So. Malone came here to see Jonah. To thank him. Not to see me, or, God forbid, thank me.
"Good morning, Malone," I say briskly. "Coffee? Let me guess. Black, murky and bitter. Maybe you'd just like to suck on the grounds?"
Malone turns his clear blue eyes to me. "Maggie," he mutters.
"Hope you slept well," I snap. Jonah's eyes widen, but he wisely refrains from comment. Malone's eyes don't flicker from mine. I slosh some coffee into his cup, spilling some, and smack the pot down on the counter. Without looking away, Malone deliberately takes the creamer and dumps about half of it into his cup, then shakes four sugar packets, tears them open and pours them in as well.
"All done, Maggie!" Georgie calls cheerfully.
"Thanks, Georgie. Don't know what I'd do without you," I call back, not looking away from Heathcliff of the moors here.
"What a lovely day it is outside. Hello, Mabel, love, how are you this fine morning?" Father Tim is here, but still I don't look away from Malone's somber face.
"Have you got something to say to me, Malone?" I say.
"Oh, I've got a lot to say to you, Maggie," he answers grimly. Jonah slips away to join our parents.
"I'm waiting," I say.
"Excuse me, can we get some ketchup over here?" calls Helen Robideaux from the corner.
"Hello, Maggie dear. How nice you look today." Father Tim comes behind the counter--he's a regular, after all--and grabs a mug. Finally, I break the staring contest between Malone and me and turn to greet my friend. My happy, cheerful, dependable friend.
"Father Tim! How nice to see you! And what a great mood you're in today. You really brighten a place up, you know that?" I believe I hear Malone growl.
"Ah, Maggie, you're too kind. I'll just grab some coffee, shall I, and let you get back to work." He opens the kitchen door a crack and sticks his head in. "Good morning, Octavio, my fine man. Can I throw myself at your mercy and get an order of the pumpkin French toast?"
I have work to do. Malone can go to hell and play with his compatriots there. Stepping around Colonel, I ring up a young couple who's been waiting patiently, ask about their kindergartner and bring the ketchup to Mrs. Robideaux. Malone sits at the counter, staring straight ahead.
The bell over the door tinkles, and I sigh. Another customer, a man about my age with silvery hair. He looks around uncertainly.
"Be with you in a sec," I call. Judy has disappeared. Must be time for her ciggie break.
"Maggie, for heaven's sake, can I please have a fried egg?" my mother asks.
"Fine." I've heard about how, in some fancy New York restaurants, the wait staff spits on the orders of bitchy customers. I'm tempted to give it a whirl. "Hi, Stuart. You want the usual?"
"That'd be great, Maggie," he says, sitting next to Malone.
"Adam and Eve on a raft, burn the British," I call to Octavio, slang for two poached eggs on a toasted English muffin.
"Side of hash, too?" Stuart asks.
"Sweep the kitchen!" I call, hearing Octavio grumble; he's quite proud of his hash and doesn't like that particular moniker. Stuart, however, laughs.
"Sweep the kitchen," he repeats to Malone, chuckling. Malone doesn't chuckle back.
"Hi," I say to the gray-haired stranger. "Sorry, we're a little swamped today. Just one?"
"Are you Maggie?" he asks.
"That's right."
"I'm Doug," he says, holding out his hand. "The guy who stood you up," he adds at my look of incomprehension.
"Oh! Hi!" I shake his hand and look over my shoulder. "Here, why don't you sit with Father Tim? He kind of fixed us up, right, Tim? This is Doug... Oh, sorry, I forgot your last name."
"Andrews," he says. He's a nice-looking man, kind brown eyes with shadows under them.
"Listen, I'd love to sit and chat, but I've got to take care of those people. Be right back."
Malone is gone. There's a five-dollar bill tucked under his cup. I note that he hasn't drunk any of the overly sweetened coffee. Should've stuck with the grounds.
I clear and wipe and take orders and serve and pour coffee. I don't have a chance to talk to Doug, who is deep in conversation with Father Tim. Occasionally, I catch a snatch of their conversation... "not for us to understand the reason..." "comfort of knowing she was deeply loved..." and my heart warms at Father Tim's kind, gentle words. Finally, Doug comes to the register to pay his bill.
"Maggie," he says, "I just wanted to apologize in person for not meeting you that night."
