Praise forKristan Higgins’s debut novel

Fools Rush In

“Where has Kristan Higgins been all my life? Fools Rush In is a spectacular debut.” —USA TODAY bestselling author Elizabeth Bevarly

“Higgins reached deep into every woman’s soul and showed some heavy truths in a fantastically funny and touching tale. This book is on my keeper shelf and will remain there for eternity. It will be re-read and loved for years to come.”

—Dee & dee Dish…About Books

“A fresh intelligent voice—Kristan Higgins is too much fun!”

—Cindy Gerard, USA TODAY bestselling author

“Higgins is a talented writer [who] will make you want to search high and low for anything that she has written.”

—Chicklit Romance Writers

“Outstanding! This is a story well worth reading.”

—Coffee Time Romance

Catch of the Day
Kristan Higgins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my sisters, Hilary Murray and Jacqueline Decker. You are my dearest friends, and I love you more than I can say.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Terence Keenan, my brave and handsome husband, is patient, tolerant, funny and oh, heck, just wonderful. Flannery and Declan Keenan are my favourite people in the world, and every day I’m quite thrilled to be their mummy.

Thanks to my mum, brother, smart and talented sisters, my lovely grandparents who always let me have two desserts, and the rest of my sprawling, boisterous family. On the business side, thanks to the world’s best agent, Maria Carvainis, who is so wise and gentle with this middle child. Thanks to Abby Zidle for her excellent input and to Tracy Farrell and Keyren Gerlach for putting the final shine on the copy. Thanks also to Cris Jaw, Virginia MacDonald and Gigi Lau for my fantastic covers.

As ever, I am indebted to writer Rose Morris, my great friend from the Pine Tree State, whose input greatly improves everything I write. Brad and Mary Wilkinson helped me fall in love with Maine by taking me to Eggemoggin Reach for two summers, and I will ever be grateful that I got to share their home and their kids on that lovely, rocky shore. When I was seven, my beloved dad brought me to Ogunquit and talked a lobsterman into letting us check pots with him. The boat was called the Ugly Anne.

PROLOGUE

FALLING IN LOVE with a Catholic priest was not my smartest move.

Obviously, I’m well aware of the whole vow-of-chastity, married-to-the-church thing. I realize that yearning for a priest doesn’t exactly further the cause of meeting my future husband. And in case I might have overlooked those little facts, I have an entire town pointing them out to me.

The problem is, even when someone is clearly wrong for you, he might seem…well, perfect. And aside from that one hulking detail, Father Tim O’Halloran is everything I’ve ever let myself dream of in a man. Kind, funny, charming, intelligent, hardworking. He likes the same movies I do. He loves my cooking. He compliments me often and laughs at my jokes. He cares about the people of my hometown, listens intently to their problems, offers gentle guidance when asked. And he’s from Ireland, the icing on the cake, because ever since I was sixteen years old and first saw U2 in concert, I’ve had a thing for Irish guys. So even though Father Tim has never said or done anything vaguely improper, I can’t help dreaming about what a great husband he’d make. I’m not really proud of this, but there it is.

My romantic problems predated Father Tim, though he’s probably the most colorful chapter in the joke book that makes up my love life. First off, it’s not easy being a single woman in Gideon’s Cove, Maine, population 1,407. Ostensibly there are enough males for females, but statistics can be misleading. Our town is in Washington County, the northernmost coastal county in our great state. We’re too far from Bar Harbor to attract many tourists, although we do live in what is undeniably one of the most beautiful areas of America. Grayshingled houses hug the harbor, and the air snaps with the smell of pine and salt. We’re a pretty old-fashioned town—most people make their living either by fishing, lobstering or working in the blueberry industry. It’s a lovely place, but it’s remote, a good three hundred miles north of Boston. Five hundred from New York City. Meeting new people is difficult.

I try. I’ve always tried. There have been a few boyfriends, sure. I cheerfully accept fix-ups and blind dates when they’re thrown my way, I do. I own and operate Joe’s Diner, the only restaurant in town, so I have plenty of chances to meet people. And I volunteer—I volunteer my ass off, to be frank. I deliver meals to the infirm. I cook for the soup kitchen on Tuesday nights and bring whatever leftovers I have on an almost daily basis. I provide dinner at the fire department’s monthly meeting. I organize clothing drives and fund-raisers and offer to cater just about any event for a minimal profit, as long as it’s for a good cause. I am a pillar of society, and truthfully, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

But in the back of my mind, there’s a selfish motive. I can’t help hoping that my good works and cheerful attitude will be noticed by someone…perhaps some rich and handsome grandson of the elderly man whose dinner I delivered, or some new-to-town volunteer fireman who just happens to be, oh I don’t know, a board member of Oxfam and a brain surgeon, too.

