T WASN’T ALWAYS SO, my state of solitude. Once, I thought I was going to get married. Once, I was pre-engaged (not that that’s an official title or anything, but I do have a cheap little pearl ring to prove it). Once, I had a steady boyfriend whom I loved and who, I thought, loved me.

Skip Parkinson was a high school god—handsome, reasonably smart, from a well-off family and, most importantly, gifted at sports. Baseball, in particular. And when I say gifted, I mean fantastic. Because of Skip, our school made states each year. Because of Skip, we won three of those four years. Because of Skip, newspapers and college scouts visited Gideon’s Cove, sniffing around, eating at the diner, coming to games.

Skip (somehow short for Henry) played shortstop, the sexiest position of all. He batted.345 freshman year,.395 sophomore,.420 junior and an astonishing.463 our senior year. Stanford called and Skip answered, hoping to join the ranks of the university’s famous alumni: David McCarty of Boston fame, or, less impressive to a son of Red Sox Nation, Mike Mussina of the New York Yankees.

We dated from sophomore year on. I was the chosen one and not a bad match for Skip; I was smart, too, smarter than he was, honestly. It was because he needed to pass trig that we fell in love. I was his tutor, and one day as I attempted to explain the joys of angle conversion capabilities, he suddenly said, “Maggie, I can’t think. You smell too good.” We kissed, and it was magical.

Skip was my first real boyfriend, though I had held hands with Ricky Conway on the bus in fourth grade, danced twice with Christopher Beggins in eighth grade and kissed Mark Robideaux after a football game freshman year. But with Skip, Mom would have to pry the phone out of my sweaty adolescent hand each night and order me to go to bed; Skip would take me to the movies and we’d kiss during the coming attractions, then watch the show in squirming, wonderful discomfort. I loved him with all the intensity that only adolescents can feel, to the point where Christy actually felt jealous.

Skip and I lost our virginities to each other on the bunk of his parents’ sailboat on Fourth of July weekend, a grave event unlightened by any laughter or humor. I considered going to college in California to be near him, but I ended up at Colby instead, unable to venture further from home or Christy than that. All through college, Skip and I stayed together, calling each other, writing, e-mailing, reuniting on those happy holidays where we flew into each other’s arms and stayed there till the final call for his plane. His parents, both lawyers, didn’t quite approve of him having a townie girlfriend while the fruits of Stanford were ripe for the picking, but hey. We loved each other.

When Stanford went to the national finals our senior year, Skip was talking to coaches, scouts and reporters. The Minnesota Twins picked him in the draft, and he went to New Britain, Connecticut, to their farm team. That summer, I made the ten-hour drive down four times, cheering and screaming maniacally when my boyfriend—my boyfriend!—came up to the plate. But it was hard. If we managed a night together, it was rare. He was so busy, you see. Traveling so much. I understood completely.

When Minnesota called him up, Gideon’s Cove went wild. A Major League Baseball player…from Gideon’s Cove! It was a miracle. People couldn’t stop talking about it. My family subscribed to the Minneapolis Star Tribune, as did about half the people in town, and we pored over it each morning. When Skip’s name was mentioned, the article would be enlarged on the town hall photocopier and hung in the diner, “Skip Parkinson, rookie shortstop” highlighted in yellow so all could see. He would make it, we all said. Our Skip! Little Skip from Overlook Street! He was so good, so talented, so special.

Except in the world of professional baseball, he wasn’t. It’s a lot easier to hit off a twenty-year-old college kid than a forty-year-old veteran who can throw every kind of strike imaginable at ninety-five miles an hour. Skip’s numbers dwindled from an acceptable.294 in New Britain to a dismal.198 in Minnesota. In the field, balls were hit harder, took more vicious bounces. Runners slid into base with damaging accuracy, knowing just how to intimidate a rookie so he’d miss his throw or bobble the ball.

I wrote upbeat letters, called him after every game to try to bolster his spirits. I’d talk about the mechanics of the pitcher, the dive that had been this close to being a double play, the unfair call from the second base ump. Relentlessly optimistic, I spent hours that year cajoling Skip into a better mood.

When his first season was over, and when I was helping out at the diner while Granddad had his heart valves replaced, Skip announced that he was coming back to Maine. He’d “reassess” his baseball career, see “what other options” were out there. The town fathers decided that we’d show our support for young Skip, local hero. A big welcome-home parade. Why not? We could use a little boost at this time of year, the brief tourism season over, another long winter ahead of us.

