Catch of the Day

by Kristan Higgins

  I haven't been in St. Mary's for a while, too flustered by Father Tim to come here. And it's a shame, really, because it's lovely, truly a place to think, to open myself up and listen for a whisper of wisdom. I haven't done that in a long time. My embarrassment over Father Tim has distracted me from any true spirituality I might have had in the past year.

  Father Tim. My mind is oddly blank as I sit there. Fragments of conversations slip through, but I'm unable to hold on to one. Father Tim has been lonely. He cares about me. I'm special to him. He's counting on that... and he asked me about Father Shea.

  The question is, what if it's true? What if he's leaving the priesthood and wants to find someone? What if he thinks he wants to be with me? What then? It's not like I have other contenders...the pet psychic, the groin injury guy, the old men...and unforgiving, closed-off, angry Malone.

  I rush outside and over to the rectory, bursting in on Mrs. Plutarski.

  "Where is he?" I demand. "I know he's here."

  "He's very busy," Mrs. P. answers. "What's got into you?"

  "Father Tim?" I call, sticking my head into his office. He's not there. "Father Tim?" I shove my wet hair back from my face.

  He comes into the common room, holding a cup of tea. "Ah, Maggie," he says warmly. "Just the person I wanted to see."

  "Father Tim," I say, grabbing his arm. "I need to speak with you. It's an emergency."

  Mrs. P. sighs dramatically. "Another death in the family, Maggie? Your goldfish this time?"

  "Bite me," I tell her. Father Tim's eyes widen as I tow him through the common room, into the kitchen. I don't want Mrs. Plutarski to overhear us, and I know she'll try.

  "Here now, Maggie, maybe you should slow down. In fact, I was hoping to see you--"

  "Sit down," I tell him. He obeys, and I take a seat opposite him at the small table. "I just spoke to Bishop Tranturo. About, you know...you." My hands are shaking, the palms sweaty.

  Father Tim's face grows somber. "Did you, now? I was hoping to tell you myself." He gives me a sad smile. "Maggie, you know I care--"

  "Wait!" I bark. "Please wait. Don't say anything." I take a deep breath, then another, as Father Tim looks at me, concerned and expectant. "Okay...um, Father Tim," I say more gently. "Listen. You are a wonderful priest and the thing is, I understand that it's not always easy for you, but..." I swallow. He waits patiently. "Listen, Father Tim, you're a very nice, kind man. And of course I...you know. Care for you. But I think you're making a mistake. You know, about leaving. You can't just give this all up!"

  Father Tim sighs and leans back in his chair. "I know, Maggie. It's been wonderful. I've loved being pastor here, as you know. But change is going to come, whether we like it or not."

  I take another breath, my legs feeling weak and sick. "Does anyone else know about--about your, um, decision?"

  "No, Maggie. I was planning to say something at Mass." At Mass! My mouth falls open, but he continues. "Of course, the bishop knows, but that goes without saying."

  "Okay, okay, wait. I need to say this." My hands are curled into fists. "We're friends, you and I, aren't we?"

  "Of course, Maggie."

  "And I think you have a lot of nice qualities." He blinks, ever patient. "Right. So. You know I had a killer crush on you." He smiles--is that a happy smile? Forgiving? Expectant?--and I force myself to go on. "But, Father Tim, I don't anymore. I just think you should know that. In case I was figuring into your decision in any way. Any way whatsoever."

  The smile falters, flickers, then dies completely. "I'm not clear on what you're getting at, Maggie," he says slowly. "Why would you figure into it?"

  "Because of the thing with Father Sh-- Um, what's that?"

  He frowns, clearly puzzled. "Ah...well, why don't you say what's on your mind, Maggie?"

  I bite my lip, wince, and go for it. "Um...I don't want you to leave the priesthood because of me."

  Under other circumstances, Father Tim's reaction would be funny. He lurches back in his seat, then staggers to his feet, grabbing the chair and putting it between us. "Dear Lord, Maggie! I'm not leaving the priesthood!"

  "Oh, thank God!" A hysterical laugh escapes my lips. "Oh, thank God! Great! This is great news!"

  "How-- Why-- Where on earth did you get an idea like that?"

  "I...um...ah..." Breathe, Maggie, breathe. He's not leaving the priesthood. "Well, Bishop Tranturo...he said you were leaving."

