause.

He goes on to tell me about the date change for the spaghetti dinner. As usual, my schedule is free.

“Wonderful!” he exclaims. “I don’t know what St. Mary’s would do without you. One of these days, you’ll join us properly, not just as a volunteer, mind you, and won’t that be a happy day! God bless you, Maggie.”

I never know what to say to that. Amen? Thank you? “God bless you, too,” I say, wincing as he chuckles. “I mean, good night, Father Tim.”

“Good night, Maggie.”

I hang up the phone very gently, then lie back against my pillows and indulge in just one quick fantasy. That it was Father Tim with me at dinner tonight, only he wasn’t a Father. That we were just two people in love, on a date, eager to talk and laugh and share the details of our day. That he played with my hands, which are smooth and lovely in this fantasy, and that his eyes crinkled when he laughed. That he insisted that I order dessert, because he knows how I love dessert.

Colonel groans.

“I know, I know,” I say. “Waste of time.” It’s wrong, dreaming about dating the priest. Unfair to the good father and all that. I’m sick of reminding myself that it’s pointless and stupid…and yet…and yet somehow it’s so easy to see. Tim and Maggie. Maggie and Tim. With a sigh, I glance at my copy of The Thornbirds, given to me by my brother the day after I learned what the hot guy I’d met did for a living.

Colonel’s eyes are full of reproach. “Sorry, pooch,” I tell him. “You’re right. I’ll stop now.”

I pat his head, hug my pillow and try to go to sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WASN’T ALWAYS SO, my state of solitude. Once, I thought I was going to get married. Once, I was preengaged (not that that’s an official title or anything, but I do have a cheap little pearl ring to prove it). Once, I had a steady boyfriend whom I loved and who, I thought, loved me.

Skip Parkinson was a high school god—handsome, reasonably smart, from a well-off family and, most importantly, gifted at sports. Baseball, in particular. And when I say gifted, I mean fantastic. Because of Skip, our school made states each year. Because of Skip, we won three of those four years. Because of Skip, newspapers and college scouts visited Gideon’s Cove, sniffing around, eating at the diner, coming to games.

Skip (somehow short for Henry) played shortstop, the sexiest position of all. He batted .345 freshman year, .395 sophomore, .420 junior and an astonishing .463 our senior year. Stanford called and Skip answered, hoping to join the ranks of the university’s famous alumni: David McCarty of Boston fame, or, less impressive to a son of Red Sox Nation, Mike Mussina of the New York Yankees.

We dated from sophomore year on. I was the chosen one and not a bad match for Skip; I was smart, too, smarter than he was, honestly. It was because he needed to pass trig that we fell in love. I was his tutor, and one day as I attempted to explain the joys of angle conversion capabilities, he suddenly said, “Maggie, I can’t think. You smell too good.” We kissed, and it was magical.

Skip was my first real boyfriend, though I had held hands with Ricky Conway on the bus in fourth grade, danced twice with Christopher Beggins in eighth grade and kissed Mark Robideaux after a football game freshman year. But with Skip, Mom would have to pry the phone out of my sweaty adolescent hand each night and order me to go to bed; Skip would take me to the movies and we’d kiss during the coming attractions, then watch the show in squirming, wonderful discomfort. I loved him with all the intensity that only adolescents can feel, to the point where Christy actually felt jealous.

Skip and I lost our virginities to each other on the bunk of his parents’ sailboat on Fourth of July weekend, a grave event unlightened by any laughter or humor. I considered going to college in California to be near him, but I ended up at Colby instead, unable to venture further from home or Christy than that. All through college, Skip and I stayed together, calling each other, writing, e-mailing, reuniting on those happy holidays where we flew into each other’s arms and stayed there till the final call for his plane. His parents, both lawyers, didn’t quite approve of him having a townie girlfriend while the fruits of Stanford were ripe for the picking, but hey. We loved each other.

