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

Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1) Page 29

“Thanks, Beth. That would be nice,” I say. My eyes feel grainy and hard.

When I leave the diner, I automatically hold the door open a second too long before it occurs to me that my dog won’t be following me. There’s no one to look out for, no one to talk to…shit. Mom’s right. I’m pathetic.

Mrs. Plutarski glares at me when I ask if Father Tim is in. “He’s quite busy today, you know,” she says, pushing up her glasses on her razor-sharp nose. “This might not be the time for a…social visit.”

“I’ve just had a death in the family, Edith,” I say, knowing she hates it when I call her by her first name. She waits for a name, but I don’t give her one. “Is he in or not?” I demand.

“Maggie? I thought I heard your voice.”

There he is. “Hi, Father Tim. Do you have a minute? In private?”

“For you, Maggie, always. Edith, my darlin’ girl, would you mind faxing this over to the mother ship? It needs to be there today.” He hands her a piece of paper, which she accepts as if it were an engagement ring. “Sorry, Maggie. Official diocese business. Thanks, Edith.”

“Don’t forget you have that meeting in Machias at six,” she says, her eyes on me. Make it short is what she’s really saying.

“What can I do for you today, Maggie?” Father Tim asks, ushering me into the parlor.

I sit in the chair, ready to be comforted. “Father Tim, Colonel…he died last night.”

At first, the news doesn’t register. I suddenly remember that Father Tim said he would call me last night and didn’t. “Oh, dear,” he says, his expectant smile turning to sorrow.

I wait for more. It doesn’t come.

“He died in his sleep,” I say.

“Well, that’s a comfort, then, isn’t it? Better than having him put down, I’d imagine.” He glances at his watch.

“Do you have to go?” I ask brusquely.

“No, no. I’ve got a bit.” He sits back and folds his hands. “Well. You must be feeling quite sad.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“I’m sorry, then.” He smiles kindly, but for the first time ever, I get the feeling that he’s not really listening.

“Father Tim,” I say, “do you think animals go to heaven?” The question comes only from my desire to engage him, not from any spiritual need. I know exactly where Colonel is.

“I’ve been asked that before,” he answers thoughtfully. “And while you might say that though God created them, the truth is that they don’t have the ability to make a choice. That’s a gift God only gave to man, Maggie, free will, don’t you know. And so?”

He keeps talking. I stop listening.

Father Tim is not going to comfort me. He’s not going to say something that’s tender, compassionate and insightful. He’s off on some tangent about church teachings, ignoring my sadness, oblivious to my irritation.

“Okay, whatever,” I interrupt. “Listen, I have to run.”

“Maggie,” he says, standing. “I’m terribly sorry.” He folds me into a hug. It doesn’t do much for me today, but I soften a little. At least he’s trying.

“Thanks, Father Tim,” I say, extricating myself. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mrs. Plutarski doesn’t acknowledge me as I come out, choosing instead to bustle frantically around the room to show just how busy they are. “Father Tim, you’ve really got to get going,” she calls out for extra measure. I hate her.

I walk home slowly. My eyes automatically check for Colonel at each corner, and I almost expect a nose to bump reassuringly against my hand.

Mrs. K. is lying in wait for me. The second my foot hits the step, she opens her door. “Hello, dear,” she says.

“Hi, Mrs. K.,” I say. The last thing I want to do is cut her toenails or plunge her toilet. “Everything okay?”

“Well, yes, Maggie, for me, at any rate. Here. I baked today. I can’t remember the last time I baked. These are for you.” She hands me a paper plate of peanut butter cookies, the crisscross marks sparkling with sugar. Her wizened, soft face is so kind and sweet that my eyes instantly fill.

“Now, you probably need some time alone, so I won’t keep you,” she says. “But I’m here if you need me.” She squeezes my arm and closes the door.

I open the door to my apartment and step in, then stand for a minute, facing my loss. I’ve never come home and not had Colonel either with me or here to greet me. His bowl is still there, still filled with kibbles. His doggy bed, worn on one side where he draped his paw over the side these many years, seems enormously empty.

A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, I’m in my oldest, most comfortable flannel pajamas. Winged blue coffee cups float over an orange background, a color combination that explains why I got them for three dollars. Two inches of my ankle stick out, and my bosom?or lack thereof?is now coated with peanut butter cookie crumbs. Exhausted but not sleepy, I listlessly watch the Red Sox blow a four-run lead. My mother hates me, my father’s disappearing, my sister’s perfect, and hey. Let’s not forget that my dog is dead. In a word, I’m not feeling too chipper. Of course, that’s when someone knocks on the door.

I heave myself off the couch. Probably Jonah, I think. But it’s not. It’s the last thing I need. Malone.

I open the door. “Malone, it’s not the best time for me,” I say, looking at his chest.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he answers, pushing past me.

Why is he here? Do we need to break up? Did we have a relationship that actually requires a breakup scene? “Look,” I say, but I’m talking to his back because he’s ignoring me and going into the kitchen. Taking off his coat, even. The nerve. And opening a cabinet. Pretty rude, if you ask me. I stay where I am, hands on my hips. If he wants a fight, he’s in for it. I am in no mood for shit today, as Mommy Dearest could attest. This has been a piss-poor day, and my throat grows tight with anger.