  "I'm being transferred to another parish."

  "Right. Oh, that is fantastic news." I heave a sigh of relief, my head spinning. Father Tim cocks his head. "Okay. That makes a lot more sense." I pause. "I guess I just thought that...well, you said a few things that I thought... I was afraid you had feelings for me, Father Tim."

  His eyes narrow, and he keeps a good grip on the chair, and he keeps that chair solidly between us. "Maggie," he says, very, very carefully, "I think you're a lovely person, but no. No feelings of a romantic sort. At all. Ever. I'd hope we'd stay friends after I leave, but of course, nothing else."

  "Well, that's great. Sure. I just could've sworn..." My heart rate is returning to normal, and I take a deep breath. "I mean, I'm sorry that the parish is losing you, but Father Tim, what about Father Shea? I mean, you...you seemed kind of interested in him, and there were these things you said about me and being friends and..." My voice trails off.

  Father Tim closes his eyes in understanding. "Oh, dear. I'm so sorry if I ever led you to believe... Oh, shite. No, Maggie, Michael Shea, formerly Father Shea, has been in hospice, and I had to ask the bishop if special arrangements might be required for his funeral, being that he was a priest at one time...nothing else, Maggie." He pauses tentatively. "I'm terribly sorry if I ever gave you any impression whatsoever that...well. I'm not sure what to say."

  At this point, he could say he was pregnant and I wouldn't care. He's not leaving the priesthood, he's not in love with me, and I am simply limp with relief. No doubt other feelings are going to make themselves known sometime soon, but right now, all I feel is utter, beautiful reprieve.

  "Let's not say anything, okay?" I offer. "In fact, if we could just pretend this conversation never took place..."

  He offers me an uneasy smile. "That would probably be best," he agrees. "Though I'm glad to hear your crush on me is done."

  I pause. "St. Mary's is really going to miss you."

  "And I them. And now, Maggie, I have things I need to take care of...."

  On trembling legs, I walk through the rectory. Alas, Mrs. Plutarski's lips are white with disapproval, and I know her too well to believe she wasn't eavesdropping. She'll tell everyone. Once more, Gideon's Cove is going to have a good laugh over me, but right now, I simply don't care.

  A bit numbly, I walk through the rain and find myself at the harbor. The boats are all out, as the demand for lobsters has already risen, though it's only May. I picture Malone out there, alone. Maloner the Loner.

  I miss him irrationally.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ON MONDAY, my day off, I give Mrs. K.'s apartment a quick clean, leave her a chicken and spinach casserole and kiss her goodbye. Then I run back upstairs and survey my closet.

  This errand has been a long time coming. I'm not sure what to wear. I'd be happy in a Joe's Diner T-shirt and jeans, but maybe something nicer would help at the critical moment. Plus, my mother will be happy to see me in something that's not stained, so I pull out some cream-colored pants that Christy bought me two Christmases ago and top it with a chocolaty silk shirt. I brush my hair and put it into a French twist, add some big gold hoops, a little lip gloss and mascara, a few dashes of blush. Then I hop into my car and head out of town.

  It takes about an hour and a half to reach my destination, and the drive is beautiful. The ponds gleam an electric blue under the cloudless sky, the leaves are that engaging shade of pale green. The sun beats through the windshield and I crack my window a little, turn up the radio and sing along.

  I haven't heard from Father Tim sinc
e our last conversation a week ago. He hasn't come into the diner, but the word is out that he's leaving. Most of Gideon's Cove is devastated. As for me, my feelings are still a bit mixed; I'll miss him because he was nice to have around, but I sure won't miss feeling so stupid when it came to him.

  The directions I got off the Internet last night are fairly accurate, and I find the car dealership with no trouble, right next to McDonald's, as promised on Mapquest. I pull into the lot in my battered Subaru, a lump of coal among diamonds.

  A rather pleasant thrill of anticipation and nervousness runs down my legs as I get out. I glance at my reflection in the car windows, then turn and go inside.

  "May I help you?" asks a pretty woman behind the desk.

  "I'd like to see Skip Parkinson, please," I say pleasantly.

  "Of course." She presses a button on the phone. "Skip, please come to the front desk. Skip, front desk, please." Her voice is soothing and robotic.

