I WAKE UP ALONE, roughly twelve hours after I arrived. It’s just starting to get light outside.

“Malone?” I call out softly. There’s no answer, but Colonel’s head pops up at the side of the bed. “Hey, Colonel,” I say, patting him. I get out of bed, pull on my shirt and pants and pad into the kitchen. There’s a note on the table, anchored by the little tin of hand cream.

Maggie—Coffee’s there if you want it. Take this.

And that’s it.

I sigh and flop in the chair. I gather the “this” in his note is the hand cream, and I take a minute to study my hands. They do feel better than usual, and the redness is a little less, but I still feel mildly disappointed. After changing-your-perspective-on-the-world, mind-altering, life-transforming, earth-moving, sky-shattering sex, it would have been nice to see the other party responsible.

I realize I’m smiling. Possibly purring. Then, acknowledging that I have to get home for a shower and change of clothes before I go to the diner, I get up to find my socks.

All that morning, I’m in a great mood. Every now and then, a bit of last night will flash through my head, and I feel quite steamy. A little smile stays on my lips as I flip home fries and pancakes, crack eggs and pour coffee. Malone, I assume, is out checking his traps. Soon he’ll come back. Maybe, for the first time, he’ll come into the diner. Maybe he’ll finally cash in on that piece of pie. Maybe he’ll stare at me as I try to act normal. He might even smile as he drinks his coffee.

I didn’t see him smile last night, not really. It was dark. But boy, it was—

“Maggie, love, could I get a spot of coffee?”

“Hey, Father Tim,” I call. Now the blush on my cheeks is from guilt.

“Don’t you look rosy this morning! I rang you last night but got your machine.” Tim holds up his cup for me to pour, the move of a regular.

“Oh, well, you know, I think I just felt like going to bed early,” I stammer. It’s not a lie. “You know, sometimes you just get…and you just…have to go to…bed.” Or get carried to bed, as the case may be, by the incredibly sexy guy who lifts you like you’re a bit of milkweed seed and kisses you like it’s his last act on earth…which, I’m happy to say, it wasn’t.

Father Tim notices my daze. “Are you all together, Maggie? You seem distracted.”

I glance around the diner. The morning rush is past, Judy is checking lottery numbers and Georgie is whistling in back. I decide that I owe my pal here a little time and sit down. “Sorry, Father Tim. How are you?”

He leans back in his seat. “Well, now, I’m just fine, Maggie,” Father Tim says, and proceeds to tell me about the choir’s latest endeavor. “It would’ve required divine intervention for them to pull off that Beethoven piece, and it seems that our Lord was busy with other things,” he chuckles.

Beethoven. Malone plays Beethoven. My cheeks warm, but I force my thoughts back to Father Tim.

Maybe it’s because I’m not a proper parishioner, maybe it’s because we’re roughly the same age, but I know Father Tim and I have a different relationship. A true friendship. He’s told me all about his family, his childhood, and I’ve reciprocated. I like to think he’s not just a priest with me, but a regular guy, if priests are allowed to be regular guys. Of course, that’s the kind of thinking that leads me into trouble, but even a priest must need to relax around someone once in a while.

Half an hour later, he leaves the diner. And while I’m always happy for his friendship, it’s something of a revelation that I suddenly have someone else to think of. Even if it’s Malone who barely speaks…at least it’s something. In the space of a night, Father Tim isn’t the only man in town. About time you left My boy alone, I imagine God saying. “Sorry,” I whisper.

I glance at my watch. Jonah usually takes only a couple of hours to check his traps, but I know that Malone is more serious than my brother. He has a lot more traps, too, and further offshore, as well. Still, I hope Malone will make it in today. If he doesn’t, maybe he’ll call.

By three o’clock, I’m irritated with myself. By five, disgusted. By eight-thirty, I’m mad at Malone, and by ten, I hate him.

He didn’t drop by the diner. Or my apartment. And he hasn’t called me. I throw myself onto my couch with punishing force.

It seems I’ve made the mistake of far too many women…assuming that last night meant something. Something more than a physical sensation, that is. Colonel comes over and nudges my feet until I move them, then climbs carefully onto the couch. “Naughty boy,” I tell him automatically, sitting up a little to give him more room.

What do I really know about Malone? I search my memory, sifting through the reams of gossip that I’ve heard in ten years of diner work.

Malone was a few years ahead of me in school…four or five, maybe. I can’t remember us being in high school at the same time, and as my father pointed out, he moved to town at some point during his teenage years. Maybe from Jonesport or Lubec, somewhere north of here. I know he married young, maybe just out of high school. I can’t remember his wife’s name, but I do remember the buzz when she left him.

I had just taken over the diner, was struggling through a crash course in restaurant management, dealing with things like inventory and ordering and how not to burn people’s food, so I don’t have a clear memory of it. But it was quite a little scandal in our town, and people gossiped about it fiercely. She left while he was away, as I recall. He came home to an empty house, found out that his wife had taken their daughter to Oregon or Washington with another man. There were rumors that Malone had knocked her around, that he couldn’t get joint custody because of it, rumors that she was a lesbian, rumors that she joined a cult. The usual nonsense from a small town.

Aside from that, I haven’t heard much about dark, silent Malone. He works hard, that’s widely known; first one out, last one back. His haul is usually the largest of the year, despite the fact that he only hires a sternman to help him during the summer and does the rest of the season alone. He is or has been president of the lobstermen’s association around here. Once in a while, the local paper will mention him speaking out against over-regulation and fishing rights, but again, I haven’t paid too much attention. Malone never meant anything to me, other than being the slightly scary guy who gave me a ride last year.

“We know he’s great in the sack,” I tell Colonel. “And that he doesn’t know how to use a telephone.”

