Catch of the Day. Kristan Higgins

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СКАЧАТЬ that was rather obvious), that I should have listened to the forecast, that I fell (again, obvious), that I was sorry to make his truck dirty, et cetera, et cetera.

      “Thank you very much, Malone, this was so nice of you,” I babbled when he lifted down my bike. “You should come in and have a piece of pie sometime. It’s good pie. Cup of coffee, too. On the house, okay? I owe you. Thanks again. This was great. Thanks. Bye now.” Malone did not deign to speak, simply lifted his hand and drove away.

      As I watched the taillights blur in the rain, I said a prayer. “God, I don’t mean to complain, but I think I’ve been pretty patient here. All I want is a decent man who will stand by me and be a good father to our kids. What do You say?”

      I remember all this because the very next day—the very next day—I came out of the kitchen of Joe’s Diner, and there he was, sitting in the farthest booth, the most incredibly appealing man I’d ever seen. Medium height, light brown hair, green eyes, broad shoulders, beautiful hands. He wore a gorgeous Irish fisherman’s sweater and jeans. When he smiled, my knees buckled at the glory of those straight, white teeth. A leaping thrill of attraction and hope shuddered through my entire body.

      “Hi, I’m Maggie,” I said, giving myself a quick, mental once-over. New jeans, that was good. Blue sweater, not bad. Hair, clean.

      “Tim O’Halloran. A pleasure it is to meet you,” he answered, and I nearly swooned. A brogue! How Liam Neeson! How Colin Farrell! How Bono!

      “Would you like some coffee?” I asked, proud that my voice still worked.

      “I’d love a spot. Can’t think of anything nicer.” He smiled right into my eyes. Blushing with pleasure, I looked out into the parking lot and saw the blue Honda. Dear God, it was the man who’d passed me!

      “You know, I think I saw you last night!” I exclaimed. “Were you on Route 1A, heading for town around five? I fell off my bike, and I was trying to flag you down.”

      “I was,” he answered, a concerned frown wrinkling his forehead. “How could I have missed you? Oh, dear, forgive me!”

      Done. “Oh, gosh, don’t worry.” His eyes were beautiful, green and golden, like a bed of moss in the sunshine. Lust engulfed me like a thick fog. “Really. It’s—don’t—it’s fine. So. What, um…what would you like for breakfast?”

      “What do you recommend, Maggie?” he asked, and it sounded so damn sexy, that accent combined with what seemed to be a mischievous smile and flirting eyes…

      “I recommend that you eat here often,” I said. “I made the muffins myself, and they’re just out of the oven. And our pancakes are the best in town.” And the only in town, but hey.

      “The pancakes it is, then, thanks.” He smiled up at me again, obviously in no hurry for me to leave. “So you work here, do you?”

      “Actually, I own the place,” I said, pleased to be able to impart this nugget. Not just a waitress, but the boss. The owner.

      “Do you, now! Brilliant! A classic, isn’t it?”

      ’Tis, I almost said. “Yes. Thank you. It’s a family business. My grandfather, the Joe in Joe’s Diner, started it up in 1933.”

      “Ah, that’s lovely.”

      “So, Tim, what are you doing in Gideon’s Cove?” I asked, then realized he might be hungry. “Wait, I’m sorry, let me just get your order in. Sorry. Be right back!”

      I raced to the kitchen and called the order to Octavio, my short-order cook, then practically slid across the diner to Tim’s table, ignoring three customers who were waiting at the counter with varying degrees of impatience.

      “Sorry. You might actually want to eat, of course,” I said.

      “Well, now, there are some things that are nicer than eating, and talking to you is one of them.”

      Dear God, You’re the best! Thanks for listening! “So, sorry, I was asking you what you were doing in town. Work related?”

      “You might say that, Maggie. I’m—”

      It was at this moment that the fatal event occurred. Georgie Culpepper, my dishwasher, burst into the diner. “Hi, Maggie!” he shouted. “Hi! How are you, Maggie! It’s nice out today, isn’t it, Maggie? I saw snowdrops this morning! You want me to wash dishes now, Maggie?” He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me.

      Now, Georgie’s hugs are usually very pleasant. I’ve been getting them since kindergarten. Georgie has Down syndrome, is wicked affectionate and endlessly cheerful, one of the nicest, happiest people I’ve ever met. But right at this moment, I didn’t want his burr-like head welded to my breast. As I tried to extricate myself and as Georgie continued to tell me about the wonders of spring, Tim answered my question. I didn’t hear him.

      Finally, I pried Georgie off me and patted his shoulder. “Hello, Georgie. Tim, this is Georgie Culpepper, and he works here. Our bubble boy, right, buddy?” Georgie nodded proudly. “Georgie, this is Tim.”

      Georgie treated Tim to a hug, which was returned warmly. Lucky Georgie. “Hi, Tim! Nice to meet you, Tim! How are you, Tim?”

      “I’m excellent, thank you, my friend.”

      I smiled even more…could there be a better character reference than someone who knew just how to treat Georgie Culpepper? I immediately added it to the already impressive mental list I had going on Tim O’Halloran: handsome, employed, charming, Irish, comfortable around disabled people.

      “I bet Octavio will make you scrambled eggs,” I told Georgie.

      “Scrambled eggs! All right!” Though Georgie eats scrambled eggs every day of his life, the thrill has yet to fade. He scuttled to the kitchen and I remained, staring down at Tim. “Well. So. That sounds interesting,” I said, hoping he’d reiterate what it was he did for a living. He didn’t. The ding of the kitchen bell went off, and I excused myself, got Tim’s pancakes and brought them over.

      “Can I get you anything else?” The scowls of my regulars were starting to register.

      “No, no, thank you ever so much, Maggie. It was a real pleasure meeting you.”

      Fearful that this was the last I’d ever see of him, I blurted, “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime?” Please, please don’t say you’re married.

      “I’m going back to Bangor, but on Saturday, I’ll be here for good. Do you happen to belong to St. Mary’s?” he asked, stabbing a huge forkful of golden pancakes.

      “Yes!” I yelped. Any connection, no matter how thin…

      “Then I’ll see you Sunday.” He smiled and took a bite, then closed his eyes in pleasure.

      “Wonderful.” My heart thumping, I went back to the counter and apologized to two of my regulars, Rolly and Ben.

      Okay, so it was a little…devout…to mention where he went to church, but that was okay, I quickly assured myself. Perhaps the Irish were just more religious. But I was Catholic, technically anyway, and St. Mary’s was indeed my home parish. The last СКАЧАТЬ