Catch of the Day (39 page)

E
ARLY
W
EDNESDAY MORNING
, I pack a suitcase and head out of town. Tonight is the Best Awards dinner from
Maine Living
, all the way down in Portland. Since my car isn’t the most reliable vehicle in the world, Christy loans me the Volvo.

“Good luck! You’ll win! You deserve it!” she calls from her driveway as I back down. “And you look fantastic!”

Last year, I had a great time at the dinner, meeting other restaurant owners, picking up tips on publicity, advertising, media and the like. I had naively thought that Joe’s might at least come in second, but we didn’t. Of course, last year, I didn’t realize the rules let us print out as many ballots as we wanted. The evil innkeepers (actually, they’re quite nice) at Blackstone B&B were not so ignorant and won by hundreds of votes.

I don’t know if it will mean a significant change if Joe’s wins, but I know it would feel different. How thrilling to put “Best Breakfast in Washington County” in the window!
Maine Living
will feature the winner in an article with a color photo, which I can already picture: me, Octavio, Judy and Georgie—standing in front, the sun bouncing off Joe’s chrome, the impatiens full and healthy.

And, I admit, as I pull onto the interstate, it would be nice to drop that nugget at the Blessing of the Fleet this coming weekend. Each year, the Blessing is a marker for our town. Who’s divorced since last year? Whose kid got arrested for drug dealing? Anyone get married? Graduate from college? Buy a house? Have an affair? Bury a spouse? And each year for nearly a decade, I’ve remained the same.
No, still not married. Nope, no prospects. No kids. Not engaged. Not seeing anyone. Just at the diner, you know?

But this year—hopefully—I could say, “Well, maybe you heard that Joe’s Diner just won best breakfast in the county? No? Oh, well, it will be in
Maine Living
next month…” Each former classmate who returns to town would hear that Joe’s Diner is moving up in the world. That Maggie Beaumont has a real accomplishment to her name.

“Who am I kidding?” I say out loud. “No one cares but me. And maybe Octavio.” I turn on the radio.

It’s a small event when compared with the Pope dying, say, or a U2 concert, but the Best Awards still attract a fair number of people. As a treat, I’ve booked myself in a nice room at the hotel where the awards are being held, a beautiful building on the water in Old Port. I check in, relishing the rarity of the act. The last time I was away for an overnight was last year, for this same event.

The room is small but elegant, and I indulge in a nap on the sleigh bed, enjoying the fine cotton sheets and down pillows. Afterward, I shower and dress carefully. Maybe I’ll meet someone tonight, who knows? But the thought holds little appeal, oddly enough. God knows, I primped as carefully as a prom queen last year, hoping fervently that I would run into a good-looking, kindhearted Washington County restaurateur or innkeeper. I didn’t, but I sure as hell hoped.

Nope. This year is different. I’m not over Malone.

As I let his name enter my consciousness, loneliness wells up in my heart. It would be so much fun if we were together, if I had Malone’s hand to hold tonight. I bet he’d look gorgeous in a suit. And if I didn’t win, well, that would be okay. We’d still have a night in a city together. We could take a walk afterward, or order dessert in our room. We’d sleep past 6:00 a.m. and feel like we’d been away for a week.

“Too bad,” I tell my reflection. “You blew it. Now get down to that ballroom and win that award.”

I
DON’T WIN
. Blackstone Bed & Breakfast wins for the fifth straight year. I clap dutifully along with the others, congratulate the irritatingly nice couple and order a scotch. Later, when I’m safe in my room, I indulge in a quick cry. Then I call Octavio.

“We came in third,” I tell him wetly.

“Hey, third’s not bad,” my cook says.

“Third sucks, Tavy,” I sniffle. “There are only about three restaurants in the damn county!”

“Okay, now you’re just feeling sorry for yourself, boss,” Octavio says. “Third is pretty damn good when you live where we live. Okay? You should be proud of yourself.”

“Right,” I mutter.

“How much did we lose by?” he asks.