As irritated with myself as I am with Malone, I pace around the apartment. I put the TV on, then turn it off. Maybe I’ll paint my toenails, I think, then immediately dismiss the idea, as it takes patience and I have none. Time for Christy. I snatch up the phone and hit speed dial. “Hi, it’s me,” I say. “Hey, I was just, you know, reading this book about a woman who’s sleeping with this guy, and the sex is really good and she thinks it means something, but he never calls her. What do you think?”

“Ah…do you mean about the plot or…”

I choke. “Shit! Father Tim! I’m sorry! I thought I hit the button for my sister…”

He laughs. “Not to worry, Maggie, not to worry.” He pauses. “It sounds like your book makes another strong case for marriage first, don’t you think?”

I flush with guilt. “Oh, I guess. It’s just that that hardly happens anymore. Waiting for marriage.”

“And no doubt that explains why the divorce rate is so terribly high. More people should be like you, Maggie. Willing to wait to get to know someone before rushing into a purely physical relationship.”

I grimace, so very, very glad that Father Tim can’t see my face. “Sometimes,” I say, trying to get it through my thick head, “you feel such a strong attraction to someone that you think it must be a sign.”

He pauses. “I…I really wouldn’t know.” His voice is gentle.

“Of course not! I’m sorry…It’s just that sometimes…you know what? Forget it. I was just thinking of someone—well, this person in the book.” I stop talking, picturing Father Tim at home, maybe in his bedroom (not that I’ve ever seen it), his kind and laughing eyes, his ready smile. “Father Tim,” I ask tentatively, “do you ever wonder if you made the right choice? You must get so lonely sometimes.”

Father Tim is quiet for a moment. “Well, sure, of course. Don’t we all? Of course I sometimes think about what life would have held had I not been called to the priesthood.”

I sit up straighter. “Really?”

“Sure, now.” His voice is wistful. “It’s a common enough complaint in my vocation, loneliness is. Every once in a while, I find myself picturing what it would be like to have a wife, a few children…” His voice trails off.

“Uh-huh,” I breathe, afraid that saying more will break the intimacy of the moment, simultaneously thrilled and horrified to get this glimpse behind the curtain, as it were. To see the great Oz revealed.

“But those thoughts are fleeting,” he says, his voice stronger. “For me, it’s like dreaming you’re the president or an astronaut. I love the life I have as a priest, and those daydreams are just that…bits of fluff that pass right out of my head.”

Moment over. “I guess it’s only human to wonder,” I say. “And you know, Father Tim, even if you don’t have, you know, a family…well, we all love you here in Gideon’s Cove. You’re a wonderful priest.”

“Thank you, Maggie,” he says gently. “You have a gift of making people feel very special. You know that, I hope.”

I smile, feel a warm squeeze in my chest. “Thanks, Father Tim,” I half whisper.

After we hang up, I go into the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. I like my face. It’s not beautiful, not really, but it’s nice enough. Pretty. A pleasing, friendly face. And to hear Father Tim confide in me, tell me I have a gift…well. I like my face even more. Of course, Christy’s face is exactly like mine, but that’s a minor detail.

There’s a knock at the door, and I jump.

It’s Malone, his face as cheerful as the angel of death. Irritation, nervousness and attraction flutter around in my chest as I open the door. “Hi,” I say. “Hey. How are you, Malone? Oh, what a nice night, isn’t it? I thought maybe it was raining.”

He stands there, looking at me as if assessing my babble, then deigns to speak. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I echo in full idiot mode. “So. Want to come in?”

He steps inside, immediately making my apartment seem even smaller than it is. Colonel slips off the couch and comes over to greet my guest, wagging gently. “Hey, boy,” Malone says, bending down to pet Colonel’s head. Colonel licks his hand and goes to his doggy bed in the corner and begins his nightly ritual—five turns in a tight circle, followed by intensive sniffing, followed by the actual lying down. I watch him intently so as not to have to look at Malone, who is staring at me. Don’t say anything, Maggie. Let him go first. Keep your mouth shut.

“Can I get you a beer or some coffee or something, Malone?” I ask. My inner self rolls her eyes at me.

“No, thanks,” Malone says.

“Okay, well, um, do you want to take off your coat?”

He takes it off and hangs it on a hook. The silence stretches on.

“So, Malone, what are you doing here?” I ask. “I mean, it’s a little late. Almost eleven.”

“I wanted to see you,” he says, and there’s a softening around his mouth. My stomach squeezes gently in response. God, I’m such a slut.

“Well, you know, Malone, I do have a phone. And I am in the book. Maybe you could call next time.” My prissy tone doesn’t fool me; even now, I’m kind of hoping he’ll take me on the kitchen table. He steps closer, and my heart rate kicks up. Oh, yes, the table…

“Line was busy,” he murmurs, his scraping voice sending tremors to my joints.

“What? Oh. Yes. Yes. That’s right. I was…on the…you know…the phone.”

He takes my hands in his and pulls me closer, studying my mouth. I can feel the heat from his body, smell his soap and laundry detergent and a faint, salty smell. Resisting a strong urge to lick his neck, I swallow. “Who were you talking to?” he asks, just when I want him to kiss me the way he did last night. He raises an eyebrow, waiting.

“What? Excuse me, I mean?” My voice is tight.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Um…I—well, I think it was Father Tim.”

Malone’s eyes meet mine.

“Yeah, you know, I’m on all these committees and stuff. At church. Church committees.”

His eyes return to my mouth, his tangled lashes lowering. Lashes like that are just not fair. “That’s nice,” he mutters.

“Malone,” I whisper hoarsely, then clear my throat. “You think you could drop the chitchat and kiss me?”