I sigh and drink some more wine. We order dinner—hamburgers for both of us—and the silence stretches on.

Skip and Annabelle seem to have no such problems. Lots of laughs from over there. Twinkling giggles from her, low chuckles from him. At one point during our meal, one of the guys at the bar goes over to Skip and asks, “Didn’t you used to play baseball?” and Skip says with false lightness, “Oh, hell, a long time ago when I was a kid,” as if he gave it up for something more meaningful…like selling cars.

“I really think I hate him,” I whisper to Malone. He nods.

The Parkinsons are not finished. Apparently (I have forbidden myself to look at them), a gift is given, because Annabelle cries, “Oh, Skip! Oh, sugar, you shouldn’t have!”

Malone doesn’t look over. Neither do I. We look at each other instead, united in this odd, uncomfortable way. I’ve now had enough wine that it’s starting not to bother me.

“You don’t talk much, do you, Malone?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer.

“Want to have a staring contest?” I ask. Bingo! The lines around his eyes deepen and the corners of his mouth move upward a fraction. “I think you may have just smiled,” I inform him. “How did it feel? You okay?”

As usual, he doesn’t answer, but there’s something a little different. It takes me a minute to realize it, but Malone is kind of…appealing. Those lashes are so long they’re actually tangled in the corners. His hair is thick, curling a little around his ears and neck. And while his face is slashed with harsh lines, and while I have yet to see a real smile, his mouth is full and slightly pouting and rather sexy, actually. Life has left its mark on Malone’s face with a heavy hand, but it’s an interesting face, scruffy and rugged and gloomy. His cheekbones are sharp and angular, carved by the wind, almost, and it’s this phrase that makes me realize I shouldn’t have ordered that second glass of wine.

I clear my throat and look away. The waitress brings our check, and I fish around in my purse for my wallet. Malone takes out his first and withdraws a few bills.

“No, no, let me,” I say, taking his money and holding it out to him. “This is definitely on me.”

He scowls, making his face a little scary again. He doesn’t take the money. I put it back down and stand up.

“Okay. Thank you for a lovely dinner and everything else,” I say. He follows me across the restaurant.

“Bye, now. So nice meeting you,” Annabelle calls out.

“Ditto,” I say. Malone offers nothing, and neither does Skip.

In the parking lot, I pause. “Thanks again, Malone,” I say.

“Ayuh.” He walks to his truck, pleasantries complete.

I get into my car and turn the key. The engine doesn’t start. This is not an uncommon problem for me, and I sigh, pop the hood and get out. Malone is still there, sitting in his truck, watching me.

“It’s fine,” I call. “Happens all the time.”

But it’s dark, and I have to fumble in my purse for the screwdriver I carry at all times. If I can just find it, I’ll open the hood, stick the screwdriver in the air filter, and the car should start. But I can’t find it, because I failed to transfer it from my everyday pocketbook to the smaller one I’m carrying now. Nor can I find anything else that would work, like a pen.

Sighing, I walk over to Malone’s truck. “Do you have a screwdriver?” Surely he must. He’s a man, isn’t he?

“No.”

I close my eyes. The restaurant door opens, and Skip and Mrs. Skip walk over to their expensive, shining car.

“Good night, now!” Annabelle calls. Skip holds the door for her, then goes to the driver’s side. He looks over to me and pauses.

“Malone, how about a ride home?” I ask before Skip can do anything.

“Sure,” Malone says. He leans across the seat and opens the passenger door for me, which is unexpectedly polite from a man who has uttered only a handful of words this evening. I climb in. Tomorrow, Jonah or my father will have to drive me back here, but at least I’m safe from Skip’s eyes for now. Malone starts the truck and pulls out of the parking lot.

“I really appreciate this,” I tell him. He glances at me but doesn’t say anything.

We don’t talk on the way home—I’m too engrossed in thought to try to lure Malone out of his cave. When we get into town, I break the silence and direct him to my house. He throws the truck into park and hops out. I get out before he can open my door.

“I’ll walk you in,” he growls.

