And if Malone was here? I ask myself. What then? What would I say? How’s Chantal? Are you happy that you’ll be a father again? That is, of course, if Chantal will actually go through with it….
I still can’t reconcile the idea of Malone and Chantal together. For some reason, I thought?
“Oh, for God’s sake, Maggie,” I mutter aloud to myself. I mount my bike once more but remain where I am, one foot firmly on the ground, and continue to stare at the harbor. The wind carries the scent of pine and salt on it, stinging my cheeks, howling in my ears, but I still don’t move. Malone’s face is stuck in my mind, the harsh lines, craggy cheekbones, those tangled black lashes. The way he smiled at me, begrudgingly almost, as if he didn’t really want to like me but just couldn’t help himself. “Right, Maggie,” I snort. “You’re so irresistible that Malone got Chantal pregnant. Live with it.”
“What say, theah, Maggie?”
My shriek causes the gull to startle off, echoing my sound. “Yikes! Billy! God, you scared me!”
Billy Bottoms takes the pipe from his mouth. “Sorry, dahlin’. Just comin’ down to check somethin’. Thought you were talkin’ to me.”
“No, no. No. Not you. Just, you know, blathering to myself. Sorry. Have a nice day.”
I need to do something, I think as I ride back home. I need to figure out a plan for the rest of my life. If my mother can make a big move, so can I. Last week, she was sitting at the kitchen table tying one on. This week, she’s got a plan. I can do the same thing. I need to forget Malone and move on. Focus on other things. Take action.
Being at Dewey’s has given me an idea. Not the most honorable idea, granted, but a pretty good idea nonetheless. An awful, horrible, wonderful idea.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“MY CAR IS RUNNING a little rough,” I lie to my sister on the phone a few days later. “Can I borrow yours?”
It’s Monday. The diner is closed, the wind is blowing, and it’s a great day to stay home and do nothing, but my idea has been lurking in the corner of my mind, and its patience wearing thin. Besides, I can’t just sit around and think about Malone and Chantal all day.
Christy runs water in the background. “Sure. I’m not going anywhere. Can you believe how cold it is? Cripes, it feels like December out there, not April.”
Maine has tricked us yet again, pretending to embrace spring while all the time getting ready to dump six inches of snow on us, mixing with the muddy ground in a sloppy, tired, icy goop. All four members of the town crew are out, wearily sanding the main roads, defiling the streets they cleaned just last week. I pull my hat down over my ears and wave to them as I slip and slide up Christy’s hill. Then, as planned, I choose a particularly damp-looking splotch of gray snow, trip and land face down in it.
“Oh, jeezum, look at you!” My sister holds the door open, Violet balanced on her hip. “Come in here, you gawmy girl!”
“I slipped,” I confess sheepishly.
“Well, go upstairs and change, dopey,” she chides. “Do you want to stay for lunch?”
“Um, no, no, but thanks. Other plans. I, um…” God, I am the worst liar. “I’m going to the mall. After my errands.”
“The mall?” Christy asks. “That’s two hours away, hon.”
“Right! I know. Maybe not the mall…. I need shoes. New shoes.”
“Are you okay?” Christy gives me that knowing look, and I flee upstairs to raid her closet, as is the plan. I pull out some nice tweed pants and a silk sweater. A little scarf goes into my pocket. I glance at her bureau.
“Christy? Can I borrow some jewelry? I want to look a little nicer. I might, uh…meet a friend? For lunch. If I have time.”
“Sure,” she calls back. “Whatever you want.”
By that, she probably doesn’t mean her anniversary band, a circle of small diamonds that Will gave her to mark their first year together. But, I rationalize, she did say “whatever,” so I take it, first using some of the hand cream she’s got on her night table.
“Oh, you look so nice!” Christy comments. By nice, she means “like me,” but I don’t take offense. She has beautiful clothes, and the point of this little adventure is in fact to look like Christy. Violet, who sits on the kitchen floor banging a whisk on a pot, crawls over to me and drools on my?Christy’s?boot.
“Thank you, baby,” I say. “I’ll be back around four, okay?” I grab the car keys from the counter.
“Take your time,” she says. She smiles from her seat on the floor. “Violet, want to try this one?” She holds up a wooden spoon and demonstrates its banging ability. “Hey, Maggie, don’t forget a coat. Yours is a mess.” She gestures to her beautiful faux shearling coat, which hangs on a hook near the door.
“You’re a great sister,” I say, flushed with guilt. “Thanks a million.”
“Have fun!” she calls.
Fun is not exactly what I have planned. I grab the diaper bag that my sister leaves in the garage, climb in the car, look in the rearview mirror and take out my ponytail. Then I brush my hair to a side part and tuck it behind my ears. The band goes on my left ring finger, the scarf around my neck, and voila?I’m Christy.
This very morning, I had called the rectory. “Mrs. Plutarski, hi, it’s Christy Jones. How are you?”
“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Plutarski said. “How’s that beautiful baby?”
“She’s wonderful,” I answered sweetly. “Listen, I was wondering if Father Tim had a few minutes to spare for me today.”
“Of course, honey,” she cooed, and my jaw clenched. Mrs. Plutarski is such a pill to me. You’d think I routinely crapped on the altar, the way she treats me. When I ask to see Father Tim, she always takes great pains to tell me how busy he is. For Christy, though, he’s wide open.