When Stanford went to the national finals our senior year, Skip was talking to coaches, scouts and reporters. The Minnesota Twins picked him in the draft, and he went to New Britain, Connecticut, to their farm team. That summer, I made the ten-hour drive down four times, cheering and screaming maniacally when my boyfriend—my boyfriend!—came up to the plate. But it was hard. If we managed a night together, it was rare. He was so busy, you see. Traveling so much. I understood completely.

When Minnesota called him up, Gideon’s Cove went wild. A Major League Baseball player…from Gideon’s Cove! It was a miracle. People couldn’t stop talking about it. My family subscribed to the Minneapolis Star Tribune, as did about half the people in town, and we pored over it each morning. When Skip’s name was mentioned, the article would be enlarged on the town hall photocopier and hung in the diner, “Skip Parkinson, rookie shortstop” highlighted in yellow so all could see. He would make it, we all said. Our Skip! Little Skip from Overlook Street! He was so good, so talented, so special.

Except in the world of professional baseball, he wasn’t. It’s a lot easier to hit off a twenty-year-old college kid than a forty-year-old veteran who can throw every kind of strike imaginable at ninety-five miles an hour. Skip’s numbers dwindled from an acceptable .294 in New Britain to a dismal .198 in Minnesota. In the field, balls were hit harder, took more vicious bounces. Runners slid into base with damaging accuracy, knowing just how to intimidate a rookie so he’d miss his throw or bobble the ball.

I wrote upbeat letters, called him after every game to try to bolster his spirits. I’d talk about the mechanics of the pitcher, the dive that had been this close to being a double play, the unfair call from the second base ump. Relentlessly optimistic, I spent hours that year cajoling Skip into a better mood.

When his first season was over, and when I was helping out at the diner while Granddad had his heart valves replaced, Skip announced that he was coming back to Maine. He’d “reassess” his baseball career, see “what other options” were out there. The town fathers decided that we’d show our support for young Skip, local hero. A big welcome-home parade. Why not? We could use a little boost at this time of year, the brief tourism season over, another long winter ahead of us.

So Skip’s parents picked him up at the airport and drove him into town where the high school band waited, where the cheerleaders stood shivering in their tiny skirts, where dozens of little kids in Little League T-shirts and caps clutched Skip’s rookie card or a baseball they hoped he’d sign. Just about everyone in town gathered to welcome home Gideon’s Cove’s most famous citizen.

And I waited, too, of course, right in the front of the crowd. Skip had been very busy over the past few weeks, and we’d only talked once or twice. I had called his parents and offered to go to the airport with them to pick Skip up, but they didn’t return my call.

My heart leaped when his parents’ car pulled up to the town green, and we the worshipful began to cheer. I couldn’t wait to see him, to run into his arms and give him a kiss, blush as the crowd would no doubt whistle and yell for Skip and his high school sweetheart. College was over, I didn’t have a real job yet, was just working in the diner, and now Skip was back. Were we too young to get engaged? I thought not.

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 resigned, 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—blood-red 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 Mother 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—

“So, what do you think, Malone?” Chantal asks. “You want to go out with Maggie?”

By now, the whole bar is listening. Though I should be used to public embarrassment, my cheeks are burning. Malone drops his gaze to my chest, looks for a minute, then looks up at my face again. He shakes his head. The bar erupts in laughter. Chantal and Jonah clutch each other, shrieking, Stevie and Dewey high-five each other at Malone’s insult, and I just sit there and nod my head.

“Right,” I say over the hysteria. “Well, I deserved that. Sorry, Malone. That was a crummy thing to say.”

He gives a slight nod, then turns to the beer that Dewey presents him.

“Okay, I’ve embarrassed myself enough tonight,” I say to my brother and Chantal. “I’m going home. Good night.”

“Bye, Maggot! Thanks for the laughs,” Jonah says, sliding his arm around Chantal’s shoulders. She blows me a kiss, then turns to say something to Jonah. My jaw clenches momentarily.

I get my coat from the table and head out. At Malone’s stool, I pause. “Sorry again,” I murmur.

He nods without looking at me.

“I still owe you that pie,” I remind him. He doesn’t respond.

