Beyond the Misty Shore (20 page)

Tyler led her down alongside the long, wooden bar. Marred and scuffed and worn smooth in spots, it had been well-used.

“Hey, T.J.” Smacking on chewing gum, a tall, slender woman about thirty-five with a distinct Southern accent and golden red hair, gave him a welcome home smile.

“Lucy.” He nodded. “Have you met Maggie Wright?”

Wearing jeans and a University of Maine sweatshirt, Lucy stepped over and offered her hand—one holding a red bar rag. She grinned, tucked the end of the cloth into the back pocket of her jeans, then shook Maggie’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

The infamous Lucy Baker. “You, too. I’ve heard wonderful things about your cooking.”

Lucy waved off the compliment and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve got these Yanks fooled into thinking it’s good but, as cooks go, I ain’t a patch on my mama’s apron.”

Maggie cocked her head. “I thought you’d always lived here.” Ah, she remembered too late. Lucy’s father had been local. They’d visited.

Lucy laughed. “Only in the summers. My folks homesteaded in Mississippi. You can be gone for a hundred years, but you never lose that Mississippi twang. Nice asset, I think. Anyway, I fell in love with Maine and wanted to stay so I married me a local.” Her eyes twinkled sheer mischief. “But don’t tell Fred. He thinks I fell for him.”

T.J. pulled out a chair and rolled Maggie a subtle “I told you so” look.

He had. Maggie sat down. And, like him, she couldn’t tell for certain whether Lucy teased or was serious on the “Maine for Fred, or Fred for Maine” remark. “Don’t worry,” Maggie assured the woman. “Your secret’s safe with me—providing your blueberry pie is half as good as Miss Hattie’s.”

Lucy laughed, slid the silver-knobbed salt shaker over near the pepper and gave the table a swipe with the cloth. “Sweetie, nobody makes better blueberry pie than Miss Hattie. But,” Lucy whispered, “I use her recipe.”

MacGregor sat down across from Maggie and rested their clasped hands atop the table. “Lucy is the reason everyone calls Miss Hattie ‘Miss Hattie’ instead of ‘Miss Stillman.’ Hatch started it, right, Lucy?”

“Sure did. I kept forgetting that ‘Miss’ and, to keep my mama from blistering my backside for it, Hatch, God love his heart, started calling her Miss Hattie to help remind me. It caught on, spread to Miss Millie, and it’s been that way ever since.”

“You know,” Maggie said, “I’ve wondered why everyone addresses her by her Christian name—Miss Millie, too—when that’s not typically done here like it is at home.”

“Maggie’s from New Orleans,” MacGregor told Lucy.

“I know. Same as you.” She stared at their clasped hands and a knowing quirk curled her coral-tinted lip. “You two meet each other down there at home, then?”

“No,” Maggie said. “We met at Seascape.”

“Oh, really?” Lucy’s eyes danced excitedly. “Well, my-my, isn’t that interesting?”

Maggie shrugged. What was interesting about two people living in a metropolitan area not meeting there? Not wanting to hurt Lucy’s feelings, she just smiled.

“We’d both like pie and coffee,” MacGregor said, then winked at Lucy. “Better make Maggie’s a slab. She’s got an appetite.”

“Geez, MacGregor.”

“You do.”

“Well, you don’t have to announce it.”

Lucy laughed and patted Maggie on the shoulder. “Don’t fret, Sweetie. A woman needs a good appetite up here to survive the elements.” She pointedly swiveled her gaze to Fred, making it apparent she wasn’t talking about weather.

“She’ll have no trouble, then.” MacGregor grinned.

Maggie squeezed the dickens out of his hand, trying to shush him, and watched Lucy stroll over to the bar and nod to the short, graying man behind it. He had an intelligent look to him—not book-smart, but world-wise, people-smart—and a gold-nugget ring on his pinkie finger winked in the light from the Budweiser beer clock on the wall behind him.

“Give me two coffees, darlin’,” Lucy said. She picked up a black marker, moved over to the infamous bulletin board on the wall beneath the clock, then scribbled something down, looking very pleased with herself.

The door opened and two men walked in. Lucy greeted the one with thinning, brown hair who stood nearly as tall as MacGregor, and wore a police uniform and a weary face. “Hey, Leroy. The coast is clear. Ease yourself on down.”