  I glance around the showroom while I wait, admiring the sleek lines and tasteful colors of the expensive cars. Cars are like racehorses to me--I enjoy looking at them and have little use for them. Given where I live and what I do, I require something far more pragmatic than a seventy-five thousand dollar big-boy toy.

  "Hi, can I show you something today?" Skip's voice comes from behind me. I turn around.

  "Hi, Skip," I say. He's wearing a beautiful charcoal suit, his blue shirt open at the neck, stylish as a European duke.

  His mouth drops open with a quick intake of breath. "Maggie! Wow."

  "Do you have a minute?" I tilt my head and smile. It's so much more pleasant, being the surpriser, not the surprised.

  "Um, sure. Sure. Uh, come on back to my office." He walks me to a soulless room in the back of the dealership, his windows overlooking the parking lot. A chrome-and-glass coffee table holds some expensive-looking sales brochures. There's a matching bookcase along one wall, a large desk covered with papers.

  I sit in a leather chair and look around. Scattered on the walls and shelves are pictures of the Parkinsons--Annabelle, their children, even one of his snobby parents.

  "So, Maggie, what a nice surprise," Skip says carefully, lowering himself into the chair opposite me. "Are you looking for a car?"

  I chuckle. "No. No car, Skip. I'm just here to see you."

  He tugs on his shirtsleeves and tries to look pleasantly interested, but a flush is creeping up from his collar. "Well. How nice."

  I cross my legs and just look at him. Still a handsome devil. But his face is bland, a classic American face, well-proportioned features, brown eyes, the hint of gray in his tidy little beard. Only the lines around his eyes give him any distinction at all. I imagine being married to him, having him come home to our big, lovely house, handing him one of our kids. We might have a cocktail, and I'd feign interest as he told me about the irritating customer who went with the Audi instead of the Lexus SUV he can't seem to unload.

  I'm glad we didn't end up together. That wasn't always true, but it is now. Suddenly, I realize I don't need anything from Skip.

  "So, Maggie..." Skip says, pasting a fake smile on his lips. "What can I do for you?"

  "Well, I guess I came for that apology you owe me, Skip," I answer. The smile falls off his face with a nearly audible thud. "But...well, I don't know. I thought it mattered. But it doesn't."

  "Oh," he says. The flush has his face in its grip now. "Well."

  "It was pretty bad, you know," I tell him. "You bringing Annabelle to town, not telling me that we broke up."

  "That was a long time ago," he mutters.

  "You're right. I guess I've sort of been cleaning house emotionally, you know? And it occurred to me that you never really...well. Like you said, it was a long time ago." I stand up. "Sorry I wasted your time."

  Skip stands also. "That's it?" he says, a hopeful note in his voice.

  I laugh a little. "Yeah. Kind of anticlimactic, isn't it?" I stick out my hand. "Take care. Your wife seems very nice."

  His hand is softer than mine, smooth and pampered. "Thank you, Maggie," he says carefully. "Take care, yourself." He makes a movement to the door, but I wave him off.

  "I'll see myself out. Goodbye, Skip."

  When I've just reached the door, his voice stops me. "Maggie?"

  I turn. "Yeah?"

  "I am sorry." He looks a little forlorn, somehow. "I wish I'd done it better."

  I pause, then give a nod. "Thanks for saying so."

  I wave to the receptionist and walk out into the bright sunshine. "Well, that was a waste of gas," I say to myself as I climb back in my car. But I'm laughing as I say it.

  Around five, I find the building where my mother works and climb the stairs to the third floor. For a second, I just watch her from the doorway--she sits behind the reception counter, wearing a headset, talking animatedly. The wall behind her has Mainah Magazine painted in large green letters.

  "Hi, Mom," I say when she clicks off from her conversation.

  "Maggie!" she cries. We hug and kiss, and I breathe in her familiar perfume, realizing that I've missed her.

  "Don't you look nice!" she says.

  "You, too. I love your hair," I tell her. She really does look lovely...not younger, exactly, but very stylish in her bright green top and pretty scarf.

  "Let me introduce you," Mom says, pulling me along. "Linda, this is my daughter, Maggie. Maggie, this is our editor, Linda Strong."

  "Nice to meet you," I say, shaking her hand.