Although I catch a glimpse of Malone once in a while at Dewey’s or at the dock, I haven’t spoken with him since he drove me to Joe’s in the rain. He did a kind thing for me last spring, and tonight I insulted him.

As I walk home through the quiet town, an unpleasant sense of shame keeps good pace beside me.

CHAPTER FIVE

A FEW DAYS LATER, whatever shame I felt has faded to a distant prickle. Once again, the presence of Father Tim melts away all bad feelings, his beautiful smile simultaneously reassuring and thrilling.

Last night, my parents had summoned their offspring to a family dinner, something they insist on about once a month or so, and much to my delight, Father Tim was invited, as well. As I showed Colonel to his doggie bed in my old bedroom, I could hear Father Tim laughing downstairs, the rumbling voice of my dad, Violet’s happy, ear-splitting shrieks. It seemed so natural.

We had a very nice dinner and a lemon cake that I’d baked in honor of the occasion. Father Tim had two pieces. “Maggie, you’re a genius, you are, my girl,” he said, finally pushing back from the table. I smiled sappily, heart fluttering.

Talk turned to the inevitable—my failure at finding a boyfriend. “Will, dear, can’t you find anyone for Maggie?” Mom asked.

“Apparently not,” Christy intoned, nudging her husband, who looked rightfully chagrined.

“It’s not funny, Christy,” Mom said sharply. “She’s never going to meet anyone behind that counter. Think of how you’re going to end up, Maggie! A spinster waitress like Judy.”

“I like Judy,” I answered weakly. Mom likes to go right for the kill.

“Now, Lena,” Dad said meekly. I knew it was no use. There was no stopping my mother on this subject. No daughter of hers was going to be unmarried. Not if she had a breath left in her body!

“Well, I just don’t understand why it’s so difficult,” Mom said to Father Tim. “She’s perfectly nice! Look at Christy! Did Christy have trouble finding a nice husband? No! So why can’t Maggie do the same thing? Maggie, if only you’d get a real job, some place where you could meet some eligible men. Like Christy—”

This comparison theme song, which I have mentally entitled “Christy is Better,” is one Mom’s sung many times. “Do you have to be so perfect?” I asked my sister.

“Sorry,” she sang, wiping mashed-up carrots from Violet’s eyelid. “I really can’t help it. It just happens.”

“—in my day, people wanted to get married,” my mother was saying. “Now, of course, everyone’s out there, doing all sorts of things. Why buy the milk when you can just rent the cow for free?”

Jonah shot me a quizzical look—Mom’s never been good with clichés—then mooed softly at Violet, who banged her spoon on the highchair tray in approval. Jonah mooed again, this time in my direction.

“I have a great idea,” I said. “Let’s pick on Jonah! Jonah, why haven’t you given Mom any grandchildren yet? What’s the matter with you? Don’t you have unprotected sex anymore? Don’t you care about your own mother?”

“Maggie!” Mom admonished. “There’s a priest in the room! Father Tim, I don’t know where she gets this trashy talk.”

But Father Tim was laughing, as I knew he would be. “I’ve no doubt that Jonah conducts himself like a gentleman,” he said. “Furthermore, Jonah, my man, I trust that you’ve given thought to—”

“Actually, Maggot, thanks for reminding me,” Jonah interrupted blithely. “I’ve got a date. Thanks for dinner, Ma.”

“Wait, honey, I have some leftovers for you,” Mom said, pressing a huge plate into his hands.

“Goodbye, you spoiled little prince,” I said, allowing him to kiss my cheek.

“Goodbye, you dried-up old hag,” he returned fondly. He turned to Christy. “Goodbye, beautiful, nice sister. Goodbye, filthy little baby.”

“You put me in mind of my own family,” Father Tim said. He looked a little sad, and I took the opportunity to pat his hand.

“You must miss them so much,” I commented.

“I do, Maggie. I do.” He patted back, and a shameful heat flowed up my arm to my heart.

