"Hi. Hi there. I'm Maggie. How are you? This is a nice place, isn't it? It's very cute. My sister says they have great food." I cringe inwardly, blushing. Really should get that babbling tendency looked at.
Roger smiles. "Have a seat."
I sit and settle my bag at my feet, then fiddle with the silverware. "So," I say. "This is nice. Thank you for coming, too. I mean, for, well... Oh, shit, I'm sorry." I laugh nervously. "I don't go out much." Stop talking. Stop. Talking. "On blind dates, I mean. I'm a little nervous, I guess. But you seem nice. And you have a good job, nothing scary, just nursing. So, you know. So far, so good."
Jesus, listen to me. I sound like a chimpanzee on speed. Roger looks on. "Uh, would you like a drink?" he asks.
Alcohol exacerbates my tendency to blather, so I should definitely refuse. "I'll have a glass of chardonnay," I tell the waiter. Clamping my lips shut, I force myself to wait for Roger to speak.
"Will is married to your sister, right?" he asks.
"Yes." Good job, Maggie!
"And am I correct in thinking that you guys are twins?"
"Yes."
"Identical, right?"
"Yes."
His eyebrows rise slightly. Perhaps now is not the time to shut up, after all. "Yes, uh-huh. We're twins. Identical twins, you're right. She's older by two minutes, but I like to say that Mom loves me best because I weighed less. Christy was nine pounds. Came out of Mom like a bullet. Caused some pretty nasty tearing."
No wonder I'm still single.
"I see," says Roger. His smile has faded.
I turn my burning face to the menu. Relax, I tell myself. This is not a game show. You have nothing to lose. He likes you or he doesn't. You like him or you don't. Calm yourself.
The waiter comes and we order dinner. I'm careful to choose a dish that's neither the cheapest nor the most expensive. I take another sip of wine. "So, Roger, do you like being a nurse?" I ask. That's more like it, Mags.
"Yeah, I sure do." He tells me a little about his work, the hospital. And here's the thing. He's not right for me. He's a little dull... Instead of talking about the patients and doctors and that sort of human interest thing, he's off on a tangent about overtime and benefits and his 401K. Give him a chance, I can hear my sister saying. I try.
Our dinners come. Unlike me, Roger has had no compunction about ordering the most expensive item on the menu. The waiter puts down an enormous lobster, red and steaming, and proceeds to tie a bib around Roger's neck, making him look like a giant toddler. The lobster must weigh four or five pounds, making it a sumo wrestler among its peers. Roger rips off a claw with gladiator-esque machismo and vanquishes it with the provided nutcracker.
"So you're a chef, Maggie?" he asks. He twists his fork into the claw and wrestles out a huge piece of meat, dunks it in butter and shoves it in his mouth. Butter and lobster juice run down his chin, but he takes his time wiping. The odds that I will love this man for the rest of my life are rapidly waning.
"Oh, no, no. Not a chef. I own Joe's Diner in Gideon's Cove. I cook, but I'm not a chef. Big difference." I can't take my eyes off his greasy, glistening mouth.
"What's the difference?" he asks. Crack. Peel. Another crack. It's like watching Vlad the Impaler conduct an autopsy.
"Um...well, a chef is...has more...uh, training, I guess..." Rip. Dunk. Chew. Slobber. "Um, here, you have some butter on your chin." I smile weakly and gesture with my own napkin.
"There'll be more before dinner is through." He smiles, and I can see the creamy pink lobster meat bulging in his cheek. My own baked scrod sits cooling before me. Unable to look away from my dinner companion, I watch as he rips off a smaller leg and chews it in horrifyingly delicate nibbles, working the lobster meat up with his teeth, sucking, slurping. A sudden vision of sex with Roger deals my appetite the death blow.
"Don't you like your dinner?" he asks, drowning another lobster chunk. "Hey, can I have some more butter, please?" he asks a passing busboy.
"Oh, it's good. No, no. Good. Yummy. I like it." I take a forkful and chew listlessly. Perhaps I'll become a vegetarian.