“Thanks, Lucy.” He slid onto a stool at the bar and settled in. “What we got today?”

“Blueberry and cherry.” Her gum cracked. “Name your poison, Sweetie.”

“Cherry. Big hunk.” He set his hat on the empty stool beside him. “Lord, but it’s been a wicked day. Those kids from Boston have been driving me nuts with their three-wheelers over at Pumpkin Cove.”

Lucy put a cup of coffee down in front of the man. “These the same bunch the paper said wrecked all the flowerbeds over at Indian Point yesterday?”

“The same.” He grimaced. “Tore up everything in a five-mile radius.”

“Why didn’t you arrest them?”

“Not a witness in sight.” He took a swig from his cup. “Those kids don’t have a lick of sense, Lucy. One more call and I’m tossing ’em into the tank even if I have to trump up charges to get ’em off the streets. Maybe if their folks have to drive over to bail ’em out, they’ll get mad enough to do something about this.”

“Sheriff Cobb,” MacGregor whispered to Maggie.

“I figured,” she whispered back, then looked at the second man. He was a good deal younger than the first—early twenties, not wildly attractive, but nice-looking. Better than nice if he’d get his long brown hair a decent trim—and very interested, it appeared, in the young lady who looked a lot like Lucy waiting on a table in the far corner. His nose was red, his eyes watery, and his grease-smeared jeans needed a good wash in a bad way but, from the way he carried himself, Maggie bet those jeans had been spotless before the man had gone to work this morning.

He spotted MacGregor and walked over, grinning. “Good to see you off Seascape, T.J. It’s been a while.”

“Yes, it has.” The men shook hands. “Maggie, this is Jimmy Goodson.”

The mechanic who often helped Miss Hattie at the inn—and who ran shopping trips for the villagers to Boothbay Harbor. Her cheeks went hot. “Hi, Jimmy. It’s good to see you up and around.” Maybe he’d gotten those condoms off the board, anyway.

“Excuse me?” His forehead wrinkled.

“I thought Miss Hattie had you on bed rest for your cold.”

He rolled his gaze ceiling-ward. “She does, which is why I’ve got to get back home—before she catches me and blisters my ears.”

He looked pleased at the prospect. Ah, Miss Hattie had told her that Jimmy was an orphan. Clearly, she’d adopted him. “I’ll bet she would.” Maggie unfolded her napkin and spread it over her lap—not an easy feat, one-handed.

“I need a word with you, T.J.” Jimmy blushed. “Private-like.”

Maggie looked at MacGregor, and her eyes stretched wide. They couldn’t break contact, he’d pass out. What should she do?

Lucy set the coffee and pie onto the table, looking at Jimmy. “Miss Hattie’s just left the cemetery for The Store, Sweetie. You’d best haul it back home pretty quick.”

He nodded. “ ’Preciate it.”

MacGregor rubbed Maggie’s thumb reassuringly. “Go ahead, Jimmy. You can talk openly in front of Maggie.”

“It’s, um, kind of delicate, T.J.” The young man’s face turned beet-red. “No offense, Maggie.”

“I know about the note on the bulletin board, Jimmy.”

“I took it down.” Jimmy looked straight at MacGregor, turned his back to Maggie, then dropped his voice to a whisper and passed MacGregor a small box. “Next time you need something, um, personal, just call me direct.”

MacGregor slid the box into his pocket and turned as red as Jimmy. And if the heat radiating from her face was a solid indicator, so had Maggie.

“Thanks,” MacGregor said. “I’ll do that.”

“No problem.” Jimmy cleared his throat. “I didn’t figure you’d want your personal business spread all over the village.”

Maggie grimaced. Geez, who was left that
didn’t
know? Why couldn’t the floor open up and swallow her? MacGregor recovered quickly and now looked amused, damn his hide. She resisted an urge to give his thigh a solid whack.

“Jimmy!” Lucy shouted from the front window. “Miss Hattie’s coming across the parking lot. Move it!”

Jimmy took off like a streak of lightning, hurtled over the bar, then vanished into the kitchen.

Fred slapped at the bar and grinned at the sheriff. “When he wants to, that boy can move.”

Leroy lifted his coffee cup to his mouth and grinned through the steam. “Miss Hattie inspires him.”