  "Maggie owns a restaurant," my mother announces. "Cara, this is my daughter, Maggie."

  "Hello, Maggie. We've heard a lot about you." Cara shakes my hands. "Where are you going for dinner, Lena?"

  "Well, first I'm going to show her my apartment, then I thought we'd go to Havana."

  The three women take a moment to discuss the various restaurant choices while I revel in the rare glow of my mom's pride. A restaurant owner. She's never called me that before. Formerly, I was a cook or I ran a diner, but today, I own a restaurant.

  She loves hearing about my visit to Skip, loves showing me her tiny apartment. Honestly, I can't remember a time when she's gone for so long without criticizing me.

  "Do you miss Dad?" I ask as we eat dinner.

  She thinks a minute. "Yes and no," she says. "It's quiet in the evenings. I'm so used to having him just be there, I suppose." Her voice trails off. "I don't really do anything on my own yet. But there are times when I think I've never been happier. I caught a mistake the other day, and Linda told me she didn't know I could proofread, and now she's asked me to look over everything before it goes out."

  "That's great, Mom. It sounds like you really like it," I say, watching her flush with pleasure.

  "I do. But there are also times when I cry, I'm so lonely," she adds.

  "We miss you. All of us."

  "I'll be home this weekend," she says. "To see the baby, and everyone else, of course." She pauses. "How are you, honey?"

  "I'm okay," I say. "I...well. There are some things that are clearer to me these days, and I'm trying to kind of sort them out."

  "Like what?" Mom asks.

  "Oh, I don't know." I take another bite of fish, then decide to tell her. "I'm over my stupid crush on Father Tim."

  "Finally." She smiles, not unkindly. "Are you seeing anyone, Maggie?"

  I feel my back stiffen, preparing for battle. "No."

  "I might have someone for you, dear," she says. "He works at--"

  "No, thanks, Mom. I need a little break from dating, actually," I interrupt. I take a breath. "I was seeing someone for a few weeks. Remember Malone?"

  "Malone? The lobsterman?"

  "Right. Well, we were kind of seeing each other, but then we had a fight." I take a gulp of water.

  "Did you apologize?" Mom asks.

  "Why do you assume it was my fault?" I snap, setting my glass down with a thunk and a slosh.

  "Was it?" she says with a smile.

  I grit my teeth, then give
a rueful nod. "Well, yes, actually, it was. And I did apologize. But he's not the forgiving type."

  "Well, when you're ready, then, you let me know and I'll give you this person's number. But you don't have--I mean, I hope..."

  You don't have much time...I hope you won't wait too long.... I know what she wants to say. But to her credit, she stops herself. "Well. Good luck."

  "I should probably get going," I say, glancing at my watch. "It's a long drive."

  Mom's eyes fill with tears. "All right," she says, fiddling with her bracelet to hide the fact. "It was so wonderful seeing you, honey."

  We walk together to where we parked. "Drive safely, now," she says. "Let the phone ring once so I know you made it home all right."

  "Okay, Mom. Will do."

  I kiss her cheek, hug her tight for a minute. It's still a bit of a shock that I'm taller than my mom. Even though that's been the case for more than fifteen years, I still expect to look up to her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  "I'M SO TIRED of being a joke, Christy," I tell my sister as we walk along the shore one afternoon. Violet sits in a backpack on my back, babbling happily.

  "You're not a joke," Christy assures me. "You just drew the wrong conclusions, that's all. It could happen to anyone."

  That's the nice thing about having an identical twin. Loyalty. I smile gratefully. Up ahead, a group of puffins scatters at our approach.

  "Dird!" my niece yells. "Dird!"

  Christy's mouth drops open in glee. "That's right, Violet! Bird!"

  "Ah-do! Dird!"

  "She's so smart," I tell my sister. Violet pulls my hair vigorously, jerking my head back.

  "No, Violet," Christy says, unwrapping her daughter's pudgy fist. "No pulling."

  The air is cool and damp, clouds blowing in from the east. Rain is in the forecast. Gulls cry above us and the waves slap at the shore.

  "So what's wrong with Jonah these days?" Christy asks.

  "I don't know," I admit. "He's been a real sad sack. Unlike him."

  "Woman trouble?" Christy guesses.