“Sixty-seven votes.”

“Sixty-seven! That’s great! Only sixty-seven! We’ll definitely get it next year, boss.”

I can’t help but smile. “Thanks, big guy.”

“See you Friday?” he asks. “We should have a good crowd this weekend.”

“Yeah. See you then. I’ll open.” I hang up the phone and look out my window. Portland is so clean and bright and lively, but I’m suffering a bad case of homesickness at the moment. Poor Joe’s. Such a cute little place. It deserves better than third. We
do
serve the best breakfast in Washington County, and next year, so help us God, we’ll have the award to prove it.

This year, I’ll do whatever it takes to get a restaurant reviewer to the diner. And a travel writer. I’ll e-mail every day if I have to. Send letters. Or better yet, send scones or muffins. Bribe them with the quality of my goods. I can redo the menu, jazz up my lunch specials. Tavy’s right. Sixty-seven more votes is not out of the question. My self-pity dries up with my tears. We didn’t win, but that doesn’t mean we’re not the best.

I take the certificate I got from
Maine Living
and read it. “Congratulations to Joe’s Diner, Gideon’s Cove, Maine. Second Runner Up, Best Breakfast in Washington County.”

To hell with Washington County,
I think, smiling wetly. Someday we’ll get best breakfast in Maine.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

T
HE
B
LESSING OF
the Fleet is held annually the third weekend of May. The boats fly their flags, the town decorates our three public buildings, local organizations sell hot dogs and lobster bisque on the green. The high school band plays, the chorus performs a few patriotic songs. Little Leaguers, the fire department, the board of selectmen and our three living veterans march in the five-minute parade. Then on Sunday, every boat in the harbor lines up and motors to Douglas Point, past the granite memorial for lost fishermen. They continue up to the dock, where the local clergy blesses them and prays for a safe and productive year.

Last year, Father Tim had been new in town, and I’d still been getting over the embarrassment of my mistake. In order to show what a good sport I was, I threw myself into the planning committee with a vengeance. I baked cookies for the first communion class to sell, donated my efforts to the Saturday night spaghetti supper at the church hall, helped decorate the podium on which Father Tim and the Congregational minister stood to sprinkle holy water on the passing boats.
I may be an idiot,
I was trying to convey after humiliating myself in front of the town,
but at least I’m a hardworking idiot.

This year, I can admit that maybe Father Tim and I used each other a bit. He got a lot of work out of me this past year, and I, as I can now see quite clearly, got more than a guilty thrill concerning him. It’s safe to be in love with someone you know you’ll never have. Nothing is really risked when you know you can’t lose. He was a distraction, an excuse, and a friend. No more, no less.

Saturday morning of Blessing Weekend dawns foggy and warmer than usual, and by 10:00 a.m., the sun is shining, the air is clear and it’s a perfect spring day. May is the month of blackflies, but a strong breeze off the water keeps them away, and only the most determined bugs are able to draw blood through their tiny, painful bites. As Christy, Will and I walk down to the green, Violet in the carrier on Will’s back, the smell of outdoor cooking—chowder and bacon, hot dogs and hamburgers and smoke—hits us in a thick, mouthwatering wave.

This weekend seems like a thank-you to the residents for not moving away to an easier place. Our sense of neighborhood and friendship is strong at the Blessing. People call greetings to each other, shake hands as if it’s been weeks, not hours, since they last met. Couples hold hands, children dance with excitement.
When are the lobster boat races? Can we get a balloon? I’m hungry!
Everywhere, people smile and laugh. Music drifts in snatches on the breeze.

I wave to friends, customers, neighbors…there’s virtually no one I don’t know by name. Now and then, I catch a glimpse of Father Tim in his all-black priest clothes, but he is swamped with teary-eyed well-wishers.

Main Street is closed off to cars, and people stroll the block and a half of the “downtown,” stopping to sample a cookie from the Girl Scouts, a muffin from the PTA. The chrome on Joe’s Diner glistens from the cleaning I gave it yesterday. Octavio, Georgie and I hung out bunting while Judy smoked and squinted in approval. I feel a little thrill of pride looking at it, even though it’s closed.

