Malone was a few years ahead of me in school…four or five, maybe. I can’t remember us being in high school at the same time, and as my father pointed out, he moved to town at some point during his teenage years. Maybe from Jonesport or Lubec, somewhere north of here. I know he married young, maybe just out of high school. I can’t remember his wife’s name, but I do remember the buzz when she left him.
I had just taken over the diner, was struggling through a crash course in restaurant management, dealing with things like inventory and ordering and how not to burn people’s food, so I don’t have a clear memory of it. But it was quite a little scandal in our town, and people gossiped about it fiercely. She left while he was away, as I recall. He came home to an empty house, found out that his wife had taken their daughter to Oregon or Washington with another man. There were rumors that Malone had knocked her around, that he couldn’t get joint custody because of it, rumors that she was a lesbian, rumors that she joined a cult. The usual nonsense from a small town.
Aside from that, I haven’t heard much about dark, silent Malone. He works hard, that’s widely known; first one out, last one back. His haul is usually the largest of the year, despite the fact that he only hires a sternman to help him during the summer and does the rest of the season alone. He is or has been president of the lobstermen’s association around here. Once in a while, the local paper will mention him speaking out against over-regulation and fishing rights, but again, I haven’t paid too much attention. Malone never meant anything to me, other than being the slightly scary guy who gave me a ride last year.
“We know he’s great in the sack,” I tell Colonel. “And that he doesn’t know how to use a telephone.”
As irritated with myself as I am with Malone, I pace around the apartment. I put the TV on, then turn it off. Maybe I’ll paint my toenails, I think, then immediately dismiss the idea, as it takes patience and I have none. Time for Christy. I snatch up the phone and hit speed dial. “Hi, it’s me,” I say. “Hey, I was just, you know, reading this book about a woman who’s sleeping with this guy, and the sex is really good and she thinks it means something, but he never calls her. What do you think?”
“Ah…do you mean about the plot or…”
I choke. “Shit! Father Tim! I’m sorry! I thought I hit the button for my sister…”
He laughs. “Not to worry, Maggie, not to worry.” He pauses. “It sounds like your book makes another strong case for marriage first, don’t you think?”
I flush with guilt. “Oh, I guess. It’s just that that hardly happens anymore. Waiting for marriage.”
“And no doubt that explains why the divorce rate is so terribly high. More people should be like you, Maggie. Willing to wait to get to know someone before rushing into a purely physical relationship.”
I grimace, so very, very glad that Father Tim can’t see my face. “Sometimes,” I say, trying to get it through my thick head, “you feel such a strong attraction to someone that you think it must be a sign.”
He pauses. “I…I really wouldn’t know.” His voice is gentle.
“Of course not! I’m sorry…It’s just that sometimes…you know what? Forget it. I was just thinking of someone?well, this person in the book.” I stop talking, picturing Father Tim at home, maybe in his bedroom (not that I’ve ever seen it), his kind and laughing eyes, his ready smile. “Father Tim,” I ask tentatively, “do you ever wonder if you made the right choice? You must get so lonely sometimes.”
Father Tim is quiet for a moment. “Well, sure, of course. Don’t we all? Of course I sometimes think about what life would have held had I not been called to the priesthood.”
I sit up straighter. “Really?”
“Sure, now.” His voice is wistful. “It’s a common enough complaint in my vocation, loneliness is. Every once in a while, I find myself picturing what it would be like to have a wife, a few children…” His voice trails off.
“Uh-huh,” I breathe, afraid that saying more will break the intimacy of the moment, simultaneously thrilled and horrified to get this glimpse behind the curtain, as it were. To see the great Oz revealed.
“But those thoughts are fleeting,” he says, his voice stronger. “For me, it’s like dreaming you’re the president or an astronaut. I love the life I have as a priest, and those daydreams are just that…bits of fluff that pass right out of my head.”
Moment over. “I guess it’s only human to wonder,” I say. “And you know, Father Tim, even if you don’t have, you know, a family…well, we all love you here in Gideon’s Cove. You’re a wonderful priest.”
“Thank you, Maggie,” he says gently. “You have a gift of making people feel very special. You know that, I hope.”
I smile, feel a warm squeeze in my chest. “Thanks, Father Tim,” I half whisper.
After we hang up, I go into the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. I like my face. It’s not beautiful, not really, but it’s nice enough. Pretty. A pleasing, friendly face. And to hear Father Tim confide in me, tell me I have a gift…well. I like my face even more. Of course, Christy’s face is exactly like mine, but that’s a minor detail.
There’s a knock at the door, and I jump.
It’s Malone, his face as cheerful as the angel of death. Irritation, nervousness and attraction flutter around in my chest as I open the door. “Hi,” I say. “Hey. How are you, Malone? Oh, what a nice night, isn’t it? I thought maybe it was raining.”
He stands there, looking at me as if assessing my babble, then deigns to speak. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I echo in full idiot mode. “So. Want to come in?”
