Y CAR IS RUNNING a little rough,” I lie to my sister on the phone a few days later. “Can I borrow yours?”

It’s Monday. The diner is closed, the wind is blowing, and it’s a great day to stay home and do nothing, but my idea has been lurking in the corner of my mind, and its patience wearing thin. Besides, I can’t just sit around and think about Malone and Chantal all day.

Christy runs water in the background. “Sure. I’m not going anywhere. Can you believe how cold it is? Cripes, it feels like December out there, not April.”

Maine has tricked us yet again, pretending to embrace spring while all the time getting ready to dump six inches of snow on us, mixing with the muddy ground in a sloppy, tired, icy goop. All four members of the town crew are out, wearily sanding the main roads, defiling the streets they cleaned just last week. I pull my hat down over my ears and wave to them as I slip and slide up Christy’s hill. Then, as planned, I choose a particularly damp-looking splotch of gray snow, trip and land face down in it.

“Oh, jeezum, look at you!” My sister holds the door open, Violet balanced on her hip. “Come in here, you gawmy girl!”

“I slipped,” I confess sheepishly.

“Well, go upstairs and change, dopey,” she chides. “Do you want to stay for lunch?”

“Um, no, no, but thanks. Other plans. I, um…” God, I am the worst liar. “I’m going to the mall. After my errands.”

“The mall?” Christy asks. “That’s two hours away, hon.”

“Right! I know. Maybe not the mall…. I need shoes. New shoes.”

“Are you okay?” Christy gives me that knowing look, and I flee upstairs to raid her closet, as is the plan. I pull out some nice tweed pants and a silk sweater. A little scarf goes into my pocket. I glance at her bureau.

“Christy? Can I borrow some jewelry? I want to look a little nicer. I might, uh…meet a friend? For lunch. If I have time.”

“Sure,” she calls back. “Whatever you want.”

By that, she probably doesn’t mean her anniversary band, a circle of small diamonds that Will gave her to mark their first year together. But, I rationalize, she did say “whatever,” so I take it, first using some of the hand cream she’s got on her night table.

“Oh, you look so nice!” Christy comments. By nice, she means “like me,” but I don’t take offense. She has beautiful clothes, and the point of this little adventure is in fact to look like Christy. Violet, who sits on the kitchen floor banging a whisk on a pot, crawls over to me and drools on my—Christy’s—boot.

“Thank you, baby,” I say. “I’ll be back around four, okay?” I grab the car keys from the counter.

“Take your time,” she says. She smiles from her seat on the floor. “Violet, want to try this one?” She holds up a wooden spoon and demonstrates its banging ability. “Hey, Maggie, don’t forget a coat. Yours is a mess.” She gestures to her beautiful faux shearling coat, which hangs on a hook near the door.

“You’re a great sister,” I say, flushed with guilt. “Thanks a million.”

“Have fun!” she calls.

Fun is not exactly what I have planned. I grab the diaper bag that my sister leaves in the garage, climb in the car, look in the rearview mirror and take out my ponytail. Then I brush my hair to a side part and tuck it behind my ears. The band goes on my left ring finger, the scarf around my neck, and voila—I’m Christy.

This very morning, I had called the rectory. “Mrs. Plutarski, hi, it’s Christy Jones. How are you?”

“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Plutarski said. “How’s that beautiful baby?”

“She’s wonderful,” I answered sweetly. “Listen, I was wondering if Father Tim had a few minutes to spare for me today.”

“Of course, honey,” she cooed, and my jaw clenched. Mrs. Plutarski is such a pill to me. You’d think I routinely crapped on the altar, the way she treats me. When I ask to see Father Tim, she always takes great pains to tell me how busy he is. For Christy, though, he’s wide open.

“How about one o’clock, Christy? I imagine you want to discuss your poor parents,” she suggested, gossipmonger that she is.

“That’s perfect.” Violet takes her nap from noon to three, and the real Christy will be snug at home.

My heart is pounding as I pull Christy’s Volvo into the rectory’s small parking lot. I turn off the car and sit a minute. After being delayed for God knows how long, common sense finally makes an appearance.

