it. I don’t mind. In fact, I’ve always kind of liked being mistaken for Christy. “I wear mine in a ponytail most of the time, anyway,” I say. “Plus, you have better clothes.”
“Unstained, anyway,” she smiles, sitting at the counter. She takes off her coat and drapes it over the next stool. I go over to the stroller, which is one of those complicated Swedish affairs with everything from a wind guard to a cappuccino maker, and twist my head inside. Stretching my lips, I can just about kiss my sleeping niece. “Hello, angel,” I whisper, worshiping her perfect skin and feathery eyelashes. “God, Christy, she gets more beautiful every day.”
“I know,” Christy answers smugly. “So what’s new?”
“Oh, not much. Father Tim was in. I think he may have heard me tell him I love him.”
“Oh, Maggie.” Christy chuckles sympathetically. She knows better than to spout the platitudes that everyone else does…Why are you wasting your time on a priest? Can’t you find somebody else? You really should meet someone, Maggie. Have you tried the Internet/volunteering/church/dating services/speed dating/singles clubs/singles nights/singles cruises/prostitution? (This last one was suggested by my brother’s friend Stevie, who has been hitting on me since he was twelve years old.)
I’ve tried volunteering. And church, of course, contains the root of my problem. But singles nights and those speed dating things…well, first of all, we don’t have much of that in rural Maine. The nearest big city is Bar Harbor, and that’s at least an hour and a half south, if the weather is clear. As for the Internet, those services smack of deceit. A person could say anything, after all. What better way to lie about yourself? How many stories have I heard about a person being sorely disappointed by his or her Internet date? So, while there may be merit in that venue, I’ve never tried it.
Christy knows. She’s suffered with me as much as a happily married person can suffer. She had no problem meeting Will, her lovely, nice-looking and yes, doctor husband. They live in a restored Victorian that was built by a sea captain. They have a beautiful view of the water. They go out to dinner in Machias once a week, and I babysit (for free, of course). And while I don’t begrudge Christy all the nice things she’s got, it does seem a little unfair. After all, we are genetically identical. She has hit Lotto in life; I’ve got a crush on the priest.
“Want to come for dinner tonight, see if we can fool Will?” she says, toying with the ends of her newly cut hair.
“Sure,” I say. “The pies will be out pretty soon. Want me to bring one?”
“No, that’s okay. We’ll cook for you, hon. Oh, and I picked this up for you when I was in Machias.” She fishes a little bottle from her purse. “Got it at a little shop that sells all sorts of neat stuff, earrings and scarves and little soaps. It’s got beeswax in it.”
One of the byproducts of living in northern coastal Maine and owning a diner—and hence, having my hands in water or near hot oil all the time—is that my hands are horribly chapped. Thickened from work, nails cut short, rough cuticles and red patches of eczema, my hands are my worst feature. I wage a constant quest to find a hand cream that will really help them look and feel nicer, sampling every product under the sun with little or no effect.
“Thanks, Christy.” I try some. “It smells lovely. Is that lavender?” I can already tell that it’s too lightweight for me.
“Mmm-hmm. Hope it helps.”
An hour later, we’re at Christy’s. A roast is in the oven, and I’m entertaining Violet by dangling some measuring spoons in front of her face. She bats at them, cooing and drooling, and I kiss her hair. “Can you say spoons, Violet?” I ask. “Spoons?”
“Bwee,” she answers.
“Very good!” Christy and I chorus. The baby smiles, flashing her two teeth, and another waterfall of drool pours out of her rosebud mouth onto my lap.
We hear Will’s car pull into the garage. “Oh, he’s home,” Christy says. “Quick, give me the baby. I’ll go in the living room and you stand at the stove. Here, put on my apron.” Giggling, she flings it to me, grabs the baby and scampers off.
For a brief second, I stand at the stove and let myself imagine that it’s my home, my husband, my baby, my roast. That a man who loves me is hurrying in to kiss me, that the beautiful baby will call me Mommy. That this warm and lovely kitchen is a place I’ve decorated, the place where my family feels closest, laughs the most.
Will opens the door that joins the kitchen with the garage. My back is to him. “Hey, Maggie. Your hair looks pretty, too.” Laughing, he kisses my cheek. “Still trying to fool me?”
Christy appears, her cheeks bright. “We had to try,” she says. “Hi, babe.” They kiss, and Violet reaches a chubby hand to caress her father’s face. I stir the gravy, smiling. I can envy my sister and rejoice for her, too. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.
“So how was work, Doctor?” I ask. Will is one of two town doctors and sees just about everyone in Gideon’s Cove. He hired my mother as his part-time secretary, cementing the idea that Will Jones is a saint.
“It was great,” he says, taking his daughter from Christy. “Daddy was just saving lives, healing wounded bodies, soothing broken spirits, the usual.”
“Does that mean no one barfed on you today?” my sister quips.
“How about you, Maggie?” Will asks. “Anything new?”
How I hate that question, second in loathing only to Seeing anyone? “No, not really,” I say. “Not that I can think of, anyway. But everything is great. Just fine. Thanks, Will.”
“Hey, hon,” Christy says, “remember you mentioned that guy at the hospital? You said you’d try to fix Maggie up with him?”
Will opens the fridge and pulls out three beers. “Right. Yeah. Roger Martin. Nice guy, Mags. He’s a nurse. What do you say? Want to be fixed up?”
“Sure,” I say, taking a long pull on my beer to cover my embarrassment. It still bothers me that I must rely on the kindness of others to get a date. However, I’m thirty-two years old. Time’s a-wastin’. “But, you know, only if he is interested. And if he’s nice. Is he nice?”
“Of course he’s nice!” Christy exclaims, not that she’s met him. “You said he was kind of cute, right, Will?”
“Yeah, I guess. But you know, I’m straight, so I couldn’t really say, Mrs. Jones.” He breaks into the song they danced to at their wedding two years ago. “‘Mrs…Mrs…Mrs…Mrs. Jo-ones. We’ve got a thing going on….’”
“Please stop, you’re scaring the baby,” Christy says, her cheeks rosy with pleasure.
I love my sister with all my heart. Violet is the joy of my life, and Will is one of the best people I’ve ever met, one of the few who might deserve my twin. But tonight, it’s hard to be with them, as much as Christy and Will genuinely welcome me into their home. The fact remains that I’m a visitor, and I want what they have. The inside jokes, the unconscious affection, the nicknames.
Christy senses this. After the dinner dishes are done, she walks me to the door. “You want a ride?” she asks.
“No, no. That’s—it’s great out. Great
