"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?"
He pours me a cup--black--but I don't complain (or mention the fact that I just knew he took his coffee black). Then he turns his attention ahead, and I tilt my head back and watch the seagulls and cormorants that follow us, hoping for some bait. Colonel would have loved this, I think. The smells, the fish...maybe he'd roll around in something foul, a pastime he loved above all others.
The sound of the motor is soothing, and the damp breeze is tinged with salt and the slight smell of fish. The sun flirts with the idea of putting in an appearance, then reconsiders, and strands of fog still hug the rocky, pine-dotted shoreline.
I sip my coffee and study the captain, who seems different out here. He's at ease, I realize, something I've rarely seen in Malone. He checks the instrument panel occasionally, makes adjustments to throttle, steers steadily and with confidence. Because the door of the pilot house is open, the wind ruffles his hair and jacket. "You doing okay?" he asks.
"Sure," I answer.
Malone points out a group of puffins, the fat little black-and-white birds toddling on the shore of a small island. I ask him a few questions about the boat, but otherwise we don't talk much. It's actually kind of nice, being quiet. The dark head of a seal pops up about ten yards off the port side. It watches us for a moment, the silky brown fur gleaming, then slips noiselessly beneath the surface. My hair blows around my face until Malone offers me an elastic, one of the thousands he has to slip over the strong claws of the lobsters. The motor is loud and strong, but not strong enough to drown out the cries of the gulls that follow us, or the slapping of the waves as we cross a wake or current.
After an hour or so, we once again encounter a sea of offshore buoys. Malone slows down, navigating carefully through them, and heads to a wooden dock where about a dozen other boats are tied.
"Where are we?" I ask.
"Linden Harbor." He doesn't look at me.
"And what are we doing here?"
He shrugs, looking a little sheepish. "Well, there's a thing here. A lumberjack competition. Thought you might like to see it." He secures a line and steps onto the dock, then reaches a hand back for me.
"A lumberjack competition?" I ask, hopping off the boat.
"Ayuh. You know, tree cutting, axe throwing, the like. There's a little fair, too. Games, craft tent, that sort of thing. Good food, too."
Is he blushing? He turns for the gangplank before I can tell for sure.
"Malone," I call.
"Yeah?"
"This sounds suspiciously like a date, you know." I smile as I say it. "Sounds like you actually planned this."
His eyes narrow at me, but he's smiling. "You want me to win you one of those ugly carny toys or not?"
"Oh, I do, I do," I answer, tucking my arm through his and continuing up the dock. "The question is, can you?"
"Of course I can, Maggie," he says. "The question really is, how much money will I lose doing it?"
It's almost surreal, being here with gloomy old Malone. Arm in arm, no less. There's a bubble of happiness in me, a strange and lovely new feeling as we head toward the tents on the town green. The smell of fish is drowned out with something deliciously cinnamon.
"Looks like the rod and gun club's selling breakfast," Malone says. "You hungry?"
"God, I'm starving. Your bait fish was starting to look good."
Malone orders me a ham and egg sandwich, a cinnamon roll and a cup of coffee, then the same for himself. We take our food and sit at a table, watching people.
"Can't say I've ever seen you eat much, Malone," I comment around a mouthful of what is surely the best breakfast sandwich ever made.
"Almost every day," he says. "Come on, let's walk around."
For this part of Maine, it's a pretty big event. We're too far south to have driven along the coast...it would have taken us hours, but by boat we were able to go in a fairly straight line. There's a small midway with a few rides. Kids dash from the merry-go-round to the Ferris wheel, tugging their parents' hands, asking for more rides, more food, more games. The happy sound of a fair washes over us in waves, the music from the rides, screams of kids, laughter of parents. Before I think about it, I slip my hand into Malone's. He turns his head to look at me, and as the corner of his mouth pulls up in a smile, my heart pulls, too.