I am at a loss for words--a rarity, I assure you--but Roger, drunk with the hedonistic devouring of the poor crustacean, doesn't notice. And it's not just the lobster that is laid waste by this locust horde of a man. He smacks and groans his way through mashed potatoes, stuffing overly long green beans into his mouth, then turns his attention to my plate. "You gonna eat that?" he asks, and I shake my head, fascinated and horrified, as he devours my rice pilaf and vegetable medley. Finally, he spears up my barely touched fish, which he dips in the last of his drawn butter, and swallows it joyfully, an orca whale finishing off the hapless seal pup.
Finally, he pushes away the pillaged lobster shell and wipes his mouth, then takes the little wet nap and cleans his hands. "Well, that was fantastic," he pronounces, leaning back. His girth is noticeably bigger. "Do you want dessert? I could go for some cheesecake."
"Wow! Are you kidding?" I ask. He frowns. "Oh, I'm...I'm sorry. It's just...wow! That was a big lobster! Boy! You can eat!" Okay, enough, Maggie. "So, Roger, do you have any interesting hobbies?" I ask. It would be really nice to think of something other than food at this point, and it's a good date question. Not that there's any chance of us getting together. The thought of kissing that rampaging mouth... I shudder visibly.
"You cold?" he asks.
"No, no. Tell me about your hobbies," I order.
"Well," he says, "actually, I'm glad you asked. I love being a nurse, of course, but what I find really fascinating, what I think might be my true calling, is animal communication." He looks at me expectantly.
"Oh! That sounds neat," I say. I'm not really sure what it is, but anything is better than watching him eat. "So is that like, um, animal training?" Our waiter is glancing our way, and I try to wave him off discreetly. Any more food, and Roger's belt will slice him in half.
"No. It's not training at all, Maggie. I'd think a smart girl like yourself would know that."
I yearn for Colonel. Was I complaining about being single? Foolish me.
"An animal communicator reads the thoughts of animals," he lectures.
"Oh." I pause. "Do they speak English?"
"Who?"
"The animals. I mean, if you can read their thoughts, wouldn't it be in cat language or dog or goat or whatever?"
Roger frowns, clearly displeased. "No, Maggie. It's no joke, either. Don't you watch Pet Psychic on Animal Planet?"
"You know, I've missed that one. But, hmm. Well. Interesting. So you, what, try to read their thoughts and, I don't know, tell if they're hurt or if they've been abused or something?"
He smiles condescendingly, and my desire to be home, fasting and watching TV, grows. "Some people do that, yes. But I have a more specialized talent, Maggie. I communicate with animals who have passed."
"Wow. That's so... Gee."
He must see the disbelief on my face, because he sits forward suddenly, staring at me intently. "Did you ever have a pet when you were a kid, Maggie?" he asks.
"Yes, we did," I answer. "A nice--"
"Don't tell me!" I jump, startled. "Sorry," he amends. "Just think of this pet. Picture him...or her...remember him...or her...and all the good times you had with him."
"Or her," I add.
"Whatever. Just picture."
A tickle of laughter wriggles in my stomach. I picture him...or her...actually, it's a him. Dicky, our childhood dog, a lovely chocolate Lab as solid and wide as a barrel. Christy and I used to hold little Jonah on his back and Dicky would walk proudly and slowly around the house, flanked on either side by us girls. Our parents' photo albums hold many images of this happy pastime.
"Okay, okay," Roger says. "I'm getting something. Was this pet...a mammal?"
Amazing. "Bingo," I answer.
"Good, Maggie, and please just answer with yes or no." He closes his eyes and I take the opportunity to drain my wineglass.
"Maggie, was this anim
al...a cat?"
"No."
Roger frowns slightly but doesn't open his eyes. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Not a cat? You're sure."
"Yes." My voice is tight with the effort of not laughing.
"A dog?"
"Yes."
"Great!" Roger exclaims. He opens his eyes and frowns at me. "Are you sure you're picturing the animal?"
Dicky, Dicky, come to me, Dicky... I press my napkin against my mouth to suppress a laugh. "Yes, I'm really picturing him," I manage to say.
"You weren't supposed to tell me it was a him! Come on, Maggie, do you want this reading or not?"
"I really don't--"
Roger clamps his eyes shut again. "Okay, okay, he's back. Right...this is a black and white dog. A Dalmatian. Yes."
"No." A little snort escapes through my nose. Roger's trance is not disturbed.
"Okay, right, right... Is this dog black?"
"Nope."
"An Irish setter?"
"No," I squeak.
"Are you sure it's not a cat?"
