“What are you doing here?”
I lurch to a stop. “Well, um, I heard about your day…um, Jonah came by and told me you went in the drink.” Suddenly the idea of giving him a hug or kiss or even patting him on the shoulder seems out of the question. “I thought I’d bring you some?”
“I did not ask for this,” he grates out. There are streaks of salt deposits on his sweater, and his hands are shaking with fatigue.
My mouth falls open. “Well, I know. I just thought you might want a hot?”
“Jesus, Maggie! This is the last thing I wanted! You here playing house, for Christ’s sake!” he barks. Colonel comes from the living room at the sound of his voice, wagging gently, but Malone ignores him. The dog takes the hint, flopping down in front of the oven.
“Look, Malone,” I begin, more than a bit confused. “I just brought over some soup and…”
He peers into the living room. “Oh, for God’s sake, did you clean up, too? Damn it, Maggie!” Slamming over to the counter, he bangs his hands down. Colonel startles at the noise.
Okay, now he’s pissing me off. Taking a deep breath, I say calmly, “Excuse me, but what the hell is your problem? I did something nice for you. No big deal. For God’s sake, Malone, you were submerged in the Atlantic Ocean today! I thought you could use a little?” I stop myself from saying “TLC”?“food. That’s all.”
“I’m not one of your little church projects, all right?” he barks. “This is?oh, for Chrissake, you did the goddamn dishes.”
“Okay, Malone. I guess I should have just left you alone to snarl and brood and do whatever else the hell you do. Take the pie out when the timer goes off. Enjoy it, you surly bastard. Come on, Colonel.”
“You don’t get it, do you, Maggie?” Malone growls, and his glare could cut glass. “I don’t want your pie and your soup and whatever the hell else you’ve got in your little picnic basket. Okay? Save it for your priest and your little old ladies and whoever else you’ve got on your list. Not me.”
My temper snaps. “I can’t believe you’re mad at me! How can you be mad? I’m just trying to help!”
“That’s the whole point, Maggie! I don’t want your help. I don’t want you doing anything for me!”
“Fine. I’ll send you a bill. And I don’t have a picnic basket.” With that, I snap my fingers at my dog, who lumbers to his feet and follows me. I stomp off the porch and down the street. When I’m safely at the intersection, I sit down on the curb, the cold seeping through my jeans immediately. My breath fogs the air in front of me, but we don’t have any street lights, so I know Malone can’t see me. My legs are shaking.
Colonel nuzzles my hair, and I automatically put my arm around him. My throat is tight with tears and anger, but I don’t cry. “Screw him,” I say. “Ungrateful bastard.”
So, fine. Malone doesn’t want anything from me. Fine. Just fine. He’s made things clear, at least. No, I’m not his girlfriend. Just a roll in the hay now and then. Well, too bad. I want more than that.
“When people care about each other, they show it,” I tell my dog. He licks his chops thoughtfully. “There’s nothing wrong with that. That’s the way things are supposed to be.” The image of Malone rubbing lotion into my long-suffering hands flashes through my brain. Well. That was just a seduction move, and it worked brilliantly. “I don’t think Malone is a very nice person, do you? You don’t, either? Well, you’ve always been smart about these things.” Colonel lies down next to me, but the pavement is too cold for his old bones. I stand up, and my dog does the same. “At least we got that out of the way,” I say. My dog wags reassuringly. Still, my throat stays tight, like there’s a piece of glass wedged there.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FOR SOME REASON, Joe’s Diner is hopping the next day. It always seems to be the case?something in the tides or the moon causing a mass hysteria for breakfast out. People are actually waiting for tables, which usually only happens on Thanksgiving weekend or during both good weekends of summer. Octavio whips orders out, and both Judy and I are working at top speed, smiling (well, I am, at least), sliding orders to the hungry of Gideon’s Cove, passing out ballots and pens for the best breakfast rating, trying to ring people up before a line forms at the register. Jonah comes in, but I don’t have time to do more than shove a plate of French toast in front of him?as he eats for free, he gets what I give him.
“Thanks, sissy,” he calls as I fly into the kitchen.
My parents, also succumbing to breakfast fever, make a rare appearance. Mom frowns as she surveys noisy crowd. “Well, I guess we’ll have to wait,” she says. When she comes in and things are slow, she tells me I’ll never make a living. If I’m busy, she’s put out. And today, I’m just not in the mood.
“Business looks good today, Maggie,” my dad says.
“It sure is, Dad. Hi, Rolly. How was everything?” I ask.
“Cracklin’,” he says. I take this as a compliment.
“You filled out your ballot, right?” I ask.
“Every day, Maggie, every day.”
Finally, a booth is free for Mom and Dad, since the counter is jammed. “What would you like, Mom?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t know. I should have eaten a bowl of bran flakes, really.”
“How about pancakes, Maggie, hon?” Dad asks.
“Pancakes it is.” Having been a waitress for half my life, I don’t need to write down orders. “And you, Mom?”
My mother sighs. “Well, I just don’t know. I guess I’ll start with orange juice, only don’t fill the glass. It’s too much. Your glasses are too big. Fill it about three quarters full. Can you do that? Because otherwise, I won’t be able to drink it all.”
“Squeeze one, three quarters. Got it.”
Georgie comes in and attaches himself to my side, his head only reaching my collarbone. “Hi, Maggie! How are you, Maggie?”
