Christy senses this. After the dinner dishes are done, she walks me to the door. “You want a ride?” she asks.

“No, no. That’s—it’s great out. Great night for a walk.” Great in March on the northern coast of Maine is a bit of a stretch, but I could do with a walk. I wrap my scarf around my neck, pull my hat over my ears and call to Colonel, who has been enjoying the bone Will sneaked him.

“You’ll find someone,” my sister whispers, hugging me. “You will.”

“Sure! I know. Just a matter of time. Or maybe we could clone Will.” I smile and hug her back. “Thanks for dinner, Christy. Love you.” I walk down the steps, holding Colonel’s collar so he won’t fall. His h*ps are a little arthritic, and stairs can be tricky for him.

“Love you, too,” she calls.

I have just enough time to go home, help Colonel up my own stairs, get him settled, go back to the diner, pick up the apricot squares and walk to the rectory. There are five other people there already, all women, all half in love with Father Tim, though not to the degree or with the public scrutiny that I myself suffer.

“Maggie!” Father Tim exclaims. He walks over to me, and I can smell the soap he uses. His radiant smile makes my cheeks burn. “There you are! And what have we here? Ah, now, Maggie, you’d tempt a saint.” Mrs. Plutarski, St. Mary’s gorgon secretary, frowns. Of course, Father Tim is talking about my baking, not my feminine charms. Crooning softly over the dessert, he puts the tray on a sideboard. His ass is a work of art. These sinful thoughts are getting you nowhere, Maggie, I inform myself sternly. But yes, it is a work of art.

“Now, then, ladies, I believe we were going to discuss this lovely passage from the Book of Wisdom, weren’t we? Mabel, love, why don’t you get us started and read verses five through eleven?”

For the next hour, I stare at Father Tim, drinking in his expressive eyes, compassionate and perfect smile, his lilting accent. My feelings flit between lust for him and annoyance with myself. If only I could meet someone else. If only I could get over Father Tim. Better yet, if only he were Episcopalian! Then we could get married and live here in this cozy home with our beautiful, green-eyed children. Liam, maybe, and Colleen. A new baby is on the way. We’re considering Conor for a boy, Fiona for a girl.

“Maggie, what do you think? Do you agree with Louise?” Father Tim asks expectantly.

“Yes! Yes, I do. Mmm-hmm. Good point, Louise.” I have no idea what she just said. I vaguely remember something about light…but no, there’s nothing there. Mrs. Plutarski snorts.

Father Tim winks at me. He knows. I feel my cheeks grow warm. Again.

When Bible study is over—not that I’ve become educated, enriched or spiritually moved, mind you—I feel the uncharacteristic desire to leave. The others have already congregated around the sideboard, pouring coffee and falling onto my pretty squares.

“I’ve got to go, folks,” I say, waving. “Sorry. Enjoy the snack.”

“Thanks, Maggie,” Father Tim says around a mouthful. “I’ll just drop the tray off at the diner, shall I?”

“That would be great.”

He waves as he reaches for another square, and I smile fondly, happy to have pleased him. Then I head home, glad that Colonel, at least, is waiting for me.

CHAPTER TWO

ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON, I leave the diner, all the goodies ready for baking tomorrow, and head for home. There’s a bounce in my step. Will, best brother-in-law in the world, has come through. I have a date.

It’s been a long time. Quite a while. I wrack my brain, trying to remember the last actual date I had, and come up empty. Before Father Tim came to town, that’s for sure.

Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. I pat Colonel for reassurance and pull my coat a little closer. Tonight I have a date, and I’m going to enjoy it. A nice dinner and some company, the buzz of potential. I turn at my street and make my way to the small house I bought a few years ago. On the first floor lives Mrs. Kandinsky, my tenant. She is ninety-one years old, a lovely, tiny bird of a woman who knits me sweaters and hats with amazing speed, given that her hands curl in on themselves with arthritis.

I knock on Mrs. K.’s door and wait. It takes her a while to get up sometimes. Finally, the door opens a suspicious crack. Then she sees that it’s just me. “Hello, dear!” she chirps.

“Hello, Mrs. K.!” I chirp back, leaning down a foot or so to kiss her silky, wrinkled cheek. “I brought you some meat loaf. All the fixings, too.”