My laughter can't be contained any longer. "Okay, Roger, thank you. Listen, I really should get going. It was nice meeting you, but I just don't think we're right for each other," I say as kindly as I can.
"No kidding. I could tell that the minute you walked in." He whips out his wallet, throws some bills on the table and stalks off. Can't say I'm sorry to see him go. I wonder if the hospital knows about his special gift.
"Is everything all right, miss?" the waiter asks.
"Oh, sure. It was fine. Thank you. Can I have the check, please?"
I'm not surprised to see that Roger has left only enough to cover his lobster. He didn't even leave enough for his wine. Oh, well. I make up the difference and leave a huge tip for the waiter.
When I get home, there's a message waiting on my machine--Father Tim asking a question about the spaghetti dinner next week. Perfect. It's too late to call my sister and tell her about the date, and Father Tim has just given me a great excuse to call him. He keeps late hours, something he's mentioned in the past and which I stored in the Father Tim encyclopedia I keep in my brain. Besides, I just drove past the rectory and couldn't miss the fact that the lights were still on.
"Maggie, how are you?" he says warmly.
"Oh, I just had the funniest date," I say. By the time I'm finished filling him in on Roger Martin, enemy of lobsters and animal communicator, he's laughing so hard he's just wheezing.
"Maggie, you're a special one," he says when he's regained control. "I must say, I was in need of a good laugh, and you came along and answered my prayers."
I smile and scratch Colonel's tummy. "Glad to be of service, Father Tim," I say. "I have to tell you, though, I'm a little...I don't know. Disappointed. I don't meet a lot of new people."
"I know, I do, Maggie," he says. "But you'll meet that special someone one day soon, mark my words. You're a jewel, Maggie Beaumont." As to how the special someone and I will meet is something Father Tim doesn't address.
"Well. Thanks. You're sweet to say so." I pause.
He goes on to tell me about the date change for the spaghetti dinner. As usual, my schedule is free.
"Wonderful!" he exclaims. "I don't know what St. Mary's would do without you. One of these days, you'll join us properly, not just as a volunteer, mind you, and won't that be a happy day! God bless you, Maggie."
I never know what to say to that. Amen? Thank you? "God bless you, too," I say, wincing as he chuckles. "I mean, good night, Father Tim."
"Good night, Maggie."
I hang up the phone very gently, then lie back against my pillows and indulge in just one quick fantasy. That it was Father Tim with me at dinner tonight, only he wasn't a Father. That we were just two people in love, on a date, eager to talk and laugh and share the details of our day. That he played with my hands, which are smooth and lovely in this fantasy, and that his eyes crinkled when he laughed. That he insisted that I order dessert, because he knows how I love dessert.
Colonel groans.
"I know, I know," I say. "Waste of time." It's wrong, dreaming about dating the priest. Unfair to the good father and all that. I'm sick of reminding myself that it's pointless and stupid...and yet...and yet somehow it's so easy to see. Tim and Maggie. Maggie and Tim. With a sigh, I glance at my copy of The Thornbirds, given to me by my brother the day after I learned what the hot guy I'd met did for a living.
Colonel's eyes are full of reproach. "Sorry, pooch," I tell him. "You're right. I'll stop now."
I pat his head, hug my pillow and try to go to sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WASN'T ALWAYS SO, my state of solitude. Once, I thought I was going to get married. Once, I was pre-engaged (not that that's an official title or anything, but I do have a cheap little pearl ring to prove it). Once, I had a steady boyfriend whom I loved and who, I thought, loved me.
Skip Parkinson was a high school god--handsome, reasonably smart, from a well-off family and, most importantly, gifted at sports. Baseball, in particular. And when I say gifted, I mean fantastic. Because of Skip, our school made states each year. Because of Skip, we won three of those four years. Because of Skip, newspapers and college scouts visited Gideon's Cove, sniffing around, eating at the diner, coming to games.
Skip (somehow short for Henry) played shortstop, the sexiest position of all. He batted .345 freshman year, .395 sophomore, .420 junior and an astonishing .463 our senior year. Stanford called and Skip answered, hoping to join the ranks of the university's famous alumni: David McCarty of Boston fame, or, less impressive to a son of Red Sox Nation, Mike Mussina of the New York Yankees.
