Colonel doesn’t seem interested in dinner tonight. I give him some EtoGesic and glucosamine and fluff up his doggy bed, then write a note on the blackboard to call the vet and see if there’s anything else I can do.

Maybe my mother is right, I think as I dump the soup down the drain. Maybe the diner is a dead end. It was something I fell into. Granddad put us to work at a young age, washing dishes, clearing tables, working our way up to waiting tables. But is it something that I really want to do for the rest of my life?

I stare out the window toward the harbor, thinking.

The answer is yes.

Maybe it’s not the most illustrious career in the world, but what Joe’s Diner does—what I do—is give a center to our town. A meeting place. Anyone can come in, even if they just want a cup of coffee, and spend the morning catching up on news, seeing their neighbors. There’s Dewey’s, of course, but that’s only open at night, and it has a different attitude. People go there with more of an agenda—meet someone, have a few drinks, and if you’re hardcore, get drunk. But Joe’s is a social center in a town that desperately needs one. And the fact that it’s an authentic Mahoney design doesn’t hurt. I wonder if I could get it listed on a national register or something.

But my mother’s constant nagging has dented my armor lately. When I picture growing old at the diner, I picture a husband and kids coming in and out, or me going home to them. I don’t picture me alone, soaking my swollen feet in Epsom salts every night with only a series of increasingly smelly dogs for company.

I throw a pizza into the oven, wait for it to heat, then eat listlessly. How many dates have I gone on in the past month or so? Four? Five? And let’s not forget Malone, not that we dated, of course. Just sex. Best sex of my life, in fact.

Time to call Christy, I think when the self-pity disgusts even me. I punch number one on the speed dial.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say when Will answers.

“Hi, Maggie. How are you?”

“Okay, I guess. You guys still going out tomorrow? Same time as usual?” I ask. Thursday is my babysitting night.

“Actually, I’m not sure. Christy’s not feeling great. There’s a stomach bug going around, and I think she caught it.”

“Oh, dear. Well, if you need anything, let me know. Tell her I said I hope she feels better fast.”

“Thanks, honey. Will do.”

When Christy met Will, it was instantly clear to both of them that they’d met their soul mate. Six months later, Will, then a resident in Orono, took a rare night off and asked me out for dinner. Alone. He took me to a nice restaurant, and though he was exhausted from a long shift, he was nonetheless funny and charming. While we were eating dinner, he took out a velvet box and handed it across the table to me.

“Um, I think you might have the wrong twin,” I said, wincing.

“I know who you are,” Will smiled.

“So is this a test run or something?” I asked.

“Listen, Maggie,” he said, his face growing serious. “I want to marry your sister. I’ve never met someone as wonderful as she is. Every day I wake up feeling like I’m in a dream because I get to call her or see her or hold her hand.”

“That’s so nice,” I said, my eyes growing misty. At the time, I was quite sure I would soon find someone just as wonderful as Will.

“But I know how close you are, and I know I’m asking…well, not exactly to come between you, because I know I could never do that, and I never want to. But I’m asking you to share Christy with me. I need your blessing, Maggie.” His eyes were teary.

In the box was a beautiful garnet ring, Christy’s and my birthstone.

Of course I gave him my blessing. The thought of my sister spending her life with a man who adored her…well. Who could say no?

I haven’t met anyone like Will. There may be no one like Will in the whole world. The best I’ve come up with is a tearful widower, a sullen lobsterman and a priest. “Well, crap,” I say. I offer the crust of my pizza to Colonel, who eats it delicately. “You feeling better, pal?” I ask him. He puts his head on my lap.

The Red Sox have a travel day, which is just as well. They’ve been playing with all the skill of blind, one-legged five-year-olds lately. I click around aimlessly until nine-thirty or so, then decide to just call it a night. It’s not lost on me that going to bed with my dog is the best thing that’s happened all day.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

COLONEL WON’T GET off the bed in the morning. He wags his tail listlessly but doesn’t even raise his head when I ask if he wants to go out. I check the clock; it’s too early to call the vet.

