Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)

Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1) Page 13

“See?” I tell Colonel. “This is why I don’t do Internet dating.”

Still, it’s interesting. I skip the body art section and move onto best feature. Hmm. I guess everyone would say their eyes…so I’ll say smile. I have a nice smile, a ready smile. My teeth are straight and even…Smile it is. But smile is not on the list. Calves are on the list, and forearms, ni**les and navel, but not smile.

Tell us about yourself, the computer form urges. Will do.

“Hometown girl, love my family, love my dog. Want to make a nice life with someone loyal, funny and kindhearted. I love to bake, feed people and ride my bike. Nice-looking and once or twice a year, I can even pull off beautiful.” Yes, if I spend a few hours fussing with my hair, using a pore-minimizing mud mask, soaking my hands and spending a half hour on makeup, that is. Not that I do, mind you, but I can.

“I’m good-natured and don’t mind laughing at myself, either.” As I’ve demonstrated far too often, I think. “Enjoy reading, scary movies and baseball. Want to settle down and have kids.” Why be coy, right?

After numerous other sections, such as religious preferences, turn-ons (fangs are among the choices listed) and my idea of the perfect first date, I am finally allowed to see the eligible men within 75 miles of my zip code. There are two.

Looking for goddess to rain with me as we conquer the universe and all it’s mysteries, explore the depths of our sensual natures and experament on the laws of love. You are big-breasted, young, stunning, adventurous, sexually daring and don’t mind being submissive when your god commands it. So much can be learned from exploring each other physically…why wait is what I say. Come with me and bend to my desires, o goddess, and you will not be sorry.

I’m sorry already, actually. The misspellings are enough to put me off, let alone the gist of the message. I click on the second.

Single father of two, abandoned by whore of a wife and left to deal with everything alone. She cleaned out the bank accounts, took the good car and left me with nothing, and this after fifteen years of sucking my soul dry in the first place. Let alone talk about what it’s doing to the kids. Your mother’s a bitch, I tell them. Sorry kids, but that’s the way it is. So anyways, I’m looking for someone who loves kids and doesn’t mind watching mine. Preferably someone who doesn’t have kids of their own, because you know how f**ked up that can be. I work long hours and won’t be home much, so you should love taking care of the house, too. I’m extremely good-looking and have a great sense of humor.

“I don’t care if you’re Jude Law,” I say. “You need some serious counseling.” Colonel shares my disbelief and rises to put his head on my lap. I stroke his ears, and he burps softly in response, tail wagging. The phone rings.

“Maggie, I’ve got you set up for a phone date,” Father Tim announces.

“Bless you, Father,” I answer. “I think you’re my last hope. Not that I’ve forgotten Oliver and his groin, mind you.”

“I’m asking for your forgiveness on that one, Maggie,” he says. “That was a fluke. This time I’ve a fine fellow by the name of Doug Andrews.”

“What does he do?” I ask.

“I believe he’s a fisherman.”

“Okay.” Plenty of men around here are. “Anything else?”

“Well now, I’ve not met him myself, nor has Father Bruce. He’s from Ellsworth, a member of the church down there, and Father Bruce was kind enough to speak to his pastor. But from the account I’ve heard, our Mr. Andrews is a good-looking man in his thirties.”

“Mmm-hmm. And why does he need to be fixed up by a priest?” I ask. Even though I myself require this service, I’m suspicious of others who also need it.

“He’s a widower,” Father Tim answers. “Lost his wife a couple of years ago.”

“Great!” I answer, then immediately correct myself. “I mean, of course, not great. That’s awful. So sad.” I roll my eyes. “What I mean is, at least he was normal enough to meet someone once. It’s better than just being a weirdo who never was able to get married in the first place.” I pause. “Like me.”

“Maggie, you’re not a weirdo. Granted, you talk a bit too much, and you’ve a way of sticking your foot in your mouth, but you’re a jewel. And if a girl as wonderful as you needs a bit of help in finding someone, doesn’t it stand to reason that there’s a wonderful man out there who does, as well?”

“Um…I guess so.” Did Father Tim just insult me or compliment me? A little of both, it seems. “Well, is he going to call me?”

“He is, yes. Tomorrow night. Nine o’clock. I assume you’ll be in?”

“Yup.” I hop up and make the note on my blackboard. “Father Tim, I really hope something turns out with this guy,” I say. “I’m so tired of first dates. I just don’t know why it’s so hard to meet someone.”

He sighs in my ear. “Nor do I, Maggie. As I said, you’re a fine person. And you will find someone. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“A priest finding me a boyfriend is on the mysterious side, Father Tim.” His laughter warms my heart.

CHAPTER EIGHT

DOUG ANDREWS DOES INDEED sound very nice. We spoke for almost an hour and agreed to meet at a restaurant between Ellsport and Gideon’s Cove. There aren’t that many restaurants open year round up here, but Jason’s Taverne is, which makes it a fairly popular place. It’s a squat, unremarkable structure sitting at the edge of Route 187, easy to get to, clearly visible from both directions. Half of the place is the bar area, which has a big-screen TV permanently set to the New England Sports Channel. Because of this, and because it’s open twelve months a year, the bar is always busy. The restaurant section is quieter, and the food is simple and good.