"Not at all," I answer. "I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to talk to you this morning. The joint's been jumping since six."
"That's okay. I really enjoyed talking with Father Tim," he says. "And I wanted to say again that I'm really grateful for how nice you were about everything. Under different circumstances..." His eyes tear up.
"Well, listen, now, don't cry. You're welcome," I say. "You're a nice guy, Doug. Take care."
By the time I turn off the Eat at Joe's sign in the far window, my feet are throbbing, my face is oily, my hands are raw and my back hurts. Needless to say, I'm in a bit of a mood. Because I would hate to snap at Georgie, I send him home early (Judy's long gone), and Octavio and I clean up in silence.
"Everything okay, boss?" he asks as he shrugs into his jacket.
"How long have you been married, Octavio?" I ask, wringing out the dishrag.
"Eight years." He smiles.
"You and Patty seem really happy," I say.
"Oh, we are."
"I have a feeling I'm never going to find someone," I say, and suddenly that tight-throated feeling is back.
Octavio gives me a thoughtful look. "What?" I ask him.
"Malone came in today," he says. "Never seen him here before."
I snort. "Yeah. He came in to thank my brother. Jonah gave him a hand yesterday."
"Hmm." Octavio is a man of few words. "Well. Good night, boss."
"Bye, big guy." And it's only four o'clock.
It's beautiful out, finally, fifty degrees or so. The trees have the soft fuzz of buds on them, the palest green imaginable, and the wind is salty and gentle. Unfortunately, I'm too busy today to take a bike ride or even a decent walk. Instead, I bake some brownies for tomorrow's dessert offering. Then I load up the car and head over to the firehouse.
I get paid to cook their monthly dinner, and though it's not much, it's one of those fees that helps, especially during the off-season. While I'm able to pay all my bills each month, there's usually not a lot left over. Mornings like today's are few and far between. I know I should have a cushion in case something goes wrong, but I'm tapped out. Winning the best breakfast title would help, even if it was just to get people from neighboring towns to take a drive in on the weekends.
Colonel settles himself down in the corner of the firehouse kitchen while I unload the car. The soft April air beckons, and I wish again that I could take a bike ride, but by the time I'm finished, it will be getting dark. Plus, Colonel needs to get home. He seems stiff today, quieter than usual.
"You okay, pup?" I ask him. He looks at me with his beautiful eyes, but his tail doesn't wag. "Who's my pretty boy?" I croon, kneeling to stroke his head. There. His tail swishes. I give him a piece of roast beef and get to work.
What's Malone doing tonight? I wonder, then immediately purge the thought from my head. Malone is a callous user, and I'm no better. My behavior toward him has been embarrassingly slutty, says a chastising inner voice sounding exactly like my mom. Fools rush in where angels fear to bed, she'd say. And in this case, she'd be correct. I snap on the radio to drown out my self-condemnation.
The boys--sorry, firefighters--start filing in around five-thirty, Jonah among them. He waves to me but is engrossed in a conversation with the head of the truck committee... The firefighters are convinced that Gideon's Cove needs a ladder truck, though we'd also need a new structure to house it, which would be just fine with the boys--sorry, firefighters.
I set up the Sterno burners and bring
out the trays of food, basic, hearty fare--roast beef, horseradish mashed potatoes, green beans, pesto chicken, pasta and sauce. Twenty or so guys usually show up. Chantal pokes her head in the kitchen.
"Hey, girlfriend," she says.
"Hey, Chantal," I answer. "I forgot you're a member here." I grin as I say it.
"Best thing I ever did," she sighs dramatically. "Community service and all that crap. Not to mention the best-looking guys in town."
"I didn't realize sleeping with the fire department was community service," I retort, pouring the sauce over the ziti.
"Oh, it is, it is. Don't let her talk you out of it, Chantal," Jonah says, coming in and putting an arm around my laughing friend. "And here's a fireman who needs your special skills."
"You're disgusting," I tell him. Chantal purrs.
"Wanna test some hose?" Jonah murmurs, ignoring me.
"Jonah, leave us," I command, and for once, my little brother obeys. "You want to go out later on, grab a beer or something?" I ask Chantal. Her eyes are still on my baby brother. His ass, to be precise. "Chantal!"
She jumps. "Oh, sorry, Mags," she says. "I've got plans." Her voice changes. "Hi there, Chief," she coos, her voice dropping into a sultry croon.