“How about one o’clock, Christy? I imagine you want to discuss your poor parents,” she suggested, gossipmonger that she is.
“That’s perfect.” Violet takes her nap from noon to three, and the real Christy will be snug at home.
My heart is pounding as I pull Christy’s Volvo into the rectory’s small parking lot. I turn off the car and sit a minute. After being delayed for God knows how long, common sense finally makes an appearance.
Here I am dressed as my sister, about to trick a priest. Nice, Maggie. Very noble. For some reason, I had the notion that if Father Tim thought I was Christy, he’d tell me what was bothering him lately, why he kept dropping those hints about how special “Maggie” was. I roll my eyes in the rearview mirror. No. I don’t think so. I’m not that much of a jerk. Whatever personal issues Father Tim is having, they’re not my business. Maybe it was cabin fever, maybe I was just trying to distract myself from thoughts of Malone, but clearly, this is the stupidest idea I’ve ever had. Maybe the stupidest idea anyone’s ever had.
Disgusted, I restart the car. I’ll drive down to Machias and catch a movie, get a big bag of popcorn and some Swedish fish?
I scream as a knock comes on the car window.
“Father Tim! Oh! Wow!”
“Hello, there, Christy!” he beams. “Come in, dear girl, come in.”
My stomach contracts with the agony of being caught. “Hi, Father Tim,” I mutter.
Well, it looks like I’m going to have to go through with it, because I just can’t think of anything else. Wobbling a bit in Christy’s boots, which have a higher heel than I’m used to, I grab the diaper bag from the back seat?my prop, further evidence that I am my sister.
“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Plutarski says from her position of power in the rectory office. “How nice to see you! Don’t you look smart.”
“Oh, Mrs. Plutarski, you are so sweet,” I simper. “I just love that color on you! Would you call that oatmeal or liver? It’s wonderful!” Don’t blow it, I warn myself savagely. You got yourself into this mess, now just get out as fast as you can. If they figure out you’re Maggie, you’re dead.
“Make yourself comfortable, Christy,” Father Tim says, holding the door of his office for me. My toes curl in discomfort.
“Thank you for seeing me, Father Tim,” I say, glancing around, trying not to make eye contact.
“You’re welcome, my dear, you’re welcome. How are Will and little Violet?”
“They’re just great. Just great. Wonderful.” Okay, stop babbling. It’s a dead giveaway. I sit down, cross my ankles and try to have good posture. My gaze flits around the office. There’s a note on his desk, and a prickle of warning goes through me at the sight of it. Though it’s upside down to me, I can read Father Tim’s writing…Ask Bishop?
“What can I do for you, Christy?” the priest asks. I look away from the note.
“Well, um, I guess you’ve heard about my, my, um, parents,” I stammer.
“I have, yes.” He smiles encouragingly. Ask Bishop T. about?
“And of course we’re all…saddened. Quite saddened.”
“It’s a tragedy, thirty some-odd years of marriage,” he murmurs. Ask Bishop T. about the Father Shea situation.
Holy moley! Jeezum! The Father Shea situation? The left-the-priesthood-for-a-pretty-woman-situation? Oh, my God! I gulp in a huge breath.
“Christy, ah, dear, don’t cry, now. There’s still hope, and if you turn to prayer, perhaps it will help your parents remember how sacred those vows were and still are.”
How are your vows, Father Tim? Everything rock solid there? I realize that a response is required. “Mmm. Right. We’re all taking it pretty hard. Uh, Maggie and me, I mean.” I take a sharp breath at referring to myself in third person, then swallow. “And you know. Jonah, too.”
“I’ve spoken with Maggie a bit. But how can I help you, Christy?”
“Oh, I suppose I was wondering…” Yes, Maggie/ Christy. What exactly can you wonder about? My mind drains of all intelligent thought. “How I can…um, support my parents? Other than pray?” I sound like an idiot because all I can think is Father Shea, Father Shea, oh, shit, Father Shea.
Father Tim glances out the window. “Well, as their daughter, Christy, you could remind them of all the good things their marriage has given them. You three children, of course, and their darlin’ grandbaby. A life together, rich with family and happy memories, trials and tribulations, as well, of course…” His voice trails off, his eyes still focused outside. I get the strong impression he’s phoning it in today. Lucky for me.
“You’re right. Excellent advice.” I swallow, then decide to risk it. “So, Father Tim, how are you? I mean, do you like it here? Being our parish priest and all? It’s been, let’s see now…a year?”
“Yes, yes, about that,” Father Tim says, dragging his gaze back to me and forcing a smile.
“Well, the community is so lucky to have you, Father Tim. You’re a great priest. Very, um, holy. Devout, I mean.” There. Said it, even if I sound like a jerk. “Will and the baby and I, we love church. I hope you won’t leave.”
His attention is suddenly laser-sharp. “Why? Have you heard something?” he blurts, leaning forward.
“Um…no. No, not really…No. Nothing.”
Father Tim stares at me a minute, then sits back in his chair, relaxing. “Well,” he says. “Change is inevitable, and we’re none of us in control of our futures. That’s in God’s hands, as is everything.”
Again with the clichés. “Well. Yes.” I tuck some hair behind my ear. God, I feel guilty! Lying, tricking, deceiving a man of the cloth. I am surely damned. Sweat trickles down my neck.