After Violet was tucked into her portable crib, my parents broke out the Trivial Pursuit. “Three teams,” Dad announced. “The Mrs. and I are undefeated, Father Tim, so we don’t want to break our streak. Will, you can be with your lovely bride there, and Maggie, you won’t mind showing Father Tim the ropes, will you, sweetheart?”

Christy grinned wickedly. “I think we all know the answer to that,” she murmured so that only I could hear.

“Have you gained a few pounds?” I asked. “They look good on you.”

And so the rest of the night was spent quipping and insulting and laughing. Really, how could I not imagine Father Tim and me together? Maggie O’Halloran. What a great-sounding name!

The next day, I’m sitting in the rectory living room, having dodged the Gorgon Plutarski, who guards Father Tim like a pit bull protecting a steak. I stare at Father Tim’s beautifully shaped mouth and idly rub a patch of eczema on my knuckle. Tonight is the big spaghetti supper to raise money for a new roof on the western side of the church, which started leaking after a nor’easter last winter.

“The final count is closer to sixty people,” Father Tim says. He leans forward, clasping his hands together loosely. The scent of his soap drifts to me, and I try not to swoon. For God’s sake, Maggie. Literally. For God’s sake. He’s a man of the cloth—“Do you have enough? I hate to be putting this on you on such short notice, but apparently we had a few last-minute reservations.”

“Oh, no problem,” I say. It’s so cozy in this small living room, Father Tim sitting just across from me. I swear, I could look into those eyes for the rest of my life….

“Can you do the bread, as well, Maggie? I’m sorry it’s so late, my asking, but it completely slipped my mind.”

“Hmm? Oh, the bread? Sure. No problem.”

“Ah, thank heaven for you, dear girl,” he says, though he is only a year older. “You’re a treasure.”

A jewel, a treasure, darlin’…I know he calls everyone by those pet names, but still. We were so natural together last night, playing couples’ Trivial Pursuit, sharing huddled discussions over whether the answer was Eisenhower or Nixon, David Bowie or Iggy Pop…

I stand up, trying to shake myself mentally. Get over him, Maggie, I instruct myself. I need to stop. I really do. I want to. I’m going to. I sound like a drug addict. Perhaps there’s a twelve-step program for me. Priest Lovers Anonymous.

In the rectory office, Mrs. Plutarski pauses in her phone conversation to shoot me a suspicious glare. I ignore her and walk out into the frigid rain.

Sighing, I glance down the street. The familiar weight of loneliness presses down on me. The spaghetti dinner is hours away, the diner is closed. If only I had that nice guy I’ve imagined…the sweet, hardworking one with the easy laugh and dancing eyes. It’s a great day for cuddling, and while Colonel is excellent at cuddling, he’s not exactly the same thing as a hubby. No, Colonel could lie in front of a warm, snapping fire as my husband and I sat cuddled up on the couch, reading, drinking coffee…

My thoughts are cut off as a Hummer growls down the street, plowing through an enormous puddle. A sheet of muddy, icy water slaps down on me, drenching and punishing. “Hey!” I yelp. The vehicle slows at the library, pulling into a parking space near the front door.

“Asshole,” I mutter. Fully intending to march down the street and tell them they’re idiots, I find myself slowing down. A woman, dressed in a cheerful red raincoat and matching hat, gets out of the passenger’s side. She opens the back door and out pop three blond children wearing colorful raincoats and brightly colored boots. The mother extends both hands, and the smaller children each take one, the oldest kid running ahead to hold the door for his mother and sisters. Even from a half a block away, I can hear their laughter.

I guess I won’t tell them off. They’re not idiots, after all. As a matter of fact, they look like an ad for clean American living, aside from the earth-defiling vehicle they drive. They look like the kind of family I’d like to have someday. The woman seems like the kind of mother I’d want to be, laughing, well-dressed, unconsciously affectionate, automatically protective.

Then the driver’s door opens and out gets Skip Parkinson.

His presence is like a punch to the stomach, so silent and stunning that I actually bend over. I haven’t seen him since the day he dumped me, that awful day when he brought his fiancée back home.

