ONDAY IS MY DAY OFF, and I use it to clean my apartment and Mrs. K.’s. As I vacuum up her popcorn crumbs, she follows me around carefully, pointing with her cane at parts I’ve missed.

“Right there, Maggie, dear. And gracious! There, too! I can’t get over how sloppy I am!” I smile—she says this every week. When I’m done, I check her fridge and make sure she’s got enough of the barley soup I brought over yesterday.

“Need anything, Mrs. K.?” I ask.

“Dear, I’m fine. But tell me, did you have a friend over the other night?”

I freeze momentarily. “No, no. Just, you know, someone, um, gave me a ride home.”

“I thought it was a man,” she says.

“Well, yes, actually, it was a man. Malone. My brother’s friend.” I hope she doesn’t pick up on my blush.

“Malone? I don’t know anyone by the name of Malone. Is he good people? Should you be driving around late at night with strangers?”

“Well, he’s not really a stranger, Mrs. K., because my brother knows him.”

But of course he is a stranger. And he still hasn’t called me. I looked up his phone number to make sure he has a phone, and he does. Whether he uses it is another question. Again, I can’t imagine why he’d kiss me like that and then just…

“He’s certainly a manly man, isn’t he?” Mrs. K. offers. God, did she have binoculars trained on him?

“Malone? Sure, I guess so.” I pause in mopping the floor of the tiny kitchen.

“I’ve always liked the manly ones, you know. Mr. Kandinsky wasn’t like that, but he was a dear. He never understood why I just loved Charles Bronson, but I did! I think I’ve seen every Death Wish ever made.”

“Well, we’ll have to rent them, won’t we?” I say, giving her a kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek.

Upstairs in my neat little apartment, I still have no messages. My mail contains only credit card offers and my phone bill. Nothing from Malone to indicate he’s interested in me.

By five o’clock, I’m climbing the walls. I’ve cleaned, baked, dropped in on Chantal at town hall and gone grocery shopping. I’ve read a little, took Colonel to the beach and then brushed his fur afterward. I decide it’s time for a walk.

Colonel pads after me as we leave the center of our little town. Gideon’s Cove hugs the rocky shore, as the town was founded for shipbuilding purposes. I can see the turret of Christy and Will’s house, the gold-painted cross of St. Mary’s. I head in the opposite direction.

The air is soft and damp, and while it will probably drop into the low forties tonight, it’s still pretty mild. House lights are on, giving a cozy feel to the neighborhood, and I can smell various meals cooking…the Mastersons are having chicken…something garlicky and delicious at the Ferrises’ house…Stokowskis are having cabbage…Colonel licks his chops and lingers at that driveway.

We walk uphill, away from the water. Rolly and his wife are sitting on their porch. “Hello, Christy, dear,” calls out Mrs. Rolly.

“Hello,” I call back. “It’s Maggie, actually.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, of course. Christy’s the one with the baby. What was I thinking?”

“That’s okay,” I answer. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Rolly answers. “Enjoy it before the black flies hatch out.”

“You betcha.”

I turn onto Harbor Street, a neighborhood of cottages and bungalows owned mostly by summer people. The street looks down onto the water, and I can see the boats bobbing there on the tide, the white of the hulls almost glowing in the deepening dusk.

Feeling like Harriet the Spy (a book I must have read ten times as a kid), I slip into the yard of one such cottage. I know the owners, the Carrolls, since they’re summertime regulars at the diner, and I know they live in Boston. Their house is dark, the curtains drawn. I follow the little walk that goes along the side of the house to the backyard. Shielded by dusk and their row of hedges, I peek at the property that backs up to the Carrolls’. If the listing in the phone book is correct, Malone lives here.

It’s an ordinary little yard with an oak tree that’s just beginning to bud out. There’s a small back entryway with a couple of garbage cans lined up neatly against the outside wall. A light shines in a window. Suddenly, the door opens, and Malone appears with a bag of trash. He takes the top off the garbage can and drops the bag in, replaces the lid and then goes back into the house. It takes about three seconds.

