Oh, shit. A gear war against Malone. When a lobster trap’s lines are cut, the trap sits on the ocean floor and rots. Up here it’s a shooting crime up here to tinker with someone’s pots. But the men of Gideon’s Cove feel very proprietary toward Chantal, who has given many of them a happy night or two, and if they think Malone is shirking his duties, they’re bound to take action. Malone remains silent.
“I already told you, Malone’s not the father!” Chantal barks. “I never slept with him, and it wasn’t for lack of trying. My trying. Okay?”
“Don’t worry about it, Chantal,” Malone says. “See you.”
Without any thought backing my movement, I’m up and across the bar in a heartbeat. “Hi, Malone,” I say.
“Maggie.” He gives me a quick once-over, then stares off over my shoulder. “Have a good night,” he says.
“Malone, hang on.” I put my hand on his arm to stop him, swallowing. Perhaps I should have thought before I acted, but apparently it’s not my way. “People are saying you’re the father of Chantal’s baby,” I announce pointlessly.
“Yeah, I picked up on that. Wonder where they got that idea.”
It’s hard to look him in the face, but I do. The scowl lines are in full force. “I didn’t tell anyone what I thought, Malone. Well, except Christy. But she wouldn’t say a word.”
He just stares at me.
“That’s probably why your lines got cut,” I say stupidly.
“You think?” The contempt in his eyes stings.
“So what are you going to do, Malone?”
He shrugs. “Nothing. If Chantal doesn’t want people to know who the father is, that’s her business.”
“Do you know?” I ask.
He looks at me and doesn’t answer, choosing instead to pull on his coat. Chantal is still in a heated argument with Dewey. “Take care,” he says, heading for the door.
“Malone?” I call, taking a step in his direction. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even turn his head, just pushes open the door and heads out.
“Oh, great!” Chantal huffs. “He left! That’s just great, Dewey. Come on, Maggie, let’s get out of here. I’m very mad at you, Paul.”
“Chantal, honey, I was just?” Dewey attempts, but Chantal is riding a wave of moral outrage, and out we go.
“Poor Malone,” she murmurs as she takes out her keys. “Well, I’m kind of tired anyway, Maggie. See you Thursday?”
Her day for lunch at the diner. “Sure.”
I go back to my lonely, too-empty apartment. It’s looked strange since I purged my little collections; Dad’s birdhouses and pictures of Violet are the only decorations I have left. Colonel dying has left a huge void, too. I click around the TV, too distracted to think about any one thing in particular.
At 2:00 a.m., I jolt awake. I did tell someone. By accident, of course?Billy Bottoms. That day at the dock, I was talking to myself. I didn’t realize he heard me.
Shit.
Sleep is ruined for the night. I assure myself that Billy didn’t hear me that day. And this is a tiny town. Malone and Chantal have spoken at Dewey’s any number of times, so there’s no reason to think that this rumor is my fault. Chantal is generous with her affection, she flirts with Malone (as much as it’s possible to flirt with Malone, anyway), so there you go. Billy didn’t hear me. I’m sure.
I still can’t get back to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A FEW DAYS LATER, I walk to St. Mary’s in a gentle, steady, cozy rain. I miss Colonel so much it aches…the past few days have been so quiet, both at the diner and in my personal life, that I’m a little stir-crazy. The diner is closed for the day, the baking done. It’s not my night for Meals on Wheels, and I’ve spent so much time at Christy’s lately that she told me outright to give her a little space. Clearly, it’s time for me to find another dog.
So. The high school had a dance in the church basement this past weekend, and I decide to go over and clean the kitchen, which always suffers during this type of event.
As I cross the street, I see Bishop Tranturo walking out of the rectory. Father Tim stands in the doorway, his arms crossed on his chest. He sees me and lifts his hand in a wave, then goes back in, closing the door behind him.
Bishop Tranturo has been around forever. He’s not often seen in these parts, as we are a tiny parish, but I remember his round, jolly face from years past. When making his annual visit to confirm Gideon’s Cove’s Catholic teenagers, he usually stops by the diner for breakfast. In fact, he presided over my own confirmation.
I wonder what he’s doing here. I wonder?
“Hi, Bishop,” I call out, splashing across the street as he’s about to get into his car.
“Hello, dear,” he says. “I’m sorry, you are…?”
“Maggie. Maggie Beaumont.”
“Oh, yes,” he says, recognition lighting his cherubic face. “You’re Maggie, from the diner. Of course. Nice to see you.” He smiles and waits.
“So how are things?” I ask. “How’s everything?”
“Just fine, dear. And you?”
“I’m fine. I’m…so. We love Father Tim around here. He’s great. A great priest.” My stomach cramps with anxiety.
Bishop Tranturo nods and looks over my shoulder.
“Is he leaving? Is that why you’re here?” I blurt, glancing back at the rectory. “Is Father Tim…?”
The bishop sighs, his breath fogging in the cool air. “I think I’ll let him tell you that himself, dear,” he says. “Take care. God bless you, my child.”
“Okay, yes. Thanks. And you, too,” I say manically. “Drive safely. Bye.”
I step back and let him get into his car. The rain is falling harder now, but I barely notice.
Father Tim is leaving the priesthood.
My heart pounds sickly in my chest and my legs feel weak and shaky. Lost in thought, I drift into the church and slide into the last pew.