“Ow,” Will says, reaching up to pry his hair from Violet’s dimpled fist. “Let go, sweetie.” He shifts the backpack as Violet knees him in the spine.

“Want me to take her, Will?” I offer. “You won’t pull Auntie’s hair, will you, pumpkin?”

“You sure?” Will asks gratefully.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll take Violet and you two can stroll around alone for a while, what do you say?”

“I say thank you,” Christy says, unsnapping the harness. “You’re the best, Maggie.” She holds the pack with Violet still in it as Will slides his arms out, then straps it on me.

“Agga,” Violet says. “Agga bwee.”

“She just said Aunt Maggie, clear as day,” I say. “Did you hear? What an honor.” Violet takes a fistful of my hair and tugs in affirmation, I’m quite sure.

Will and Christy laugh. “Meet you in an hour?” Will says. “We’ll buy you lunch at the fire department.”

“Sounds great,” I say.

With Violet on my back, I don’t feel so obviously single. We stroll around, stopping to admire the display of art projects from the first grade students, and I brace for the inevitable assessment that is an integral part of Blessing Weekend.

“Hey, Maggie!”

And here we go. It’s an old high school classmate, Carleigh Carleton. She went to college in Vermont, as I recall. She also had a wicked crush on Skip.

“Hey, Carleigh,” I say.

“Oh, my God, you had a baby?” she shrieks, her eyes popping. She never was that attractive.

“No, no, this is my niece, Violet,” I tell her.

“Oh, sure. Christy’s baby. That makes more sense!” Carleigh’s smile is full of smugness and condescension. “I have three myself. Are you still working in your grandfather’s diner?” What she means is,
Are you still stuck in the same job you’ve had since high school, since Skip dumped you? Haven’t you gotten married yet, Maggie? Don’t you know the statistics for a woman over thirty?

“Yup,” I say. “And what about you, Carleigh?” I pretend to listen as she tells me of her fabulous life, which is probably not nearly so fabulous in reality. But that’s what Blessing Weekend is for, in a sense. Pretense. Leaving Carleigh, who has gained another fifteen or so pounds since last year, I note with deep satisfaction, I wander through the crafts tent on the green.

There are a few more Carleigh types, mostly women who nod sympathetically when I tell them yes, I’m still at the diner.
Poor Maggie,
they seem to be saying,
I may have married an abusive drunk, had to file a restraining order and gotten divorced before I was twenty-three, but at least I got married!

I refuse to feel inferior.
Screw ’em,
I think. My life is just fine. I make a difference in this town. Violet knees me in the back, and I continue in a fog, absentmindedly waving here and there. A familiar name jerks me out of my daze.

“…and that Malone person won’t admit that it’s his,” the hideous Mrs. Plutarski stage-whispers to one of her wrinkled old cronies, Mrs. Lennon.

“Why not?” Mrs. Lennon asks.

“Because he doesn’t want to be saddled with child support,” Mrs. Plutarski says, as if she had actual information on the subject. “Well, that woman had it coming, if you ask me. All those years of—”

“Excuse me, what are you talking about?” I ask, shoving in between them, a tugboat between two tankers.

“Oh! Maggie. How are you, dear?” Mrs. Lennon asks sweetly. Mrs. P. assumes the lemon-sucking face she does so well.

“Child support? Admitting that something is his? Tsk, tsk, Mrs. Plutarski. Does Father Tim know you gossip like this?” I fold my arms, my moment of righteous indignation somewhat marred by Violet yanking my hair.

“This is a private conversation, Maggie,” Mrs. Plutarski says coldly. “And I’d say you should be worried about what people are saying about
you
instead of butting into other people’s conversations. Everyone knows that you thought Father Tim was going to leave the church for you.” She smirks and cuts her eyes to Mrs. Lennon.