“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 chubbycheeked 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.
“Why did you kiss me the other night?” There. Said it. And if my cheeks are now flaming, so what? At least he has to answer.
“The usual reasons,” he says, but the lines around his eyes are deeper. He takes a sip of beer, still looking at me.
“The usual reasons. Well, that’s funny. Because most times you can tell if someone, you know, likes you. Or is attracted to you. And I never really picked up on that before. With you, I mean.”
He doesn’t answer. A clock on the wall announces the inevitable passage of time…tick…tick…tick. Finally, I’m about ready to jump out of my skin. “Can I look around?” I ask.
“Sure.”
The living room holds a battered old upright piano with what looks like a pretty hard song. Sonata in A major, it says. Beethoven. Huh. “Who plays the piano?”
“I do,” he grunts.
“Really? You can play this?” I ask, impressed.
He comes in and glides a finger over the keys, too softly to make a sound. “Not that well,” he answers.
He’s standing pretty close to me. Very close. He smells warm, a little like wood smoke. I can see that he must have shaved at some point in the last day or so, because his face doesn’t look as scratchy as the night he kissed me. My eyes fall to his mouth, his full lower lip. So soft. I look away abruptly and take a step back. There’s not much else to see. A TV in the corner, a woodstove in the fireplace. A couch. Coffee table. I could tap dance, I have so much nervous energy flowing through me.
“You hungry?” Malone asks.
“No. I had a late lunch. Are you? Am I interrupting dinner? I should probably go.” My heart is thudding away, my eyes feel hot and tight.
“Don’t go.”
Malone takes my hand. His is warm and smooth and thickly callused. He rubs his thumb gently across the back of my hand and doesn’t say anything more. It seems the nerves in my hand are directly linked to my groin, because things are definitely tingling down there. I swallow and look around. My dog is sleeping in front of the couch.
Then Malone frowns a little and lifts my hand for a closer look. He makes a little tsking sound, and my jaw tightens.
“Yes, well, my hands are in the water all day long, and then with being near the grill and all?”
“Come here,” he says, pulling me back into the kitchen. He lets go of my chapped, disgusting claw, opens a cupboard and rummages around. I lean against the counter, miffed. So what? So I have chapped hands. Big deal. A little eczema and everyone gets distraught. Malone takes out a small tin and opens it. Then he scoops out a little bit and rubs it between his palms. I guess my nasty skin has reminded him of the importance of moisturizing.
“I’ve tried everything,” I say, looking over his shoulder. “Beeswax, lanolin, Vaseline, Burt’s Bees, Bag Balm…nothing works. I have ugly hands. My cross to bear. Big deal.”
“You don’t have ugly hands,” he chides. It may be the longest sentence I’ve heard him say yet. He takes my hand in his and starts working in the cream. It’s waxy and cool at first, then, after a few seconds, gets pleasantly warm.
He’s not gentle. Malone rubs my hands hard, pressing deep into the soft parts around my thumb, my palm, the heel. He works every finger, giving attention to each rough cuticle, each reddened knuckle. His eyes are intent on my hands as he works, and his face loses some of its harshness. Those sooty lashes go a long way toward softening his expression.
“That feels really nice,” I say, and my voice is husky. His mouth pulls up at one corner as he glances at me. He gently returns my hand to my side and starts on the other one, and I close my eyes against the lovely pressure. My hand feels boneless and small in his, smooth and warm and cherished. When he’s done with the left, he takes both my hands in his, sliding his fingers between mine with a slowness that makes it feel like the most intimate gesture in the world. He gently folds my arms behind my back, making me arch out toward him a little. He waits until I open my eyes.
“So,” I say, and he kisses me then, not letting go of my hands. He kisses gently at first, but with such intensity, like it’s the most important thing in the world that he kiss me just exactly right. And he does. God! His lips are firm and smooth and warm, and he takes his time, kissing and kissing me until I pull my hands free and grip his thick, wavy hair. Then without his lips leaving mine, he lifts me onto the counter and moves closer. His tongue brushes mine, and electricity jolts through me, weakening my limbs. His arms are around me so tightly I can hardly breathe. It’s like being pulled against a granite wall, safe and solid.
When he pulls back a little, I’m literally panting and it’s hard to focus. His eyes are heavy-lidded, too, his mouth parted.
“Stay,” he rasps.
“Okay,” I breathe.
