RAGMENTS OF LAST NIGHT WHIZ around in my brain like ice being crushed in a blender. Snatches of conversation, images, a deep concern that yes, I really did say that.

It’s three-twenty in the morning. I’m not really sure what time Will and my father tucked me in. My brain grinds against my skull, and my right eye apparently has an ice pick in it. My teeth have sprouted fur, and my mouth feels like something reptilian and evil died in there.

I stagger into the bathroom and swallow two Motrin and two Tylenol at the sink. I know this isn’t good to take these on an empty stomach, but I don’t care. The thought of drinking milk causes ugly things to happen in my digestive tract. I take a shower and feel that I’ve advanced an inch toward normal humanity.

My apartment feels stuffy and close, and I certainly don’t want to be around food right now, so the diner is out. I pull on my coat, my wool hat, mittens, and grab a flashlight.

“Colonel,” I say, and my brain recoils from the awful noise. “Come, boy,” I whisper.

Colonel has never needed a leash; he just follows me everywhere with breathtaking devotion. We head out into the pitch-black morning.

The town is quiet; there is only the gentle sound of water shushing against the rocky shore. The wind is still at this hour, and the moon long gone, making the stars glitter in the inky black sky. I walk down dark streets, past sleeping houses, until I get to a little path that will take me up to Douglas Point. It’s not a nature preserve precisely, but it’s close. There’s just one house up there, owned by a wealthy Microsoft executive, and he only visits it once or twice a year. He’s quite nice about letting us locals use the grounds for hiking and fishing.

The smell of pine and sea makes my roiling stomach feel better, and the breeze seems to blow all thought from my head. I know what I did last night, but at this moment, my mind is empty. It’s just Colonel and me right now.

I go along the sea to a large outcropping of rock that sits directly over the water. In fact, it’s called Bowsprit Rock, as it resembles that particular part of a boat. Rising behind me like a specter is the granite memorial to fishermen who died at sea. Carved on it are the names of eighteen men Gideon’s Cove has lost to the ravenous ocean. Eighteen men so far, that is.

The wind is a little stronger here, and still quite cold, though it is almost April. The rock is like ice under my bottom, but it feels good, cleansing and solid. I switch off the flashlight and let my eyes adjust. Colonel lies down next to me, contentedly chewing a stick, and I put my arm around his neck and look east. Dawn is far away, but the stars are brilliant enough tonight that I can see whitecaps here and there. The water slaps against the rocky shore, shushing and whispering.

With a sigh, I lie back and look into the Milky Way. It’s so beautiful, so cold and pure and distant, hypnotic. Colonel snuggles against my side, and I idly stroke his thick fur, just looking into the heavens. How long I stay like this, I don’t know, as I’ve forgotten my watch, but the sound of a motor causes me to sit up. There goes a lobster boat, out to check the pots. The lights of the boat seem warm and welcoming compared with the distant ice of the stars. It might be Jonah, though he’s on the lazy side of lobstermen. I squint, but I can’t make out who it is. Malone, maybe. Jonah’s mentioned that he’s usually the first one out, the last one back.

Last year, the story goes, Malone and his cousin, Trevor, a man as sunny as Malone is dark, went in on a new boat. Real pretty, the local gossip sources said. Eighty-five thou, maybe more. They were going to do some more commercial work, perhaps even start a few scallop beds. But Trevor, who often came into Joe’s Diner and flirted equally with Judy and me, disappeared one day. Apparently, he sold the boat out from under Malone and took off with the money, leaving Malone with the payments. Trevor was never seen again. Rumors flew—Mafia, drugs, homosexuality, murder—but Malone remained, silently working his traps himself, using the boat he’d had for the past ten years.

Well. I’d heard about it—you don’t own the only restaurant in town and not hear these things—but I don’t really know Malone. He was five or six years ahead of me in school. As he’s barely spoken to me, ever, I don’t really know what his situation is, a rare event in Gideon’s Cove.