Here I am dressed as my sister, about to trick a priest. Nice, Maggie. Very noble. For some reason, I had the notion that if Father Tim thought I was Christy, he’d tell me what was bothering him lately, why he kept dropping those hints about how special “Maggie” was. I roll my eyes in the rearview mirror. No. I don’t think so. I’m not that much of a jerk. Whatever personal issues Father Tim is having, they’re not my business. Maybe it was cabin fever, maybe I was just trying to distract myself from thoughts of Malone, but clearly, this is the stupidest idea I’ve ever had. Maybe the stupidest idea anyone’s ever had.

Disgusted, I restart the car. I’ll drive down to Machias and catch a movie, get a big bag of popcorn and some Swedish fish—

I scream as a knock comes on the car window.

“Father Tim! Oh! Wow!”

“Hello, there, Christy!” he beams. “Come in, dear girl, come in.”

My stomach contracts with the agony of being caught. “Hi, Father Tim,” I mutter.

Well, it looks like I’m going to have to go through with it, because I just can’t think of anything else. Wobbling a bit in Christy’s boots, which have a higher heel than I’m used to, I grab the diaper bag from the back seat—my prop, further evidence that I am my sister.

“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Plutarski says from her position of power in the rectory office. “How nice to see you! Don’t you look smart.”

“Oh, Mrs. Plutarski, you are so sweet,” I simper. “I just love that color on you! Would you call that oatmeal or liver? It’s wonderful!” Don’t blow it, I warn myself savagely. You got yourself into this mess, now just get out as fast as you can. If they figure out you’re Maggie, you’re dead.

“Make yourself comfortable, Christy,” Father Tim says, holding the door of his office for me. My toes curl in discomfort.

“Thank you for seeing me, Father Tim,” I say, glancing around, trying not to make eye contact.

“You’re welcome, my dear, you’re welcome. How are Will and little Violet?”

“They’re just great. Just great. Wonderful.” Okay, stop babbling. It’s a dead giveaway. I sit down, cross my ankles and try to have good posture. My gaze flits around the office. There’s a note on his desk, and a prickle of warning goes through me at the sight of it. Though it’s upside down to me, I can read Father Tim’s writing…Ask Bishop—

“What can I do for you, Christy?” the priest asks. I look away from the note.

“Well, um, I guess you’ve heard about my, my, um, parents,” I stammer.

“I have, yes.” He smiles encouragingly. Ask Bishop T. about—

“And of course we’re all…saddened. Quite saddened.”

“It’s a tragedy, thirty some-odd years of marriage,” he murmurs. Ask Bishop T. about the Father Shea situation.

Holy moley! Jeezum! The Father Shea situation? The left-the-priesthood-for-a-pretty-woman-situation? Oh, my God! I gulp in a huge breath.

“Christy, ah, dear, don’t cry, now. There’s still hope, and if you turn to prayer, perhaps it will help your parents remember how sacred those vows were and still are.”

How are your vows, Father Tim? Everything rock solid there? I realize that a response is required. “Mmm. Right. We’re all taking it pretty hard. Uh, Maggie and me, I mean.” I take a sharp breath at referring to myself in third person, then swallow. “And you know. Jonah, too.”

“I’ve spoken with Maggie a bit. But how can I help you, Christy?”

“Oh, I suppose I was wondering…” Yes, Maggie/ Christy. What exactly can you wonder about? My mind drains of all intelligent thought. “How I can…um, support my parents? Other than pray?” I sound like an idiot because all I can think is Father Shea, Father Shea, oh, shit, Father Shea.

Father Tim glances out the window. “Well, as their daughter, Christy, you could remind them of all the good things their marriage has given them. You three children, of course, and their darlin’ grandbaby. A life together, rich with family and happy memories, trials and tribulations, as well, of course…” His voice trails off, his eyes still focused outside. I get the strong impression he’s phoning it in today. Lucky for me.

