MAKE THE MISTAKE of going to see my parents a few days later.

“Hi, Mom,” I say. She’s still in her little uniform from Will’s office—she wears scrubs with bright patterns on them, dogs and cats, flowers, happy faces—although why, we don’t know. She hates sick people and never gets near them if possible, preferring to spend her day fighting with insurance companies instead, usually emerging from her headset in grim victory.

“Oh, Maggie,” she says, slamming a cupboard. “What’s the matter now?”

My mouth drops open. “Um, nothing. Just thought I’d come by.”

“Do you have to bring that dog with you everywhere you go? Honestly, he’s like the security blanket you had when you were three.”

I stare at my mother and stroke Colonel’s head. “Right. Is Dad around?”

“Why? Do you need something?”

“No, he’s just my father, and I love him,” I answer.

“Fine. He’s in the cellar.”

Dad has a little corner in the basement, where he often hides from Mom, pretending to do something constructive. He likes to make birdhouses, and the yard outside is full of tiny creations in every style and color imaginable—Victorian, log cabin, gourd, southwestern, apartment building. His corner has stacks of tiny pieces of wood, a shelf of tools and six or seven birdhouse books. He also has a stash of Robert Ludlum novels and a tiny radio. Dad’s bomb shelter, we call it.

“Hi, Daddy,” I say.

“Go talk to your mother,” he orders, giving me a kiss. “She says you only come here to see me.”

“I’m scared of her today. She’s in quite a mood.”

“Tell me about it. Go.”

“Coward,” I tell him fondly. Obediently, I go upstairs.

“Mom, would you like some tea?” I ask, putting the kettle on.

“When are you going to stop wasting your time at the diner?” she demands, yanking out a chair and slamming herself into it.

Okay. So it’s going to be one of those days. A “Christy Good, Maggie Bad” day.

“I don’t think I’m wasting my time, Mom,” I say resignedly. “I really love it, you know.”

“We didn’t send you to college to be a waitress,” she snaps. “Christy managed to find a decent career. Why can’t you?”

“Right.” I sit down. “I do own the diner, too. And run it. And cook.”

“Well, it’s not as if you bought it. You just took it over from my father. And it’s just a diner, Margaret.” The use of my Christian name indicates that I’ve done something quite heinous. If she calls me Margaret Christine, I’m dead.

“It’s not like you went to cooking school,” Mom continues, her voice brittle and sharp as broken glass. “You just crack eggs and sling hash and fry bacon. Look at your hands, Maggie! Don’t you know people judge you by your hands? Hands make the man, they say.”

Do they, I wonder? “It’s actually clothes, Mom. ‘Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.’”

“What? What are you babbling about?”

“It’s a Mark Twain quote.” She looks blank. “And I might not have gone to culinary school,” I continue, “but the food at Joe’s is great. You know that.”

“So what? Are you going to spend the rest of your life in that greasy little diner?”

“It’s not greasy!”

“That’s your opinion,” she snaps.

“Why are you on my case today, Mom?” I ask through clenched teeth. “Have I done something wrong? I just came to see you and Dad, and you’re all over me.”

“You’d better do something about your life, young lady. And fast. If you want to have a family and do something meaningful with your life, you’d better stop hiding out at the diner.”

I study her. These are the kinds of lectures I’ve heard all my life. In high school, it was Don’t Become Obsessed with That Boy (unfortunately, she was right). In college, it was Study Something That Will Help You Find a Job (again, right on the money…while being an English major at least allows me to quote the classics better than Mummy here, it hasn’t done much to further my career). We’ve since moved on to That Diner is a Dead End and my personal favorite, Your Ovaries Are Shriveling.

These lectures tend to bounce off me like hailstones bouncing on the roof of a car…tiny pings, but no real damage. Doesn’t mean I like them, of course. But today, she seems more worked up than usual.

“Why do you hate the diner, Mom?” I ask. “It was your dad’s.”

“Exactly,” she snaps.

“So? Now it’s a family business. It’s a nice place. I might even win best breakfast in Washington County. I’d think you’d be kind of happy about that.”

“Oh, that silly contest is pointless. And yes, it was my father’s. He worked there seven days a week so I could go to college, make something of myself. Not so my own child would go back there, like some high school dropout. You pay that cook of yours more than you make yourself! Why, Maggie?”

“Because he has five kids, Mom,” I tell her patiently.

“So? If he doesn’t have the sense to use birth control—”

“Okay. That’s enough. I’m leaving. Love you, even though I’m not sure why.” I get up and open the cellar door. “Daddy, stay down there. It’s not safe up here. Love you, you big chicken.”

“Love you, too, baby.”

“I only want what you want, Maggie,” my mother says, her voice a little gentler. “I want you to meet—”

“—someone like Will.” I say the words along with her. “I know, Mom. He’s a great guy. But Christy got him, okay? In fact, you’re the one who picked Christy for him. You didn’t pick me.” I shrug into my coat, my movements quick and angry. “And yes, I want to marry someone nice and have kids, but if it doesn’t happen, it’s not the end of the world, right? I’ll be that helpful spinster daughter everyone dreams of, bringing you a bedpan, changing your sheets, spooning gruel into your mouth. I’ll even give you that nice morphine overdose when the time comes, okay? In fact, I’m tempted to give it to you now. Gotta go.”

I tell myself that I don’t mind, but my hands clench the handlebars of my bike in a death grip. I pedal slowly and carefully so my dog can keep pace. I realize my eyes are tearing. It might be the wind.