“No, that’s okay, you don’t—” But he’s already waiting by the porch. I sigh. “I live upstairs,” I say. “That’s Mrs. K.’s apartment. Mine’s up there.” Malone waits for me to go first. The stairway is a straight shot to my door, and there’s barely enough room for both of us to stand on the tiny landing. I fish out my key and unlock the door, then turn around to thank him.

“Thanks again, Malone. That was really—” My words are cut off, because Malone leans in and kisses me.

At first, I’m too shocked to think a damn thing. Malone! Kissing me! Of all the—but then it occurs to me that I’m kissing him right back, and it also occurs to me that Malone knows what he’s doing. His mouth is surprisingly soft and warm, and his razor stubble rasps gently against my skin. His hands cup my head, holding me steady, and I realize that my own hands are pressed against his chest. He feels deliciously solid, his heart thudding under my palm. His mouth moves to my jaw, and I breathe in the smell of soap and salt. Then he kisses my mouth again. My knees tingle and grow weak, and I grip his shirt, giving a little sigh. Then Malone pulls back, smooths his thumb across my mouth and looks down at the floor of my porch.

For a moment, I think he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He just gives a terse nod and heads down the stairs.

“Um…good night,” I call. He lifts his hand and gets into his still-running truck, then drives off in a most ordinary manner, leaving me dazed and stunned on my little porch. “Right,” I say. Perhaps I will wake up in the morning and find that this whole night has been just a bizarre dream. Those wiggly knees of mine are telling me different.

I go inside and kneel down to pet Colonel, who is waiting patiently by the door. “Hey, buddy,” I say. “How’s my pooch?” He licks my chin, then, satisfied that I am indeed home again, goes back to his doggy bed in the corner and lies down with a groan.

“Malone kissed me tonight,” I tell him.

Colonel doesn’t understand it, either.

CHAPTER NINE

I GET A CALL on my cell phone the next day while I’m at the diner, and for a brief second, I think it might be Malone. It’s not. Of course not, as he doesn’t have the number.

“Maggie, hi, it’s Doug,” says the caller.

Doug? Oh, Doug. “Hi,” I say.

“Listen, I’m so, so sorry about last night,” he says. There’s a pause. I wait to feel bad, but nothing comes. “I just panicked at the last minute,” Doug says. His voice is heavy with misery. “Maggie, I guess I’m not really ready to see someone.”

“That’s okay,” I tell him. I ring up Stuart and move the phone away from my cheek. “Everything okay today, Stuart?”

“Wonderful, Maggie.” He hands me his filled-out ballot, and I wink at him and resume my conversation. “Don’t worry about it, Doug.”

“No, it’s not okay. I completely chickened out and didn’t even call. I feel awful,” he says. I think he’s crying.

Some high school girls open the door in a cloud of giggles. “Sit wherever you’d like, girls,” I tell them. “Doug, hang on a sec.” I take the phone into the closet that serves as my office and wedge myself inside. “Hi. Sorry, I’m at the diner. But I can talk now.”

“I was all set to meet you,” Doug chokes. “I was actually in the car, but I just couldn’t do it. You sound like the nicest person—”

“Listen, Doug,” I interrupt gently. “It’s okay. To tell you the truth, I ran into an old friend and we had a really nice time.” A bit of a stretch, but the truth is rather complicated at this moment.

“Really?” Doug asks hopefully.

“Yes,” I say. I can hear Georgie making his exuberant entrance, Octavio singing quietly. “It sounds like you’re just not ready yet to meet somebody, and that’s perfectly fine. When the time is right, you’ll know it.”

Doug doesn’t answer for a minute, and I realize he’s crying in earnest. “Do you think so?” he asks thickly, confirming my guess.

“I sure do, Doug.” I pause. “From what you said, your wife sounded like a really great person. It’ll take some time for you to want to be with someone else.”

“I think you’re one of the nicest people I’ve never met,” Doug says with a choked laugh.

“If you ever want to get together as friends, I’d like that,” I tell him. I wonder if I’d be so generous if Malone hadn’t given me something else to think about last night.

Last night, I lay awake in bed for nearly an hour, wondering at the strangeness of humanity. Usually when someone is attracted to someone else, there are signs. Not so with Malone. In fact, I’d have bet my last dollar that he suffered through every minute of our bizarre dinner together. That he didn’t like me a bit, especially after I was so catty in the bar with Chantal that night.