He steps inside, immediately making my apartment seem even smaller than it is. Colonel slips off the couch and comes over to greet my guest, wagging gently. “Hey, boy,” Malone says, bending down to pet Colonel’s head. Colonel licks his hand and goes to his doggy bed in the corner and begins his nightly ritual?five turns in a tight circle, followed by intensive sniffing, followed by the actual lying down. I watch him intently so as not to have to look at Malone, who is staring at me. Don’t say anything, Maggie. Let him go first. Keep your mouth shut.
“Can I get you a beer or some coffee or something, Malone?” I ask. My inner self rolls her eyes at me.
“No, thanks,” Malone says.
“Okay, well, um, do you want to take off your coat?”
He takes it off and hangs it on a hook. The silence stretches on.
“So, Malone, what are you doing here?” I ask. “I mean, it’s a little late. Almost eleven.”
“I wanted to see you,” he says, and there’s a softening around his mouth. My stomach squeezes gently in response. God, I’m such a slut.
“Well, you know, Malone, I do have a phone. And I am in the book. Maybe you could call next time.” My prissy tone doesn’t fool me; even now, I’m kind of hoping he’ll take me on the kitchen table. He steps closer, and my heart rate kicks up. Oh, yes, the table…
“Line was busy,” he murmurs, his scraping voice sending tremors to my joints.
“What? Oh. Yes. Yes. That’s right. I was…on the…you know…the phone.”
He takes my hands in his and pulls me closer, studying my mouth. I can feel the heat from his body, smell his soap and laundry detergent and a faint, salty smell. Resisting a strong urge to lick his neck, I swallow. “Who were you talking to?” he asks, just when I want him to kiss me the way he did last night. He raises an eyebrow, waiting.
“What? Excuse me, I mean?” My voice is tight.
“Who were you talking to?”
“Um…I?well, I think it was Father Tim.”
Malone’s eyes meet mine.
“Yeah, you know, I’m on all these committees and stuff. At church. Church committees.”
His eyes return to my mouth, his tangled lashes lowering. Lashes like that are just not fair. “That’s nice,” he mutters.
“Malone,” I whisper hoarsely, then clear my throat. “You think you could drop the chitchat and kiss me?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
SO WHEN I wake up in the morning, alone again, I really have no one to blame but myself. I’m as clueless as I was yesterday. Perhaps I should make a list and mail it to him, because that man does something to my brain. Things to Ask Malone. 1. Are we seeing each other or just sleeping together? 2. Do you like me at all, or is this just a physical thing? (Unfortunately, I suspect the latter…at least on my part.)3. Can you tell me about yourself so I don’t feel like you’re a total stranger? 4. Why don’t you ever come into the diner?
Oddly enough, it’s the last thing that bothers me the most. The diner is a surprising little treasure in Gideon’s Cove. For the first few years that I ran it, I worked a second job over at the hospital, filing medical records from four until ten each night so that I could sink some money into the diner. It took me almost four years to completely restore it. I pulled up the linoleum that Granddad put down over the tile floors, painstakingly retiling the areas that needed it, scouring the grout with bleach until my hands were raw. Reupholstering the seats in their original red vinyl took some money, and I had to buy the bigger oven so that I could bake all the homemade goodies that we’re now known for. I’d like Malone to see it, to have that pie that I promised him.
Chantal comes in for lunch, something she does every Thursday, and because Judy is in a rare mood and actually working, I sit down and have lunch with the resident expert on the men of Gideon’s Cove.
“These fries are the best in town,” she says, popping another curly, spiced delicacy into her mouth.
“The only fries in town,” I correct her with a smile. When Chantal’s not busy seducing some man (or any man), she can be quite pleasant.
“You want to go to Dewey’s tonight?” she asks. “I could use a drink.”
“Um…well, no, I’d better not. I have stuff to do.” It’s true. Laundry. Bills. Possibly Malone. And speaking of tall, dark and not exactly handsome, I risk a question.
“Chantal, remember how you were telling me I should check out Malone?” I blush and take a bite of my cheeseburger to cover.
“Oh, Christ, I wasn’t serious,” she says. “He’s all wrong for you. Not husband material at all, if you know what I mean.”
“No, no. I know that.” I don’t, actually, but for some reason, I don’t want to admit to my…whatever it is that Malone and I are doing together. “No, I was just wondering if you ever…you know. Hooked up with him,” I ask, dreading the answer.
Chantal sucks up some milkshake through her straw, managing to look quite p**n ographic as she does, something I’m sure she practices. “Nope. I haven’t. Not yet, I should say, and not for lack of trying, mind you,” she says easily.
My shoulders drop in relief and, I admit, pleasure. “He turned you down?” I ask, surprised?Chantal could fill the bleacher seats at Fenway with the men she’s entertained.
“Well, sort of. I mean, I flirt with him, because he really is pretty hot in that ugly guy way, but he just kind of smiles and drinks his beer. I think he’s g*y.”
Doubt that. “He smiles?” I ask.
“Well, maybe not. But there was this thing once, long time ago now, back when we were still in school…” She stops and drops her eyes, her thickly mascaraed lashes shielding her expression.
“What?” I ask, leaning forward.
“Well, it was nothing. I gave him a ride. Someone had roughed him up…this must’ve been when I was a senior, because I was driving my dad’s Camaro, I remember, and Malone was out walking by the blueberry plant, and I pulled over and drove him home.”