The grinding in my head has subsided to the pulsating of a wounded jellyfish. My ass is numb, my cheeks stiff with cold. With a sigh, I stand up. “Let’s go, big boy,” I say to the dog. We turn and head for the diner as the sky lightens almost imperceptibly on the eastern horizon.

I put on coffee and start pulling together some muffins. Cranberry lemon today, and raisin bran for Bob Castellano, who needs his fiber. Mrs. K. likes them, too.

Soon the diner will start to fill up with people who will want to hear about my little speech last night. Or people who witnessed it and want to relive it. Once again, I’ve embarrassed myself. At least no one can say I’m not entertaining.

By the time the second batch of muffins comes out, I’ve started the potatoes for Octavio’s rightfully famous hash browns. As if summoned, he clatters through the back door, and I wince at the noise. “Hi, boss,” he says cheerfully.

“Hi.” I wait for the questions, but none comes.

Instead, Octavio busies himself at the stove, checks the muffins. “How about some coffee, boss?” He doesn’t wait for the answer, just pours me a cup and hands it to me, then starts cracking eggs into a large bowl. His big hands can handle two eggs at a time, and he’s ambidextrous, at least when it comes to egg cracking. Smack! Four eggs. Smack! Eight. Smack! A dozen eggs lay waiting innocently in their bowl, not realizing they’re about to be whisked without mercy. He glances at me, his face open and friendly.

“Would you like a raise?” I ask.

“It’s okay, boss.”

“You deserve one.”

“Maybe in the summer, then.” He smiles. There’s a space between his two front teeth that I find very appealing.

“So I really told Father Tim I love him, didn’t I?” I ask.

“Yeah, boss. Sorry.” He winks at me and continues frying the hash browns.

“Any questions?”

“Nope.”

“You’re getting a raise this week.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” he agrees.

Octavio is excellent at getting raises. Last year he got a whopper by not talking about that guy I’d met, and now he’ll get one for just being kind. “I wish I were as cool as you, Octavio,” I say.

“Keep trying,” he answers encouragingly.

At eight-thirty, Father Tim comes in and slides into his usual booth. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. “Good morning, Maggie,” he says gently. Rolly and Ben halt their conversation shamelessly, and the board of education members in the corner drop their discussion on cutting the art program. It’s to be expected—I’m the best show in town.

“Oh, Father Tim,” I sigh. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I hope I didn’t embarrass you, though I certainly embarrassed myself.”

He smiles ruefully. “Not to worry, Maggie, not to worry.” He allows me to pour him a cup of coffee. “Maggie, sit with me a moment, won’t you, dear?”

I obey. He smells like damp wool and grass, the smell of Ireland, though he’s been in America for six years now. His hands are elegant and smooth, and I hide my own hands in my lap, conscious as always that they’re rough and red, the hands of a much older woman.

“Maggie, I’ve been thinking about our little problem here,” he says in a low voice. His eyes are kind, and my heart squeezes with painful, hopeless love. “This…this crush on me, it’s getting in the way of things, isn’t it?”

I nod, feeling the blush creep down my neck. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“I’ve given it some thought, Maggie, dear, and I wondered if I might help you in some way.” He takes a sip of coffee, then cocks his head. “What would you think if I set you up with some proper men?”

My mouth drops open. “Uh…well…um…Excuse me?”

“Well, Maggie, I think it might help you, ah, move on, shall we say, if you’d a nice man in your life, don’t you think?”

Humiliation sloshes through my limbs. The priest is trying to fix me up. Oh, God. “Um…I…”

“Proper men, as I said. Believe or not, I know a few.”

“Okay, um, well, what exactly do you mean by proper men?”

Tim leans back in the booth, takes a sip of coffee. “Well, Catholic would be the best place to start, of course.”

“How optimistic you are,” I say. “Single Catholic men in Gideon’s Cove. I can think of one, Father Tim, and he’s eighty years old and a double amputee. Plus, he’s already proposed, and I turned him down.”

