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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.

CHAPTER TWO
    O N F RIDAY AFTERNOON, I leave the diner, all the goodies ready for baking tomorrow, and head for home. There’s a bounce in my step. Will, best brother-in-law in the world, has come through. I have a date.
    It’s been a long time. Quite a while. I wrack my brain, trying to remember the last actual date I had, and come up empty. Before Father Tim came to town, that’s for sure.
    Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. I pat Colonel for reassurance and pull my coat a little closer. Tonight I have a date, and I’m going to enjoy it. A nice dinner and some company, the buzz of potential. I turn at my street and make my way to the small house I bought a few years ago. On the first floor lives Mrs. Kandinsky, my tenant. She is ninety-one years old, a lovely, tiny bird of a woman who knits me sweaters and hats with amazing speed, given that her hands curl in on themselves with arthritis.
    I knock on Mrs. K.’s door and wait. It takes her a while to get up sometimes. Finally, the door opens a suspicious crack. Then she sees that it’s just me. “Hello, dear!” she chirps.
    “Hello, Mrs. K.!” I chirp back, leaning down a foot or so to kiss her silky, wrinkled cheek. “I brought you some meat loaf. All the fixings, too.”
    “Oh, Maggie, how nice! I didn’t know what I was going to cook for dinner! And now I don’t have to! You’re an angel, you are. Come in, come in. ” Her emphatic way of talking makes it sound a bit like she’s singing, and I find myself unconsciously imitating her after a few minutes in her company.
    Although I don’t have to leave for a couple of hours, I want to go upstairs and enjoy the rare feeling of date anticipation. But Mrs. K. is so sweet, and many days, I’m the only person she sees. Her aging children live out of state, and most of her friends are long gone. I usually bring her a meal from the diner for both unselfish and selfish reasons—I don’t want her burning my house down, trying to cook. So she gets plenty of blueberry scones and muffins and pot roast, or cheddar mac and cheese or whatever else I’ve made that day.
    We go into her living room, which is crowded with overstuffed furniture, magazines and a small television. She’s tapped into my satellite dish and is currently watching a soccer match between Italy and Russia. The smell of old person, close and medicinal and oddly comforting, tickles my throat.
    “I can’t stay, Mrs. K.,” I tell her. “I actually have a date