The light on the answering machine blinks, waiting to tell me the big news. It takes me a minute to push the button.
“Hey, Maggie, it’s Malone. Uh…thought we were getting together tonight. Call me later.”
Really. He thought we were getting together. Not when another woman is carrying his child, that’s for damn sure.
I flop down in a chair and hug a worn throw pillow to my stomach, my eyes hard. Chantal made no bones about the fact that she found Malone attractive. That she’d put the moves on him before. And she mentioned something about him having a crush on her once, long ago. Or more recently, as the evidence indicates. Yes, God forbid that Chantal doesn’t get a man. Every damn male in town is required to adore her, aren’t they? I clench my teeth hard, willing the lump in my throat to dissolve.
The edges of the throw pillow are frayed, the material thin from years of use. I really should make it a new cover, but why bother? In fact, as I look around my cramped little apartment, impatience rushes through me. Why do I have all this crap? Does anyone really need six TableTop pie tins? So what if they’re collectibles? Suddenly, I hate collectibles. Collectibles. Why not just call them what they are? Old junk. Why own them? To collect cobwebs? If that’s their purpose, they’re doing an excellent job.
I jump up, grab some garbage bags and newspaper and start wrapping with a vengeance. I should have a yard sale. Or bring this crap to an antiques dealer. Suddenly, I want to have a spartan, clean living space. Just floor and futon, Japanese style. Or Swedish, maybe, with just a streamlined dresser for my clothes.
And clothes! I practically leap into the bedroom and rip open my bureau drawers. How many sweaters do I really need, anyway? About a third of them are my father’s cardigans, which I’ve stolen over the years?maybe he’ll want them back. And God, look at how many stained T-shirts I have. Working in a diner is no excuse. Surely I can afford clean shirts. When I dribble gravy or coffee on them and can’t get the stain out, into the trash they shall go. Maybe I should have T-shirts made up for the diner. Yes. That’s what I’ll do. That will eliminate the question of what to wear every day. Just a black T-shirt with red writing. Joe’s Diner, established 1933, Gideon’s Cove, ME. Perfect. The summer nuisance will love them.
Ruthlessly, I stuff half a dozen shirts into a trash bag, vaguely noting logos of places I’ve been, sayings I thought were cute. Stupid cluttering crap. I barely pause at the blue rat, stuffing it with far greater force than necessary into the giant black trash bag. Good. Bury it. Stupid cheap thing.
After Skip traded me in for a classier model, I moved in here, renting the place from some summer people who had bought it as an investment. When Gideon’s Cove failed to be the new Bar Harbor, they sold it to me for an affordable price, and Dad and I overhauled the place and found Mrs. K. as a tenant. It was so safe here, so cozy and tiny. But now it seems crowded and stuffy, just as my mind is crammed with memories of my romantic failures.
Skip, of course, is at the head of the class. But there were others, too, before Malone, before Father Tim. A couple of years after Skip was Pete, a very nice guy from a few towns over. We dated for a year, practically living together at the end. When he asked me out for dinner one night, I imagined that he was going to pop the question. And I imagined myself saying yes. We were very solid, very content, I thought. It wasn’t a huge romantic love, but I thought it would last.
Instead, Pete gently informed me that he was moving. To California. And he would really miss me.
If he’d asked, I would have said, No, no, I can’t possibly come with you. I love Maine. I don’t want to move. My life is here. My family. Our breakup would have been sad, regretful but required, because I honestly wouldn’t have left home for that guy. My heart was not broken. Still, it would have been nice to turn him down.
I pull out a green sweater that still has a few golden hairs on it. Colonel’s hair. He must have rubbed his head against me while I was wearing this. My eyes fill?sudden, desperate longing for my dog flows over me like a river. This sweater can stay, I decide, putting it in the “keep” pile. I blow my nose and continue purging.
After Pete was Dewitt, my boyfriend of four months. He asked me to put some distance between myself and my sister, successfully ending our romance with that one sentence. Unfortunately, he then told everyone that I had an “unnatural thing” going on with Christy and implied that I’d never find someone because I was fixated on my own sister. Asshole.
“Maggie?”
“Jesus! God! You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!” I squawk.
Malone leans against my door frame and smiles. I have to look away.
“Sorry,” he says. “I knocked. Must not have heard me.”
“Well. So. You’re here. That’s…” The animal magnetism he exudes shrouds my reasons for being mad. Oh, yeah. Chantal. Got it. “Okay, Malone, so what’s up? What’s new? Anything new?”
His smile fades. “Not really. Missed you last night.”
“Did you. Hmm. Well. Something came up.”
So he’s not going to admit anything. You’d think even Malone would acknowledge something…Hey, by the way, Chantal and I are having a baby. Wanna grab some dinner? Fine. If he’s not going to say anything, I’m sure as hell not going to admit I was lurking under his window the moment he learned of his impending fatherhood.
Swallowing bile, I feel so tired of having my relationships make me look like a fool. Skip, those other dweebs, Father Tim, and now Malone. I just can’t take it. I won’t be made an ass of again. I just can’t. I finish stuffing the contents of my drawer into the trash bag, willing myself not to feel anything but anger. However, the image of Malone lying on my bed the night after Colonel died shoves its way into my head. How could he be so?