However, the charitable neurosurgeon has proved elusive, and as of one year ago, when I was thirty-one years old, I remained single with no credible prospects on the horizon. That’s when I met Father Tim.

I had gone for a bike ride out to Quoddy State Park. We were having a warm snap, for March, anyway—the temperature reached forty degrees, the snow had softened, the breeze was quiet. I’d spent most of the day cooped up inside, and a bike ride seemed like just the thing to do. Clad in layers of fleece and microfiber, I rode further than usual in the brisk air and fading sunlight of the afternoon. Then, with classic New England unpredictability, a drenching, icy rainstorm blew in from the west. I was a good ten miles from town when my bike wheel slid on some ice. I went ass over teakettle down an embankment, right into a wet patch of snow that concealed eight inches of mud and ice. Not only was I filthy, freezing and wet, I had also managed to cut my knee and tear my pants.

Feeling very sorry for myself, I hauled my bike up the bank at the exact moment a car went by. “Help! Stop!” I yelled, but whoever it was didn’t hear me. Or heard me and was afraid, as I resembled an escaped lunatic at that moment. I watched the taillights of the blue Honda disappear in the distance, noting that the sky was suddenly much darker.

Well, I didn’t have a choice. I started walking, gimping along on my cut leg, until a pickup pulled over. Before I could even tell who it was, the driver grabbed my bike and popped it in the bed of the truck. Squinting through the rain, I saw it was Malone, a silent, slightly scary lobsterman who moored next to my brother. He may have spoken—the words “Get in” ring a bell—so I gingerly crawled into the cab of his truck. In my mind, I could hear an imaginary narrator…Maggie Beaumont was last seen riding her bike one dark and stormy afternoon. Her body was never found.

To allay my nervousness, I talked maniacally until we reached Joe’s Diner, reminding Malone that Jonah was my brother, that I was out for a bike ride (though that was rather obvious), that I should have listened to the forecast, that I fell (again, obvious), that I was sorry to make his truck dirty, et cetera, et cetera.

“Thank you very much, Malone, this was so nice of you,” I babbled when he lifted down my bike. “You should come in and have a piece of pie sometime. It’s good pie. Cup of coffee, too. On the house, okay? I owe you. Thanks again. This was great. Thanks. Bye now.” Malone did not deign to speak, simply lifted his hand and drove away.

As I watched the taillights blur in the rain, I said a prayer. “God, I don’t mean to complain, but I think I’ve been pretty patient here. All I want is a decent man who will stand by me and be a good father to our kids. What do You say?”

I remember all this because the very next day—the very next day—I came out of the kitchen of Joe’s Diner, and there he was, sitting in the farthest booth, the most incredibly appealing man I’d ever seen. Medium height, light brown hair, green eyes, broad shoulders, beautiful hands. He wore a gorgeous Irish fisherman’s sweater and jeans. When he smiled, my knees buckled at the glory of those straight, white teeth. A leaping thrill of attraction and hope shuddered through my entire body.

“Hi, I’m Maggie,” I said, giving myself a quick, mental once-over. New jeans, that was good. Blue sweater, not bad. Hair, clean.

“Tim O’Halloran. A pleasure it is to meet you,” he answered, and I nearly swooned. A brogue! How Liam Neeson! How Colin Farrell! How Bono!

“Would you like some coffee?” I asked, proud that my voice still worked.

“I’d love a spot. Can’t think of anything nicer.” He smiled right into my eyes. Blushing with pleasure, I looked out into the parking lot and saw the blue Honda. Dear God, it was the man who’d passed me!

“You know, I think I saw you last night!” I exclaimed. “Were you on Route 1A, heading for town around five? I fell off my bike, and I was trying to flag you down.”

“I was,” he answered, a concerned frown wrinkling his forehead. “How could I have missed you? Oh, dear, forgive me!”

