Catch of the Day (24 page)

“When people care about each other, they show it,” I tell my dog. He licks his chops thoughtfully. “There’s nothing wrong with that. That’s the way things are supposed to be.” The image of Malone rubbing lotion into my long-suffering hands flashes through my brain. Well. That was just a seduction move, and it worked brilliantly. “I don’t think Malone is a very nice person, do you? You don’t, either? Well, you’ve always been smart about these things.” Colonel lies down next to me, but the pavement is too cold for his old bones. I stand up, and my dog does the same. “At least we got that out of the way,” I say. My dog wags reassuringly. Still, my throat stays tight, like there’s a piece of glass wedged there.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

F
OR SOME REASON,
Joe’s Diner is hopping the next day. It always seems to be the case—something in the tides or the moon causing a mass hysteria for breakfast out. People are actually waiting for tables, which usually only happens on Thanksgiving weekend or during both good weekends of summer. Octavio whips orders out, and both Judy and I are working at top speed, smiling (well, I am, at least), sliding orders to the hungry of Gideon’s Cove, passing out ballots and pens for the best breakfast rating, trying to ring people up before a line forms at the register. Jonah comes in, but I don’t have time to do more than shove a plate of French toast in front of him—as he eats for free, he gets what I give him.

“Thanks, sissy,” he calls as I fly into the kitchen.

My parents, also succumbing to breakfast fever, make a rare appearance. Mom frowns as she surveys the noisy crowd. “Well, I guess we’ll have to wait,” she says. When she comes in and things are slow, she tells me I’ll never make a living. If I’m busy, she’s put out. And today, I’m just not in the mood.

“Business looks good today, Maggie,” my dad says.

“It sure is, Dad. Hi, Rolly. How was everything?” I ask.

“Cracklin’,” he says. I take this as a compliment.

“You filled out your ballot, right?” I ask.

“Every day, Maggie, every day.”

Finally, a booth is free for Mom and Dad, since the counter is jammed. “What would you like, Mom?” I ask.

“Oh, I don’t know. I should have eaten a bowl of bran flakes, really.”

“How about pancakes, Maggie, hon?” Dad asks.

“Pancakes it is.” Having been a waitress for half my life, I don’t need to write down orders. “And you, Mom?”

My mother sighs. “Well, I just don’t know. I guess I’ll start with orange juice, only don’t fill the glass. It’s too much. Your glasses are too big. Fill it about three quarters full. Can you do that? Because otherwise, I won’t be able to drink it all.”

“Squeeze one, three quarters. Got it.”

Georgie comes in and attaches himself to my side, his head only reaching my collarbone. “Hi, Maggie! How are you, Maggie?”

I put my arm around him and kiss his crew cut. Mom assumes her lemon-sucking expression. “Hey, buddy,” I say to Georgie. “Someone spilled juice under the last stool. Can you take care of it?”

“Sure, Maggie!” He gives me a squeeze and goes to the back room to get the mop. I glance back to the counter, where people are in various stages of eating and ordering, then do a double take.

Malone’s here.

He’s sitting next to Jonah, talking to him, and his presence causes my face to go hot. He looks my way, his face as blank as a blackboard in July. No sheepish grin. No apologetic shrug, just the penetrating blue stare and the slashing lines of his perpetual scowl. I turn back to my parents.

“Mom?”

“I don’t know, Maggie! There’s too much to choose from.”

“Fine. You get nothing.” I snatch the menu from her hand and fly back into the kitchen, ignoring Malone, ignoring my mother’s squawks of indignation. I grab an order of the spinach omelet special, some pumpkin bread French toast and a plate of silver dollar pancakes. “Another stack for my dad, Tavy,” I tell Octavio.

“Ayuh,” he answers.

I serve the family at the fourth booth, then grab the coffeepot and head for the counter, overhearing Jonah saying, “Oh, shit, it was nothing. You’d do the same for me.”

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.