Skip glances down the block, and though I knew him immediately, it’s clear he doesn’t have that same instinct for me, despite having just soaked me through to the skin. My teeth begin to chatter, but I don’t move, just watch as Skip casually jogs into the library, still full of easy, athletic grace.

Skip must be visiting his parents. No doubt the lovely, adorably dressed children got antsy being stuck inside, so Skip and Mrs. Skip took them to the library to get a book or a movie that would occupy them for the rest of the day. No doubt Skip and Mrs. Skip will return to the Parkinsons’ lovely home on Overlook Street and cuddle and read on the couch, the fire crackling, their legs entangled.

That could have been me in the bright red raincoat, being driven through the cold rainy afternoon by Skip, my husband. Those cheerful, hand-holding kids might have been mine.

Turning around, the cold rain slicing my face, I race home. It’s only three blocks, but I run as fast as I can, and by the time I get there, I’m gasping. I pound up the stairs, hoping that Mrs. K. doesn’t decide she wants a chat or a pedicure, and burst inside. The only sound is of my rasping breath and the rain drumming on the roof.

Colonel hauls himself out of his dog bed and woofs softly. I kneel down and hug him, burying my face in his beautiful fur. “Oh, buddy, I’m so glad to see you,” I say. “I love you, Colonel.”

When an eighty-five pound mammal licks your tears away, then tries to sit on your lap, it’s hard to feel sad. I give my dog some chicken breast to reward him for his love, then go to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. Bad idea. Bedraggled, wet hair sticks to my face, which is blotchy with cold. My mouth is grim.

I slam my way out of the bathroom and go to the cupboard above the fridge—the rarely-used liquor cupboard—and take out the unopened Irish whiskey given to me by a nice old man who died about five years ago. I used to bring him dinner on Wednesday nights. Mr. Williams. Nice guy. I slosh about six ounces into a glass and raise it. “Here’s to you, Mr. Williams,” I say, drinking. Yuck. I grimace hugely, shudder, then take another swallow.

Grabbing the phone, I call the bakery in Machias and order eighteen loaves of Italian bread, then call Will, who is at the hospital up there today, on his cell.

“Will, can you do me a favor?” I ask abruptly.

“Sure, Maggie, sure. You okay?” he asks.

I tell him about the bakery order, remind him to come to the spaghetti supper. He is happy to pick up the bread. Great guy, that Will. I drink to him, too. “And here’s to you, Colonel Love Pup,” I say, raising my glass to my dog. He wags his tail and rests his head on my foot.

I look at the clock. 3:09. Octavio closed today, and is probably already home with his wife and five kids. I hope he remembers to bring the two huge pots of homemade sauce and twelve dozen meatballs I left on the diner’s stove. That’s how I spent my morning, from 4:00 a.m. until seven. Cooking for a church event, even though I don’t go to church. That’s our Maggie, anything for Father Tim. Nothing else to do, right? It’s not like anyone’s home waiting for her.

By the time I leave my apartment, I’m feeling a bit more cheerful. I trip off the curb and step into a frigid puddle up to my ankle, but it’s okay. Weaving over to the church, I flip on the lights in the echoing basement and get out the big pasta pots. “You are the sunshine of my life,” I sing, glad that Stevie Wonder can’t hear me. “That’s why I’ll always stay around, oooh, oooh, yeah, yeah…”

Over the past year, I’ve become well-acquainted with this kitchen. I’ve cooked corned beef on St. Patrick’s Day, mulled cider for the carol sing, boiled eggs for the Easter egg hunt. Here I make huge pans of lasagna for after-funeral gatherings, throw together blueberry cakes and cookies for bake sales. Coffee hour? No problem…I donate the scones, set up the beverages, fill the creamers. My home away from home, this kitchen. “You’re such a loser,” I tell myself. My voice echoes through the basement.