Though it’s dusk now, I feel a rush of guilt and embarrassment. Imagine if he caught me, lurking in his neighbors’ yard, stalking him…it’s so high school. Still, I wait a few minutes, hoping to see him again, in the window, maybe, or back out with his recycling. Nothing. No one. A crow caws in a tree. The wind blows, and I shiver. Colonel grows bored and flops down under a tree.

“Okay, I’m coming,” I tell him. One last peek. Nothing. I turn around to leave.

A man is standing an inch from my face. I scream and leap back, my hands fluttering around like a pair of frightened birds. “Jesus, Malone! You scared me! God, I didn’t even hear you! Sneaking up on a person like that. Jeez.” I press my hand against my heart, which is thundering like a racehorse on speed. Malone looks at me, and the deepening creases of his face may indicate amusement. Or irritation. Hard to tell. “You are one quiet guy, Malone.”

“Wanna come in?” he asks, a trace of humor in his gruff voice.

“Um…” Now that I no longer fear for my life, it occurs to me that I’ve been busted. “Right. Well. I was, you know, walking. Going for a walk. With Colonel here. And, um, well…here we are. Spying on you.”

“Try knocking next time,” he says, heading into his yard. After a pause, I follow.

He holds the door open for me, reaching down to pat Colonel’s head. My dog apparently has a good vibe, because he walks in without pause and begins sniffing. I come in a bit less bravely, and Malone closes the door behind me. I am trapped in his lair.

We’re in a small kitchen with a little counter along one side. The floor is green linoleum, the counter green Formica, the worst of the 1970s. I try to see everything without being obvious, but I miss the boat, ignoring Malone’s outstretched hand for a second or two too long. I look at it. Does he want to shake hands? Take me somewhere?

“Your coat?” he says. It takes me a minute to decipher his rumble as human words.

“Right! Here. Thank you. That’s great. Okay.”

His eyebrows rise slightly, but he says nothing, just hangs my coat on a hook near the door and takes off his own.

“So,” I say to fill what I consider to be a gaping silence. “You live here?”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”

Well, of course he does. “I mean, alone? Do you live alone?”

“Ayuh.”

“I see. Hmm. And how long have you lived here?”

“About a year.”

A year. “So you’ve lived here since—” Damn it. I probably shouldn’t finish that thought—since your cousin screwed you—but I can’t think of anything else to fill the space. “Since a year ago?”

Malone just stares eerily back at me, and I look around for Colonel, wanting to know that a friendly face is nearby. Malone finally breaks his vow of silence (and I have to admit, I’m grateful).

“Want a beer?” he asks.

“Oh, no thanks.” What am I thinking? “Actually, yes, please. That would be nice.” My palms are sweating with nerves, and I really hate the fact that I can’t seem to say anything even moderately intelligent. Malone opens the fridge and hands me a Sam Adams.

“Thank you.”

At the sound of refrigerator action, Colonel comes in, wagging hopefully. Malone squats down and pets him. At last, a character reference—he likes my dog.

“Hey, pal,” he says, scratching Colonel’s head. Wow. A two-word sentence. Colonel moans in pleasure, then licks Malone’s hand and walks into the living room. Malone stands up and fixes me with that unwavering blue gaze. Apparently, I am quite fascinating.

“Is that your daughter?” I ask, pointing to the fridge. There are a couple of photos there, one of a chubbycheeked toddler eating an apple, another more recent shot of a girl around ten or twelve sitting on a boat, shading her eyes from the sun.

“Yup.”

Back to the one-worders. My frustration and nervousness get the better of me, and I finally blurt, “Malone, let me ask you a question, okay?”

He nods, a brief jerk of his head.

“Why did you kiss me the other night?” There. Said it. And if my cheeks are now flaming, so what? At least he has to answer.

“The usual reasons,” he says, but the lines around his eyes are deeper. He takes a sip of beer, still looking at me.

“The usual reasons. Well, that’s funny. Because most times you can tell if someone, you know, likes you. Or is attracted to you. And I never really picked up on that before. With you, I mean.”