“Everything okay, Maggie?” he asks, a slight frown between his eyes.
“You know what? No. Everything is not okay, Malone. Here. Come in the living room, okay?” I shove my way past him into the mess I’ve made in the next room. “Sit down. Have a seat.” I take a deep breath and sit on the other side of the coffee table, not wanting to be too close to him. He hasn’t shaved today, and the memory of what it feels like to be kissed by Malone, that scraping sweetness, makes my knees wobble. Disgusted with myself, I force an image of him with Chantal. In bed with Chantal, kissing her with the same intensity that he kissed me. There. Wobbling over.
“What’s wrong?” Malone asks quietly.
“You know, it’s good that you came over, Malone. It’s…look. You’re here. So. The thing is, Malone, I?” My throat tightens inexplicably. “Malone, this isn’t working for me. This thing you and I have going on. Whatever it is.”
Though his expression doesn’t change, his head jerks back a fraction, and for a tiny second, I feel bad for him. He’s surprised. Didn’t see it coming. Well, I know the feeling, don’t I?
I keep talking, taking a grim pleasure in the fact at least that I’m not on the dumped end of this breakup stick. “You know. I mean, you’re very…attractive, I guess…I mean, I think so, anyway. But aside from that…physical stuff…well, to tell you the truth, Malone, I’m looking for a little more.”
He just stares at me, not frowning exactly, but almost?concerned. “Did something happen, Maggie?” he asks, and the kindness in his rough voice causes fresh fury to slap my heart like a rogue wave.
“I don’t know, Malone,” I snap. “Did it?”
His black brows come together. “What’s going on?” he says, and now there’s a note of irritation.
“You tell me.” I stand in front of him, hands on my hips, daring him to admit what he’s done.
“Are we fighting here?” he asks, scowling. “Because I don’t remember us having anything to fight about.”
Fine. He’s being a coward. Fine. “I’ll make it simple for you, Malone. You’re really just not my type.”
Score a direct hit?his mouth closes abruptly, his face is fierce and dark. “And just who is your type, Maggie? Father Tim, maybe?” he growls.
I c**k my head. “Well, funny you should say that. Aside from the priest thing, yes, actually. He’s a true friend to me. We talk, we have fun, we laugh together. We tell each other things. That’s more of what I’m looking for. A friend and a lover. That’s not so surprising, is it?”
“A friend? By that, do you mean someone to wait on hand and foot? Someone you can feed and clean up after?”
“It’s called caring, Malone. When you care about someone, you do things for him. Hence the soup and pie I made for you the night you went for a swim in the forty-degree Atlantic! But you don’t want that, do you?” My voice rises in anger. “So yes, I want someone who’s not closed off from every human feeling, Malone. That’s what! Someone who can speak in full sentences. Someone who can actually answer a personal question when asked, someone who?”
“I get the point,” Malone says, standing. “Fine. Take care.”
He slams the door behind him, and I burst into tears once more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“BLESS ME, Father, for I have sinned,” I say. “It’s been twenty-two years since my last confession.” Funny, how the words come racing right back. “Can we get to it, Father Tim? I really need to talk.” So much so that I quick-stepped in front of Mrs. Jensen. I had tried calling Father Tim at the rectory, but he didn’t return my call. He’s been terribly busy lately.
“Well, Maggie, this is the sacrament of reconciliation. We probably shouldn’t rush it. Though of course, I’m very glad to see you in church.”
I take a ragged breath. “I’m sorry, Father Tim,” I say roughly. “The thing is, I’m just so?I can’t seem to?” My throat is gripped by all the misery of the past week. Colonel. My parents. Malone. Chantal. My own future stretches ahead of me, alone, childless, ankles swollen, no one to change my diapers in my dotage…Tears drip down my cheeks and I sniff wetly.
“What is it, Maggie?” Father Tim asks, his voice full of alarm and concern.
“My life is a joke,” I manage. “I know what I want, but I just can’t seem to get it, and I don’t understand why everything is so hard and confusing.”
Why do I miss Malone? Why have I analyzed every second we’ve ever spent in each other’s company? Why does my mother’s fear break my heart the way it does? Why can’t people just meet and get married and be happy like Christy and Will? And worst of all, why does it feel like my last chance will die with Malone, even knowing what I know?
“I broke up with Malone,” I blurt. “You were right. He’s churlish.”
“Ah, Maggie, I’m sorry. Sorry to be right.” He leans forward so I can see his face through the filigreed screen of the confessional. “There are times when life tests us,” he says gently. “Times that seem so lonely and bleak. It’s how we handle these difficult situations that really proves who we are.”
I swallow and wipe my eyes. “I’ve been so jealous of Christy lately,” I admit in a whisper. “She has everything, Father Tim. Everything I want.”
“And you’re happy for her, as well, Maggie,” he says. “You want those same things, there’s no shame in admitting that.”
“But it doesn’t seem fair,” I protest. “I don’t want to end up alone, Father Tim. I get so scared sometimes that I’ll be this weird aunt who’ll be passed around like a virus. Like, ‘It’s your turn to feed Aunt Maggie’?‘No, it was my turn last week! You do it!’”
Father Tim doesn’t laugh, bless him. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. “None of us wants to look into the future and see ourselves alone, Maggie,” he nearly whispers. “No one wants that.”