"How's my little recruit?" Chief Tatum croons back. "Practice any search and rescue lately?"
"Okay, I can't take any more," I say, sounding quite peeved even to my own ears. "Come on, Colonel. I don't want you hearing this kind of talk, anyway." Chantal and the fire chief don't seem to notice.
I bring some ziti to Mrs. K. and heat it up for her. Then I help her find her comfortable slippers, "not those horrible ones that make my bunions ache." But I'm edgy and irritable tonight and make my visit quick. Faced with my long flight of stairs, Colonel turns to me, and I boost him all the way up.
Adding insult to injury, the soup, bread, cheese and pie that I made for Malone are sitting in front of my door. I let Colonel inside and then go back and grab the food, slamming the pot on the counter. Frickin' Malone. Let him starve, then. Who cares?
Colonel doesn't seem interested in dinner tonight. I give him some EtoGesic and glucosamine and fluff up his doggy bed, then write a note on the blackboard to call the vet and see if there's anything else I can do.
Maybe my mother is right, I think as I dump the soup down the drain. Maybe the diner is a dead end. It was something I fell into. Granddad put us to work at a young age, washing dishes, clearing tables, working our way up to waiting tables. But is it something that I really want to do for the rest of my life?
I stare out the window toward the harbor, thinking.
The answer is yes.
Maybe it's not the most illustrious career in the world, but what Joe's Diner does--what I do--is give a center to our town. A meeting place. Anyone can come in, even if they just want a cup of coffee, and spend the morning catching up on news, seeing their neighbors. There's Dewey's, of course, but that's only open at night, and it has a different attitude. People go there with more of an agenda--meet someone, have a few drinks, and if you're hardcore, get drunk. But Joe's is a social center in a town that desperately needs one. And the fact that it's an authentic Mahoney design doesn't hurt. I wonder if I could get it listed on a national register or something.
But my mother's constant nagging has dented my armor lately. When I picture growing old at the diner, I picture a husband and kids coming in and out, or me going home to them. I don't picture me alone, soaking my swollen feet in Epsom salts every night with only a series of increasingly smelly dogs for company.
I throw a pizza into the oven, wait for it to heat, then eat listlessly. How many dates have I gone on in the past month or so? Four? Five? And let's not forget Malone, not that we dated, of course. Just sex. Best sex of my life, in fact.
Time to call Christy, I think when the self-pity disgusts even me. I punch number one on the speed dial.
"Hey, it's me," I say when Will answers.
"Hi, Maggie. How are you?"
"Okay, I guess. You guys still going out tomorrow? Same time as usual?" I ask. Thursday is my babysitting night.
"Actually, I'm not sure. Christy's not feeling great. There's a stomach bug going around, and I think she caught it."
"Oh, dear. Well, if you need anything, let me know. Tell her I said I hope she feels better fast."
"Thanks, honey. Will do."
When Christy met Will, it was instantly clear to both of them that they'd met their soul mate. Six months later, Will, then a resident in Orono, took a rare night off and asked me out for dinner. Alone. He took me to a nice restaurant, and though he was exhausted from a long shift, he was nonetheless funny and charming. While we were eating dinner, he took out a velvet box and handed it across the table to me.
"Um, I think you might have the wrong twin," I said, wincing.
"I know who you are," Will smiled.
"So is this a test run or something?" I asked.
"Listen, Maggie," he said, his face growing serious. "I want to marry your sister. I've never met someone as wonderful as she is. Every day I wake up feeling like I'm in a dream because I get to call her or see her or hold her hand."
"That's so nice," I said, my eyes growing misty. At the time, I was quite sure I would soon find someone just as wonderful as Will.
"But I know how close you are, and I know I'm asking...well, not exactly to come between you, because I know I could never do that, and I never want to. But I'm asking you to share Christy with me. I need your blessing, Maggie." His eyes were teary.
In the box was a beautiful garnet ring, Christy's and my birthstone.
Of course I gave him my blessing. The thought of my sister spending her life with a man who adored her...well. Who could say no?
I haven't met anyone like Will. There may be no one like Will in the whole world. The best I've come up with is a tearful widower, a sullen lobsterman and a priest. "Well, crap," I say. I offer the crust of my pizza to Colonel, who eats it delicately. "You feeling better, pal?" I ask him. He puts his head on my lap.
