HE BLESSING of the Fleet is held annually the third weekend of May. The boats fly their flags, the town decorates our three public buildings, local organizations sell hot dogs and lobster bisque on the green. The high school band plays, the chorus performs a few patriotic songs. Little Leaguers, the fire department, the board of selectmen and our three living veterans march in the five-minute parade. Then on Sunday, every boat in the harbor lines up and motors to Douglas Point, past the granite memorial for lost fishermen. They continue up to the dock, where the local clergy blesses them and prays for a safe and productive year.

Last year, Father Tim had been new in town, and I’d still been getting over the embarrassment of my mistake. In order to show what a good sport I was, I threw myself into the planning committee with a vengeance. I baked cookies for the first communion class to sell, donated my efforts to the Saturday night spaghetti supper at the church hall, helped decorate the podium on which Father Tim and the Congregational minister stood to sprinkle holy water on the passing boats. I may be an idiot, I was trying to convey after humiliating myself in front of the town, but at least I’m a hardworking idiot.

This year, I can admit that maybe Father Tim and I used each other a bit. He got a lot of work out of me this past year, and I, as I can now see quite clearly, got more than a guilty thrill concerning him. It’s safe to be in love with someone you know you’ll never have. Nothing is really risked when you know you can’t lose. He was a distraction, an excuse, and a friend. No more, no less.

Saturday morning of Blessing Weekend dawns foggy and warmer than usual, and by 10:00 a.m., the sun is shining, the air is clear and it’s a perfect spring day. May is the month of blackflies, but a strong breeze off the water keeps them away, and only the most determined bugs are able to draw blood through their tiny, painful bites. As Christy, Will and I walk down to the green, Violet in the carrier on Will’s back, the smell of outdoor cooking—chowder and bacon, hot dogs and hamburgers and smoke—hits us in a thick, mouthwatering wave.

This weekend seems like a thank-you to the residents for not moving away to an easier place. Our sense of neighborhood and friendship is strong at the Blessing. People call greetings to each other, shake hands as if it’s been weeks, not hours, since they last met. Couples hold hands, children dance with excitement. When are the lobster boat races? Can we get a balloon? I’m hungry! Everywhere, people smile and laugh. Music drifts in snatches on the breeze.

I wave to friends, customers, neighbors…there’s virtually no one I don’t know by name. Now and then, I catch a glimpse of Father Tim in his all-black priest clothes, but he is swamped with teary-eyed well-wishers.

Main Street is closed off to cars, and people stroll the block and a half of the “downtown,” stopping to sample a cookie from the Girl Scouts, a muffin from the PTA. The chrome on Joe’s Diner glistens from the cleaning I gave it yesterday. Octavio, Georgie and I hung out bunting while Judy smoked and squinted in approval. I feel a little thrill of pride looking at it, even though it’s closed.

“Ow,” Will says, reaching up to pry his hair from Violet’s dimpled fist. “Let go, sweetie.” He shifts the backpack as Violet knees him in the spine.

“Want me to take her, Will?” I offer. “You won’t pull Auntie’s hair, will you, pumpkin?”

“You sure?” Will asks gratefully.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll take Violet and you two can stroll around alone for a while, what do you say?”

“I say thank you,” Christy says, unsnapping the harness. “You’re the best, Maggie.” She holds the pack with Violet still in it as Will slides his arms out, then straps it on me.

“Agga,” Violet says. “Agga bwee.”

“She just said Aunt Maggie, clear as day,” I say. “Did you hear? What an honor.” Violet takes a fistful of my hair and tugs in affirmation, I’m quite sure.

Will and Christy laugh. “Meet you in an hour?” Will says. “We’ll buy you lunch at the fire department.”

“Sounds great,” I say.

With Violet on my back, I don’t feel so obviously single. We stroll around, stopping to admire the display of art projects from the first grade students, and I brace for the inevitable assessment that is an integral part of Blessing Weekend.

“Hey, Maggie!”

And here we go. It’s an old high school classmate, Carleigh Carleton. She went to college in Vermont, as I recall. She also had a wicked crush on Skip.