“Malone, I really don’t want you?”

Malone comes back in the living room with two glasses of what looks and smells like scotch. He hands one to me, then clinks his glass against mine. “To Colonel. He was a great dog, Maggie.”

Whatever hardness I’m feeling crumbles like a sand castle. I cover my eyes, which have instantly filled with tears. “Malone…” I whisper. He puts his arms around me, kisses my head, and the kindness of the small gesture just destroys me. My fists clench in his shirt, and I sob against his chest.

“Jonah told me,” he says, kissing me again. “Here, take a drink. You’ll feel better.”

It’s one of his longer speeches. I obey, wincing as I swallow. Then he leads me to the couch and sits down, pulling me with him, tucking my head against his shoulder. My tears leak out, wetting the wool of his sweater, and I hiccup occasionally. We sit there like that for a long time, watching the Sox lose, not saying anything. I sip the drink, feeling a pleasant warmth grow in my middle. Malone’s fingers play idly in my hair, and I’m curled against his side. My eyes begin to burn, my thoughts grow sketchy and jumbled.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I wake up, I’m in bed, the covers pulled up to my chin. My arm reaches out automatically, and I do touch a warm, solid figure, but it’s not Colonel, of course. It’s Malone. He’s lying on top of the covers, fully dressed. The moonlight that pours through the window allows me to see that he’s awake.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“Hi,” he says.

“Did you carry me to bed?”

He nods once.

“You’re pretty strong, then,” I say, and he smiles, tugging my heart.

He reaches out and pushes a strand of hair back from my face, his smile fading. “Maggie,” he says, his voice as gravelly as the stones at Jasper Beach, “the other night, when you came over…I wasn’t exactly at my best.”

My goodness. An apology. “I think you’re making up for it now,” I tell him.

“Can you spend the day with me tomorrow?” he asks, still playing with my hair.

A date, I think. He wants to take me on a date. Octavio and Judy can run the place without me for a day. It’s been known to happen. “Sure.” My eyes are getting tired again. “Do you want to come under the covers?” I murmur. “It’s pretty chilly.”

The bed squeaks as he gets off it. I hear his clothes rustle, but I can’t keep my eyes open another minute. He slides under the covers with me, minus his sweater, though the jeans and shirt remain. He pulls me against him, and I slip my hand under his shirt against his warm skin. Malone kisses my forehead, and in another minute, I’m asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY

MALONE WAKES FIRST, sliding out of bed. “Meet me at the dock at seven, okay?” he asks.

“Okay,” I say, rubbing my eyes. He leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

I get up, trying not to look for Colonel in every corner, and take a quick shower, then throw on some jeans and a sweater. I pause for a minute by Colonel’s bed, kneeling down to pat the fleecy cushion. “Miss you, buddy,” I whisper. Then I call Octavio and tell him I’m taking a day off.

“Sure, boss,” he says. “You deserve it.”

Now while seven isn’t early if you work in a diner, it’s downright late if you’re a lobsterman. Most of the boats are already out, including the Twin Menace. Malone’s Ugly Anne sits bobbing on its mooring as the tide rushes in. He’s waiting for me by his dinghy.

“So are we going lobstering?” I ask.

“Nope,” he says, handing me into the little boat.

The smell of herring, the bait lobstermen use for their traps, is musty and thick, but it’s a smell I’ve dealt with most of my life. Still, I breathe through my mouth until we get to the Ugly Anne, the waves slapping against the hull of the dinghy, spraying me occasionally. “Charming name,” I comment as we approach the boat. Malone’s face creases into a smile. “Who’s Anne?”

“My grandmother,” he says.

“And does she know that you’ve immortalized her this way?”

“Ayuh.” He smiles but offers nothing more, climbing aboard and reaching out his hand to me. “Have a seat,” he says.

A lobster boat is all about work, nothing about comfort. There are no chairs, just an area in the middle where you can sit if you’re so inclined, which the lobstermen aren’t and therefore don’t. The pilot house is crammed with equipment?a couple of radios, the GPS equipment, radar. There are barrels for bait and a holding tank for the lobsters. If Malone was going out to check pots, there’d be ten or twelve extra traps stacked on deck and miles of line coiled and waiting, but each night, the lobstermen unload at the dock, and the deck is clear and empty right now. I sit on the gunwale, not wanting to get in the way.

Malone does his preflight check, as it were, and then starts her up and releases the Ugly Anne from her mooring. The wind is brisk as we head out to sea. Malone steers us past Douglas Point, dodging Cuthman’s Shoal. Colorful buoys illustrate the water, so thick you could walk home, as Billy Bottoms would say, and we work our way as if navigating a maze. It takes us about twenty minutes to hit clear water, and even then the Maine coast is loaded with abrupt shoals, tiny islands, currents and tidal dangers. Once we’re out a bit, Malone sets the wheel and glances over at me.

“Are we going to check your traps?” I guess, pulling the hood of my coat on.

“No.”

“Where are we going, then?”

He adjusts the controls, then looks over to where I sit on the gunwale, insecure enough that I’m clenching a handhold. “It’s a surprise,” he says, unscrewing a thermos lid. “Want some coffee?”