“That’s neat, Dad,” I say. “Christy, you need a drink. Mom, can we leave Violet here for an hour or so? Dewey’s opens in ten minutes, and I think Christy and I should talk.”

“Of course,” my mother says, reaching for her grandchild.

“Enjoy,” Christy snaps. “You won’t be able to—”

“Shut up,” I say, dragging her forcibly from the room.

We ride in silence to Dewey’s, Christy driving with sharp movements, braking hard, jerking the steering wheel. She stomps into the bar in front of me, not making eye contact as we sit at a table in back. The bar is nearly deserted—it’s four on a Sunday—and Dewey is still taking chairs down.

“Dewey, can we get a couple of…what do you want, Christy?” I ask.

“I don’t care,” she mutters.

“Scotch, I guess, Dewey.”

“Sure thing, girls,” he calls. He pours us our drinks and brings them over, then hustles off to fill the register.

“So what’s your problem?” I ask my sister.

“Our parents are acting like idiots,” she says.

“What happened to all that nice compassion you had last week? Poor Mom, getting knocked up, abandoning her dreams…” I take a sip of my drink and instantly remember the last time I had scotch—with Malone, the night Colonel died. I shove the thought aside.

Christy takes a sharp breath, and her eyes fill with tears. “I didn’t know she would leave, Maggie! How can she—and Dad’s going to become some stinky, weird old guy without her. A sternman! For crying out loud.”

“But aren’t you a little bit…I don’t know, proud, in a way? That our parents are doing something new, that just because they’re middle-aged doesn’t mean their lives are carved in stone? I think it’s kind of neat.” Christy shoots me a death glare. “A little neat, anyway,” I amend.

“No,” she sulks. “It’s not neat, Maggie. Mom is moving. Moving far.” Her tears slip down her cheeks.

“I know you’ll miss her,” I say. “But she deserves a chance to do something different, Christy. She’s not obligated to stay around and watch our lives anymore.”

My sister stares out the window for another minute. “Oh, shit, you’re right,” she says, swallowing a mouthful of scotch. “You’re right, you’re right. I guess I just feel abandoned. And sorry for myself. I mean, I’ll miss her, Maggie! And so will Violet. She loves Mom so much.” Christy’s face scrunches up in misery, and I reach across the table to squeeze her hand.

“Here now, what’s this?” Dewey asks. “Maggie, why are you crying, hon?”

“I’m not,” I say. “Christy is.”

“Oh, dear, dear. No crying in my bar, sweetheart,” Dewey says. “And the day I can tell you girls apart will be a banner day, let me tell you.” He pats her head and walks back to the bar.

Christy gives me a watery smile. “Man, I was such a bitch back there, wasn’t I?” she asks.

“Yes,” I answer, smiling. “A right bitch. I’m so happy.”

“Happy? Why?”

“Because it’s high time I got to be the good twin,” I say.

“You. You’re so funny.” She smiles genuinely now, and simultaneously, we reach out a foot under the table and nudge each other. “Hey, what happened with Malone?” she asks, her head swiveling to the door. My heart sinks like an anvil. But no, it’s not Malone. Just Mickey Tatum, the fire chief.

“I broke up with him,” I tell her. There’s a tightness in my throat that the scotch doesn’t alleviate.

“What did he say about Chantal?” Christy asks.

“Nothing. We didn’t talk about it. He didn’t say boo about her.”

Christy sighs. “Sorry, Maggie.”

“Yeah, well, other fish to fry, right? Other eggs to scramble. At least I cut bait before things got too…whatever.” I don’t fool Christy; she smiles sadly, seeing right through me. “I do have to tell you, though,” I say, artfully changing the subject, “something’s going on with Father Tim. Have you talked to him lately?”

“No. Why? What’s up?”

Dewey comes over with a bag of potato chips. “For the beautiful weeping lady,” he says, handing them to me.

“That’s Christy,” I correct, pointing across the table.

“Of course. For the beautiful weeping lady,” he repeats.

“Thanks, Dewey,” she says. “Just the ticket.” She opens the bag and offers some to me, then takes a few herself. “So. Father Tim?” she prods.