Then he kisses me again, lifts me off the counter and carries me into his bedroom.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I WAKE UP ALONE, roughly twelve hours after I arrived. It’s just starting to get light outside.
“Malone?” I call out softly. There’s no answer, but Colonel’s head pops up at the side of the bed. “Hey, Colonel,” I say, patting him. I get out of bed, pull on my shirt and pants and pad into the kitchen. There’s a note on the table, anchored by the little tin of hand cream.
Maggie?Coffee’s there if you want it. Take this.
And that’s it.
I sigh and flop in the chair. I gather the “this” in his note is the hand cream, and I take a minute to study my hands. They do feel better than usual, and the redness is a little less, but I still feel mildly disappointed. After changing-your-perspective-on-the-world, mind-altering, life-transforming, earth-moving, sky-shattering sex, it would have been nice to see the other party responsible.
I realize I’m smiling. Possibly purring. Then, acknowledging that I have to get home for a shower and change of clothes before I go to the diner, I get up to find my socks.
All that morning, I’m in a great mood. Every now and then, a bit of last night will flash through my head, and I feel quite steamy. A little smile stays on my lips as I flip home fries and pancakes, crack eggs and pour coffee. Malone, I assume, is out checking his traps. Soon he’ll come back. Maybe, for the first time, he’ll come into the diner. Maybe he’ll finally cash in on that piece of pie. Maybe he’ll stare at me as I try to act normal. He might even smile as he drinks his coffee.
I didn’t see him smile last night, not really. It was dark. But boy, it was?
“Maggie, love, could I get a spot of coffee?”
“Hey, Father Tim,” I call. Now the blush on my cheeks is from guilt.
“Don’t you look rosy this morning! I rang you last night but got your machine.” Tim holds up his cup for me to pour, the move of a regular.
“Oh, well, you know, I think I just felt like going to bed early,” I stammer. It’s not a lie. “You know, sometimes you just get…and you just…have to go to…bed.” Or get carried to bed, as the case may be, by the incredibly sexy guy who lifts you like you’re a bit of milkweed seed and kisses you like it’s his last act on earth…which, I’m happy to say, it wasn’t.
Father Tim notices my daze. “Are you all together, Maggie? You seem distracted.”
I glance around the diner. The morning rush is past, Judy is checking lottery numbers and Georgie is whistling in back. I decide that I owe my pal here a little time and sit down. “Sorry, Father Tim. How are you?”
He leans back in his seat. “Well, now, I’m just fine, Maggie,” Father Tim says, and proceeds to tell me about the choir’s latest endeavor. “It would’ve required divine intervention for them to pull off that Beethoven piece, and it seems that our Lord was busy with other things,” he chuckles.
Beethoven. Malone plays Beethoven. My cheeks warm, but I force my thoughts back to Father Tim.
Maybe it’s because I’m not a proper parishioner, maybe it’s because we’re roughly the same age, but I know Father Tim and I have a different relationship. A true friendship. He’s told me all about his family, his childhood, and I’ve reciprocated. I like to think he’s not just a priest with me, but a regular guy, if priests are allowed to be regular guys. Of course, that’s the kind of thinking that leads me into trouble, but even a priest must need to relax around someone once in a while.
Half an hour later, he leaves the diner. And while I’m always happy for his friendship, it’s something of a revelation that I suddenly have someone else to think of. Even if it’s Malone who barely speaks…at least it’s something. In the space of a night, Father Tim isn’t the only man in town. About time you left My boy alone, I imagine God saying. “Sorry,” I whisper.
I glance at my watch. Jonah usually takes only a couple of hours to check his traps, but I know that Malone is more serious than my brother. He has a lot more traps, too, and further offshore, as well. Still, I hope Malone will make it in today. If he doesn’t, maybe he’ll call.
By three o’clock, I’m irritated with myself. By five, disgusted. By eight-thirty, I’m mad at Malone, and by ten, I hate him.
He didn’t drop by the diner. Or my apartment. And he hasn’t called me. I throw myself onto my couch with punishing force.
It seems I’ve made the mistake of far too many women…assuming that last night meant something. Something more than a physical sensation, that is. Colonel comes over and nudges my feet until I move them, then climbs carefully onto the couch. “Naughty boy,” I tell him automatically, sitting up a little to give him more room.
What do I really know about Malone? I search my memory, sifting through the reams of gossip that I’ve heard in ten years of diner work.