I fill the huge pots with hot water, throw in some salt and turn on the gas. Then, feeling a little bit dizzy, I decide to lie on the floor and wait for the water to boil. It’s nice on the floor. Cool and smooth. My back aches a little, and I stretch, then close my eyes. A brief nap, perhaps, before everyone comes.

“Hey, boss.” The voice floats to me over the counter. Octavio and his wife come in, each carrying a giant vat of sauce, followed by their many children.

“Oh, hi!” I say. “Hello! How are you? It’s nice to see you, Patty. Hello, Mookie. Hello, Lucia. Hi, other kids! Hi!”

“You okay, boss?” Octavio asks, giving me a questioning look.

“Yes. Yes, I am. I am A-okay. Thank you,” I answer. Perhaps I should get up? I do, groping for a handhold on the counter and hauling myself unsteadily to my feet. “And you? How are you lovely people?”

“We’re fine.” He and his wife exchange a look, then set the sauce down and go back to the van for the meatballs. The kids start running around, playing hide and seek. I turn the sauce on low and notice the bottles of wine under the counter. That’s right—this is a wine event. How nice! Not just another boring spaghetti supper—a nice wine dinner. That’s nice. It’s nice to have wine. “You kids are nice,” I announce to the Santos children as I uncap a bottle.

The oldest girl, Marie, who is seven, stops running. “Thanks, Maggie,” she says, smiling shyly. “You’re nice, too.”

“I know,” I say. I wrinkle my nose and smile at her. What a nice girl.

An hour later, the place is full and conversation bounces around the basement like a hundred ping-pong balls. I must not think about that, or it will make me woozy. And I’m already very busy trying to conceal the fact that I might be a little tipsy. Every movement must be carefully planned, every phrase prethought. My parents come over, looking the nice part of the nice parents they are.

“Hello, Maggie. This looks very pretty,” Mom says. She glances at the tables we set up, the little fake flower centerpieces. In order to avoid that prison-cafeteria feel that so many church events have, we’ve turned on only the recessed lighting, not the fluorescents.

“Thank you, Mom. You are so nice to say so,” I say. “Hi, Dad. It does look nice. Not like prison. Like a nice place. Like a church.”

Luckily, Mom is scanning the room for someone for me to marry. “Maggie, are you…have you been drinking?” Dad asks quietly.

“A little,” I admit. It’s hard to keep both eyes focused right now…the left eye seems to be wandering. I squint it shut so it will stop bothering me.

“Have you had anything to eat today?” Dad asks.

“Hmm. Yes. I had a sour cream cranberry muffin this morning, and let me tell you, Daddy, it was freaking fantastic.”

“Okay, baby, let’s get you fed.” Dad, good old Dad, steers me to a table and pushes me into a seat.

“Can’t I sit with Octavio?” I ask. “I love that guy!”

“Stay here,” Dad says. “I’ll be right back.”

It’s nice, staying here. I’m glad I have to. But the room is spinning just a little, so I put my head on the table. It’s like being on a carnival ride…I can feel the movement, but with my eyes closed, I don’t have to see.

Someone sits next to me. “Hello,” I say without lifting my head. “Welcome to the dinner.”

“Are you drunk?” It’s my sister.

“Mmm-hmm. Daddy’s getting me some food.” I lift my head. Oops. I’m drooling. There’s a wet spot on the table. I grab the flowers and place them on the splotch, then turn to face Christy. “Hi.”

“Whoa,” she says. “What happened?”

It doesn’t seem prudent to mention the whiskey I drank earlier. “Oh, I don’t know…I think I had a glass of wine on an empty stomach. Thash all. Jushta li’l wine.” I smile to cover the fact that I’m slurring.

Dad returns with some salad, bread, a glass of water and a bowl of pasta that could feed a family of four. “Eat, sweetie,” he instructs. “And Christy, can you run interference with your mother? She’s over there talking to Carol.”

“Sure,” she answers. She stands up and pats me on the shoulder.

“I love you!” I call, waving to her. “You are so sweet, Christy.”

