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.
He is still wonderfully handsome. His boyish face has improved with age, crinkles and lines giving him character that was lacking before. A neatly trimmed goatee hides his soft chin--he used to hate those profile shots when he was at bat. His suit looks expensive, a soft, dove gray with a dark blue tie.
"So how've you been, Maggie?" he asks, and instead of awkwardness or shame in his voice, there's a touch of arrogance.
"Fine, fine, great," I babble. "And you? How are things?"
"Couldn't be better," Skip answers. "Right, Annie?"
She gives a cute little smile and rolls her eyes, as if to say, "Isn't he a nut?"
"Still working at the diner, Maggie?" Skip wants to know.
I take a long pull of my wine and glance hopefully at the door. If you came in now, Doug, I'd kiss you. Hell, I'd have sex with you right on this table. "Yes. Um, I own it now." What is usually a source of pride to me now sounds slightly embarrassing. A diner owner. Never left Gideon's Cove after you dumped me. Couldn't even find a different job.
"That's very interesting," Annabelle says. I wonder if he's ever told her about me. If so, she must have ice water in her veins, because she looks calm and relaxed. She smiles pleasantly.
"Do you work, Annabelle?" I ask. It's easier to look at her than at Skip.
"Well, not any more," she admits. "Not since Henry was born. Our oldest. I do a little pro bono work on the side."
"She's a lawyer," Skip announce
s loudly.
"Well, now, honey, that's sweet," she says affectionately. "Maggie, I was a lawyer before having the children, but now, between them and trying to take care of the house and all, I just don't have the time."
Lawyer, wife, mother. "So are you visiting your parents, Skip?" I manage to ask. My heart is thudding in my temples, and I try to keep my hands on my lap so they won't see that they're shaking.
"Exactly. We left the kids with them, thought we'd go out and grab a bite."
"It's our anniversary," Annabelle says with another doe-like look at Skip.
"That's great," I say. Much to my disgust, I feel tears prick at my eyes. I clear my throat and say, "Well, don't let me keep you from your romantic dinner. It was nice seeing you--"
"Oh, not at all," Annabelle interrupts. "This is wonderful, two old friends getting the chance to catch up. We can surely spare a few moments."
Southern hospitality at its finest. I keep my eyes on the tablecloth.
"You're not married, are you, Maggie?" Skip asks. His voice is like a knife. He must know that I'm not. His parents still live in town. They even come to the diner once in a great while.
"No," I answer.
"Any kids?" he asks, his eyes boring into me. I wonder why he's being so cruel.
"Nope. No kids." I force a smile as I say it.
"And you're meeting friends tonight?" Annabelle says.
"Yup! Just one, actually."
"Anyone I know?" Skip asks.
"So you have a couple kids?" I ask Annabelle. I can't think of anything else to say.
"Yes, we do. Three, actually." She shoots Skip a mysterious little smile.
"And another on the way," Skip announces. See what a colossal stud I am?
"Oh, that's nice," I say. "Wow. Four kids. That's nice."
Skip always wanted four children. He said so once, when we were enjoying a post-coital cuddle. "Let's have four," he said, and the memory is so vivid I can practically smell his sweat. "Two boys for me, two girls for you." I thought it sounded wonderful.
"Would you like to see a picture?" Skip doesn't wait, just fishes out his wallet and shoves it across the table to me. There they are, the Skip Parkinsons and their progeny.
"That's Henry, Henry the fourth, actually," Annabelle says, pointing with her lovely fingernail. "Here's Savannah, and here's Jocelyn." The girls' blond hair is neatly braided, their plaid dresses matching. The little boy is the image of Skip.
No doubt the new baby will be also be a boy. Skip always got what he wanted. I nod and blink, hoping the candlelight will hide the tears in my eyes.
"Hey."
Someone thumps into the chair across from me. I look up. It's Malone. Maloner the Loner, surly, scary Malone. My mouth drops open.
"I was at the bar. Didn't see you," he says, and his blue eyes stare into mine.
"I--um--"
"Sorry you had to wait," he says. His voice is like a growl, rough from lack of use, no doubt, and it takes me a minute to realize what he's doing. My eyes pop open a little, and the lines around his mouth move slightly. It might be a grin.
"Um, well. Hi. Hi, Malone. Uh, this is Skip Parkinson. Do you know each other?" Skip extends his hand, but Malone keeps staring at me. Then, as if reluctant to do so, he slides his gaze from me to Skip and gives a brief nod. He doesn't shake Skip's hand.
"And this is Annabelle, Skip's wife," I say. Malone takes her hand briefly and nods again. Then he looks back at me. I smile tentatively.
"Well, Skip, why don't we leave these two to their dinner?" Annabelle suggests. "It was wonderful meeting you, Maggie. Hope to see you all again."
"Good luck," I tell her, then look at Skip. "Bye."
"See you, Maggie," he says. As they walk away, Skip glances at Malone, then leans down to whisper loudly into Annabelle's ear. I catch the words "poor white trash." The shithead.
I look back at Malone. "I can't say I've ever been so glad to see someone in my life," I tell him honestly.
He raises an eyebrow.
"That's my old boyfriend," I confide. "He dumped me for her. I'm supposed to be on a blind date, but apparently, I'm being stood up, and they came in and whipped out pictures of their perfect kids and I was just about to lose it."
Malone keeps looking at me, and I realize he knows all this. He came to my rescue.