Done. “Oh, gosh, don’t worry.” His eyes were beautiful, green and golden, like a bed of moss in the sunshine. Lust engulfed me like a thick fog. “Really. It’s—don’t—it’s fine. So. What, um…what would you like for breakfast?”

“What do you recommend, Maggie?” he asked, and it sounded so damn sexy, that accent combined with what seemed to be a mischievous smile and flirting eyes…

“I recommend that you eat here often,” I said. “I made the muffins myself, and they’re just out of the oven. And our pancakes are the best in town.” And the only in town, but hey.

“The pancakes it is, then, thanks.” He smiled up at me again, obviously in no hurry for me to leave. “So you work here, do you?”

“Actually, I own the place,” I said, pleased to be able to impart this nugget. Not just a waitress, but the boss. The owner.

“Do you, now! Brilliant! A classic, isn’t it?”

’Tis, I almost said. “Yes. Thank you. It’s a family business. My grandfather, the Joe in Joe’s Diner, started it up in 1933.”

“Ah, that’s lovely.”

“So, Tim, what are you doing in Gideon’s Cove?” I asked, then realized he might be hungry. “Wait, I’m sorry, let me just get your order in. Sorry. Be right back!”

I raced to the kitchen and called the order to Octavio, my short-order cook, then practically slid across the diner to Tim’s table, ignoring three customers who were waiting at the counter with varying degrees of impatience.

“Sorry. You might actually want to eat, of course,” I said.

“Well, now, there are some things that are nicer than eating, and talking to you is one of them.”

Dear God, You’re the best! Thanks for listening! “So, sorry, I was asking you what you were doing in town. Work related?”

“You might say that, Maggie. I’m—”

It was at this moment that the fatal event occurred. Georgie Culpepper, my dishwasher, burst into the diner. “Hi, Maggie!” he shouted. “Hi! How are you, Maggie! It’s nice out today, isn’t it, Maggie? I saw snowdrops this morning! You want me to wash dishes now, Maggie?” He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me.

Now, Georgie’s hugs are usually very pleasant. I’ve been getting them since kindergarten. Georgie has Down syndrome, is wicked affectionate and endlessly cheerful, one of the nicest, happiest people I’ve ever met. But right at this moment, I didn’t want his burr-like head welded to my breast. As I tried to extricate myself and as Georgie continued to tell me about the wonders of spring, Tim answered my question. I didn’t hear him.

Finally, I pried Georgie off me and patted his shoulder. “Hello, Georgie. Tim, this is Georgie Culpepper, and he works here. Our bubble boy, right, buddy?” Georgie nodded proudly. “Georgie, this is Tim.”

Georgie treated Tim to a hug, which was returned warmly. Lucky Georgie. “Hi, Tim! Nice to meet you, Tim! How are you, Tim?”

“I’m excellent, thank you, my friend.”

I smiled even more…could there be a better character reference than someone who knew just how to treat Georgie Culpepper? I immediately added it to the already impressive mental list I had going on Tim O’Halloran: handsome, employed, charming, Irish, comfortable around disabled people.

“I bet Octavio will make you scrambled eggs,” I told Georgie.

“Scrambled eggs! All right!” Though Georgie eats scrambled eggs every day of his life, the thrill has yet to fade. He scuttled to the kitchen and I remained, staring down at Tim. “Well. So. That sounds interesting,” I said, hoping he’d reiterate what it was he did for a living. He didn’t. The ding of the kitchen bell went off, and I excused myself, got Tim’s pancakes and brought them over.

“Can I get you anything else?” The scowls of my regulars were starting to register.

“No, no, thank you ever so much, Maggie. It was a real pleasure meeting you.”

Fearful that this was the last I’d ever see of him, I blurted, “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime?” Please, please don’t say you’re married.

“I’m going back to Bangor, but on Saturday, I’ll be here for good. Do you happen to belong to St. Mary’s?” he asked, stabbing a huge forkful of golden pancakes.

“Yes!” I yelped. Any connection, no matter how thin…

“Then I’ll see you Sunday.” He smiled and took a bite, then closed his eyes in pleasure.

“Wonderful.” My heart thumping, I went back to the counter and apologized to two of my regulars, Rolly and Ben.