“Well, I don’t really know. But something’s weird. He’s been very…tender. And saying things that have sort of a double meaning.”

“Like what?” Christy asks.

“I don’t know. I can’t remember exactly what he said—”

“That’s a first,” she interjects dryly.

“—but just sort of…well. Obviously I don’t quite know.” I can’t bring myself to say the words aloud. Instead, I fidget in the hard wooden chair. “Do you want to go home and grovel in front of Mom and Dad now?”

Christy laughs. “Sure. You’ve been good twin long enough.”

“That’s you in a nutshell,” I say, taking out a few bills and laying them on the table. “Always stealing my thunder.”

Christy grovels, re-assumes her title and we all have apple crisp.

On the way home, I pedal my bike toward the harbor. It’s a windy day, and a Sunday to boot, so most of the lobster boats are in, including the Ugly Anne. Don’t go down there, Maggie, I warn myself. A large seagull glides down, landing a few feet away on one of the wooden support posts, the wind ruffling its feathers but not its composure. I envy that bird.

And if Malone was here? I ask myself. What then? What would I say? How’s Chantal? Are you happy that you’ll be a father again? That is, of course, if Chantal will actually go through with it….

I still can’t reconcile the idea of Malone and Chantal together. For some reason, I thought—

“Oh, for God’s sake, Maggie,” I mutter aloud to myself. I mount my bike once more but remain where I am, one foot firmly on the ground, and continue to stare at the harbor. The wind carries the scent of pine and salt on it, stinging my cheeks, howling in my ears, but I still don’t move. Malone’s face is stuck in my mind, the harsh lines, craggy cheekbones, those tangled black lashes. The way he smiled at me, begrudgingly almost, as if he didn’t really want to like me but just couldn’t help himself. “Right, Maggie,” I snort. “You’re so irresistible that Malone got Chantal pregnant. Live with it.”

“What say, theah, Maggie?”

My shriek causes the gull to startle off, echoing my sound. “Yikes! Billy! God, you scared me!”

Billy Bottoms takes the pipe from his mouth. “Sorry, dahlin’. Just comin’ down to check somethin’. Thought you were talkin’ to me.”

“No, no. No. Not you. Just, you know, blathering to myself. Sorry. Have a nice day.”

I need to do something, I think as I ride back home. I need to figure out a plan for the rest of my life. If my mother can make a big move, so can I. Last week, she was sitting at the kitchen table tying one on. This week, she’s got a plan. I can do the same thing. I need to forget Malone and move on. Focus on other things. Take action.

Being at Dewey’s has given me an idea. Not the most honorable idea, granted, but a pretty good idea nonetheless. An awful, horrible, wonderful idea.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“MY CAR IS RUNNING a little rough,” I lie to my sister on the phone a few days later. “Can I borrow yours?”

It’s Monday. The diner is closed, the wind is blowing, and it’s a great day to stay home and do nothing, but my idea has been lurking in the corner of my mind, and its patience wearing thin. Besides, I can’t just sit around and think about Malone and Chantal all day.

Christy runs water in the background. “Sure. I’m not going anywhere. Can you believe how cold it is? Cripes, it feels like December out there, not April.”

Maine has tricked us yet again, pretending to embrace spring while all the time getting ready to dump six inches of snow on us, mixing with the muddy ground in a sloppy, tired, icy goop. All four members of the town crew are out, wearily sanding the main roads, defiling the streets they cleaned just last week. I pull my hat down over my ears and wave to them as I slip and slide up Christy’s hill. Then, as planned, I choose a particularly damp-looking splotch of gray snow, trip and land face down in it.

“Oh, jeezum, look at you!” My sister holds the door open, Violet balanced on her hip. “Come in here, you gawmy girl!”

“I slipped,” I confess sheepishly.

“Well, go upstairs and change, dopey,” she chides. “Do you want to stay for lunch?”

“Um, no, no, but thanks. Other plans. I, um…” God, I am the worst liar. “I’m going to the mall. After my errands.”