"Thanks for pretending to be my date," I say.
"Want some more wine?" he asks after a minute.
"God, yes," I answer.
From over at their table, I hear Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson laughing merrily. I try not to look.
"Malone, how did you know I was...you know... being stood up, trapped, whatever? And what are you doing here?"
The waitress comes over. "Here you are!" she cries merrily to Malone. "What can I get you?" Malone orders a beer and another wine for me, and the waitress bustles off.
Malone looks at me for another minute before answering my question. "You're pretty obvious," he says.
"I am? How? I mean--"
"You kept looking at the door, then your watch. Then that arrogant asshole came in and you looked like you wanted to crawl under the table. Good enough?"
Jeez. Surly guy. "So you just dropped by for a beer?" I ask.
He doesn't bother to answer, just looks over at Skip. Over in the bar, there's a cheer as the Red Sox do something great. Skip doesn't look. Too many painful memories, no doubt.
The waitress brings our drinks, and I clink my glass against Malone's. "To you, Malone. Thanks. Another piece of pie awaits you, courtesy of Joe's Diner."
He rolls his eyes. I gather we won't be talking much. "So you don't have to stay or anything, Malone. Maybe I'll just head out."
"You hungry?" he asks. It's like talking to a bear, just a series of low growls and grunts that I must translate into words.
"I'm starving, actually."
"Let's eat, then."
And so begins one of the strangest dinners I've ever had. My emotions roll and collide... Distress at seeing Skip, gratitude toward Malone--who knew he'd do something so nice?--irritation with Malone, because he's about as friendly as a hungover troll. Still, I try to make conversation.
"So, Malone, you have a kid, don't you?" Attempt number one.
He nods once in response.
"Boy or girl?"
His blue eyes, which would be beautiful on someone else--someone who smiled, say--just stare back at me. "Girl," he says after a minute.
"Does she live around here?" I ask.
"No." He stares at me as if daring me to go on, but I lose my nerve. Belatedly, I remember the story of his wife and child moving across country.
I make attempt number two a little lighter. "So, Malone is your last name, isn't it?" He nods. "What's your first name?"
I get the death stare and silence, then, "I don't use it."
I sigh and drink some more wine. We order dinner--hamburgers for both of us--and the silence stretches on.
Skip and Annabelle seem to have no such problems. Lots of laughs from over there. Twinkling giggles from her, low chuckles from him. At one point during our meal, one of the guys at the bar goes over to Skip and asks, "Didn't you used to play baseball?" and Skip says with false lightness, "Oh, hell, a long time ago when I was a kid," as if he gave it up for something more meaningful...like selling cars.
"I really think I hate him," I whisper to Malone. He nods.
The Parkinsons are not finished. Apparently (I have forbidden myself to look at them), a gift is given, because Annabelle cries, "Oh, Skip! Oh, sugar, you shouldn't have!"
Malone doesn't look over. Neither do I. We look at each other instead, united in this odd, uncomfortable way. I've now had enough wine that it's starting not to bother me.
"You don't talk much, do you, Malone?" I ask.
He doesn't answer.
"Want to have a staring contest?" I ask. Bingo! The lines around his eyes deepen and the corners of his mouth move upward a fraction. "I think you may have just smiled,
" I inform him. "How did it feel? You okay?"
As usual, he doesn't answer, but there's something a little different. It takes me a minute to realize it, but Malone is kind of...appealing. Those lashes are so long they're actually tangled in the corners. His hair is thick, curling a little around his ears and neck. And while his face is slashed with harsh lines, and while I have yet to see a real smile, his mouth is full and slightly pouting and rather sexy, actually. Life has left its mark on Malone's face with a heavy hand, but it's an interesting face, scruffy and rugged and gloomy. His cheekbones are sharp and angular, carved by the wind, almost, and it's this phrase that makes me realize I shouldn't have ordered that second glass of wine.
I clear my throat and look away. The waitress brings our check, and I fish around in my purse for my wallet. Malone takes out his first and withdraws a few bills.
"No, no, let me," I say, taking his money and holding it out to him. "This is definitely on me."
He scowls, making his face a little scary again. He doesn't take the money. I put it back down and stand up.
"Okay. Thank you for a lovely dinner and everything else," I say. He follows me across the restaurant.
"Bye, now. So nice meeting you," Annabelle calls out.
"Ditto," I say. Malone offers nothing, and neither does Skip.
In the parking lot, I pause. "Thanks again, Malone," I say.
"Ayuh." He walks to his truck, pleasantries complete.
I get into my car and turn the key. The engine doesn't start. This is not an uncommon problem for me, and I sigh, pop the hood and get out. Malone is still there, sitting in his truck, watching me.
"It's fine," I call. "Happens all the time."
But it's dark, and I have to fumble in my purse for the screwdriver I carry at all times. If I can just find it, I'll open the hood, stick the screwdriver in the air filter, and the car should start. But I can't find it, because I failed to transfer it from my everyday pocketbook to the smaller one I'm carrying now. Nor can I find anything else that would work, like a pen.
Sighing, I walk over to Malone's truck. "Do you have a screwdriver?" Surely he must. He's a man, isn't he?
"No."
I close my eyes. The restaurant door opens, and Skip and Mrs. Skip walk over to their expensive, shining car.
"Good night, now!" Annabelle calls. Skip holds the door for her, then goes to the driver's side. He looks over to me and pauses.
Catch of the Day Page 9