“Hey, Carleigh,” I say.

“Oh, my God, you had a baby?” she shrieks, her eyes popping. She never was that attractive.

“No, no, this is my niece, Violet,” I tell her.

“Oh, sure. Christy’s baby. That makes more sense!” Carleigh’s smile is full of smugness and condescension. “I have three myself. Are you still working in your grandfather’s diner?” What she means is, Are you still stuck in the same job you’ve had since high school, since Skip dumped you? Haven’t you gotten married yet, Maggie? Don’t you know the statistics for a woman over thirty?

“Yup,” I say. “And what about you, Carleigh?” I pretend to listen as she tells me of her fabulous life, which is probably not nearly so fabulous in reality. But that’s what Blessing Weekend is for, in a sense. Pretense. Leaving Carleigh, who has gained another fifteen or so pounds since last year, I note with deep satisfaction, I wander through the crafts tent on the green.

There are a few more Carleigh types, mostly women who nod sympathetically when I tell them yes, I’m still at the diner. Poor Maggie, they seem to be saying, I may have married an abusive drunk, had to file a restraining order and gotten divorced before I was twenty-three, but at least I got married!

I refuse to feel inferior. Screw ’em, I think. My life is just fine. I make a difference in this town. Violet knees me in the back, and I continue in a fog, absentmindedly waving here and there. A familiar name jerks me out of my daze.

“…and that Malone person won’t admit that it’s his,” the hideous Mrs. Plutarski stage-whispers to one of her wrinkled old cronies, Mrs. Lennon.

“Why not?” Mrs. Lennon asks.

“Because he doesn’t want to be saddled with child support,” Mrs. Plutarski says, as if she had actual information on the subject. “Well, that woman had it coming, if you ask me. All those years of—”

“Excuse me, what are you talking about?” I ask, shoving in between them, a tugboat between two tankers.

“Oh! Maggie. How are you, dear?” Mrs. Lennon asks sweetly. Mrs. P. assumes the lemon-sucking face she does so well.

“Child support? Admitting that something is his? Tsk, tsk, Mrs. Plutarski. Does Father Tim know you gossip like this?” I fold my arms, my moment of righteous indignation somewhat marred by Violet yanking my hair.

“This is a private conversation, Maggie,” Mrs. Plutarski says coldly. “And I’d say you should be worried about what people are saying about you instead of butting into other people’s conversations. Everyone knows that you thought Father Tim was going to leave the church for you.” She smirks and cuts her eyes to Mrs. Lennon.

“You know what, Edith?” I say. “You’re a nasty, gossiping, eavesdropping busybody, and no amount of ass-kissing of priests is going to change that. Mrs. Lennon, you have a nice weekend.”

Enjoying Mrs. P’s squawking rage, I walk away. “How was I?” I ask my niece. She doesn’t answer. Glancing back, I see that she’s fallen asleep. Her angelic face calms my seething anger, but my heart is still pounding, my face hot.

Poor Malone. He’s done nothing wrong, but the town won’t drop it. All day, I hear snatches of damning conversation—Chantal and Malone are the hot topic. During the trap-hauling race, when everyone crowds the dock to see which boat will make it in fastest, Christy and I stand with the firemen to cheer on Jonah and Dad. “Why do you think Malone’s not here?” Fred Tendrey asks as he leans against a post. “Ashamed to show his face, I’d guess.”

“Why should he be ashamed, Fred?” I ask. “He hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s not the one standing around looking down women’s blouses. Maybe he doesn’t want his daughter to hear a bunch of idiots gossiping about him, huh? Ever think of that?”

My protestations fall on deaf ears. Malone’s boat is conspicuously absent from the festivities. Or maybe he never comes to the Blessing. I can’t say I ever noticed before.

“She doesn’t want Malone involved,” I overhear Leslie MacGuire murmuring to her neighbor as they buy cups of chowder. “You know the rumors about his first wife. How she left in the middle of the night.”

“Oh, that’s right,” the neighbor murmurs. My jaw clenches, but I say nothing. There’s no point.