Father Tim chuckles. “Ah, Maggie, ye of little faith.” He pauses and glances toward the counter. “Would you mind if I grabbed one of those muffins? I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

A pang of guilt makes a direct hit. Here he is, hungry and unfed, trying to solve my problems. “Sure, Father Tim! Of course! Whatever you want. Would you rather have pancakes? Or an omelet? I can have Octavio make you something more substantial than a muffin.”

“Well, now, that would be lovely. If it’s no trouble, that is.” He tells me what he wants and I call the order to Octavio.

“Judy,” I ask. “Would you bring this out to Father Tim when it’s ready?”

Judy sighs hugely, then nods, undeterred from reading the paper. “Can I have some more coffee?” Rolly asks.

“Why don’t you just help yourself?” she answers, gesturing in the direction of the coffeepot. I hop up and refill his cup, then return to Father Tim.

“All right then,” Father Tim says. “Now, bear with me, Maggie, because I know that when it comes to dating, you haven’t had much luck. But you’re also a bit on the fussy side, aren’t you?”

“Well, I don’t really think so,” I answer. Am I? Granted, I’m not Chantal, whose male friends require only a beating heart, but I don’t think I’m really fussy, either….

“I think it’s better if you keep an open mind. I’ll have the gentlemen give you a call, and you can arrange a meeting and have a chat. How’s that, dear?”

After Gifted Roger, I think I’d rather feed myself to sharks than go on another blind date. “Yeah…no,” I say.

“Maggie,” Father Tim says, frowning slightly. “Let me be blunt.” I wince, but he continues. “You’re a lovely girl, but I think you need a little help when it comes to dating.”

From a priest? I yelp in my head.

“We can’t have you embarrassing yourself every time we run into each other, now, can we?” Father Tim whispers, smiling sweetly.

I slide lower in the booth. My fists are clenched so hard in mortification that the skin over my knuckle cracks. My knee bumps Father Tim’s, and I jolt upright in my seat.

“Think of it as your penance, Maggie,” he says, eyes twinkling. “For overindulging last night.”

“What about forgive and forget?” I mutter. “Turn the other cheek? Go and sin no more?”

“Save it, lass, you’re with a professional. I won’t take no for an answer.”

I sigh. Rolly spins on his stool toward me. “I think you should try it, sweetheart,” he offers.

“Thanks, Rolly.” I close my eyes. “Okay, Father Tim. But you have to promise that they’ll be good, okay? Real possibilities.” I think for a minute. “Hey, what about Martin Broulier? He’s single, isn’t he?” Martin works out of town, a seemingly nice guy in his forties, maybe, not bad-looking. His wife and he divorced about a year ago.

Father Tim’s face brightens as Judy trudges over with his plate. “Thank you, Judy, darlin’, thank you. That’s lovely.” He takes a bite and closes his eyes in pleasure. “About Martin, no. He’s divorced.”

I frown. “Can’t we be Vatican II about this?”

“Well, Maggie, you couldn’t get married in the church, and we wouldn’t want that, would we? It wouldn’t be a true marriage. Unless he can get an annulment, that is.”

Maybe I’ll check Martin out on my own, outside the auspices of the papal police here. Father Tim continues. “No, I’ve a few ideas. I spoke with Father Bruce at St. Pius, and we’re sure we’ll come up with something.”

Great. Two priests plotting my love life. Sadly, they’ll probably be better at it than I am. I have nothing to lose, I suppose, having tossed away my dignity many times before. In fact, maybe this will work better. Having your friends pick out someone for you isn’t a bad way to meet a man. Father Tim knows me, he likes me—surely he’ll pick someone decent.

“Yeah. Okay,” I say, my enthusiasm rising. “Thank you, Father Tim. I mean, after last night, I can’t believe you’re even talking to me, let alone fixing me up on a date. God, I was such a jerk! I’m so sorry. Again.”