“How’s the pie?” Lucy glanced down at their plates and frowned. “You haven’t touched it.”

“We’ve been talking with Jimmy.” MacGregor snatched up his fork. “Lucy, Maggie was wondering whose graves Miss Hattie puts the flowers on. Do you know?”

“’Course, Sweetie. The Freeports.” She smacked her gum. “God love her heart, she never misses a Tuesday, rain or shine.” Lucy glanced over to Maggie. “Hattie Stillman don’t forget those in her care—dead or alive.”

Cecelia and Collin Freeport. Seascape’s original owners. “She’s an angel.” Maggie took a healthy bite of pie. How could someone dead be in Miss Hattie’s care?

“Durn near.” Lucy grinned. “Well, as close as a body can get to being an angel without being dead.” She leaned over an empty chair. “Maggie, me and Fred’s been having this little debate for a couple years about this very thing. Do you
think angels can be dead people, or can they only be nonhuman spiritual beings?”

T.J. tensed and squeezed her fingers in a death-lock, warning that this was a hot family debate. She looked over at Lucy. “I’d say that depends.”

“On what?” Lucy swatted at T.J.’s shoulder. “Would you quit interfering with your warning looks and just let the woman speak her piece?”

“Sorry.” He looked anything but.

“It’s all right.” Lucy returned her gaze to Maggie, her eyes glittering. “So what’s it depend on?”

Maggie gave her an angel’s smile. “God’s will.”

Lucy laughed out loud. “Oh, Maggie, that’s choice. About the smartest answer anyone’s ever given us. Shoot, me or Fred could hardly disagree, now could we? And yet you haven’t sided with either one of us.”

“Well, you
could
disagree,” Maggie said softly, knowing it wouldn’t happen.

“I don’t think so, Sweetie.” Lucy gave her gum a good crack. “I’m a
Mainiac,
but I ain’t a fool. When Fred asked me to marry him, I told him I would if he promised me two things. One, we neither one ever dispute God’s will. And, two, we never mess with IRS—at least not without solid proof and a big stick.”

“Sounds like a good plan, doesn’t it, MacGregor?”

He nodded, lips pursed.

“T.J.” Lucy looked at him, her eyes shining. “You’ve got a real winner here.”

Maggie opened her mouth to object to the insinuation that she belonged to MacGregor, but he squeezed the fool out of her hand until it tingled, his gaze never leaving Lucy’s, and assured her silence by saying, “She’s special, all right. I’m a lucky man.”

The phone rang.

Lucy glanced up at the Budweiser clock and her grin faded. “Three-thirty. Hell’s bells. The sheriff’s already having a bad day.” She stretched over to the end of the bar and lifted the phone receiver from its cradle. “Blue Moon.”

She listened for a second then rolled her gaze heavenward as if praying for patience. “I’ve been busy, Beaulah. Um, the sheriff?” Lucy gazed over at him.

Sheriff Cobb frantically waved both hands, gesturing and silently moving his lips.
I’m not here.

Lucy frowned at him.

The sheriff slid off his stool, reached back for his coffee cup, then nearly ran out the front door.

A smile dancing in her eyes, Lucy snapped her gum. “Sorry, Beaulah, you just missed him. He left in a bit of a hurry today.”

Big, burly Sheriff Cobb running from tiny, birdlike Beaulah—a woman nearly twice his age. Maggie grinned at MacGregor.

He grinned back.

“I’ll tell him, Sweetie. T.J. MacGregor”—Lucy looked at MacGregor—“is busting the cliffs with his head and ruining the topography because a ghost is after him over at Seascape and won’t let him leave there. Uh-huh. Sure enough, Beaulah. I’ll pass that vital info along to Sheriff Cobb right away.”

Lucy hung up the phone. “Dang, I’m standing here looking at you, T.J.”

He shrugged and smiled.

She gave the phone a soulful look. “Poor woman’s losing it, bless her heart.”

A
ghost?
Maggie avoided his gaze, knowing he was avoiding hers, too.
A
ghost?
Her stomach furled in on itself.
Impossible. Ridiculous. Absurd.

The sheriff cracked open the door and peeked inside. “You off the phone yet, Lucy?”

“Yeah, Sweetie, sure enough. Come on back inside. I’ll even get you a second hunk of pie for sparing my soul. Can’t abide lying. Never could.”