"Win a prize for the lady!" calls a carny. "Shoot the target just three times, win a prize." A row of battered-looking BB guns lines the counter.
"Oh, goody," I say. "Here's your chance, Malone. Prove your manliness and win me, oh, gosh, let's see...how about that blue stuffed rat?"
"You sure? Don't you want that pink zebra instead?"
"Oh, no. I'm a blue rat kind of girl."
"Blue rat it is, then."
Twelve dollars later, I am the proud owner of the ugliest stuffed animal I've ever laid eyes on. "Thank you, Malone," I say, kissing my prize.
"You're welcome. And I want you to know that gun barrel was bent."
We pass on the rides, as I'm afraid of heights, and aside from the merry-go-round, the rest look like a quick way to die. Instead, we walk over to see the speed-climbing competition, the men scampering up forty-foot wooden posts with the agility of squirrels. When that event is over, we watch a man carve a life-size black bear from a huge block of wood.
"That would look great in front of the diner," I say, half serious. Malone laughs.
There's a crafts tent where quilts and afghans and embroidery hang on display, ribbons fluttering in the breeze. I pore over the baking tables, eyeing the coffeecakes and cookies, the beautiful pies and cheesecakes. Malone buys me a slice. "I like a woman who can eat," he says, and I punch him in the arm.
"So, Malone," I say as I take a bite of the creamy, lemony cheesecake. "Are you ever going to tell me your first name?"
"Why do you want to know?" he asks. He doesn't look at me.
"Because...because I just would."
"Mmm-hmm. Well, too bad."
"I could ask Chantal, you know. She has all the public records. I bet your name is listed somewhere. Plus, I won't give you a bite of this cheesecake if you don't, and as you can see, it's disappearing fast. Your chances are dying."
"Another time, maybe."
I sigh. "You realize you don't talk that much, don't you, Malone?" I say, taking the last bite of cheesecake.
"You talk enough for both of us," he says. He takes my hand again.
It's a wonderful day, not painfully cold,
not raining, which by our standards means gorgeous. A barbershop quartet sings a corny song from World War II, and apparently some bagpipers will make an appearance later in the day.
By one-thirty, we've exhausted the event, having seen every little corner of it, and we walk down to shore. There's a breakwater made from great slabs of rock, and we walk out on it a way, then sit. The stone is cold, but I don't mind. Malone puts his arm around me.
"Cold?" he asks.
"No," I answer. I lean my head against his shoulder. "So, Malone," I say, "tell me about your family."
He doesn't stiffen so much as go completely still. "What do you want to know?"
Of course, the first thing I want to ask about is his daughter. A teenage daughter... What must that be like for him? And, let's be honest, what would that be like for me? Truthfully, I haven't dared to picture anything with Malone past what we've had thus far, but I want to. Would his daughter approve of her dad having a girlfriend? Would we be friends? Would she hate me, refuse to come visit her dad, stick pins in a Maggie-style voodoo doll? I clear my throat. "Well, you have a daughter, right?"
"Yeah."
"Are the two of you close?"
"Close as you can be when you live on opposite coasts," he says neutrally.
"You must miss her," I say.
"Ayuh."
I stifle a sigh. The subject of his daughter seems closed. "Did you know I went to school with your sister?" I offer.
"Ayuh."
I wait, but more doesn't come. "I seem to remember that you guys didn't have the best childhood," I venture carefully. It's not exactly true--Christy's the one who remembers, not me--but I hope it will open things up a little.
Malone's arm drops from my shoulders, and he turns to face me. "Maggie--" His mouth becomes a tight line. "Look. You're right. It wasn't great. But it was a long time ago, and I took you here so you could have a nice day, all right? Let's not talk about this shit."
"Okay, okay. Fine." The lines between his eyebrows are fierce. All in good time, Maggie. I pick up his hand. "I'm sorry. And I am having a nice day. Very nice." The lines soften. "You're being really sweet. In fact, I had no idea you could be such a prince."
