“They will if they get to taste it. I already had two pieces.” Octavio grins his engaging gap-tooth smile.
I grin back. “Did Judy get any more ballots?”
“I think she gave out a few.”
“Great.” I’ve been relentless in asking my patrons to fill them out. Last year we lost by two hundred votes, so I need every one who crosses the threshold to pitch in. “Have a nice afternoon, Octavio,” I say.
“You, too, boss.”
“Here, take these cookies, too.” My cook grins his thanks, then goes out the back door.
Colonel knows what time it is. He gets up from his spot and comes over to me for a little pat, pushing his big head against my thighs. I stroke his white cheeks. “You’re such a good boy, aren’t you?” He wags in agreement, then returns to his spot, knowing I’ll be a while yet.
I flip the Open sign to Closed and wipe down the last table. This is one of my favorite times of day…three o’clock. We’re done for the day. Joe’s opens at six, though I usually don’t roll in until seven (the joys of ownership), but I make up my time by doing all the baking each afternoon. I’m proud to say that Joe’s desserts are locally famous, especially the pies and coconut macaroons.
Joe’s is a Jerry Mahoney design. Red-and-cream porcelain with stainless steel siding on the outside, red vinyl seats, cream-colored walls and a black-and-white tile floor on the inside. Ten swivel stools are bolted to the floor at the counter. At one end is the requisite pastry display case where my sweets tempt the patrons. There are seven booths with nice deep backs and seats that are just bouncy enough. At some point, my grandfather had those little jukeboxes installed and, as kids, we loved flipping through to see what the new selections were. The kitchen is through a swinging door with a porthole, and there’s a tiny supply room and unisex bathroom. In the corner window, a neon sign blinks those timeless words, Eat at Joe’s.
For the next half hour, I add up the receipts, check the inventory, print out more ballots and mop the floor. I play the jukeboxes as I work, singing along with Aretha and the Boss. Finally, I go back into the kitchen and start baking the desserts for tomorrow. And the snack for tonight.
Since Father Tim’s face brightened when he heard I was on snack duty, I decide to do something special. In the tiny kitchen, I take out the necessary ingredients and set about making apricot squares, one of his favorites. Once those are in the oven, I roll out a few pie crusts and throw together a couple of blueberry pies.
Colonel’s tail starts thumping, and I hear him scramble to get up off the tile floor. I reduce the heat on the pies and move them to a higher shelf so the bottom crusts won’t burn. Without checking, I know my sister is about to come in.
I’m right, as I usually am about Christy. She’s just pulling the baby stroller in through the door. We haven’t seen each other for three entire days, which is a long spell when it comes to us. “Hey, Christy,” I smile, holding the door for her.
“Hey, Mags,” she answers. She glances at me, then does a double take. “Oh, for God’s sake.” She wrestles the carriage the rest of the way in, Violet sleeping undisturbed, and pulls off her hat. “Me, too.”
My mouth drops open. “Christy!” We start laughing simultaneously, reaching for each other’s hands at the same moment.
Christy and I are identical twins. And we are quite identical still, though Christy had a baby eight months ago. We weigh exactly the same, have the same bra size, shoe size, pants size. We each have a mole on our left cheeks. We both have a slightly crooked pinky on our right hands. Though Christy dresses a little better than I do, most people can’t tell us apart. In fact, only Will, Christy’s husband, has never once confused us. Even our parents goof once in a while, and, Jonah, who is younger by eight years, doesn’t try awfully hard to distinguish us.
We often call each other only to get a busy signal because the other had the same thought at the same moment. Sometimes we get each other the same birthday card or pick out the same sweater from the L.L. Bean catalog. If I buy tulips for my kitchen table, it’s a good bet that Christy has done the same thing.
But once in a while, in order to create some sense of individuality, one of us will get the urge to try something new. And so, on Monday when the diner was closed, I went to Jonesport and got my hair layered a little, had a few highlights put in. Apparently Christy had the same thought. Once more, we are identical.
“When did you get yours done?” I ask.
“Yesterday. You?” She smiles as she reaches out to touch my new ’do.
“Monday, so the haircut is really mine.” I grin as I say it. I don’t mind. In fact, I’ve always kind of liked being mistaken for Christy. “I wear mine in a ponytail most of the time, anyway,” I say. “Plus, you have better clothes.”
“Unstained, anyway,” she smiles, sitting at the counter. She takes off her coat and drapes it over the next stool. I go over to the stroller, which is one of those complicated Swedish affairs with everything from a wind guard to a cappuccino maker, and twist my head inside. Stretching my lips, I can just about kiss my sleeping niece. “Hello, angel,” I whisper, worshiping her perfect skin and feathery eyelashes. “God, Christy, she gets more beautiful every day.”
“I know,” Christy answers smugly. “So what’s new?”
“Oh, not much. Father Tim was in. I think he may have heard me tell him I love him.”
“Oh, Maggie.” Christy chuckles sympathetically. She knows better than to spout the platitudes that everyone else does…Why are you wasting your time on a priest? Can’t you find somebody else? You really should meet someone, Maggie. Have you tried the Internet/volunteering/church/dating services/speed dating/singles clubs/singles nights/singles cruises/prostitution? (This last one was suggested by my brother’s friend Stevie, who has been hitting on me since he was twelve years old.)
I’ve tried volunteering. And church, of course, contains the root of my problem. But singles nights and those speed dating things…well, first of all, we don’t have much of that in rural Maine. The nearest big city is Bar Harbor, and that’s at least an hour and a half south, if the weather is clear. As for the Internet, those services smack of deceit. A person could say anything, after all. What better way to lie about yourself? How many stories have I heard about a person being sorely disappointed by his or her Internet date? So, while there may be merit in that venue, I’ve never tried it.
Christy knows. She’s suffered with me as much as a happily married person can suffer. She had no problem meeting Will, her lovely, nice-looking and yes, doctor husband. They live in a restored Victorian that was built by a sea captain. They have a beautiful view of the water. They go out to dinner in Machias once a week, and I babysit (for free, of course). And while I don’t begrudge Christy all the nice things she’s got, it does seem a little unfair. After all, we are genetically identical. She has hit Lotto in life; I’ve got a crush on the priest.
“Want to come for dinner tonight, see if we can fool Will?” she says, toying with the ends of her newly cut hair.
“Sure,” I say. “The pies will be out pretty soon. Want me to bring one?”
“No, that’s okay. We’ll cook for you, hon. Oh, and I picked this up for you when I was in Machias.” She fishes a little bottle from her purse. “Got it at a little shop that sells all sorts of neat stuff, earrings and scarves and little soaps. It’s got beeswax in it.”
One of the byproducts of living in northern coastal Maine and owning a diner—and hence, having my hands in water or near hot oil all the time—is that my hands are horribly chapped. Thickened from work, nails cut short, rough cuticles and red patches of eczema, my hands are my worst feature. I wage a constant quest to find a hand cream that will really help them look and feel nicer, sampling every product under the sun with little or no effect.
“Thanks, Christy.”