It’s empty in here, the smell of lemon oil and candles soothing and welcoming. The door clicks shut behind me, and I am alone in this haven of stillness. The rain patters against the small stained-glass windows, and below me, the furnace kicks on. The candles in the front flicker in the drafts. Only one light is on, shining gently on the cross that hangs over the altar.
I haven’t been in St. Mary’s for a while, too flustered by Father Tim to come here. And it’s a shame, really, because it’s lovely, truly a place to think, to open myself up and listen for a whisper of wisdom. I haven’t done that in a long time. My embarrassment over Father Tim has distracted me from any true spirituality I might have had in the past year.
Father Tim. My mind is oddly blank as I sit there. Fragments of conversations slip through, but I’m unable to hold on to one. Father Tim has been lonely. He cares about me. I’m special to him. He’s counting on that…and he asked me about Father Shea.
The question is, what if it’s true? What if he’s leaving the priesthood and wants to find someone? What if he thinks he wants to be with me? What then? It’s not like I have other contenders…the pet psychic, the groin injury guy, the old men…and unforgiving, closed-off, angry Malone.
I rush outside and over to the rectory, bursting in on Mrs. Plutarski.
“Where is he?” I demand. “I know he’s here.”
“He’s very busy,” Mrs. P. answers. “What’s got into you?”
“Father Tim?” I call, sticking my head into his office. He’s not there. “Father Tim?” I shove my wet hair back from my face.
He comes into the common room, holding a cup of tea. “Ah, Maggie,” he says warmly. “Just the person I wanted to see.”
“Father Tim,” I say, grabbing his arm. “I need to speak with you. It’s an emergency.”
Mrs. P. sighs dramatically. “Another death in the family, Maggie? Your goldfish this time?”
“Bite me,” I tell her. Father Tim’s eyes widen as I tow him through the common room, into the kitchen. I don’t want Mrs. Plutarski to overhear us, and I know she’ll try.
“Here now, Maggie, maybe you should slow down. In fact, I was hoping to see you?”
“Sit down,” I tell him. He obeys, and I take a seat opposite him at the small table. “I just spoke to Bishop Tranturo. About, you know…you.” My hands are shaking, the palms sweaty.
Father Tim’s face grows somber. “Did you, now? I was hoping to tell you myself.” He gives me a sad smile. “Maggie, you know I care?”
“Wait!” I bark. “Please wait. Don’t say anything.” I take a deep breath, then another, as Father Tim looks at me, concerned and expectant. “Okay…um, Father Tim,” I say more gently. “Listen. You are a wonderful priest and the thing is, I understand that it’s not always easy for you, but…” I swallow. He waits patiently. “Listen, Father Tim, you’re a very nice, kind man. And of course I…you know. Care for you. But I think you’re making a mistake. You know, about leaving. You can’t just give this all up!”
Father Tim sighs and leans back in his chair. “I know, Maggie. It’s been wonderful. I’ve loved being pastor here, as you know. But change is going to come, whether we like it or not.”
I take another breath, my legs feeling weak and sick. “Does anyone else know about?about your, um, decision?”
“No, Maggie. I was planning to say something at Mass.” At Mass! My mouth falls open, but he continues. “Of course, the bishop knows, but that goes without saying.”
“Okay, okay, wait. I need to say this.” My hands are curled into fists. “We’re friends, you and I, aren’t we?”
“Of course, Maggie.”
“And I think you have a lot of nice qualities.” He blinks, ever patient. “Right. So. You know I had a killer crush on you.” He smiles?is that a happy smile? Forgiving? Expectant??and I force myself to go on. “But, Father Tim, I don’t anymore. I just think you should know that. In case I was figuring into your decision in any way. Any way whatsoever.”
The smile falters, flickers, then dies completely. “I’m not clear on what you’re getting at, Maggie,” he says slowly. “Why would you figure into it?”
“Because of the thing with Father Sh?um, what’s that?”
He frowns, clearly puzzled. “Ah…well, why don’t you say what’s on your mind, Maggie?”
I bite my lip, wince, and go for it. “Um…I don’t want you to leave the priesthood because of me.”
Under other circumstances, Father Tim’s reaction would be funny. He lurches back in his seat, then staggers to his feet, grabbing the chair and putting it between us. “Dear Lord, Maggie! I’m not leaving the priesthood!”
“Oh, thank God!” A hysterical laugh escapes my lips. “Oh, thank God! Great! This is great news!”
“How?why?where on earth did you get an idea like that?”
“I…um…ah…” Breathe, Maggie, breathe. He’s not leaving the priesthood. “Well, Bishop Tranturo…he said you were leaving.”
“I’m being transferred to another parish.”
“Right. Oh, that is fantastic news.” I heave a sigh of relief, my head spinning. Father Tim cocks his head. “Okay. That makes a lot more sense.” I pause. “I guess I just thought that…well, you said a few things that I thought…I was afraid you had feelings for me, Father Tim.”
His eyes narrow, and he keeps a good grip on the chair, and he keeps that chair solidly between us. “Maggie,” he says, very, very carefully, “I think you’re a lovely person, but no. No feelings of a romantic sort. At all. Ever. I’d hope we’d stay friends after I leave, but of course, nothing else.”