This afternoon, Christy came over and helped me pick out what to wear, even lent me a beaded necklace and hair clip to “bling” me up a little. It was fun, like high school, almost, when Christy, who didn’t have a boyfriend until senior year, would help me get ready for a Saturday night with Skip. The end result is that I look pretty nice, in my own opinion. My hair style is elegant but casual, the streaks that I got a few weeks ago going a long way to turn me from light brown to dark blond. I’m wearing a black shirt with a pretty, curving neckline and velvety black pants. I even put on makeup.

Although I caution myself not to get excited, I can’t help it. Doug and I talked easily. He sounded so reassuringly normal, talking about work (he’s a manager at a fisheries plant), sailing, even a little about his wife, who died in a small plane accident. There were no warning bells, no awkward pauses. He seemed interested in me, wanted to hear about Joe’s Diner, asked nice questions about Christy and Colonel, my two favorite people.

I get to the restaurant early, go inside and ask the hostess if Doug has arrived. At the bar are a couple of men engrossed in the Red Sox pregame show, and although I can only see their backs, I know Doug isn’t among them. He told me he is prematurely gray, and the guys there are dark-haired.

The hostess shows me to a table near the gas-fueled fireplace. I sit facing the door, my back to the bar and the giant TV, so that I can see Doug when he comes in.

“Would you like a drink?” the hostess asks.

“Well, maybe I should wait for my friend. Actually, no. I’ll have a, um…I don’t know. Glass of wine? How about a pinot grigio? Do you have that by the glass?”

“Santa Margarita?” she asks.

“Sounds great,” I say.

Trying to look comfortable when you’re waiting for someone in a restaurant is difficult. I study the few other diners. An older couple eats in silence two tables away, and a young woman and a much older woman chat animatedly in the corner. Grandmother and granddaughter, I’d guess. Aside from them and the guys at the bar, the restaurant is fairly deserted.

I glance over at the door. The hostess is reading a book. I should have brought one, too. I hate waiting. I turn in my seat and glance at the game. The Sox are trying out a rookie pitcher. If I were home tonight, I’d be watching. It’s nice to have somewhere else to be.

A waitress comes over with my wine. “Would you like to see a menu?” she asks.

“No, no, I’m sure my friend will be along soon. But thanks,” I say. I glance at my watch. It’s ten after seven, and we agreed to meet at seven. I take a sip of wine to take the edge off my nervousness. He’ll come, I tell myself. He sounded so promising. And eager to meet me. He’d even said how nice I sounded.

Please, God, I pray silently, straightening out the salt and pepper shakers. Don’t let this turn out to be a disaster, because I don’t think I can take another one. I hate to bother you when I’m not dying or lost at sea or a soldier or whatever, but if you have just a sec, can you please, please send me a good guy this time? I don’t need much…just a decent, goodhearted man. Please. Sorry to bug you. Over and out.

The table now looks quite tidy. Nothing left to straighten. I take another sip of wine, then check my cell phone. No missed messages. I sneak another look at the door. We did say we’d meet in the restaurant, didn’t we? Yes, I’m sure we did. Let’s meet in the restaurant so we can talk, Doug had said. The bar is pretty noisy. That’s right. He’s been here before. So he’s not lost. Just a little late. Well, not so little any more. Sixteen minutes.

The waitress brings the older couple their food, then glides over to me. “Would you like to order an appetizer?” she asks.

“No, no! I’m fine. My friend is just a little late,” I tell her.

“Sure,” she says. Is that pity in her gaze? “Just flag me down if you change your mind.”

Just then the door opens. This has got to be him, I think, willing it to be Doug.

It’s not. Feeling like I’ve just been slapped, I drop my gaze to my lap, away from the people who just came in. Please, no. It seems my bones have just evaporated, and my heart begins to pound. Don’t let them see me. Shit, shit, shit. Don’t let them see me.

“Maggie? Oh, my God! It is you!”

I look up with a firm smile. “Skip. Hello.”

Mr. and Mrs. Skip Parkinson stand at my table. I stand up, too, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that I’ve seen Skip twice in one month after a decade of reprieve.

“Wow!” Skip announces. “You look just the same! It’s so great to see you! You remember Annabelle, don’t you? Annie, this is Maggie, a girl I went to school with.”

A girl you slept with, too. The first one. The one whose heart you broke in public. “Hello. I don’t think we’ve met.”

I didn’t get a look at her face in the rain a few weeks ago, but now I see that her features are small and delicate and girlish. Her makeup is perfect, subtle, invisible except for her deep red lipstick, which looks daring and provocative on her. We shake hands, and I can’t help wince as my peasantlike paw envelops her satiny, manicured hand.

“Hello, Maggie,” she says, and she has a soft drawl. “It’s so lovely to meet any old friend of Skip’s.”

“Uh, thank you.” I can’t bring myself to look Skip directly in the face, and the three of us stand there awkwardly. Finally I say, “Well, um, would you like to sit down?” and instantly regret my foolish offer.

“Oh, well, now, we don’t want to intrude,” Annabelle says politely.

“Meeting someone, Maggie?” Skip asks, glancing at the empty place across from me.

“Well, yes. I’m meeting a friend, and I got here a little early, and, um, well, please join me.” I sit down heavily and swallow. They sit on either side of me, flanking me. I can’t help it anymore?I look at Skip.