Okay, so it was a little…devout…to mention where he went to church, but that was okay, I quickly assured myself. Perhaps the Irish were just more religious. But I was Catholic, technically anyway, and St. Mary’s was indeed my home parish. The last time I’d been there was two years ago, when my sister Christy got married, but my lapsed state didn’t matter. Tim O’Halloran was going to Mass, and so was I.

I called my sister the moment he left. “I think I’ve met someone,” I whispered, massaging cocoa butter into my hands. As Christy’s squeals of excitement pierced my ear, I told her all about Tim O’Halloran, how sweet he was, what a connection we had, how easily we’d chatted. I detailed every aspect of his physical appearance from his sparkling eyes to his beautiful hands, reiterated every word he spoke. “There was such chemistry,” I finally sighed.

“Oh, Maggie. This is so exciting,” my sister sighed back. “I’m thrilled for you.”

“Listen, don’t say anything to anyone yet, okay? Except Will.”

“Of course not! No, no. It’s just so wonderful!”

But Christy wasn’t the one who blabbed all over town. No, no, I did that myself.

I didn’t mean to, of course…it’s just that I see a lot of people. Not only the regulars at the diner, not just the people I work with.

Mrs. Kandinsky, my tiny, frail tenant, whose toenails I trim each week, asked me if anything was new. “Well, not really. But I think I met someone,” I found myself saying.

“Oh, wonderful, dear!” she chirped.

“He’s so handsome, Mrs. K. Brown hair, green eyes…and he’s Irish. He has a brogue.”

“I’ve always loved a man with a brogue,” she agreed.

And then I told my mom’s best friend, Carol.

“Do you think you’ll ever meet someone?” she asked in her forthright way when she came in for pie.

“I may have already,” I said with a mysterious smile. She blinked expectantly, and I was happy to gush.

And on it went.

On Saturday night, I went to Dewey’s Pub, the only other restaurant in town, if you can call it that. Paul Dewey and I are pals, and occasionally I’ll bring some food over, which he offers as daily specials and we split the profit. Otherwise, it’s a bag of chips if you’re looking for sustenance. But Dewey’s does a booming business as the only alcohol-serving institution in town, unless you count the firehouse.

I was meeting my friend…well, a person I hang out with sometimes. Chantal is close to forty and also single. Unlike me, she’s quite happy to stay single, relishing her role as Gideon’s Cove’s sex symbol, a redheaded siren of lush curves and pouting lips. She enjoys the fact that every man under the age of ninety-seven finds her damn near irresistible, as opposed to me, who’s everyone’s surrogate daughter. Even though Chantal never lacks for male companionship, we occasionally get together to lament the dearth of really good men in town.

Having met someone so incredibly appropriate as Tim O’Halloran, I was bursting to tell her, and, I admit, to stake my claim. It certainly wouldn’t do to have Chantal making a go for my future husband. “Chantal, I met someone,” I announced firmly as we sipped our beers in the corner booth. “His name is Tim O’Halloran, and he is so…Oh, my God, he’s so yummy! We really hit it off.”

As I spoke, my eyes scanned the bar. Tim had said he’d be back on Saturday, and here it was Saturday night, eight o’clock. The bar was moderately full. Jonah, my brother, stood at the bar with a couple of his pals—Stevie, Pete and Sam, all around Jonah’s age (which is to say, far too young for me). There was Mickey Tatum, the fire chief, famous for terrifying the school children with stories of self-immolation (he shows pictures), and Peter Duchamps, the butcher, a married alcoholic thought to be having an affair with the new part-time librarian.

Also present was Malone, his face as cheerful as an open grave, who glared at me when he walked in as if daring me to mention the ride he’d given me. I dared not. Instead, I lifted my hand weakly, but his back was already turned. No wonder we all called him Maloner the Loner.

That was it. Gideon’s Cove’s offerings to a single girl. Obviously, I was beyond thrilled at meeting Tim.

Jonah, who never missed a chance to flirt with Chantal, drifted over. “Hey, girls,” he said to Chantal’s breasts, earning a smile from their owner. “What’s cooking?”

“Your sister was just telling me about this hot guy she’s met,” Chantal said, dipping a finger into her beer and sucking on it. My brother, then aged twenty-five, was hypnotized. I sighed with irritation.

“What guy?” he managed to mumble.