“Oh, Maggie, how nice! I didn’t know what I was going to cook for dinner! And now I don’t have to! You’re an angel, you are. Come in, come in.” Her emphatic way of talking makes it sound a bit like she’s singing, and I find myself unconsciously imitating her after a few minutes in her company.

Although I don’t have to leave for a couple of hours, I want to go upstairs and enjoy the rare feeling of date anticipation. But Mrs. K. is so sweet, and many days, I’m the only person she sees. Her aging children live out of state, and most of her friends are long gone. I usually bring her a meal from the diner for both unselfish and selfish reasons—I don’t want her burning my house down, trying to cook. So she gets plenty of blueberry scones and muffins and pot roast, or cheddar mac and cheese or whatever else I’ve made that day.

We go into her living room, which is crowded with overstuffed furniture, magazines and a small television. She’s tapped into my satellite dish and is currently watching a soccer match between Italy and Russia. The smell of old person, close and medicinal and oddly comforting, tickles my throat.

“I can’t stay, Mrs. K.,” I tell her. “I actually have a date tonight.” There I go again, blurting out my news. At least this time I know the guy isn’t a priest.

“How lovely, dear! I remember when Mr. Kandinsky courted me. My father didn’t approve, you know,” she said.

I do know. I’ve heard this story dozens of times. To remind her of this fact, I say, “Right. He used to show Mr. K. his gun collection, didn’t he?”

“My father used to show Walter his gun collection while he waited for me! Can you imagine!” Her wizened face wrinkles even more as she laughs, a lovely, tinkling sound.

“Well, Mr. K. must have loved you very much, if he stood for that,” I tell her, smiling.

“Oh, yes. He did. Would you like me to warm up some meat loaf for you, too, Maggie dear?”

I lean down again and kiss her cheek. “No, I have a date, remember? But I’ll warm it up for you.” I tuck the dish into the microwave and press the buttons. Mrs. K. often forgets how to use the microwave, though I sometimes smell popcorn late at night. I guess she figures it out for important things. On the counter is a bottle of Eucerin Dry Skin Therapy Plus Intensive Repair Hand Crème. “Mrs. K., is it all right if I try your hand cream?” I ask.

“Of course! My mother always said, you can judge a lady by her hands.”

“I hope not,” I mutter, attacking a cracked spot near my thumb.

Ten minutes later, I go upstairs to my apartment. Colonel seems stiffer than usual, and I have to boost him up the last few steps. “Here you go, big guy,” I tell him, fixing his supper. I press a glucosamine pill and some doggy anti-inflammatories into a spoonful of peanut butter and turn to him. “Peanut butter blob!” I announce. He wags happily as he laps his medicine off the spoon. “Good boy. And here’s your supper, Mr. Handsome.” Given the state of his hips, I don’t make him sit first.

Responsibilities finished, I take a minute to flop into my chair and relax. My apartment is small—a minute kitchen, living room, tiny bedroom and fairy-sized bathroom that barely has enough room for me to stand. But I love it. A seaman’s chest, filled with afghans from Mrs. Kandinsky, serves as a coffee table. Pictures of Violet decorate the fridge, and some African violets, in honor of my niece, blossom on the windowsill. Little collections of matchstick boxes and animal-shaped salt and pepper shakers line a shelf that my father and I put up a few years ago. Some old tin pie plates hang on the wall, and instead of hooks, I use old porcelain or glass doorknobs to hang my coats. Six or seven decorative birdhouses hang on the wall, gifts from my dad, who makes them almost as fast as Mrs. K. crochets afghans.

Well. Time to get ready for my date! I’ve already planned what to wear—black pants, red sweater and a nice pair of suede shoes to slip on at the restaurant. The ice, salt and mud between my apartment and my car would ruin anything other than my faithful L. L. Bean boots in a matter of one step. I shower, dry my hair and take care of my face, then take a look in the mirror, pleased. I don’t often wear my hair down, but it looks pretty and soft, thanks to the new cut and color. My gray eyes look bigger with makeup, and the blush I applied does wonders for my pale skin. I put on a necklace, give my dog a rawhide chew stick and leave.

Roger Martin, the nurse with whom I am having dinner, called me three days ago at Will’s urging. He sounded pleasant, though we didn’t talk too much. We agreed to meet at The Loon, a nice restaurant in Machias that Christy and Will frequent. Why he needs to be fixed up is a bit of a mystery—but then again, I need to be fixed up, so I try to reserve judgment.

