“Do you think you’ll ever meet someone?” she asked in her forthright way when she came in for pie.
“I may have already,” I said with a mysterious smile. She blinked expectantly, and I was happy to gush.
And on it went.
On Saturday night, I went to Dewey’s Pub, the only other restaurant in town, if you can call it that. Paul Dewey and I are pals, and occasionally I’ll bring some food over, which he offers as daily specials and we split the profit. Otherwise, it’s a bag of chips if you’re looking for sustenance. But Dewey’s does a booming business as the only alcohol-serving institution in town, unless you count the firehouse.
I was meeting my friend…well, a person I hang out with sometimes. Chantal is close to forty and also single. Unlike me, she’s quite happy to stay single, relishing her role as Gideon’s Cove’s sex symbol, a redheaded siren of lush curves and pouting lips. She enjoys the fact that every man under the age of ninety-seven finds her damn near irresistible, as opposed to me, who’s everyone’s surrogate daughter. Even though Chantal never lacks for male companionship, we occasionally get together to lament the dearth of really good men in town.
Having met someone so incredibly appropriate as Tim O’Halloran, I was bursting to tell her, and, I admit, to stake my claim. It certainly wouldn’t do to have Chantal making a go for my future husband. “Chantal, I met someone,” I announced firmly as we sipped our beers in the corner booth. “His name is Tim O’Halloran, and he is so…Oh, my God, he’s so yummy! We really hit it off.”
As I spoke, my eyes scanned the bar. Tim had said he’d be back on Saturday, and here it was Saturday night, eight o’clock. The bar was moderately full. Jonah, my brother, stood at the bar with a couple of his pals—Stevie, Pete and Sam, all around Jonah’s age (which is to say, far too young for me). There was Mickey Tatum, the fire chief, famous for terrifying the school children with stories of self-immolation (he shows pictures), and Peter Duchamps, the butcher, a married alcoholic thought to be having an affair with the new part-time librarian.
Also present was Malone, his face as cheerful as an open grave, who glared at me when he walked in as if daring me to mention the ride he’d given me. I dared not. Instead, I lifted my hand weakly, but his back was already turned. No wonder we all called him Maloner the Loner.
That was it. Gideon’s Cove’s offerings to a single girl. Obviously, I was beyond thrilled at meeting Tim.
Jonah, who never missed a chance to flirt with Chantal, drifted over. “Hey, girls,” he said to Chantal’s breasts, earning a smile from their owner. “What’s cooking?”
“Your sister was just telling me about this hot guy she’s met,” Chantal said, dipping a finger into her beer and sucking on it. My brother, then aged twenty-five, was hypnotized. I sighed with irritation.
“What guy?” he managed to mumble.
So I told Jonah, too, my irritation vanishing with the chance to discuss the new man in my life.
We sat there till closing, but Tim never showed. Still, I was optimistic. He had said he’d see me in church, and see me he would.
The next morning, I spent an hour and a half getting ready. Because I’d told my parents, sister and brother about This Guy I’d Met, they were all coming to church, an activity our family usually saved for Christmas Eve (if we weren’t too tired) and the occasional Easter weekend. In we went, Mom, Dad, Jonah, Will, Christy, then pregnant, and myself. Looking around, I noticed that the church was pretty full, more so than usual. Was it a holy day? I wasn’t sure, never having cemented those in my mind. Oh, yes, I remembered hearing something at the diner…apparently, Father Morris retired and some new guy was filling in. Whatever.
I tried to scan casually for Tim, looking over my shoulder, pretending to fix the strap of my pocketbook, getting a tissue, adjusting my mom’s collar. Any chance to glance back. Then the windy old organ started, and I fumbled for the hymnbook. So busy was I studying the pews that I ignored the priest as he walked past. “Do you see him?” I whispered to Christy.
“Yes,” she whispered, her face a frozen mask of horror.
At that moment, the music ended, the church fell silent, and I reluctantly turned to face the priest.
“Before we start our celebration today,” said a voice already imprinted on my brain, “I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Father Tim O’Halloran, and I’m very pleased to have been assigned to your lovely parish.”
Roughly seventy-five faces swung around to look at me. I stared straight ahead, my heart pumping so hard I could hear the blood rushing through my veins. My face burned hot enough to fry an egg. I didn’t look at anyone, just stared at Father Tim O’Halloran’s chest area, and pretended to be fascinated and unsurprised. Tricky combination.
“I’m from Ireland, as you might be able to tell, the youngest of seven children. I’m looking forward to getting to know you all, and I hope I’ll see you all at coffee hour after Mass. And now we begin today’s celebration as we begin all things, in the name of the Father, and of the Son—”
“For God’s sake,” I muttered.
I didn’t hear a word during the next hour. I do know that Christy slipped her hand into mine, and that my father was shushed repeatedly by my mother. Jonah, furthest from me, was laughing that awful, unstoppable church laugh full of wheezes and the occasional squeak, and if he’d been closer to me, maybe I would have laughed, too. Or perhaps disemboweled him with my car keys. As it was, I pretended to listen, mouthed nonsensical words to songs I couldn’t read and stood when everyone else stood. I stayed in the pew during communion.
And when at last Mass was over, we filed out with the others. Christy, my sister, my best friend, the person I loved more than anyone on earth, whispered in my ear. “I’m going to pretend we’re talking about something really interesting, okay? And this way no one is going to talk to you. So smile and pretend we’re having a conversation, and we’ll get the hell out of here. Sound like a plan?”
“Christy, I’m so…” My voice broke.
“No, no, it’s fine, just keep going. Too bad they’re rebricking the side entrance. Shitty, shitty luck. Okay, we’re getting close…can you smile?”
I bared my teeth weakly.
“Maggie!” Father Tim exclaimed. “It’s so good to see you. I was hoping you’d be here.” He shook my hand warmly, his grip strong and welcoming. “And you’ve a twin! Isn’t that marvelous! I’m Father Tim, so nice to meet you.”
Father Tim. The sound of it was like acid on an open wound.
“Hi, I’m Christy,” my sister said. “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well. Maggie, would you take me home?”
We almost escaped until my idiot brother, whom I heretofore loved, asked, “How could you miss the fact that he was a priest?”
My mother grabbed his arm. “Jonah, honey—”
“What’s that, now?” Father Tim asked, his eyebrows raised.
“Why didn’t you tell Maggie you were a priest?”
Father Tim glanced at me in confusion. “Of course I did. We had that lovely chat at the diner.”
“Of course we chatted,” I blurted. “Of course I knew! Sure! Yes! I knew you were a priest! Absolutely. Yup.”
“But you said you met some hot Irish guy—”
“That was someone else,” I ground out, ready to smite my little brother. “Not Father Tim! Jeez! He’s a priest, Jonah! He’s not—I didn’t mean—he’s…”
But the damage was done. Father Tim’s expression fell. “Oh, dear,” he said.
“Maggie? I need to go,” Christy said. She grabbed my arm and pulled me