After yesterday’s rush, the diner is back to normal—my regulars sit at the counter, Ben, Bob and Rolly. Stuart is at his booth at the window, reading the paper. But I’m worried about Colonel, and as soon as the clock hits eight, I make the call. They tell me to come in tomorrow.

“He’s probably just feeling his age,” the nice tech tells me. “He’s in great shape for an old guy. How old is he now, fourteen?”

“Thirteen,” I say.

“That’s pretty good for a big dog like him.”

“I know. But he’s just not himself.”

For the rest of the day, I hop back and forth between the diner and my apartment. I manage to coax Colonel off the bed and outside so he can pee, but he laboriously climbs the steps as soon as he’s done. I help him back onto my bed and give him some water. “What’s the matter, boy?” I ask, stroking his head. “We’ll go see Dr. Kellar tomorrow, okay? He’ll help you out, Colonel.”

I have to throw together a couple of lasagnas for a funeral and bake a few dozen cookies, but all day, I’m itching to get home to my dog. It’s the awful plight of a pet owner: knowing something is wrong with your loyal companion, unable to figure out what. Could he have eaten something that’s made him sick? Did he get hurt somehow? Does he have cancer?

I get home for good around four, finally done for the day, then call Christy to see if she might come over and keep me company while I watch Colonel. But she’s still under the weather, and after hearing a description of her all-nighter with the toilet, I feel uncomfortable telling her about my dog’s listlessness. I’m lonely enough that I find myself calling Father Tim.

“Maggie, I’m terribly sorry, I’ve got to run,” he says. “I’m having dinner with the Guarinos tonight. Thanks for the lasagnas, by the way. They were wonderful.”

I manage a smile—Father Tim is the only man I know who can eat lasagna at four and go out to dinner at six. “Well, that’s okay,” I say. “I’m just a little worried about Colonel. He’s kind of quiet today. Not himself.”

“Don’t you worry,” he answers. “I’m sure he’ll be just fine. Tell you what, I’ll ring you later, shall I?”

“Sure.” I hang up and stretch out on the bed next to my dog. I stroke his ears and run my fingers through his silky ruff. He nestles closer and groans in contentment.

My father gave me Colonel just after Skip dumped me. I was staring out the window a week or two after Skip’s triumphant return to Gideon’s Cove, and my father walked in with Colonel, a blue ribbon tied around his neck. Rescued from one of those breeding mills down south, Colonel was then an overly large, rambunctious two-year old. It was love at first sight. That first night, he climbed, paw by paw, cautious as a jewel thief, onto my bed. Perhaps he thought if he went slowly, I wouldn’t notice the extra eighty pounds wedged into my twin bed. I was still living at home, and my mom had had a fit when she saw us the next morning, Colonel’s head on my pillow, my arm around his shaggy tummy.

“For heaven’s sake, Maggie! It’s an animal! Get it off! It might have fleas or lice or something.”

The next week, I moved out, into the very apartment I still live in, and Colonel and I began the next phase of our life together. When the humiliation and grief over Skip threatened to overwhelm me, Colonel would come over and nudge my hand with his nose until I petted him. Or he’d drop a ratty tennis ball at my feet, and if I ignored him, he’d repeat this ten or twelve times until I got the hint. He slept on my bed each night, his big head resting on my stomach as I fought off loneliness and tried to come up with a plan for my adult life.

Colonel only needed a little training, and I soon became known as “the one with the dog” to distinguish me from Christy. I never used a leash; Colonel just followed me cheerfully, always able to keep pace with my bike or walking beside me, his plumey tail waving like a flag. I’d go into a store, and he’d lie down on the sidewalk outside, patiently waiting for me to emerge. He took to the diner like a veteran waitress, never bothering the customers, just lying behind the register, watching people come and go until it was our turn to leave. Sure, it was against the health code, but no one ever found a dog hair in the food, and no one ever complained.