So I told Jonah, too, my irritation vanishing with the chance to discuss the new man in my life.

We sat there till closing, but Tim never showed. Still, I was optimistic. He had said he’d see me in church, and see me he would.

The next morning, I spent an hour and a half getting ready. Because I’d told my parents, sister and brother about This Guy I’d Met, they were all coming to church, an activity our family usually saved for Christmas Eve (if we weren’t too tired) and the occasional Easter weekend. In we went, Mom, Dad, Jonah, Will, Christy, then pregnant, and myself. Looking around, I noticed that the church was pretty full, more so than usual. Was it a holy day? I wasn’t sure, never having cemented those in my mind. Oh, yes, I remembered hearing something at the diner…apparently, Father Morris retired and some new guy was filling in. Whatever.

I tried to scan casually for Tim, looking over my shoulder, pretending to fix the strap of my pocketbook, getting a tissue, adjusting my mom’s collar. Any chance to glance back. Then the windy old organ started, and I fumbled for the hymnbook. So busy was I studying the pews that I ignored the priest as he walked past. “Do you see him?” I whispered to Christy.

“Yes,” she whispered, her face a frozen mask of horror.

At that moment, the music ended, the church fell silent, and I reluctantly turned to face the priest.

“Before we start our celebration today,” said a voice already imprinted on my brain, “I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Father Tim O’Halloran, and I’m very pleased to have been assigned to your lovely parish.”

Roughly seventy-five faces swung around to look at me. I stared straight ahead, my heart pumping so hard I could hear the blood rushing through my veins. My face burned hot enough to fry an egg. I didn’t look at anyone, just stared at Father Tim O’Halloran’s chest area, and pretended to be fascinated and unsurprised. Tricky combination.

“I’m from Ireland, as you might be able to tell, the youngest of seven children. I’m looking forward to getting to know you all, and I hope I’ll see you all at coffee hour after Mass. And now we begin today’s celebration as we begin all things, in the name of the Father, and of the Son—”

“For God’s sake,” I muttered.

I didn’t hear a word during the next hour. I do know that Christy slipped her hand into mine, and that my father was shushed repeatedly by my mother. Jonah, furthest from me, was laughing that awful, unstoppable church laugh full of wheezes and the occasional squeak, and if he’d been closer to me, maybe I would have laughed, too. Or perhaps disemboweled him with my car keys. As it was, I pretended to listen, mouthed nonsensical words to songs I couldn’t read and stood when everyone else stood. I stayed in the pew during communion.

And when at last Mass was over, we filed out with the others. Christy, my sister, my best friend, the person I loved more than anyone on earth, whispered in my ear. “I’m going to pretend we’re talking about something really interesting, okay? And this way no one is going to talk to you. So smile and pretend we’re having a conversation, and we’ll get the hell out of here. Sound like a plan?”

“Christy, 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 hands and scurry off to clear a table.

For the last eight years, I’ve run Joe’s Diner, taking it over from Jonah Gray, my grandfather, after he had a heart attack. The diner is one of the larger employers in our tiny town, having four people on the payroll. Octavio is the most irreplaceable, running the kitchen with tireless efficiency. Judy came with the diner. She’s somewhere between sixty and one hundred and twenty, gifted at not working, though when pressed, she can handle a full diner, not that we get that a lot. Georgie gets some help in the summer, when we hire a high school kid to deal with the light tourist business that makes it this far north.

And there’s me, of course. I cook the daily specials, do all the baking, wait tables, balance the books, maintain the inventory and keep the place clean. Our final, though unofficial, employee is Colonel. My dog. My buddy. My precious boy. “Who’s your mommy?” I ask him. “Huh, Colonel McKissy? Who loves you, pretty boy?” His tail thumps at my idiot talk, but he knows not to leave his place behind the register. A Golden Retriever takes up a lot of room, but most people don’t even see Colonel, who has nicer manners than the queen of England. At thirteen, he’s mellow, but he’s always been incredibly well-behaved. I give him a piece of bacon and get back to work.

Father Tim rises to settle his check. “Hello, Gwen, love, how are you today? Don’t you look smart in that lovely shade of yellow,” he says to Mrs. Jensen, who simpers in pleasure. He smiles at me, and my knees soften. “I’ll see you both tonight, won’t I?”