“Water under the bridge, Maggie,” he says around a mouthful. “Georgie! How are you, lad?”

“Hi! Hi, Maggie! Hi, Tim! It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Maggie? It smells so nice in here! I love the smell in here, don’t you, Tim?” Georgie slides in next to me and buries his face against my breast. “Hi, Maggie!”

“Hi, Georgie,” I say. “How’s my best buddy?”

Father Tim and I exchange fond smiles over his breakfast, and for the first time in a while, I feel some real hope.

THE FIRST DATE is less than pleasing for both parties involved.

I’ve agreed to meet Oliver Wachterski at a bowling alley outside Jonesport. This way, I think, we’ll have something to do in case we hate each other.

I get to the ratty little building, which is packed. Once inside, I realize that I’ve neglected to ask Oliver what he looks like or tell him what I look like. Instead, we’ve just agreed to meet somewhere at Snicker’s Alley. The pleasing crash of bowling pins thunders around me, and I wander around a little, being a few minutes early. I walk past the game room, music and gunfire twisting together in a rather interesting cacophony. I don’t see any men by themselves; instead, there are fathers and team members and buddies.

I stroll the length of the alley again, pretending to look simultaneously amused and nonchalant. Ah, the bathrooms. Fascinating. I stop at the end of the alley, where a cute little family is ensconced. The older kids, both girls, watch as their little brother heaves the ball onto the lane with both hands. He must be only four or five, a small kid, and the ball rolls with hypnotic slowness toward the pins. It hits the left bumper, then drifts back to the center.

“Won’t be long now, pal,” calls the dad. “Getting closer!”

“I think you might get a strike, Jamie,” says the younger sister.

The parents are sitting at the scoring table, holding hands. The woman looks at her husband, smiling, and he gives her a quick kiss.

“No!” the little boy cries out. His ball has stopped in the center of the lane. “No!” He bursts into tears.

Immediately, the older girl picks him up. “Don’t worry, buddy! That’s really special when that happens! Hardly anyone can do that, right, Melody?”

“That’s right, Jamie. You get extra points for that!” The girls exchange a conspiratorial big-girl smile over Jamie’s head.

The alley attendant comes over and ventures out to retrieve the ball. He has a sticker for the boy, which cheers him up immensely. “I won a sticker, Mommy!” he shouts.

I smile. What a wonderful family, I think, studying the parents. They seem to be perfectly ordinary people, neither handsome nor ugly, fat nor thin. And yet they obviously love each other and have tenderhearted kids. How is something so simple so hard to get?

Someone taps my shoulder. “Maggie?”

I turn. “Oh! Oliver?”

He nods. “Nice to meet you.” He’s nice-looking, even features, lovely brown eyes that hint at smiling. My heart rises with hope.

“Hi. Yes, I’m Maggie Beaumont. It’s really nice to meet you, too. I was just watching this cute family. The boy’s ball didn’t make it to the pins, and the sisters picked him up and they were all…” I realize I’m in danger of entering the city of Babble-On. “Well. They were very nice.”

“Want to get some shoes?” Oliver asks. He’s smiling.

“Sure.”

We rent our shoes and find our lane, number thirteen. I forget if thirteen is lucky or unlucky, so I decide that it is indeed lucky. We’re between a group of serious league bowlers and another family with young kids.

“So you own a diner?” Oliver asks.

“Yes, I own Joe’s in Gideon’s Cove.”

“I’ve never been there,” he says. “But now I have a reason to come.” He has dimples when he smiles, and I blush in pleasure.

“Why don’t you go first?” he asks.

The first few rounds are fine. We cheer for each other and chat easily. It’s when I mention Christy that the first warning shot across the bow is fired.

“You’re an identical twin?” he asks.

“Yup.” My smile fades at the speculative look on his face…slightly lecherous, eyebrows raised, smirk on his lips. The boys in high school used to make the same face.