By four o’clock, I can’t take any more.

“Guys, I’m heading out,” I tell my sister and Will. “I’ve got a headache.”

“You okay?” Christy asks, tilting her head.

“Yup. Just tired.”

Though I have a ticket for the spaghetti supper and the rest of my family, including Mom, will be there, I walk away from town. Climbing the hill to my apartment, I glance back at the harbor. The lobster boats are done with racing for the day, bobbing on their moorings like cheerful seagulls, clean and freshly painted for the new season. The Twin Menace gleams, one of the newer boats, made more noticeable because the Ugly Anne is out. My heart squeezes almost painfully, imagining him off with his daughter. In another few weeks, it will be illegal to pull pots after four, but for now Malone is within the rules, if he’s actually working, that is. And it doesn’t seem as if he misses a chance to work very often.

Except for that one day when he took me to Linden Harbor.

I trudge down my street, spying Mrs. Kandinsky sleeping in her chair through the window. Peeking inside, I make sure her chest is still rising and falling with breath, then, assured that she’s not dead, I go upstairs to my dark apartment.

THE NEXT MORNING, the smell of frying bacon and coffee welcomes me to my parents’ house. Each year, we have a special breakfast before the actual Blessing of the Fleet. And we’re all going to church, since it’s Father Tim’s last Mass. Jonah is slumped in a corner, pale and shaky, timidly nursing a cup of coffee. I lean over and kiss him loudly on the cheek.

“Is my wittle brother a wittle hung over?” I ask merrily, ruffling his hair. He moans and turns to the wall. “Hi, Mom.”

“Oh, Maggie, is that what you’re wearing?” she asks.

I look down at my outfit. Tan pants, red sweater, shoes that match each other. I raise an eyebrow at my mother, who sets the spatula down on the counter. “What I meant to say, honey, is why don’t you wear a skirt once in a while? You have such gorgeous legs.”

“That was better, Mom. Better.”

“There’s nothing gorgeous about Maggie,” Jonah mumbles from the corner, apparently not in enough misery to resist bothering me. “Christy’s the pretty one.” I smack him on the head, savoring his yelp of pain, and pour myself some coffee.

“I can’t wear a skirt today, Mom,” I say, giving my mother a kiss, pleased to see her back in the family domicile. “I’m going out with Jonah for the blessing.”

“Not if you don’t stop yelling,” Jonah mutters.

It’s wicked fun to be on the water for the Blessing of the Fleet. Gideon’s Cove looks like a postcard—the rocky shore, tall pines, the houses that dot the hills, the spire of St. Mary’s, the gray wood of the dock. Last year, the whole family went on the Twin Menace; this year, because of Violet, Christy and Will opted to stay ashore, and our parents will keep them company.

Christy’s face appears on the back porch. “Hello,” she calls. She has also worn tan pants and a red top, but her outfit cost more, is made with better materials and generally looks better than mine. She hefts in Violet’s car seat, a diaper bag that’s bigger than my suitcase and a vibrating bouncy seat. Will follows her with a tiny bungy-jumping contraption that’s made to dangle from a doorway and another bag.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask.

“In the bomb shelter,” Jonah answers. “Could you stop yelling, please?”

“Dad!” I yell cheerfully. “We’re all here!” Jonah whimpers.

“Serves you right, Joe,” Christy says. “Jell-O shots. For God’s sake. We were at Dewey’s last night, you know. Saw everything.”

“Did I call you the pretty one?” Jonah says, rising specterlike from his chair. “I changed my mind. You’re both hags.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re all sitting around the dining room table, passing platters of pancakes, scrambled eggs, cranberry scones (my contribution) and bacon. Jonah has swallowed some Advil and looks less green, though he shudders as the eggs pass him. I plop a spoonful on his plate and enjoy the blanching that follows.

“So, Mom, Dad,” Christy begins in what Joe and I call her social-worker voice, “how have things been since you’ve…been apart?” Her voice is carefully pleasant.