“That’s right,” I answer. I may not be able to bring myself to Mass, but Father Tim has worn me down for Bible study. I stifle the urge to shake my head at myself. Bible study. My social plans for the week. Well, it’s not like I’m turning away dozens of suitors. Sadly, Father Tim is closer to a boyfriend than anything I’ve had in some time.

“Nancy Ringley’s bringing the snack?” Father Tim frowns.

“No,” I smile. “I am. Her daughter’s under the weather, so she called me.”

His face lights up. “Ah, wonderful! About the snack, at any rate. Not her dear little daughter. I’ll see you later, then, Maggie.” He pats my shoulder with avuncular affection, causing lust and exhilaration to flow down my arm, and turns for the door. I love you, I mouth. I can’t help myself.

Did he hear me? My face flushes in mortification as Father Tim glances back at me with a smile and a wink before going out into the cold. He waves as he crosses the street, ever kind where I’m concerned. Mrs. Jensen, who is not so tolerant, glares at me. I narrow my eyes in return. She doesn’t fool me. We suffer from the same disease—I’m just a little more obvious.

It’s a frigid March day, the wind howling off the water, slicing through the thickest wool hats and microfiber gloves. Only a few brave souls venture out, and the day drags. We don’t get more than a handful of people at lunch. I wait for Judy to finish her crossword puzzle before sending her home, as she’s really only here for show, anyway. Octavio takes off his apron as I scrape the grill.

“Tavy, take the rest of the pie, okay? Your kids will like it,” I tell him. He has five children.

“They will if they get to taste it. I already had two pieces.” Octavio grins his engaging gap-tooth smile.

I grin back. “Did Judy get any more ballots?”

“I think she gave out a few.”

“Great.” I’ve been relentless in asking my patrons to fill them out. Last year we lost by two hundred votes, so I need every one who crosses the threshold to pitch in. “Have a nice afternoon, Octavio,” I say.

“You, too, boss.”

“Here, take these cookies, too.” My cook grins his thanks, then goes out the back door.

Colonel knows what time it is. He gets up from his spot and comes over to me for a little pat, pushing his big head against my thighs. I stroke his white cheeks. “You’re such a good boy, aren’t you?” He wags in agreement, then returns to his spot, knowing I’ll be a while yet.

I flip the Open sign to Closed and wipe down the last table. This is one of my favorite times of day…three o’clock. We’re done for the day. Joe’s opens at six, though I usually don’t roll in until seven (the joys of ownership), but I make up my time by doing all the baking each afternoon. I’m proud to say that Joe’s desserts are locally famous, especially the pies and coconut macaroons.

Joe’s is a Jerry Mahoney design. Red-and-cream porcelain with stainless steel siding on the outside, red vinyl seats, cream-colored walls and a black-and-white tile floor on the inside. Ten swivel stools are bolted to the floor at the counter. At one end is the requisite pastry display case where my sweets tempt the patrons. There are seven booths with nice deep backs and seats that are just bouncy enough. At some point, my grandfather had those little jukeboxes installed and, as kids, we loved flipping through to see what the new selections were. The kitchen is through a swinging door with a porthole, and there’s a tiny supply room and unisex bathroom. In the corner window, a neon sign blinks those timeless words, Eat at Joe’s.

For the next half hour, I add up the receipts, check the inventory, print out more ballots and mop the floor. I play the jukeboxes as I work, singing along with Aretha and the Boss. Finally, I go back into the kitchen and start baking the desserts for tomorrow. And the snack for tonight.

Since Father Tim’s face brightened when he heard I was on snack duty, I decide to do something special. In the tiny kitchen, I take out the necessary ingredients and set about making apricot squares, one of his favorites. Once those are in the oven, I roll out a few pie crusts and throw together a couple of blueberry pies.

Colonel’s tail starts thumping, and I hear him scramble to get up off the tile floor. I reduce the heat on the pies and move them to a higher shelf so the bottom crusts won’t burn. Without checking, I know my sister is about to come in.

I’m right, as I usually am about Christy. She’s just pulling the baby stroller in through the door. We haven’t seen each other for three entire days, which is a long spell when it comes to us. “Hey, Christy,” I smile, holding the door for her.

“Hey, Mags,” she answers. She glances at me, then does a double take. “Oh, for God’s sake.” She wrestles the carriage the rest of the way in, Violet sleeping undisturbed, and pulls off her hat. “Me, too.”