It takes a while to get to the restaurant from Gideon’s Cove, as the roads are narrow and twisting out of our little peninsula. I don’t mind; I hum along with the one radio station I pick up as I drive. I don’t leave town too often, to tell the truth, and I usually walk around town or ride my bike. My car, a Subaru station wagon, is good for loading up at the Wal-Mart in Calais when I need stuff for the diner—gallons of Windex and bleach, trash bags, flour—but for day-to-day, I prefer human-powered transportation.

I pass the University of Maine campus and continue through town. The restaurant is a cheerful, timber-beam place with fairy lights strewn on the bushes outside. It’s lovely inside as well, wide-planked floors, candles twinkling, white tablecloths, a piano in one corner. I ask the maître d’ if Roger is here and am led to a table. Sure enough, there he is, studying the menu. The unfamiliar, nervous thrill of meeting someone new washes over me.

“Hi, Maggie, I’m Roger,” he says, standing to shake my hand. He is somewhat average-looking; neither handsome nor homely, medium height, just a little chubby. His eyes are blue, his hair brown and receding.

“Hi. Hi there. I’m Maggie. How are you? This is a nice place, isn’t it? It’s very cute. My sister says they have great food.” I cringe inwardly, blushing. Really should get that babbling tendency looked at.

Roger smiles. “Have a seat.”

I sit and settle my bag at my feet, then fiddle with the silverware. “So,” I say. “This is nice. Thank you for coming, too. I mean, for, well…oh, shit, I’m sorry.” I laugh nervously. “I don’t go out much.” Stop talking. Stop. Talking. “On blind dates, I mean. I’m a little nervous, I guess. But you seem nice. And you have a good job, nothing scary, just nursing. So, you know. So far, so good.”

Jesus, listen to me. I sound like a chimpanzee on speed. Roger looks on. “Uh, would you like a drink?” he asks.

Alcohol exacerbates my tendency to blather, so I should definitely refuse. “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay,” I tell the waiter. Clamping my lips shut, I force myself to wait for Roger to speak.

“Will is married to your sister, right?” he asks.

“Yes.” Good job, Maggie!

“And am I correct in thinking that you guys are twins?”

“Yes.”

“Identical, right?”

“Yes.”

His eyebrows rise slightly. Perhaps now is not the time to shut up, after all. “Yes, uh-huh. We’re twins. Identical twins, you’re right. She’s older by two minutes, but I like to say that Mom loves me best because I weighed less. Christy was nine pounds. Came out of Mom like a bullet. Caused some pretty nasty tearing.”

No wonder I’m still single.

“I see,” says Roger. His smile has faded.

I turn my burning face to the menu. Relax, I tell myself. This is not a game show. You have nothing to lose. He likes you or he doesn’t. You like him or you don’t. Calm yourself.

The waiter comes and we order dinner. I’m careful to choose a dish that’s neither the cheapest nor the most expensive. I take another sip of wine. “So, Roger, do you like being a nurse?” I ask. That’s more like it, Mags.

“Yeah, I sure do.” He tells me a little about his work, the hospital. And here’s the thing. He’s not right for me. He’s a little dull…instead of talking about the patients and doctors and that sort of human interest thing, he’s off on a tangent about overtime and benefits and his 401K. Give him a chance, I can hear my sister saying. I try.

Our dinners come. Unlike me, Roger has had no compunction about ordering the most expensive item on the menu. The waiter puts down an enormous lobster, red and steaming, and proceeds to tie a bib around Roger’s neck, making him look like a giant toddler. The lobster must weigh four or five pounds, making it a sumo wrestler among its peers. Roger rips off a claw with gladiator-esque machismo and vanquishes it with the provided nutcracker.

“So you’re a chef, Maggie?” he asks. He twists his fork into the claw and wrestles out a huge piece of meat, dunks it in butter and shoves it in his mouth. Butter and lobster juice run down his chin, but he takes his time wiping. The odds that I will love this man for the rest of my life are rapidly waning.

“Oh, no, no. Not a chef. I own Joe’s Diner in Gideon’s Cove. I cook, but I’m not a chef. Big difference.” I can’t take my eyes off his greasy, glistening mouth.