Father Tim comes in at 8:30, right after Mass. “Maggie, I want to hear every detail,” he says, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “Oh, and I’ll have the eggs benedict today, I think. With regular bacon instead of Canadian, if that’s all right?”

“Sure. One Father Tim special coming up.” I smile and pour him some coffee, then go into the kitchen to put his order in. When I come out, Chantal is sliding into the seat across from the priest. Any male, no matter his profession, is open season for Chantal.

“Hey, Chantal,” I say.

“Hi, Maggie. What’s new?” she purrs.

I feel my cheeks grow warm at her question. Chantal hears everything. Did someone see Malone and me together last night? Were there any Gideon’s Cove residents at Jason’s Taverne? Did someone perhaps see us kissing? I wonder if he’ll call me and ask me out. I mean, why would he kiss me—the mere memory of it causes a flutter—if he didn’t want to see me again?

“She’s blushing,” Father Tim observes. “Must have been some date last night.”

“Date? What date?” Chantal asks. No, thank God, she doesn’t know.

“Well, actually, I’m sorry to say that Doug isn’t quite ready for a relationship,” I say. I busy myself by refilling the creamers behind the counter. “Still kind of in mourning for his wife.”

“I can relate to that,” Chantal murmurs. I roll my eyes, but Father Tim is tricked and pats her hand.

“Poor dear,” he says, and Chantal sighs hugely, her br**sts rising dramatically in her low-cut shirt. Father Tim’s compassionate expression doesn’t flicker, nor does his gaze drop a millimeter. The man is a saint.

At lunchtime, the bell over the door tinkles and I look up to see my sister, Violet and my parents. “Good morning!” Christy says.

“Fashoo,” says Violet, reaching out a plump hand for me to smooch.

“That means ‘I love you, Auntie Mags,’” Christy translates, pulling off Violet’s pink coat. My parents likewise take off their coats and line up like penguins at the counter. For some reason, no member of the Beaumont family ever sits at a booth.

“How was your date last night?” my mother asks without preamble. “Did you finally meet someone with potential?”

“Oh, it was fine,” I answer, feeling that heat creep up my neck again. “Doug is very nice, but he’s not ready for a relationship. His wife died about two years ago.” There. Nothing I said was untrue. An image of Malone’s slight smile causes a sudden cramp in my abdomen.

“Well, he should get out there anyway,” Mom says, irritated that a daughter remains single. “A rolling stone gathers no dirt.”

“Well said, Mom,” Christy says. Our dad smiles into his coffee cup.

“Don’t laugh. Maggie’s not getting any younger. Before long, Maggie, you’ll have problems getting pregnant, and then where will you be?”

I stare at her, stunned that the woman whose womb I began my life in could be so cruel.

“Jeezum, Mom,” Christy says.

“It’s true,” our mother states.

“You’ll meet someone when the time is right. Don’t worry,” my father says in a rare show of defiance to Mom. He pats my hand. My mother snorts.

“Hey, Dad, you know who I ran into last night?” I say, grateful for the chance to change the subject. “You know Malone? The lobsterman?”

Dad looks blank until Christy says, “You know, Dad. His boat is next to Jonah’s.”

“Oh, yes. Dark-haired fellow? Quiet?”

Pathologically so, yes. “Yeah. Did you have him in school?” Dad taught biology for thirty years and knows just about every person who ever went to school in Gideon’s Cove.

“Sure. I think he transferred in midyear. Why, honey?”

“Oh, I just was wondering what his first name was. He wouldn’t tell me.” I realize I have erred as Christy’s left eyebrow lifts. No one else notices.

“Hm. Let’s see. Malone. Skinny kid, tall…not a bad student toward the end, but way behind at first. I think there was trouble at home, to tell you the truth. Was it Michael? No, no, not Michael, I’m thinking of the Barone kid. I think it was an Irish name. Liam? No, no, that’s not right. Brendan. It was Brendan. Brendan Malone. Or no, that was Brendan Riley. Hmm.” Dad thinks for a minute, then shrugs. “Sorry, honey. As I recall, everyone just called him Malone.”