Catch of the Day (15 page)

“So still no boyfriend,” Christy says as we drive home. I don’t comment. “Any ideas?”

“Not really,” I say, glancing in my rearview mirror. “I think I’ll just give it a rest for a while. I’ve been on four dates in the last month, and none of them worked out very well.”

“You sure? Idle hands are the devil’s workhorse, as Mom would say,” Christy advises somberly. I laugh, but at the back of my mind is Malone and his gently scraping kiss.

When I get home from dropping Christy off, I zip over to the answering machine, hoping to see the blinking light. No blinking. Malone has not called me.

Nor does he call me that evening. The next day is Sunday, and as I flit between tables, clearing and serving, Malone is on my mind. Why hasn’t he called me? Why would he kiss me and then not call me? Should I call him? I shudder at the thought—I wouldn’t be able to see him either nod or stare from my apartment, would I? And since that seems to be his main form of communication, it wouldn’t be much of a conversation.

It’s not that I really like him,
I tell myself. Because really, he’s a complete stranger. Almost. I liked kissing him, yes. At the thought, my stomach knots and my knees tingle. The after-church crowd takes their time finishing, and when they’re done with breakfast, the Sunday lunch crowd comes in. Finally, by about two, all my customers are gone. I wipe down with unusual speed, opting to skip the floor-washing. I’ll just wander down to the dock, I think. See how Jonah’s doing. Check on the little brother.

Jonah’s boat is right against the dock, not moored at its usual spot, which is convenient for me. Inconveniently, Malone’s boat is out, so I’ll just have to hang out with my little bro for a while. “Hey, Jonah!” I call down. It’s low tide, so the dock is a good twenty feet lower than it will be six hours from now. Tides in this part of Maine are dramatic, and the gangplank is pitched quite steeply. The smell of fish and salt and tide greet me as I totter down carefully and walk over to Jonah’s boat, which is named
Twin Menace
after his beloved big sisters. My brother is not in sight.

“Hey, Joe!” I yell.

“Maggie,” he calls back, climbing out of the hold and shutting the door firmly behind him. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, nothing. Permission to come aboard, captain?”

“Um, no. Actually, I’m just leaving. Sorry.”

Drat. “So, do most people go out on a Sunday?” I ask. I’ve never really taken note of the patterns of the lobster boats; it’s something that’s so familiar and constant here that it’s like background noise. During the summer, it’s against the law to haul traps on a Sunday, that I know, but as for the practices of the off-season, I’m clueless.

“Nah. Most of us stay in, even now, I guess.” He glances back at the stern of his boat.

“But some go out?” I prod.

“Ayuh.”

“When do they come back?” I glance casually over the railing at a small school of baby stripers.

“Dunno.”

I sigh. Malone is rubbing off on Jonah, apparently. Usually, my brother won’t stop talking…rather like me, I guess. I give it another try. “So they just come back whenever?”

“Maggie, I just said I don’t know. What’s it to you?”

“Nothing. Just making conversation.”

“Well, I have to tie up, and then I’m going,” he says. “See you.” When I don’t move, he frowns. “Did you want something else?”

“I— No. Sorry. Have a nice day.”

He nods and starts the engine, pulling the
Twin Menace
away from the dock out to his mooring, then disappears back into the hold, busy with whatever keeps him there.

Clearly, I have to go. I can’t be here when Malone comes in, because that would be too obvious and desperate.
Hi, Malone, I’m just hanging around waiting for you. How was your day? Want to kiss me again?
I wince and wisely decide to go home.

CHAPTER TEN

M
ONDAY IS MY DAY OFF
, and I use it to clean my apartment and Mrs. K.’s. As I vacuum up her popcorn crumbs, she follows me around carefully, pointing with her cane at parts I’ve missed.

“Right
there,
Maggie, dear. And
gracious!
There, too! I can’t get over how
sloppy
I am!” I smile—she says this every week. When I’m done, I check her fridge and make sure she’s got enough of the barley soup I brought over yesterday.

“Need anything, Mrs. K.?” I ask.

“Dear, I’m
fine.
But tell me, did you have a
friend
over the other night?”

I freeze momentarily. “No, no. Just, you know, someone, um, gave me a ride home.”

“I thought it was a
man,
” she says.

“Well, yes, actually, it was a man. Malone. My brother’s friend.” I hope she doesn’t pick up on my blush.

“Malone? I don’t
know
anyone by the name of
Malone.
Is he good people? Should you be driving around late at
night
with strangers?”

“Well, he’s not really a
stranger,
Mrs. K., because my brother
knows
him.”

But of course he is a stranger. And he still hasn’t called me. I looked up his phone number to make sure he has a phone, and he does. Whether he uses it is another question. Again, I can’t imagine why he’d kiss me like that and then just…

“He’s certainly a
manly
man, isn’t he?” Mrs. K. offers. God, did she have binoculars trained on him?

“Malone? Sure, I guess so.” I pause in mopping the floor of the tiny kitchen.

“I’ve always
liked
the manly ones, you know. Mr. Kandinsky wasn’t
like
that, but he was a dear. He never understood why I just
loved
Charles
Bronson,
but I did! I think I’ve seen every
Death Wish
ever made.”

“Well, we’ll have to
rent
them, won’t we?” I say, giving her a kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek.

Upstairs in my neat little apartment, I still have no messages. My mail contains only credit card offers and my phone bill. Nothing from Malone to indicate he’s interested in me.

By five o’clock, I’m climbing the walls. I’ve cleaned, baked, dropped in on Chantal at town hall and gone grocery shopping. I’ve read a little, took Colonel to the beach and then brushed his fur afterward. I decide it’s time for a walk.

