I’m so…” My voice broke.
“No, no, it’s fine, just keep going. Too bad they’re rebricking the side entrance. Shitty, shitty luck. Okay, we’re getting close…can you smile?”
I bared my teeth weakly.
“Maggie!” Father Tim exclaimed. “It’s so good to see you. I was hoping you’d be here.” He shook my hand warmly, his grip strong and welcoming. “And you’ve a twin! Isn’t that marvelous! I’m Father Tim, so nice to meet you.”
Father Tim. The sound of it was like acid on an open wound.
“Hi, I’m Christy,” my sister said. “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well. Maggie, would you take me home?”
We almost escaped until my idiot brother, whom I heretofore loved, asked, “How could you miss the fact that he was a priest?”
My mother grabbed his arm. “Jonah, honey—”
“What’s that, now?” Father Tim asked, his eyebrows raised.
“Why didn’t you tell Maggie you were a priest?”
Father Tim glanced at me in confusion. “Of course I did. We had that lovely chat at the diner.”
“Of course we chatted,” I blurted. “Of course I knew! Sure! Yes! I knew you were a priest! Absolutely. Yup.”
“But you said you met some hot Irish guy—”
“That was someone else,” I ground out, ready to smite my little brother. “Not Father Tim! Jeez! He’s a priest, Jonah! He’s not—I didn’t mean—he’s…”
But the damage was done. Father Tim’s expression fell. “Oh, dear,” he said.
“Maggie? I need to go,” Christy said. She grabbed my arm and pulled me away to the safety of her car.
But it was too late. Father Tim knew. Everyone knew.
FATHER TIM CAME TO the diner the next day and apologized, and I apologized, and we laughed about it. I found that there was no use in trying to pretend. I just had to admit that I made a mistake. Ha, ha, pretty funny, isn’t it? I can’t believe I missed that little piece of information! Ho, ho! Then he asked if I’d be on one of his committees, and I found myself unable to say no.
In the year that’s passed, the sting of being the butt of a joke has faded. Truthfully, Father Tim is a great friend to me. Though I can’t quite bring myself to go to Mass and see him in action, I somehow joined just about every committee St. Mary’s has—bereavement, altar decoration, Christmas craft sale, community outreach, building maintenance, fellowship, the works.
I know it’s wrong to nurse a crush on a priest. I know I shouldn’t be doing all that church stuff just to be near a Catholic priest who looks like Aidan Quinn’s younger brother. I know that my heart shouldn’t squeeze every time I see him, that adrenaline shouldn’t spurt into my veins when I pick up the phone and hear that gentle voice. I just can’t seem to help it. What I really need to do is simply meet someone else, and this foolish longing in my heart will fade. Someday, I’ll meet a really great guy, someone just as nice as Tim O’Halloran, and everything will be just lovely.
There are definitely days when I believe this.
CHAPTER ONE
“GOOD MORNIN’, MAGGIE,” Father Tim says, sliding into his usual booth. “Lovely out, isn’t it?” He smiles pleasantly, and my insides clench.
“Good morning, Father Tim. What can I get for you today?”
“I think I’ll be tryin’ your French toast, shall I? Brilliant idea, the almond glaze.”
That brogue is just not fair. “Thanks. I’ll get that right in.” I’ve had sinful thoughts about you. Again. I wrack my brain for something to say. “How was Mass this morning?”
He nods. “Ah, the celebration of the Eucharist always nurtures the spirit,” he murmurs. “You’re welcome to come and see for yourself, Maggie. I’d love to hear your thoughts on my homily any time.”
Father Tim often urges me to drop by. Something stops me. Guilt, no doubt. I might be a lapsed Catholic, but I draw the line at having lustful thoughts about priests in church. “Well. Sure. One of these days. You bet.”
“Mass can give a person a chance for some insight. Sometimes we tend to overlook what’s important in life, Maggie. It’s easy to lose perspective, if you take my meaning.”
Oh, I do. Losing perspective is something at which I excel. Case in point—still in love with the priest. He looks ridiculously appealing in black, though granted, the white collar takes away some of the zing. Rolling my eyes at my own ridiculous thoughts, I turn away, fill a few coffee cups and slip into the kitchen, where Octavio is deftly flipping pancakes. “French toast for Father Tim,” I tell him, grabbing an order of eggs on unbuttered toast. Returning to the counter area, I slide the plate in front of Stuart, one of my regulars. “Chicks on a raft, high and dry,” I say. He nods appreciatively, a big fan of diner slang.
“Anything else for you, Mrs. Jensen?” I ask the seventy-year-old woman in the first booth. She frowns and shakes her head, and I leave her check on the table. Mrs. Jensen has come from church. She goes to confession every week. She’s in Bible study and on the altar decoration committee. It seems I’m not the only one smitten with Father Tim.
Without meaning to, I look once again at the impossible ideal. He’s reading the paper. Profiled against the window, his beauty sends a rolling warmth through me. If only you were a regular guy….
“He’ll catch you looking,” Rolly whispers, another regular fixture at my counter.
“That’s okay,” I admit. “It’s not like it’s a secret. Make sure you fill out a ballot, okay?” I tell Rolly, dragging my gaze off the object of my desire. “You, too, Stuart. I need all the votes I can get.”
“Ayuh. Best coffee in the state,” Rolly announces.
“Best breakfast, Rolly.” I smile and pat his shoulder.
For the last two years, Joe’s Diner has placed fourth in Maine Living’s Best Breakfast contest, and I’m determined to win the county title this year. The magazine holds a lot of sway with tourists, and we could use a little more of the summer nuisance. Last year, we were creamed by Blackstone Bed & Breakfast in Calais (even though they make their pancakes from a box mix).
“We’ll win, boss,” Octavio calls through the window that links the counter area with the kitchen. “We do have the best breakfast.”
I smile back at him. “True enough, but being the best-kept secret on coastal Maine isn’t doing us much good financially.”
“We’ll be fine,” he assures me. Easy for him to say. He makes more than I do, and he doesn’t have to balance the books every month.
“Hey, Maggie, as long as you’re up, can I get a refill?” asks Judy, my waitress. I oblige, then bring Father Tim his breakfast, sneak a glance at his smooth, elegant