But he says nothing, and when we sit together for a moment, he casually puts his arm around my shoulders.

“This is fun,” he says. His hand brushes my neck, and my skin breaks out in gooseflesh. Not the good kind. He leans in for a kiss. I don’t stop him, but I don’t really want…ew. Very wet. Very spitty. Tongue already? Okay, enough. I jerk back.

“Yes. It’s fun. Bowling…well, I’ve always liked bowling. Okay! Your turn! Tie-breaker, so put on your game face! You’re the Red Sox, I’m the Yankees. Actually, I want to be the Red Sox. Okay? So watch out! Give it your best shot.”

Finally, I manage to wrestle my mouth into submission. I stare at my hands and wish I hadn’t bothered using my ultra-expensive rose oil/lanolin/honey cream this evening.

Oliver gives me an odd look and gets up, and I take a quick swipe at my mouth. He picks up his ball from the little conveyor belt and goes into his windup. Just as the ball flies from his hands, he falls to the floor, writhing.

“Ow! Shit! Ow!”

I rush to his side, and the people from lanes twelve and fourteen stop what they’re doing.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “What happened?”

“My groin! I popped my hernia. Damn it!”

“You what?” I wince. His face is bright red, and he’s clutching himself rather graphically with both hands. Several people gather around us.

“I popped a hernia, okay? Just push on it, and I should be able to stand.” Though his face is red, his eyes are…calm. Hmm.

“Do you need any help?” the mother from lane fourteen asks.

“No,” Oliver snaps. “Just push on it, Maggie.”

My hands instinctively grasp each other. “Well…why don’t you push on it?”

“Because I can’t! You need leverage! Just do it, Maggie!”

“Push on where, exactly?” I ask. A prickle of mistrust crawls up my neck.

“My groin. Right there. Jesus, Maggie, I’m in pain here!”

Is he? Or is he faking? Would he do this just for some weird sexual thrill? I barely know this guy. I don’t want to push on his groin! Blech!

“Come on, Maggie!” he says.

“Right. Right, okay…it’s just that I never…you know…hernias? I don’t know anything about hernias. Maybe we should wait for a medic. I’ll call 911.”

“No! This happens all the time. For God’s sake, Maggie, just push.” His teeth are gritted now, and I can’t tell if it’s from pain or frustration that I’m not feeling him up. He certainly looks pissed off.

“Um, okay, so where exactly?” I say, biting my lip.

“Here.” He grabs my hand and shoves it on his…well, you know. His male place. The family next to us hustles their kids away.

“Go ahead, honey,” one of the male league players says. “Push.”

Grimacing, I look away and give a tentative push against his, um, flesh.

“Harder, Maggie! Harder!” Is that pain or sexual frenzy? I just can’t tell. “Push harder!”

Oh, crap, is this for real? He certainly isn’t good with pain, and that doesn’t make me like him any better. I push a little harder.

“Will you stop fucking around and do it?” Oliver snarls.

Years of lifting giant bags of potatoes and onions, wrestling economy-size sacks of rice and flour, endless bike riding and walking, have made me quite strong. It’s something I’m rather proud of, my strength. I look down at Oliver’s speculative eyes, and push with all my might.

His scream rips through the air, soaring over the clatter and smash of pins. Every single person in the place turns to look, reducing the racket of the bowling alley to the silence of an empty church, except for Ollie’s shriek. Then his voice breaks out of the range of human hearing, and all is perfectly quiet.

“Better?” I ask.

Twenty minutes later, Oliver is carried out by the ambulance people. “Good luck,” I call as he is trundled past.

“Bitch,” he chokes. His face has returned to bright red from the purple my great strength induced. I feel no guilt whatsoever. Harder he said, and harder he got.

“Well, if he didn’t have a hernia, I hope you gave him one, sweetie,” says a woman leaguer kindly. “I thought he was kind of a prick.”

I smile at her. “Me, too.”

I make a mental note on the drive home: thirteen is definitely bad luck.