“Not bad,” Dad says. “Delicious scones, Maggie. You sure can bake, honey.”

Christy’s eyes close briefly. “Great. Any decisions about what’s next?”

“Scone, sweetie?” Will asks.

“No. Thank you. Mom? Anything to tell us?”

My mother takes a deep breath. “Well, we’ve been talking, of course.” She looks at Dad at the other end of the table. Dad is looking out the window, apparently fascinated with the flock of springtime birds enjoying his handiwork. “Mitch? Would you like to tell the children what we’re planning?”

Dad snaps to attention. “Oh. Sure. Sure. Okay. Well, we…we’re…we’re not getting divorced. For now.”

Christy’s face lights up. I take another piece of bacon and look at my mother. “But…” I prompt.

“Right, Maggie,” Mom says. “But I’m going to stay in Bar Harbor. At least for the foreseeable future.” She looks at me for assurance, and I smile. Christy’s face falls.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Mom says to her. “I know it’s not what you want, but—”

“No, no. It’s fine. It’s okay.” But Christy’s eyes are spilling tears. “I’m sorry….” She starts crying in earnest, and Will puts his arm around her, pulling her face against his shoulder. “It’s what you want that matters, Mom,” she blubbers. “And you, too, Daddy.”

Jonah shoots me a classic little brother smirk, and suddenly, we’re laughing. “Poor little Christy, coming from a broken home,” Jonah murmurs, and she starts laughing, too.

“Oh, shut up, Jonah,” she says, wadding up her napkin and throwing it at him. “I can’t help it if I care about our family. Unlike you, you freakish troglodyte.”

En masse, we head for town, Jonah and me in his truck, our parents with Will, Christy and the baby in the Volvo wagon.

The waxy smell of candles mixes with the lingering scent of spaghetti as we walk into church. Since Father Tim won’t be returning to St. Mary’s after this, the place is as packed as if it’s Christmas Eve. The full choir, all ten of them, is up in the loft, and Mr. Gordon is thumping out a tortuous, wheezing piece on the old organ. My family takes up a whole pew today. We call out quiet hellos, wave to our friends and neighbors and sit on the punishing walnut pews, prepared to offer up our suffering to the Lord.

The altar servers come somberly down the aisle, washed and brushed and looking like angels despite the hightop Keds that peek out from under their robes. Tanner Stevenson holds up the crucifix and Kendra Tan carefully swings the incense burner. Father Tim comes in last, resplendent in purple and gold, handsome as a movie star. He sings along with the entrance hymn, but his eyes meet mine, and he gives a little smile around the words to “Lift High the Cross.”

For the first time in a very long time, I understand why people come to church. Not because they’re forced to be here by their parents, not because the priest is so cute. I listen to the words and don’t notice the brogue that pronounces them. For the first time in my adult life, I imagine that there might be something here for me. Sorry I haven’t been around. And sorry about lusting after one of Your guys, I say silently to God. No harm, no foul, I imagine Him saying. It’s much more comforting than That will be a year in hell, young lady.

At the sign of peace, Father Tim comes off the altar, moving slowly, a kind word for everyone, a blessing for the children. When he gets to the Beaumont clan, he leans in for a chaste hug. “I finally got you in church, Maggie,” he says, and I’m touched to see tears in his eyes. “Right when I’m leaving, but here you are.”

“We’ll miss you, Father Tim,” I whisper.

An hour later, Jonah and I are on the Twin Menace, the brisk breeze ruffling our hair. In honor of my presence, Jonah has placed a plastic chair on deck, where I now sit, sipping a cup of coffee.

“How’s Dad working out?” I ask my brother as he stands at the wheel.

“Not bad,” Joe answers. “He likes it. Loves hanging out with the guys. Better than building birdhouses, I guess.”

“I think it’s nice that you took him on,” I say. Jonah looks older at the wheel. This is a side of him that I don’t usually get to see. He looks manly, in control. Handsome, too.

“What are you smirking about?” he asks, raising his voice to be heard over the diesel engine.

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking how cute you are, Bunny-boy,” I answer, using the nickname Christy and I unfortunately bestowed on him at his birth.