So Skip’s parents picked him up at the airport and drove him into town where the high school band waited, where the cheerleaders stood shivering in their tiny skirts, where dozens of little kids in Little League T-shirts and caps clutched Skip’s rookie card or a baseball they hoped he’d sign. Just about everyone in town gathered to welcome home Gideon’s Cove’s most famous citizen.

And I waited, too, of course, right in the front of the crowd. Skip had been very busy over the past few weeks, and we’d only talked once or twice. I had called his parents and offered to go to the airport with them to pick Skip up, but they didn’t return my call.

My heart leaped when his parents’ car pulled up to the town green, and we the worshipful began to cheer. I couldn’t wait to see him, to run into his arms and give him a kiss, blush as the crowd would no doubt whistle and yell for Skip and his high school sweetheart. College was over, I didn’t have a real job yet, was just working in the diner, and now Skip was back. Were we too young to get engaged? I thought not.

Yes, I knew it was rare for high school sweethearts to marry…but it certainly happened. Some of the happiest couples out there met in high school. As I scraped the grill or mopped the floors with bleach, took abuse from the summer nuisance and treated grease burns on my hands, I thought of the nice house Skip and I would have. Winter Harbor, maybe. Bar Harbor, even. If he did get re-signed, I’d just travel around with him, be the loving arms he came home to each night, whether he felt discouraged or triumphant. I’d make a great baseball wife.

So Skip got out of the Lexus. And then he turned and gave his hand to someone else. He always was courtly, Skip.

She was a beautiful, elegant girl—woman, I guess—blood-red knit suit, blond hair in a French twist. The mayor and high school baseball coach and head of the Little League waited up on the little gazebo, and Skip and his parents and the blond girl went up and took their seats. There were four chairs waiting for them, I noted, and that fourth chair was not for me.

That was the first time my heart was broken in public.

There were probably murmurs as I pushed my way through the crowd, away from the gazebo. I didn’t hear them. Probably, I was sobbing. I know I was covering my face, because I stumbled a couple of times, my rubbery knees buckling. My parents saw and followed, and it was the most humiliating, painful moment of my life bar none, even counting Father Tim’s first Mass in Gideon’s Cove.

People must have said, “Oh, no, poor Maggie…Gosh, Skip’s moved on and she didn’t even…poor thing.” And while Skip had done an awful, unkind thing, he was nonetheless a star, and it was understandable, wasn’t it? I mean, why stick with your little townie girlfriend if the daughter of a Texas oil baron will have you?

He called me, not right away, but later that weekend. “This thing with Annabelle just happened so fast…I tried to tell you…Things with us were winding down anyway…It’s not like we were exclusive.”

Silly me. I thought we were.

Skip and Annabelle left Gideon’s Cove the next week. That same week my father gave me a two-year-old Golden Retriever and hugged me wordlessly, and Christy had me visit her at grad school. Then my grandfather died suddenly, and I had other things to think about. I was a business owner now. I had a dog to train. A little brother who needed help with homework. Lots to do.

It was with deep satisfaction that I saw Skip sent back to the AA league after an abysmal start with Minnesota. But it didn’t stop him from marrying Annabelle later that same year, and they moved to Bar Harbor, to a house on the water purchased, no doubt, with her daddy’s money.

Skip is now a salesman for a high-end car company, and when they come back to Gideon’s Cove, which is rare, it’s always in some much-admired, sexy sports car or an environment-raping SUV. He never comes to Joe’s Diner, thank God. I haven’t spoken to him since he dumped me.

So if my love life is a source of amusement to the town, it’s understandable. First Skip, now the priest. I try to take it well. For the most part, I’m very happy with my life. I love the diner, and I love my little apartment. I love the old folks I feed and I certainly love my family.

But sometimes at night, when I’m folding laundry or watching TV or planning the diner’s menu for the week, I pretend I’m married. “What do you think? Will people eat butternut squash bisque in this town?” Or, watching the Fan Cam during a Red Sox game, “Look at that guy. Do you think he could chew with his mouth shut?” Or even, when I just want to test it out, I might say “How was your day, honey?”

Colonel wags his beautiful tail when he hears me speaking to my imaginary hubby. Sometimes he comes over and pushes his big white head against me until I smile. That dog licked away a lot of tears during our first few weeks together, and he’s been my emotional barometer ever since. If he could take on human form, I’d marry him instantly. But since that won’t happen, and since Father Tim is not going to leave the priesthood and marry me, I’m a bit helpless when loneliness decides to shove its way so rudely to the front of the line.