Catch of the Day Read Online Free Page B

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