The Red Sox have a travel day, which is just as well. They've been playing with all the skill of blind, one-legged five-year-olds lately. I click around aimlessly until nine-thirty or so, then decide to just call it a night. It's not lost on me that going to bed with my dog is the best thing that's happened all day.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
COLONEL WON'T GET off the bed in the morning. He wags his tail listlessly but doesn't even raise his head when I ask if he wants to go out. I check the clock; it's too early to call the vet.
After yesterday's rush, the diner is back to normal--my regulars sit at the counter, Ben, Bob and Rolly. Stuart is at his booth at the window, reading the paper. But I'm worried about Colonel, and as soon as the clock hits eight, I make the call. They tell me to come in tomorrow.
"He's probably just feeling his age," the nice tech tells me. "He's in great shape for an old guy. How old is he now, fourteen?"
"Thirteen," I say.
"That's pretty good for a big dog like him."
"I know. But he's just not himself."
For the rest of the day, I hop back and forth between the diner and my apartment. I manage to coax Colonel off the bed and outside so he can pee, but he laboriously climbs the steps as soon as he's done. I help him back onto my bed and give him some water. "What's the matter, boy?" I ask, stroking his head. "We'll go see Dr. Kellar tomorrow, okay? He'll help you out, Colonel."
I have to throw together a couple of lasagnas for a funeral and bake a few dozen cookies, but all day, I'm itching to get home to my dog. It's the awful plight of a pet owner: knowing something is wrong with your loyal companion, unable to figure out what. Could he have eaten something that's made him sick? Did he get hurt somehow? Does he have cancer?
I get home for good around four, finally done for the day, then call Christy to see if she might come over and keep me company while I watch Colonel. But she's still under the weather, and after hearing a descriptio
n of her all-nighter with the toilet, I feel uncomfortable telling her about my dog's listlessness. I'm lonely enough that I find myself calling Father Tim.
"Maggie, I'm terribly sorry, I've got to run," he says. "I'm having dinner with the Guarinos tonight. Thanks for the lasagnas, by the way. They were wonderful."
I manage a smile--Father Tim is the only man I know who can eat lasagna at four and go out to dinner at six. "Well, that's okay," I say. "I'm just a little worried about Colonel. He's kind of quiet today. Not himself."
"Don't you worry," he answers. "I'm sure he'll be just fine. Tell you what, I'll ring you later, shall I?"
"Sure." I hang up and stretch out on the bed next to my dog. I stroke his ears and run my fingers through his silky ruff. He nestles closer and groans in contentment.
My father gave me Colonel just after Skip dumped me. I was staring out the window a week or two after Skip's triumphant return to Gideon's Cove, and my father walked in with Colonel, a blue ribbon tied around his neck. Rescued from one of those breeding mills down south, Colonel was then an overly large, rambunctious two-year old. It was love at first sight. That first night, he climbed, paw by paw, cautious as a jewel thief, onto my bed. Perhaps he thought if he went slowly, I wouldn't notice the extra eighty pounds wedged into my twin bed. I was still living at home, and my mom had had a fit when she saw us the next morning, Colonel's head on my pillow, my arm around his shaggy tummy.
"For heaven's sake, Maggie! It's an animal! Get it off! It might have fleas or lice or something."
The next week, I moved out, into the very apartment I still live in, and Colonel and I began the next phase of our life together. When the humiliation and grief over Skip threatened to overwhelm me, Colonel would come over and nudge my hand with his nose until I petted him. Or he'd drop a ratty tennis ball at my feet, and if I ignored him, he'd repeat this ten or twelve times until I got the hint. He slept on my bed each night, his big head resting on my stomach as I fought off loneliness and tried to come up with a plan for my adult life.
Colonel only needed a little training, and I soon became known as "the one with the dog" to distinguish me from Christy. I never used a leash; Colonel just followed me cheerfully, always able to keep pace with my bike or walking beside me, his plumey tail waving like a flag. I'd go into a store, and he'd lie down on the sidewalk outside, patiently waiting for me to emerge. He took to the diner like a veteran waitress, never bothering the customers, just lying behind the register, watching people come and go until it was our turn to leave. Sure, it was against the health code, but no one ever found a dog hair in the food, and no one ever complained.
Catch of the Day Page 17