At last he smiles, grudgingly. "Okay. Well, it's been half an hour since you ate, so you must be starving. Want some chowder?"
"How about some lobster bisque? I want to support the local industry and all."
He stands up and pulls me to my feet, and we head back for the tents, stopping in front of a sign that says Best Freakin' Lobstah Bisque Evah. And I have to say, it just might be. As I scrape my bowl, I notice Malone's amused gaze.
"I don't really eat that much," I tell him. "It's just that you barely eat at all."
"You mean I don't eat your food," he says.
"I have noticed that, yes. Which is your loss, since my cooking skills are incredible."
He leans in close, his unshaven cheek scratching mine. "I'm more interested in your other skills, Maggie," he whispers. My knees grow weak, and I toss my empty bowl into a nearby trash can, then wrap my arms around his lean waist. He kisses me, that deliberate, wonderfully intense kiss, his lips warm and silky smooth in contrast to his rasping stubble.
"Come on," he mutters. "Let's go back to the boat."
Malone steers the Ugly Anne out of the cove to the far side of a tiny island, where he teaches me a few more things about a lobster boat--that you can make love standing up in the pilot house, though there's little room for error. We bang into a few things here and there, and my legs are still shaking when we're finished, my breath coming in gasps.
"Sorry if I was too loud," I whisper. Sure, I'm quiet now...two minutes ago, I was--well. Not quiet.
"I thought you sounded just about right," Malone says, smiling against my neck. A few minutes later, Malone starts the engine once more and steers us out of the maze of lobster buoys.
I zip my jacket and watch Linden Harbor disappear behind us. Some hopeful seagulls follow the Ugly Anne for a while, then, realizing we're not going to catch anything, give up and wheel toward land.
"Shit," Malone says from the pilot house.
"What's the matter?" I ask.
"Oh, the fins on the turbo charger are clogged again. Damn it."
I go over to the little doorway. "Can we get home okay?"
"Yeah, we'll be fine for that. I'll just have to clean it later, see what's going on." He glances at me, then stands aside. "Here. Want to be captain for a day?"
We're already away from the buoys and lines that could become entangled in the propellers, so I'm safe enough. Malone stands behind me, gently correcting my course when he needs to, and I lean against him, his chin resting on my head.
"Do you like lobstering?" I ask.
"Sure," he says.
"Tough life, though."
"Great life, too." He smiles at me. "Okay, look out there, Maggie, we've got some porpoises about three o'clock."
"You know what, Malone?" I ask as we watch the silvery-white flashing of the porpoises.
"What's that?" he says.
"This is the best day I've had in a long time." I turn away from the wheel to kiss his cheek.
"Watch out there," he says as the boat veers suddenly. He reaches around me and adjusts us. "Tide's coming at us pretty strong." He swings us back around. "Me, too, by the way."
When we get back to the dock, it's near dinnertime. "Do you want to try out my cooking skills, Malone? Since you've sampled my other skills already?" I smile as he makes the boat fast to the mooring.
He straightens up. "I'm sorry, Maggie," he says. "I need to fix the charger before morning, and it's an ugly job."
"Oh. Okay."
I'm suddenly deflated. Malone climbs into the dinghy and reaches up to help me, and before I know it, we're back at the dock. Billy Bottoms waves to us from the gangplank, heading for home, but aside from him, no one seems to be around.
"Well, okay. Thanks, Malone. It was, um, a very nice day. Thank you so much." I feel my cheeks grow hot as we stand there, looking at each other. The old uncertainty about the two of us has returned.
"See you soon," he says. He pinches my chin. When? I want to ask, but I can tell his mind is on his boat.
"Thanks again. Bye." I scurry up the gangplank to solid ground and walk home.