Colonel pads after me as we leave the center of our little town. Gideon’s Cove hugs the rocky shore, as the town was founded for shipbuilding purposes. I can see the turret of Christy and Will’s house, the gold-painted cross of St. Mary’s. I head in the opposite direction.

The air is soft and damp, and while it will probably drop into the low forties tonight, it’s still pretty mild. House lights are on, giving a cozy feel to the neighborhood, and I can smell various meals cooking…the Mastersons are having chicken…something garlicky and delicious at the Ferrises’ house…Stokowskis are having cabbage… Colonel licks his chops and lingers at that driveway.

We walk uphill, away from the water. Rolly and his wife are sitting on their porch. “Hello, Christy, dear,” calls out Mrs. Rolly.

“Hello,” I call back. “It’s Maggie, actually.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, of course. Christy’s the one with the baby. What was I thinking?”

“That’s okay,” I answer. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Rolly answers. “Enjoy it before the black flies hatch out.”

“You betcha.”

I turn onto Harbor Street, a neighborhood of cottages and bungalows owned mostly by summer people. The street looks down onto the water, and I can see the boats bobbing there on the tide, the white of the hulls almost glowing in the deepening dusk.

Feeling like Harriet the Spy (a book I must have read ten times as a kid), I slip into the yard of one such cottage. I know the owners, the Carrolls, since they’re summertime regulars at the diner, and I know they live in Boston. Their house is dark, the curtains drawn. I follow the little walk that goes along the side of the house to the backyard. Shielded by dusk and their row of hedges, I peek at the property that backs up to the Carrolls’. If the listing in the phone book is correct, Malone lives here.

It’s an ordinary little yard with an oak tree that’s just beginning to bud out. There’s a small back entryway with a couple of garbage cans lined up neatly against the outside wall. A light shines in a window. Suddenly, the door opens, and Malone appears with a bag of trash. He takes the top off the garbage can and drops the bag in, replaces the lid and then goes back into the house. It takes about three seconds.

Though it’s dusk now, I feel a rush of guilt and embarrassment. Imagine if he caught me, lurking in his neighbors’ yard, stalking him… It’s so high school. Still, I wait a few minutes, hoping to see him again, in the window, maybe, or back out with his recycling. Nothing. No one. A crow caws in a tree. The wind blows, and I shiver. Colonel grows bored and flops down under a tree.

“Okay, I’m coming,” I tell him. One last peek. Nothing. I turn around to leave.

A man is standing an inch from my face. I scream and leap back, my hands fluttering around like a pair of frightened birds. “Jesus, Malone! You scared me! God, I didn’t even hear you! Sneaking up on a person like that. Jeez.” I press my hand against my heart, which is thundering like a racehorse on speed. Malone looks at me, and the deepening creases of his face may indicate amusement. Or irritation. Hard to tell. “You are one quiet guy, Malone.”

“Wanna come in?” he asks, a trace of humor in his gruff voice.

“Um…” Now that I no longer fear for my life, it occurs to me that I’ve been busted. “Right. Well. I was, you know, walking. Going for a walk. With Colonel here. And, um, well…here we are. Spying on you.”

“Try knocking next time,” he says, heading into his yard. After a pause, I follow.

He holds the door open for me, reaching down to pat Colonel’s head. My dog apparently has a good vibe, because he walks in without pause and begins sniffing. I come in a bit less bravely, and Malone closes the door behind me. I am trapped in his lair.

We’re in a small kitchen with a little counter along one side. The floor is green linoleum, the counter green Formica, the worst of the 1970s. I try to see everything without being obvious, but I miss the boat, ignoring Malone’s outstretched hand for a second or two too long. I look at it. Does he want to shake hands? Take me somewhere?

“Your coat?” he says. It takes me a minute to decipher his rumble as human words.

“Right! Here. Thank you. That’s great. Okay.”

His eyebrows rise slightly, but he says nothing, just hangs my coat on a hook near the door and takes off his own.

“So,” I say to fill what I consider to be a gaping silence. “You live here?”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”

Well, of course he does. “I mean, alone? Do you live alone?”

“Ayuh.”

“I see. Hmm. And how long have you lived here?”

“About a year.”

A year. “So you’ve lived here since—” Damn it. I probably shouldn’t finish that thought—
since your cousin screwed you
—but I can’t think of anything else to fill the space. “Since a year ago?”

Malone just stares eerily back at me, and I look around for Colonel, wanting to know that a friendly face is nearby. Malone finally breaks his vow of silence (and I have to admit, I’m grateful).

“Want a beer?” he asks.

“Oh, no thanks.” What am I thinking? “Actually, yes, please. That would be nice.” My palms are sweating with nerves, and I really hate the fact that I can’t seem to say anything even moderately intelligent. Malone opens the fridge and hands me a Sam Adams.

“Thank you.”

At the sound of refrigerator action, Colonel comes in, wagging hopefully. Malone squats down and pets him. At last, a character reference—he likes my dog.

“Hey, pal,” he says, scratching Colonel’s head. Wow. A two-word sentence. Colonel moans in pleasure, then licks Malone’s hand and walks into the living room. Malone stands up and fixes me with that unwavering blue gaze. Apparently, I am quite fascinating.

“Is that your daughter?” I ask, pointing to the fridge. There are a couple of photos there, one of a chubby-cheeked toddler eating an apple, another more recent shot of a girl around ten or twelve sitting on a boat, shading her eyes from the sun.

“Yup.”

Back to the one-worders. My frustration and nervousness get the better of me, and I finally blurt, “Malone, let me ask you a question, okay?”

He nods, a brief jerk of his head.