He doesn’t answer. A clock on the wall announces the inevitable passage of time…tick…tick…tick. Finally, I’m about ready to jump out of my skin. “Can I look around?” I ask.

“Sure.”

The living room holds a battered old upright piano with what looks like a pretty hard song. Sonata in A major, it says. Beethoven. Huh. “Who plays the piano?”

“I do,” he grunts.

“Really? You can play this?” I ask, impressed.

He comes in and glides a finger over the keys, too softly to make a sound. “Not that well,” he answers.

He’s standing pretty close to me. Very close. He smells warm, a little like wood smoke. I can see that he must have shaved at some point in the last day or so, because his face doesn’t look as scratchy as the night he kissed me. My eyes fall to his mouth, his full lower lip. So soft. I look away abruptly and take a step back. There’s not much else to see. A TV in the corner, a woodstove in the fireplace. A couch. Coffee table. I could tap dance, I have so much nervous energy flowing through me.

“You hungry?” Malone asks.

“No. I had a late lunch. Are you? Am I interrupting dinner? I should probably go.” My heart is thudding away, my eyes feel hot and tight.

“Don’t go.”

Malone takes my hand. His is warm and smooth and thickly callused. He rubs his thumb gently across the back of my hand and doesn’t say anything more. It seems the nerves in my hand are directly linked to my groin, because things are definitely tingling down there. I swallow and look around. My dog is sleeping in front of the couch.

Then Malone frowns a little and lifts my hand for a closer look. He makes a little tsking sound, and my jaw tightens.

“Yes, well, my hands are in the water all day long, and then with being near the grill and all—”

“Come here,” he says, pulling me back into the kitchen. He lets go of my chapped, disgusting claw, opens a cupboard and rummages around. I lean against the counter, miffed. So what? So I have chapped hands. Big deal. A little eczema and everyone gets distraught. Malone takes out a small tin and opens it. Then he scoops out a little bit and rubs it between his palms. I guess my nasty skin has reminded him of the importance of moisturizing.

“I’ve tried everything,” I say, looking over his shoulder. “Beeswax, lanolin, Vaseline, Burt’s Bees, Bag Balm…nothing works. I have ugly hands. My cross to bear. Big deal.”

“You don’t have ugly hands,” he chides. It may be the longest sentence I’ve heard him say yet. He takes my hand in his and starts working in the cream. It’s waxy and cool at first, then, after a few seconds, gets pleasantly warm.

He’s not gentle. Malone rubs my hands hard, pressing deep into the soft parts around my thumb, my palm, the heel. He works every finger, giving attention to each rough cuticle, each reddened knuckle. His eyes are intent on my hands as he works, and his face loses some of its harshness. Those sooty lashes go a long way toward softening his expression.

“That feels really nice,” I say, and my voice is husky. His mouth pulls up at one corner as he glances at me. He gently returns my hand to my side and starts on the other one, and I close my eyes against the lovely pressure. My hand feels boneless and small in his, smooth and warm and cherished. When he’s done with the left, he takes both my hands in his, sliding his fingers between mine with a slowness that makes it feel like the most intimate gesture in the world. He gently folds my arms behind my back, making me arch out toward him a little. He waits until I open my eyes.

“So,” I say, and he kisses me then, not letting go of my hands. He kisses gently at first, but with such intensity, like it’s the most important thing in the world that he kiss me just exactly right. And he does. God! His lips are firm and smooth and warm, and he takes his time, kissing and kissing me until I pull my hands free and grip his thick, wavy hair. Then without his lips leaving mine, he lifts me onto the counter and moves closer. His tongue brushes mine, and electricity jolts through me, weakening my limbs. His arms are around me so tightly I can hardly breathe. It’s like being pulled against a granite wall, safe and solid.

When he pulls back a little, I’m literally panting and it’s hard to focus. His eyes are heavy-lidded, too, his mouth parted.

“Stay,” he rasps.

“Okay,” I breathe.

Then he kisses me again, lifts me off the counter and carries me into his bedroom.