When my mother mused out loud that I’d never meet anyone, or when another date went wrong, when I came home from babysitting Violet, filled with yearning for a baby of my own, all I had to do was turn to his golden face and ask for a kiss. He never told me I was wasting my life—he thought my life was the best thing that ever happened to him. He never thought I talked too much; instead, his eyes would follow my every move, his ears pricked and alert when I spoke. He accepted every tummy scratch, every head pat, every evening on the couch as if it were a gift from God Himself, when really, it was just a drop in the bucket compared to the devotion he gave me.

“You’re my best bud,” I tell him. His tail thumps reassuringly. Cuddled together, we fall asleep.

I WAKE UP around three in the morning, knowing immediately that Colonel has died.

His body is still warm under my hand, but there’s just something missing. Tears flood my eyes, but I keep petting him, his beautiful soft golden fur. I stroke his white cheeks, feeling the wiry whiskers, the soft jowls of his throat. I don’t turn on the light—it would be sacrilegious somehow, because then I’d have to see that my dog of the past eleven years is dead. Instead, I just move closer to him, wrap both arms around his neck, bury my face in his fur and cry.

“I’m sorry, Colonel,” I choke out. Sorry that I didn’t rush him to the vet to see if there was anything wrong, sorry that I didn’t take the day off to be with him. “I’m so sorry, boy.”

I cry until the sheet beneath my face is soaked, until the sky goes from black to blue velvet to pink. When I can’t avoid it any longer, I sit up and look at him, his noble, gentle white face, the silky feathers of his belly and legs.

“Thanks for everything,” I whisper, my words pitifully inadequate.

The phone rings, and I know it’s Christy before I hear her voice. We know when the other is hurting.

“Is everything okay?” she whispers. It’s only five in the morning.

“Colonel died,” I tell her.

“Oh, no! Oh, Maggie!” she cries, and I start crying again, too. “Maggie, I’m so sorry, honey. Did he—did you have to—”

“He just died in his sleep, right on my bed,” I whisper.

“Oh, Colonel,” she murmurs, sniffing. I hear Will’s voice in the background, and Christy tells him my sad news.

“Can we do anything?” she asks.

“No, no,” I say. “I’m calling Jonah. He’ll give me a hand. How are you guys doing? Still sick?”

Christy sighs. “I’m still pretty whipped, and Violet’s got it now. She threw up all night, after she ate three helpings of ground-up spaghetti and meatballs for supper. We’ve barely slept.”

I notice that I’m still petting Colonel’s soft fur. “I hope you feel better,” I tell her.

I call my brother and ask if he’ll help me bring my dog to the vet for cremation when they open. Then I call Octavio and ask him to cover for me.

When Jonah comes over at quarter to eight, he thumps up my stairs and hugs me tight, tears in his eyes.

“Shit, Maggie. This just sucks,” he says, looking at the floor. “Maybe he’s with Dicky now or something. They were both awesome dogs.”

We go into the bedroom, and I kiss Colonel’s head once more as Jonah wipes his eyes on his sleeve. Then we wrap him in a blanket and carry him down to Jonah’s truck. Mrs. K. comes out to see what’s going on.

“Colonel died last night, Mrs. K.,” I tell her, and the old woman, who has buried a husband, three sisters and two of her four children, bursts into tears.

“Oh, Maggie,” she weeps, and I hug her frail shoulders, crying again myself.

Jonah and I slide Colonel into the back of his pickup, and I climb in beside my dog. “It’s gonna be cold back there, Mags,” my brother says.

“That’s okay,” I tell him. I hunker down and put my arm over the blanket so it won’t blow off, because that would just be too sad to see.

The people at the vet’s are so kind. They help us carry Colonel in through the back entrance and give me a moment to say goodbye.

“I’ll wait in the truck,” Jonah offers, closing the door softly behind him.

I pull the blanket off Colonel’s head and take one long, last look. He seems cozy, wrapped in the red plaid blanket that we used together on chilly nights. “I’ll miss you so much, buddy,” I whisper, my throat barely able to force the words out. “You were such a good dog. The best.”

I kiss his cheek, my tears wetting his fur. And then I leave.

Jonah drives me home so I can shower and strip the bed. I can barely look at my apartment, so lonely and empty, so I trudge to the diner, where Judy and Octavio cry over the news.