“Right,” he says. He waves to Sam O’Neil, who is in front of the Twin Menace in the parade of boats.

“Best date you could get was your sistah?” Sam yells.

“At least my sister’s pretty!” Jonah calls back. His smile is forced and drops off the minute Sam turns away.

The boats space out a bit more as we head for Douglas Point. The memorial is visible even from a distance, starkly beautiful against the backdrop of pines and stone. The mood becomes somber throughout our flotilla; no one cracks any jokes now. Jonah bows his head as we motor past. His eyes are wet when he looks up.

“Jonah?” I ask. “Is everything okay, buddy?”

“Oh, sure,” he says, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He adjusts course a bit, then shoots me a glance. “Not really,” he admits.

“What is it, hon?” I ask. “You’ve been sort of glum lately.”

His face crumples. “Oh, fuck it, Mags. I’m in love with Chantal and she won’t give me the time of day.”

My eyes pop. “You’re what?”

“I know, I know. She’s pregnant with some guy’s kid and…and…” It takes him a minute to get the words out. “It’s just that I thought…I’ve always had a thing for her, Maggie. And now I think I’m in love with her.”

Uh-oh. Oh, boy. Oh, shit on a shingle. “Jonah,” I say carefully, “you didn’t sleep with Chantal, did you?”

He swallows, looks at the deck of the boat, then nods. “I know you told her not to hook up with me, Mags. It was just one time. And afterward, she wouldn’t return my calls or anything. I wanted to start seeing her, make it more than a one-nighter, you know? But she wasn’t interested.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” I mutter, looking skyward.

It has to be. No wonder she wouldn’t tell me. After all those threats, she actually went ahead and did it. With my brother. My baby brother. Whose diapers I changed.

The wind blows my hair across my face and makes whitecaps on the water. We’re close enough to the town dock that I can see the crowds, catch slips of sound. There’s the podium. There’s our bear-shaped dad. Father Tim, still in his vestments, flicks holy water and makes the sign of the cross. Reverend Hollis from the Congregational church stands next to him, doing whatever Protestants do at these things.

I heave a sigh, then get up and go to stand next to my brother and rub his back. He chokes out a small sob. “Listen, sweetie,” I say. “Did you ever ask Chantal if you were the father of her baby?”

“Yeah, of course I did,” he says, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “She said I wasn’t. Said she was sure about it.”

“I think she’s lying.”

Jonah’s head snaps back. “What? Why? Do you know something?”

I sigh. “No. She said it was an out-of-towner, but…well, she just might be trying to protect you.”

“Why? Why would she do that? Doesn’t she—”

“Because, honey, you’re twenty-six years old. And she’s what, thirty-nine? She said a few things….” My voice trails off. “I bet it’s you, Jonah. I think you need to ask her again.”

My brother’s face lights up in a sudden burst of joy. “Oh, my God, Maggot! Holy shit!” He claps his hands against his head. “Holy shit! Hold the wheel, will you, Mags?” He shoves me against the wheel, then goes aft.

“Jonah! Joe! Come on, you know I’m stupid around boats—”

“Chantal! Chantal!” Jonah bellows, cupping his hands around his mouth. In front of us, Sam’s head jerks around.

“Jonah!” I bark. “The boat! I don’t know what I’m doing here! We’re gonna hit Sam!”

“Chantal!” Jonah yells again, his voice breaking. Heads start turning on the dock. “Chantal!”

Sure enough, we can make her out, her red hair as noticeable as a lighthouse beacon.

“Jonah,” I warn, trying to figure out which lever will slow us down, “this is not the time—”

He ignores me. “The baby’s mine, isn’t it?” he bellows.

“Jesus, Jonah!” I yelp. “Mom’s gonna kill you!”

People are pointing and talking, then shushing each other. “I love you, Chantal!” my idiot brother shouts. We’re about thirty yards from the dock now, close enough that people definitely hear him. The crowd turns to look at Chantal, who is frozen like a moose about to be hit by a pickup truck.