Back at Joe’s, Colonel flops down into the bed behind the register and yawns. I squat down to give him a hug, kissing his beautiful white cheeks repeatedly. “I love you, puppy,” I tell him. “I love you, best boy.” He licks me gently, enjoying the salt deposits on my cheeks.

“Hey, boss,” Octavio calls. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Judy approaches me. “Four more ballots, Maggie,” she says, fishing some papers out of her apron. “I think we’re gonna win this year.” Judy showing optimism is a near-biblical event, so my mood must be written clearly over my face.

As I’m doing the last bit of cleanup, I decide to drop in on Christy. Before the thought is fully formed, she sticks her head in the diner door, and I can glimpse Violet’s stroller just behind her on the sidewalk. “Maggie? Want to run some errands with me?” my sister asks.

“Sure,” I say. “Just let me finish scraping the grill.”

I finish my chores and wash my hands, grimacing at the grease under my fingernails. But my hands are a little better. The painful cracks that appear at my fingernail line are healing. I’ll have to find out where Malone got that cream.

Christy is waiting on the sidewalk. “I heard you’re wasting your life, slaving away for nothing,” she says.

“It’s always been a dream of mine,” I tell her. “Can I push Violet?”

“Sure.”

The thrill of having identical twins in town has never left the good folk of Gideon’s Cove. Colonel walks beside us like a guard, and we make a bit of a parade (or freak show, depending on how you look at it). School is getting out, and several kids beeline for my dog, one pretty young girl cooing at the sleeping Violet. Two ladies from church stop to admire the baby and advise Christy to bundle her up a little more. “Thanks, I will,” Christy tells them as we continue. “She’s wearing a onesie, tights, a turtleneck, a wool sweater, corduroys, socks and a coat,” Christy mutters to me. “I may be cooking her as it is.”

The barber comes out to greet us and give Colonel a cookie. From inside his shop, Christy and I hear a roar of laughter…there’s the usual gang of older men—Bob Castellano, Rolly, Ben—and, strangely enough, our dad. Apparently, Dad left the bomb shelter and is hanging out with the guys.

“Your father sure is funny,” Mike, the barber, tells us fondly. “What a riot that guy is!”

Christy and I exchange a glance. Riot is not the usual word that leaps to mind when thinking of our henpecked, quiet dad. Mike goes back inside, but Christy and I linger a minute in silence. Dad waves, smiling, and continues regaling the other men.

“That’s kind of nice, seeing Dad with some friends,” Christy comments.

“Sure,” I agree. Odd, but nice.

We go into the little pharmacy to get some diapers. Colonel waits outside, patient and trusty as a statue. As I am separated from my dog and pushing the carriage, a few people call me Christy, and I answer as if I were. Christy smiles and pretends not to hear as she peruses the aisles for shampoo and chocolate.

“Tell Will I said hello,” says Mrs. Grunion.

“I sure will,” I answer.

We leave the store, and Christy takes over pushing. Violet starts to stir, and I peep in at her. “Hi, sugar plum,” I say. She rewards me with a smile and a yawn, her cheeks rosy. “Who’s your auntie, hmm? Can you say hi to Auntie Mags?”

“Ah-nu,” she says cheerfully.

“I think that was hello,” I tell my sister.

She grins. “So what’s going on with you and Malone?”

“Nothing,” I tell her. “We’re not really…I don’t know. Nothing. Just a fling. It’s over.”

“Really?” She looks disappointed. “He doesn’t seem like the type for a fling.”

“Ask him. There he is.” I feign nonchalance as Malone comes out of the liquor store, a six-pack under his arm. He lurches to a stop at the sight of us.

“Hi, Malone,” Christy calls out pleasantly.

“Hi,” I echo.

“Hey, Christy,” he says. His eyes flick to mine. “Maggie.”

It’s almost strange to see him during daylight hours. He has the looks for a vampire, that dark hair and grim face. He’s wearing a black wool coat and faded black jeans, rubber-soled boots. But the lines around his face are less harsh, and the wind ruffles his hair teasingly. He bends down for a look at Violet. “Hey, there,” he says to her.

Violet stuffs a corner of her blanket in her mouth and chews, staring at him solemnly. The lines around Malone’s eyes deepen. I look away, embarrassed by the softening of my wicked heart. “Sweet baby,” he tells Christy.

“Thank you,” she smiles.

“Good to see you, Maggie,” Malone says. He turns and walks away from us.

When he’s a safe distance, Christy hisses, “See? He still likes you.”

“Jeezum. You sound so eighth grade.”

“Well?” she huffs indignantly.

“Well, nothing, Christy. He said a handful of words and left. Where you come up with your theories is beyond me. We haven’t spoken since we slept together. Well, hardly.”

“Mmm-hmm. But I can just tell.” She looks at me. “It’s true. I can.”

“Okay, Great Swami. Thanks for the input.” I smile and pat her arm. How patient I am today! First with Mom, now with my sister. Clearly I deserve some Ben & Jerry’s tonight while I watch the Sox game. Perhaps the entire pint.

“Do you like him, Mags?” my sister says, irritating as a greenhead at the beach. My patience evaporates.

“I like him in bed, Christy. Okay? In bed, he’s awesome. Otherwise, we barely speak. So. Any other questions? Would you like to know if he has any identifying marks or deviant tendencies?” I realize I’m barking.

Christy shoots me a grin. “Well, actually…”

“A tattoo. On his arm. A Celtic band, right around his bicep.”

“I’m more interested in the deviant tendencies.” She widens her eyes expectantly, and I can’t help laughing.