I put my arm around him and kiss his crew cut. Mom assumes her lemon-sucking expression. “Hey, buddy,” I say to Georgie. “Someone spilled juice under the last stool. Can you take care of it?”
“Sure, Maggie!” He gives me a squeeze and goes to the back room to get the mop. I glance back to the counter, where people are in various stages of eating and ordering, then do a double take.
Malone’s here.
He’s sitting next to Jonah, talking to him, and his presence causes my face to go hot. He looks my way, his face as blank as a blackboard in July. No sheepish grin. No apologetic shrug, just the penetrating blue stare and the slashing lines of his perpetual scowl. I turn back to my parents.“Mom?”
“I don’t know, Maggie! There’s too much to choose from.”
“Fine. You get nothing.” I snatch the menu from her hand and fly back into the kitchen, ignoring Malone, ignoring my mother’s squawks of indignation. I grab an order of the spinach omelet special, some pumpkin bread French toast and a plate of silver dollar pancakes. “Another stack for my dad, Tavy,” I tell Octavio.
“Ayuh,” he answers.
I serve the family at the fourth booth, then grab the coffeepot and head for the counter, overhearing Jonah saying, “Oh, shit, it was nothing. You’d do the same for me.”
So. Malone came here to see Jonah. To thank him. Not to see me, or, God forbid, thank me.
“Good morning, Malone,” I say briskly. “Coffee? Let me guess. Black, murky and bitter. Maybe you’d just like to suck on the grounds?”
Malone turns his clear blue eyes to me. “Maggie,” he mutters.
“Hope you slept well,” I snap. Jonah’s eyes widen, but he wisely refrains from comment. Malone’s eyes don’t flicker from mine. I slosh some coffee into his cup, spilling some, and smack the pot down on the counter. Without looking away, Malone deliberately takes the creamer and dumps about half of it into his cup, then shakes four sugar packets, tears them open and pours them in as well.
“All done, Maggie!” Georgie calls cheerfully.
“Thanks, Georgie. Don’t know what I’d do without you,” I call back, not looking away from Heathcliff of the moors here.
“What a lovely day it is outside. Hello, Mabel, love, how are you this fine morning?” Father Tim is here, but still I don’t look away from Malone’s somber face.
“Have you got something to say to me, Malone?” I say.
“Oh, I’ve got a lot to say to you, Maggie,” he answers grimly. Jonah slips away to join our parents.
“I’m waiting,” I say.
“Excuse me, can we get some ketchup over here?” calls Helen Robideaux from the corner.
“Hello, Maggie dear. How nice you look today.” Father Tim comes behind the counter?he’s a regular, after all?and grabs a mug. Finally, I break the staring contest between Malone and me and turn to greet my friend. My happy, cheerful, dependable friend.
“Father Tim! How nice to see you! And what a great mood you’re in today. You really brighten a place up, you know that?” I believe I hear Malone growl.
“Ah, Maggie, you’re too kind. I’ll just grab some coffee, shall I, and let you get back to work.” He opens the kitchen door a crack and sticks his head in. “Good morning, Octavio, my fine man. Can I throw myself at your mercy and get an order of the pumpkin French toast?”
I have work to do. Malone can go to hell and play with his compatriots there. Stepping around Colonel, I ring up a young couple who’s been waiting patiently, ask about their kindergartner and bring the ketchup to Mrs. Robideaux. Malone sits at the counter, staring straight ahead.
The bell over the door tinkles, and I sigh. Another customer, a man about my age with silvery hair. He looks around uncertainly.
“Be with you in a sec,” I call. Judy has disappeared. Must be time for her ciggie break.
“Maggie, for heaven’s sake, can I please have a fried egg?” my mother asks.
“Fine.” I’ve heard about how, in some fancy New York restaurants, the wait staff spits on the orders of bitchy customers. I’m tempted to give it a whirl. “Hi, Stuart. You want the usual?”
“That’d be great, Maggie,” he says, sitting next to Malone.
“Adam and Eve on a raft, burn the British,” I call to Octavio, slang for two poached eggs on a toasted English muffin.
“Side of hash, too?” Stuart asks.
“Sweep the kitchen!” I call, hearing Octavio grumble; he’s quite proud of his hash and doesn’t like that particular moniker. Stuart, however, laughs.
“Sweep the kitchen,” he repeats to Malone, chuckling. Malone doesn’t chuckle back.
“Hi,” I say to the gray-haired stranger. “Sorry, we’re a little swamped today. Just one?”
“Are you Maggie?” he asks.
“That’s right.”
“I’m Doug,” he says, holding out his hand. “The guy who stood you up,” he adds at my look of incomprehension.
“Oh! Hi!” I shake his hand and look over my shoulder. “Here, why don’t you sit with Father Tim? He kind of fixed us up, right, Tim? This is Doug…oh, sorry, I forgot your last name.”
“Andrews,” he says. He’s a nice-looking man, kind brown eyes with shadows under them.
“Listen, I’d love to sit and chat, but I’ve got to take care of those people. Be right back.”
Malone is gone. There’s a five-dollar bill tucked under his cup. I note that he hasn’t drunk any of the overly sweetened coffee. Should’ve stuck with the grounds.
I clear and wipe and take orders and serve and pour coffee. I don’t have a chance to talk to Doug, who is deep in conversation with Father Tim. Occasionally, I catch a snatch of their conversation…“not for us to understand the reason”…“comfort of knowing she was deeply loved”…and my heart warms at Father Tim’s kind, gentle words. Finally, Doug comes to the register to pay his bill.