“Chantal! The baby’s mine, isn’t it? I love you, I want to marry you!”

“Shut up, Jonah!” Chantal yells back.

Oh, to see my mother’s face at this moment! I can’t help it. I start laughing. I hear a splash, and sure enough, my brother has jumped overboard and is swimming to the dock. If the water is fifty degrees, I’d be surprised.

“Jonah! You fuckin’ idiot!” yells Sam.

“Sam, I think I’m gonna hit you!” I call out.

“Steer out to sea, dumb-ass!” he barks.

“Okay, okay! No need for names.” I obey, turning the wheel east. The Twin Menace cruises away from the parade. I decide to just turn the damn engine off and bob there. Safer than anything else I can think of. Besides, now I can watch.

The blessing has been put on hold as Jonah, always a good swimmer, works his way toward his lady love. He makes it to the dock and someone, Rolly, it looks like, pulls him up. I can’t hear him, but I can see my brother clear as day. He pushes his way to Chantal, streaming water, and makes his case, his hands flying. I see her shaking her head, then putting her hand over her mouth. Jonah takes her in his arms and kisses her while my parents look on in stunned horror, and in spite of my reservations about Chantal, I find that my eyes are a bit wet.

Billy Bottoms pulls out of the parade and comes alongside the Twin Menace and jumps aboard as neatly as a mountain goat. His son, Young Billy, waves to me from the wheel of their boat.

“Hey theah, deah,” Billy says. “Looks like your brothah’s gonna be a fathah!”

“Looks like it,” I agree, happily surrendering the controls to someone who won’t get us killed.

The blessing resumes, albeit completely overshadowed by Jonah’s proclamations, and Billy steers us past the dock, where Father Tim and Reverend Hollis dutifully bless us.

“Would you let me off here, Billy?” I ask.

“Sure enough, deah.” Billy maneuvers the boat alongside the dock and I jump out. Christy is waiting for me.

“Holy. Mother. Of God!” she proclaims.

“Ayuh,” I agree.

“Did you know?”

“Not until about five minutes ago,” I say. “Where are they?”

Christy leads me up the ramp and through the crowd. My brother, a blanket draped around his shoulders, is drinking a cup of coffee, gripping Chantal’s hand.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hey, sis,” Jonah says.

“Chantal,” I grind out, “didn’t I tell you Jonah was off limits?”

She grimaces. “Sorry, Maggie.” She looks at the ground. “The damage is done.”

“So it’s his?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She looks nervous, but her hand is in my brother’s.

I take a big breath, then another, then take the coffee from my brother and have a long sip. “Well! Looks like I’m going to be an auntie again!”

What the hell. I give Chantal a big hug, because really, what else can I do? “Break his heart and I kill you,” I whisper.

“Got it. Oh, Maggie, please forgive me,” she whispers back. “He’s just so…”

“Spare me the details, okay? He’s my baby brother.”

“She says she won’t marry me, Maggie,” Jonah says. “You need to work on her, okay?”

“Why would I do anything for you, idiot?” I ask Jonah, smacking his head. “You stranded me out there.”

“And yet here you are.” He smiles, his eyes filling with tears. “Thanks, Maggie. For figuring it out.”

“You’re welcome, dummy.” I give him a hug, too. I guess it’s not the worst thing in the world that could happen.

And then, aware that just about every single member of Gideon’s Cove is standing around us, my vocal cords start doing their special thing.

“I hope you’re all proud of yourselves,” I announce. “For weeks now, you’ve been bad-mouthing Malone, spreading rumors, cutting his lines, all because you have nothing better to do than gossip. Shame on you! Malone did nothing except keep his mouth shut, which is more than I can say for anyone else here. Including me.”

“It was a logical guess,” Stuart speculates. “Malone never denied it.”

“Malone shouldn’t have to deny anything,” I say hotly. “Besides, he wasn’t even sleeping with Chantal. He was sleeping with me. So there.”

Oops.

A speculative murmur goes up from the crowd. My mother frowns, my dad goes white, Christy grimaces, Jonah laughs.