“The mall?” Christy asks. “That’s two hours away, hon.”

“Right! I know. Maybe not the mall…. I need shoes. New shoes.”

“Are you okay?” Christy gives me that knowing look, and I flee upstairs to raid her closet, as is the plan. I pull out some nice tweed pants and a silk sweater. A little scarf goes into my pocket. I glance at her bureau.

“Christy? Can I borrow some jewelry? I want to look a little nicer. I might, uh…meet a friend? For lunch. If I have time.”

“Sure,” she calls back. “Whatever you want.”

By that, she probably doesn’t mean her anniversary band, a circle of small diamonds that Will gave her to mark their first year together. But, I rationalize, she did say “whatever,” so I take it, first using some of the hand cream she’s got on her night table.

“Oh, you look so nice!” Christy comments. By nice, she means “like me,” but I don’t take offense. She has beautiful clothes, and the point of this little adventure is in fact to look like Christy. Violet, who sits on the kitchen floor banging a whisk on a pot, crawls over to me and drools on my—Christy’s—boot.

“Thank you, baby,” I say. “I’ll be back around four, okay?” I grab the car keys from the counter.

“Take your time,” she says. She smiles from her seat on the floor. “Violet, want to try this one?” She holds up a wooden spoon and demonstrates its banging ability. “Hey, Maggie, don’t forget a coat. Yours is a mess.” She gestures to her beautiful faux shearling coat, which hangs on a hook near the door.

“You’re a great sister,” I say, flushed with guilt. “Thanks a million.”

“Have fun!” she calls.

Fun is not exactly what I have planned. I grab the diaper bag that my sister leaves in the garage, climb in the car, look in the rearview mirror and take out my ponytail. Then I brush my hair to a side part and tuck it behind my ears. The band goes on my left ring finger, the scarf around my neck, and voila—I’m Christy.

This very morning, I had called the rectory. “Mrs. Plutarski, hi, it’s Christy Jones. How are you?”

“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Plutarski said. “How’s that beautiful baby?”

“She’s wonderful,” I answered sweetly. “Listen, I was wondering if Father Tim had a few minutes to spare for me today.”

“Of course, honey,” she cooed, and my jaw clenched. Mrs. Plutarski is such a pill to me. You’d think I routinely crapped on the altar, the way she treats me. When I ask to see Father Tim, she always takes great pains to tell me how busy he is. For Christy, though, he’s wide open.

“How about one o’clock, Christy? I imagine you want to discuss your poor parents,” she suggested, gossipmonger that she is.

“That’s perfect.” Violet takes her nap from noon to three, and the real Christy will be snug at home.

My heart is pounding as I pull Christy’s Volvo into the rectory’s small parking lot. I turn off the car and sit a minute. After being delayed for God knows how long, common sense finally makes an appearance.

Here I am dressed as my sister, about to trick a priest. Nice, Maggie. Very noble. For some reason, I had the notion that if Father Tim thought I was Christy, he’d tell me what was bothering him lately, why he kept dropping those hints about how special “Maggie” was. I roll my eyes in the rearview mirror. No. I don’t think so. I’m not that much of a jerk. Whatever personal issues Father Tim is having, they’re not my business. Maybe it was cabin fever, maybe I was just trying to distract myself from thoughts of Malone, but clearly, this is the stupidest idea I’ve ever had. Maybe the stupidest idea anyone’s ever had.

Disgusted, I restart the car. I’ll drive down to Machias and catch a movie, get a big bag of popcorn and some Swedish fish—

I scream as a knock comes on the car window.

“Father Tim! Oh! Wow!”

“Hello, there, Christy!” he beams. “Come in, dear girl, come in.”

My stomach contracts with the agony of being caught. “Hi, Father Tim,” I mutter.

Well, it looks like I’m going to have to go through with it, because I just can’t think of anything else. Wobbling a bit in Christy’s boots, which have a higher heel than I’m used to, I grab the diaper bag from the back seat—my prop, further evidence that I am my sister.

“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Plutarski says from her position of power in the rectory office. “How nice to see you! Don’t you look smart.”