I eat the food—it’s delicious, I have to say—and begin to feel drowsy. Christy, Violet and Will come over with plates, and after a little while, Mom, too. Another family dinner. My eyelids droop, but Dad has me on the far end, away from Mom so she won’t know her spinster daughter is now also the town lush. Maybe I can go lie down on the coat pile, I think. It looks so cozy. People mill around, going up for seconds. “Great food, Maggie,” several people call, and I wave sloppily in response.

Then I see Father Tim. He’s chatting up Mr. and Mrs. Rubricht, laughing, clapping Mr. on the back. Mrs. Plutarski, his self-appointed bodyguard, preens in her proximity to the priest. Preening proximity to the priest. I chuckle. “Preening,” I say out loud. Dad turns to me, concerned, but I can’t take my eyes off Father Tim.

He’s so nice, Father Tim. We had so much fun the other night, didn’t we? That man is a great guy. He’s no asshole, not like Skip. Nope, Father Tim is my best friend. I love him.

When everyone is just about finished and eying the dessert table with unabashed greed, Father Tim takes the microphone and clicks it on. His beautiful Irish lilt fills my ears.

“It warms my heart to see so many people here tonight, in spite of the nasty weather,” he says, smiling at his flock. “And what a lovely dinner we’ve all been enjoying! Thank you, Maggie and Octavio, for putting together such a fine feast, as always.”

People clap and turn toward me. I stand up, stagger back a little, but decide that no one really noticed. “You’re welcome!” I call out.

“And thanks in advance to the hospitality committee, too, who’ll be doing all the hard work of cleaning up afterwards,” Father Tim continues. “I’m happy to say that we’ve raised more than—”

“Can I just say something?” I call out, waving to dear, kind Father Tim.

“Oh, stop her, Daddy,” Christy murmurs, her voice urgent.

No! They will not stop me! I scoot with surprising agility around our table, only bumping into six or ten chairs as I make my way to the front of the room, where Father Tim stands smiling with a little uncertainty.

“Can I have the mike?” I ask him. I am not so drunk that I miss Mrs. Plutarski’s mouth purse in jealousy. Yeah. That’s right. Because I’m Father Tim’s friend. She’s not the only one who adores him.

“Ah…sure, Maggie,” he says, handing it over to me.

I’ve never spoken into a microphone before. It’s kind of neat, holding it. I feel a little like Ellen DeGeneres, like I have my own show. I wriggle onto the edge of the stage where last year’s confirmation class butchered Godspell and blow into the mike. The rushing sound reassures me that it’s on.

“Thank you so much, Father Tim,” I say, proud not to slur. “Oh, that’s funny! I sound like Christy!”

Everyone laughs. I’m a hit!

“So, I guess I just wanted to say how grateful we all are to be here, on this beautiful planet, in this great little town. It’s so nice, isn’t it?”

My mother is staring at me, her face a mixture of disapproval and horror. I think she might be mad at me. “Hi, Mom!” I say, waving. “Anyway, I also want to say thanks to Father Tim. We are so lucky to have him in our parish, aren’t we? I mean, remember Father What’s-His-Name, that weird little fat guy? The guy at Christy’s wedding? He was no fun, no fun. Uh-uh. Not funny, that guy. And now we have Father Tim! He’s so good, right? I mean, he’s like a holy man, don’t you think?”

“Thanks, Maggie. I’ll just be taking that microphone back, shall I?” Father Tim says, making a move toward me.

“No! No, no. No.” I scoot back further, then stand, so that if Father Tim wants to get me, he has to come and get me. Ha! I point to him as he stands frozen, and waggle my index finger. “This is good. You should hear this, holy man. Because we all love you. Really. Don’t we?” I ask the assembled guests. They are certainly paying excellent attention. “Everyone here loves you, Father Tim. Me, too. I just…you’re such a…and we all just…I love you, Father Tim.”

I keep talking, but now I can hardly hear myself, the place has gotten so loud. Will is suddenly standing next to me, clever lad, and he takes the mike from me.

“I wasn’t done,” I protest.

“Oh, you’re done, honey,” he says. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”