“You’re right. Excellent advice.” I swallow, then decide to risk it. “So, Father Tim, how are you? I mean, do you like it here? Being our parish priest and all? It’s been, let’s see now…a year?”

“Yes, yes, about that,” Father Tim says, dragging his gaze back to me and forcing a smile.

“Well, the community is so lucky to have you, Father Tim. You’re a great priest. Very, um, holy. Devout, I mean.” There. Said it, even if I sound like a jerk. “Will and the baby and I, we love church. I hope you won’t leave.”

His attention is suddenly laser-sharp. “Why? Have you heard something?” he blurts, leaning forward.

“Um…no. No, not really…No. Nothing.”

Father Tim stares at me a minute, then sits back in his chair, relaxing. “Well,” he says. “Change is inevitable, and we’re none of us in control of our futures. That’s in God’s hands, as is everything.”

Again with the clichés. “Well. Yes.” I tuck some hair behind my ear. God, I feel guilty! Lying, tricking, deceiving a man of the cloth. I am surely damned. Sweat trickles down my neck.

“You have a wonderful family, Christy,” Father Tim says, appropos of nothing.

“Thanks.”

“I hope that you and Maggie…well. Never mind.”

Desperate to somehow set Father Tim straight regarding my own feelings while not blowing my cover, I swallow convulsively. “You…you’re a, um, a good friend to Maggie. It’s nice for her to have a friend who’s a priest. Very comforting. And she, you know, values your friendship.”

“I’m counting on that,” he says, smiling and rising. “She’s very special.”

Oh, my dear God. He’s counting on that. I’m special. Shit! My pulse zings through my veins, my heart pounds. What does that mean? Why would he be counting on my friendship? And why is he so interested to know if I’ve—Christy’s—heard something about him leaving?

“Well, okay, Father Tim, thank you so much for everything. I really should get back to the baby. Thanks. This was so helpful.”

Father Tim’s face is puzzled. “Glad to be of service, Christy,” he says. He stands aside as I practically leap out of the room, nearly colliding with Mrs. Plutarski, who is too close to the door for any purpose other than eavesdropping.

“So nice to see you, Christy,” she says, pretending to pick up a piece of paper already in her hand.

“It certainly is. Take care,” I say distantly, grabbing my coat. I need some air. My head is buzzing and my hearing seems to be off, and I need to get outside and away from the rectory.

I burst into the slush, sliding and nearly falling on the sidewalk, then slip over to Christy’s car, taking great gulps of air. Where did I put the keys? Where are the damn keys? I check the diaper bag and can’t find them. Father Shea! How many compartments does this thing have? Diapers here, wipes there, changing pad, pacifier, teething ring, Goodnight Moon, a stuffed dog, a sterilized bottle in a sealed plastic bag, some emergency formula, but no goddamn keys.

And then, around the corner comes Malone.

“Shit!” I hiss. I can’t believe the crap luck. Where are the fucking keys? Fifteen more feet and I’ll have to talk to him.

“Maggie?” he says cautiously.

Without thinking, I turn and walk away from the Volvo and away from Malone as fast as I dare in the slushy mess on the sidewalk. Jerking open the door of the CVS pharmacy, I hustle inside, looking for a place to hide until he passes. I stop in front of the tobacco display, which hides me from the front door, and pretend to look at pipes. I’m sweating bullets.

“Hi, Mrs. Jones,” calls a teenager from behind the counter. The Bates girl…what’s her name? Susie? Katie? Bessie? Shit, I can’t remember.

“Hello, honey!” I call a little too loudly.

The bell over the door rings, and Malone comes in. I scamper further down the aisle, then take a left. Ha! Here, I’ll go here. I try to stop panting and run a hand through my hair. I’m shaking, but I should be safe. He wouldn’t dare follow me here.

He dares. “Maggie?” His voice is low and grumbling and vaguely menacing.

I stretch my mouth into an approximation of a smile and turn to him. “Oh, hello, Malone. It’s actually Christy. Don’t worry, happens all the time.” Shimmers of heat are rolling off my face. I snatch a box of tampons from the shelf and study it hard. Extra absorbent for your heaviest days. That should scare off any male.

