Kristan Higgins - Catch of the Day

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.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

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

Obviously, Im well aware of the whole vow-of-chastity, married-to-the-church thing. I realize that yearning for a priest doesnt 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 seemwell, perfect. And aside from that one hulking detail, Father Tim OHalloran is everything Ive 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 hes from Ireland, the icing on the cake, because ever since I was sixteen years old and first saw U2 in concert, Ive had a thing for Irish guys. So even though Father Tim has never said or done anything vaguely improper, I cant help dreaming about what a great husband hed make. Im not really proud of this, but there it is.

My romantic problems predated Father Tim, though hes probably the most colorful chapter in the joke book that makes up my love life. First off, its not easy being a single woman in Gideons 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. Were 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. Gray-shingled houses hug the harbor, and the air snaps with the smell of pine and salt. Were a pretty old-fashioned townmost people make their living either by fishing, lobstering or working in the blueberry industry. Its a lovely place, but its remote, a good three hundred miles north of Boston. Five hundred from New York City. Meeting new people is difficult.

I try. Ive always tried. There have been a few boyfriends, sure. I cheerfully accept fix-ups and blind dates when theyre thrown my way, I do. I own and operate Joes Diner, the only restaurant in town, so I have plenty of chances to meet people. And I volunteerI 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 departments monthly meeting. I organize clothing drives and fund-raisers and offer to cater just about any event for a minimal profit, as long as its for a good cause. I am a pillar of society, and truthfully, I wouldnt have it any other way.

But in the back of my mind, theres a selfish motive. I cant help hoping that my good works and cheerful attitude will be noticed by someoneperhaps 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 dont 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. Thats 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, anywaythe temperature reached forty degrees, the snow had softened, the breeze was quiet. Id 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 didnt 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 didnt 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 spokenthe words Get in ring a bellso 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 Joes 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. Its 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 dont mean to complain, but I think Ive 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 Joes Diner, and there he was, sitting in the farthest booth, the most incredibly appealing man Id ever seen. Medium height, light brown hair, green eyes, broad shoulders, beautiful hands. He wore a gorgeous Irish fishermans 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, Im Maggie, I said, giving myself a quick, mental once-over. New jeans, that was good. Blue sweater, not bad. Hair, clean.

Tim OHalloran. 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.

Id love a spot. Cant 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 whod passed me!