We dated from sophomore year on. I was the chosen one and not a bad match for Skip; I was smart, too, smarter than he was, honestly. It was because he needed to pass trig that we fell in love. I was his tutor, and one day as I attempted to explain the joys of angle conversion capabilities, he suddenly said, "Maggie, I can't think. You smell too good." We kissed, and it was magical.
Skip was my first real boyfriend, though I had held hands with Ricky Conway on the bus in fourth grade, danced twice with Christopher Beggins in eighth grade and kissed Mark Robideaux after a football game freshman year. But with Skip, Mom would have to pry the phone out of my sweaty adolescent hand each night and order me to go to bed; Skip would take me to the movies and we'd kiss during the coming attractions, then watch the show in squirming, wonderful discomfort. I loved him with all the intensity that only adolescents can feel, to the point where Christy actually felt jealous.
Skip and I lost our virginities to each other on the bunk of his parents' sailboat on Fourth of July weekend, a grave event unlightened by any laughter or humor. I considered going to college in California to be near him, but I ended up at Colby instead, unable to venture farther from home or Christy than that. All through college, Skip and I stayed together, calling each other, writing, e-mailing, reuniting on those happy holidays where we flew into each other's arms and stayed there till the final call for his plane. His parents, both lawyers, didn't quite approve of him having a townie girlfriend while the fruits of Stanford were ripe for the picking, but hey. We loved each other.
When Stanford went to the national finals our senior year, Skip was talking to coaches, scouts and reporters. The Minnesota Twins picked him in the draft, and he went to New Britain, Connecticut, to their farm team. That summer, I made the ten-hour drive down four times, cheering and screaming maniacally when my boyfriend--my boyfriend!--came up to the plate. But it was hard. If we managed a night together, it was rare. He was so busy, you see. Traveling so much. I understood completely.
When Minnesota called him up, Gideon's Cove went wild. A Major League Baseball player...from Gideon's Cove! It was a miracle. People couldn't stop talking about it. My family subscribed to the Minneapolis Star Tribune, as did about half the people in town, and we pored over it each morning. When Skip's name was mentioned, the article would be enlarged on th
e town hall photocopier and hung in the diner, "Skip Parkinson, rookie shortstop" highlighted in yellow so all could see. He would make it, we all said. Our Skip! Little Skip from Overlook Street! He was so good, so talented, so special.
Except in the world of professional baseball, he wasn't. It's a lot easier to hit off a twenty-year-old college kid than a forty-year-old veteran who can throw every kind of strike imaginable at ninety-five miles an hour. Skip's numbers dwindled from an acceptable .294 in New Britain to a dismal .198 in Minnesota. In the field, balls were hit harder, took more vicious bounces. Runners slid into base with damaging accuracy, knowing just how to intimidate a rookie so he'd miss his throw or bobble the ball.
I wrote upbeat letters, called him after every game to try to bolster his spirits. I'd talk about the mechanics of the pitcher, the dive that had been this close to being a double play, the unfair call from the second base ump. Relentlessly optimistic, I spent hours that year cajoling Skip into a better mood.
When his first season was over, and when I was helping out at the diner while Granddad had his heart valves replaced, Skip announced that he was coming back to Maine. He'd "reassess" his baseball career, see "what other options" were out there. The town fathers decided that we'd show our support for young Skip, local hero. A big welcome-home parade. Why not? We could use a little boost at this time of year, the brief tourism season over, another long winter ahead of us.
So Skip's parents picked him up at the airport and drove him into town where the high school band waited, where the cheerleaders stood shivering in their tiny skirts, where dozens of little kids in Little League T-shirts and caps clutched Skip's rookie card or a baseball they hoped he'd sign. Just about everyone in town gathered to welcome home Gideon's Cove's most famous citizen.
And I waited, too, of course, right in the front of the crowd. Skip had been very busy over the past few weeks, and we'd only talked once or twice. I had called his parents and offered to go to the airport with them to pick Skip up, but they didn't return my call.
My heart leaped when his parents' car pulled up to the town green, and we the worshipful began to cheer. I couldn't wait to see him, to run into his arms and give him a kiss, blush as the crowd would no doubt whistle and yell for Skip and his high school sweetheart. College was over, I didn't have a real job yet, was just working in the diner, and now Skip was back. Were we too young to get engaged? I thought not.
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