There are four messages waiting for me--Christy, Jonah, Chantal and Father Tim. They all want the same thing--to know how I'm doing, if I want company. But for tonight, I think I want to be alone. The sadness I feel over the loss of my pet is tempered with Malone's surprising sweetness, and I want a night to indulge in both of those feelings. I put a frozen pizza in the oven and then pack up Colonel's things in a box, letting myself have a vigorous cry as I do. Someday I'll get another dog, but there will never be a friend like Colonel. But I do have a new friend--Malone. When I needed it most, he really came through.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
IN A SHOCKING NEW DEVELOPMENT to our relationship, Malone actually picks up the phone and calls me a couple of days after our date, just when I'm starting to grow irritated. Jonah had mentioned that Malone had to go down to Bar Harbor for a part, so I had granted him a grace period, but his time was running out. And I miss him, I realize with a bit of a shock.
When the phone finally rings around five on Thursday night, I am washing my kitchen floor, wondering how it gets so dirty when I am the only one who lives here. I actually expect it to be Father Tim, wanting to hit me up for the upcoming bake sale.
"Maggie," comes the gruff voice.
"Malone! My God! You're using a phone!" I can't help the smile that has burst over my face.
"Very funny," he says. There's a pause, then, "How are you?"
"Fine. How are you?"
"Fine. So. Are you busy tonight?"
"You cut right to the chase, don't you, Malone?" I grin.
"Answer the question," he growls.
"Sorry, pal. I'm busy. I'm babysitting my niece tonight."
"That right?"
"Yup."
He sighs. "All right, then. What about tomorrow?"
My grin fades a bit. "Well, actually, tomorrow I'm supposed to have dinner with, um, a friend. With Father Tim. A bunch of us, actually. Church people. You know." It's an appreciation dinner Father Tim hosts for the five or six of us who do everything he asks. "How about Saturday?"
He doesn't answer for a minute. "Sure. Saturday's fine. Seven?"
"Seven o'clock. Um, do you want me to cook you dinner?"
"No, Maggie," he says, his voice dropping to a scraping bottom note. "Don't cook for me." My body reacts as if he'd said he'd like to just rip off my clothes and take me on the floor.
"Okay," I answer in a strangled whisper, suddenly needing to sag against the counter. "No cooking."
CHRISTY IS ALL DRESSED UP in a long, pretty skirt and filmy blouse, and Will looks preppy and handsome as always, blue blazer and Dockers.
"Bye, Snooky," my sister says, smothering Violet in kisses and a cloud of Eternity. "Mommy loves you! Yes she does! Mommy loves Violet! Aaaah...bwah!" She simulates the noise Violet makes when kissing someone.
"Okay, that's enough," I say, prying my niece out of Christy's arms. "Get out, you clearly need a strong drink. Bye, Will."
"Bye, Mags. Thanks, as always."
"Thank you, actually. Violet, honey, it's Auntie time!"
Violet grabs chunks of my hair and pulls with glee.
For the next hour, we play Farmyard Animals--at least, I do, crawling around on the floor, mooing, oinking, quacking--while Violet chortles and throws plastic toys for me to fetch.
"Mooo," I say, retrieving the yellow ring.
"Oooo," she echoes.
"You're a genius," I tell her. "Smart baby. Violet is a very smart baby."
"Banuck," she agrees.
As I hover over her crib, watching her sleep a little while later, I indulge, very briefly, in a domestic fantasy. Just trying it on for size, I tell myself, blushing. Me, watching the baby sleep. Malone, standing in the doorway. The baby has black hair like her daddy, gray eyes like me.
Then, embarrassed with my private stupidity, I go into the kitchen to see what Christy's left me to eat. She may not pay me to babysit, but she does feed me well. Ooh. Tuna casserole, our mutual favorite and something our mom refuses to cook, and chocolate chip cookies. Good sissy.
I'm watching TV when they come back, flushed and cheery. "My God, you guys," I comment, dragging my gaze away from Donald Trump's latest victim, "were you doing it in the car?"
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