My mouth drops open. “Christy!” We start laughing simultaneously, reaching for each other’s hands at the same moment.

Christy and I are identical twins. And we are quite identical still, though Christy had a baby eight months ago. We weigh exactly the same, have the same bra size, shoe size, pants size. We each have a mole on our left cheeks. We both have a slightly crooked pinky on our right hands. Though Christy dresses a little better than I do, most people can’t tell us apart. In fact, only Will, Christy’s husband, has never once confused us. Even our parents goof once in a while, and, Jonah, who is younger by eight years, doesn’t try awfully hard to distinguish us.

We often call each other only to get a busy signal because the other had the same thought at the same moment. Sometimes we get each other the same birthday card or pick out the same sweater from the L.L. Bean catalog. If I buy tulips for my kitchen table, it’s a good bet that Christy has done the same thing.

But once in a while, in order to create some sense of individuality, one of us will get the urge to try something new. And so, on Monday when the diner was closed, I went to Jonesport and got my hair layered a little, had a few highlights put in. Apparently Christy had the same thought. Once more, we are identical.

“When did you get yours done?” I ask.

“Yesterday. You?” She smiles as she reaches out to touch my new ’do.

“Monday, so the haircut is really mine.” I grin as I say 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 night for a walk.” Great in March on the northern coast of Maine is a bit of a stretch, but I could do with a walk. I wrap my scarf around my neck, pull my hat over my ears and call to Colonel, who has been enjoying the bone Will sneaked him.

“You’ll find someone,” my sister whispers, hugging me. “You will.”

“Sure! I know. Just a matter of time. Or maybe we could clone Will.” I smile and hug her back. “Thanks for dinner, Christy. Love you.” I walk down the steps, holding Colonel’s collar so he won’t fall. His hips are a little arthritic, and stairs can be tricky for him.

“Love you, too,” she calls.

I have just enough time to go home, help Colonel up my own stairs, get him settled, go back to the diner, pick up the apricot squares and walk to the rectory. There are five other people there already, all women, all half in love with Father Tim, though not to the degree or with the public scrutiny that I myself suffer.

“Maggie!” Father Tim exclaims. He walks over to me, and I can smell the soap he uses. His radiant smile makes my cheeks burn. “There you are! And what have we here? Ah, now, Maggie, you’d tempt a saint.” Mrs. Plutarski, St. Mary’s gorgon secretary, frowns. Of course, Father Tim is talking about my baking, not my feminine charms. Crooning softly over the dessert, he puts the tray on a sideboard. His ass is a work of art. These sinful thoughts are getting you nowhere, Maggie, I inform myself sternly. But yes, it is a work of art.

“Now, then, ladies, I believe we were going to discuss this lovely passage from the Book of Wisdom, weren’t we? Mabel, love, why don’t you get us started and read verses five through eleven?”

For the next hour, I stare at Father Tim, drinking in his expressive eyes, compassionate and perfect smile, his lilting accent. My feelings flit between lust for him and annoyance with myself. If only I could meet someone else. If only I could get over Father Tim. Better yet, if only he were Episcopalian! Then we could get married and live here in this cozy home with our beautiful, green-eyed children. Liam, maybe, and Colleen. A new baby is on the way. We’re considering Conor for a boy, Fiona for a girl.

“Maggie, what do you think? Do you agree with Louise?” Father Tim asks expectantly.

“Yes! Yes, I do. Mmm-hmm. Good point, Louise.” I have no idea what she just said. I vaguely remember something about light…but no, there’s nothing there. Mrs. Plutarski snorts.

Father Tim winks at me. He knows. I feel my cheeks grow warm. Again.

When Bible study is over—not that I’ve become educated, enriched or spiritually moved, mind you—I feel the uncharacteristic desire to leave. The others have already congregated around the sideboard, pouring coffee and falling onto my pretty squares.

“I’ve got to go, folks,” I say, waving. “Sorry. Enjoy the snack.”

“Thanks, Maggie,” Father Tim says around a mouthful. “I’ll just drop the tray off at the diner, shall I?”

“That would be great.”

He waves as he reaches for another square, and I smile fondly, happy to have pleased him. Then I head home, glad that Colonel, at least, is waiting for me.

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