Malone doesn’t move. I shove the box back and grab some pads large enough to serve as dog beds.

“Why are you pretending to be Christy?” he growls.

I steal a glance at him. He’s scowling, of course, and his hair is rumpled from the wind. He hasn’t shaved today, and he’s so ridiculously male that even here, even knowing what I know, my knees soften in a biological rush of attraction.

“Hi, Christy!” calls a red-haired woman I’ve never seen. She has a baby on her hip.

“Hello!” I call back, waving. “How’s the baby?”

Malone folds his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes.

“A little fussy. Teething, I think. Your husband said I could try Motrin if it gets worse.”

“Oh, yes. Motrin. That will do the trick. Mmm-hmm. Will knows these things. Definitely try the Motrin. Works for Violet.” I shove the pads back on the shelf and go for the big guns—yeast infection treatments. I shake the box for emphasis, hearing the applicator rattle.

“Maggie,” Malone rumbles. “What are you doing?”

“It’s Christy, okay? You made a mistake. Even our parents mix us up. Now, I really need to concentrate because I have a raging yeast infection, okay? So goodbye.”

He leans in close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body, and suddenly the box is shaking in my hands. Do not look at him, I warn myself. Do not even turn your head.

“I know who you are,” Malone whispers. Then he turns and walks away. I hear the bell over the door tinkle, and he’s gone.

“DON’T BE MAD at me,” I tell my sister as I hang up her coat.

“Did you dent the car?” she asks, taking a sip of tea. The baby monitor is on, the house warm and quiet, an oasis of calm.

“I pretended to be you,” I admit, bracing myself.

“What? Maggie! Come on!” she exclaims.

“Hey, quiet now, you’ll wake the baby,” I say, grateful that there’s a sleeping child to protect me from her wrath.

“Aren’t we a little old to be switching?” Christy grumbles. “And what the hell for, anyway?”

“Is the water hot? I could use a cup,” I say.

“Help yourself,” Christy says, putting aside her crossword puzzle. “You got some ’splainin’ to do.”

“Yeah, okay. First of all, I’m sorry,” I say. “I had just decided not to do it when Father Tim busted me. It was a bad idea. But you’re not going to believe this.” I spoon some sugar into my tea and sit down across from her. “I think Father Tim is leaving the priesthood.”

“Oh, no!” My sister nearly falls out of her chair.

I tell her about my sophomoric routine and Father Tim’s mysterious words, not to mention the Father Shea situation.

“So did he actually say anything concrete?” my sister asks, abandoning her irritation with me in the wake of the more shocking news.

“Well, no,” I acknowledge. “But he’s already said a couple of times that he’s lonely…and then things like how special I am and that he’s counting on me. And the Father Shea thing…. You have to admit, that sounds…you know.”

“Promising?” Christy suggests.

“No! I was going to say scary, actually.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, tracing the grain of wood on the table. “Imagine the scandal, Maggie, if he left the priesthood for you.”

“I know.”

“Do you love him, Mags?” She winces as she says it. “No! Oh, shit, I don’t know, Christy. I mean, sure, I love Father Tim. Who doesn’t, right? And we really are great friends. I’ve always felt like there was some bond between us….”

“But?” she prompts.

“But…not that way. A crush is one thing, you know, but my God, no!” My sister nods. “Besides,” I admit in a quieter voice, “I still have some…feelings. For Malone.”

“Hmm.”

“Not that that matters, right? Because of Chantal and all. I should just forget him. Malone was a fling, that’s all. A pretty good fling, but there was nothing really…no real….”

Except there was something, and the truth brings tears to my eyes. He held my hand, took me to that hokey little lumberjack competition, comforted me, cheered me, made me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, and I—

“I miss him,” I acknowledge in a whisper.

Christy nods.

“He was at CVS,” I say. “He knew I wasn’t you.”

Her eyebrows pop up. “Wow.”

“I know.”

We have fooled everyone at one point or another—our parents, our brother, our teachers, our closest friends. Only Will has never once confused us.

And now Malone.