Beyond the Misty Shore (3 page)

“That bad?” T.J. muttered. If anything could be worse than dead, being equated to the stuffy, social-climbing Lydia Johnson was it. She’d been bad enough as co-owner of The Store, but when her husband, Horace, got elected mayor, the woman became a first-rate snob—or tried to. Frankly, she never quite pulled it off. His shoulder stiff, T.J. rolled it to loosen it up.

“Yes sir, you do—and that ain’t no lie.”

“I happen to agree with the boy, Tyler. You’re as pale as a ghost.”

Grunting, T.J. hauled himself to his feet, careful that not so much as his big toe crossed over the boundary line, off Seascape land. He’d already pushed fate far enough for one day. “I’m fine, Miss Hattie. Really.” Dusting the sand and dead grass from his jeans, he gave her a reassuring smile. “I just fell on the rocks, like Aaron said.”

Aaron grinned as if pleased he’d been right. “Folks from away don’t know it, but you gotta watch those rocks, Mr. James. They’re slicker than spit.”

“That’s a bit graphic, mmm?” Miss Hattie patted the boy’s coat-padded shoulder. “What are you doing running around up here anyway?”

“Mama sent me. She got a message from Daddy. He said to tell Mr. James that he’s flying home with the painting today. The man at the gallery said okay.”

Miss Hattie gasped. “He’s secured the loan of the painting, Tyler! Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Yeah, wonderful.” The painting wouldn’t work, but it could get Bill and Miss Hattie past believing that this situation was completely psychological. A little reassurance would be welcome to T.J. too. Doubts about his sanity were eating him alive. Still, being of two minds on the matter, he didn’t know what to hope. Half the time, he wanted to believe that the problem rooted in his mind because dealing with that seemed more comfortable than accepting any other cause. But the other half of the time, he wanted an outside source to blame—even a bizarre one—because he hated that possibility less than the idea that even his psyche had turned against him.

“Aaron, you tell your mama not to risk the drive to Bangor. I’ll phone Jimmy straight away.” Miss Hattie looked at T.J. “Leslie’s from California, you know. She’s only been here thirteen years. Not at all used to driving on snowy roads.”

Carolyn hadn’t been either. T.J. nodded, solemn. Then what Miss Hattie had said hit him.
Thirteen years?
Well, this was Maine. Maybe in another generation or two, the Butlers wouldn’t be considered
from away.

“There’s something else too.” Aaron scratched his dark head, as if it’d help him recall exactly what.

The boy’s glove was a little large, frayed at the wrist, and bunched at his fingertips. But at least he
had
gloves. T.J. grimaced.

Remembrance lit Aaron’s eyes and, clearly pleased with himself, he looked at Miss Hattie. “A lady’s gonna be calling, Daddy said. Maggie White. No, that ain’t right.” He grinned. “Maggie Wright. That’s it. Maggie Wright.”

“Thank you, dear.” Miss Hattie gave the boy a smile. “You’d best get home now and help your mother with your brothers.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Aaron turned and started down the path to the road.

T.J. didn’t watch him. Though he couldn’t put a finger on it, there was something odd about Miss Hattie’s reaction to Aaron’s message. It gave T.J. a flicker of hope that the painting would work, and
that
he hated. He’d be a fool to believe it for a second. “Don’t get your hopes up, Miss Hattie.” He looked down at her, spoke gently to not upset her. “Bringing the painting here won’t make any difference. I’ll be a Seascape prisoner forever.”

Miss Hattie twisted her lips, clearly disagreeing. “Something unusual is going on here, but I’m sure it’s only temporary.”

“Nine months is stretching the bounds of temporary,” T.J. countered. She’d said before she had no earthly idea why he couldn’t leave, and he believed her. The situation was frustrating for him and clearly perplexing to her. From her jerky movements, she didn’t much care for feeling perplexed.

They started back toward the house. The path was speckled with patches of ice, and he gently clasped her arm to help support her. “I just wish I understood what was happening to me.” A spark of fear threatened him. The wind had died down but the mist still clung to the shore. “I don’t feel crazy.” He shoved his free hand into his coat pocket. “Am I crazy?” Finally, he’d asked the question out loud.

“No, Tyler, of course not.” She patted his forearm, linked with hers. “I wish I could explain this to you, but I’m afraid I don’t understand it myself. Let’s just hope that the painting works, mmm? We both feel it was spared from the fire for a reason. Maybe helping you now was the reason.”

“I always believed that about the painting, Miss Hattie, but my gut’s telling me I’m not the reason it didn’t burn in Carolyn’s wreck. I don’t know how I know it, but I do. Still, I’m desperate. I’ve got to try this. What else is there left to try?”

“Once you believed in the magic of healing.”

“I know. And I know that you think the healing magic I felt when painting
Seascape
will somehow help heal me now, but—”

“It is possible.”

Was it? No. But Miss Hattie believed it, heart-and-soul. It’d been easier to send Bill to get the damn painting and prove her wrong than to argue with her. She was a nurturer down to her bones, pure and simple, but she was also Maine-stubborn.

Sidestepping a large stone, T.J. returned to the path, feeling helpless and vulnerable. Both were feelings he’d had and hated before. He still hated them. “As soon as I prove it won’t work, I’m going to burn the damn thing. I’m going to burn everything that has anything to do with my work.”

“Tyler, no!” Miss Hattie gasped and squeezed his arm. “You can’t squander your gift. It isn’t—”

“It isn’t a gift. Painting used to be... everything, but not anymore. Now, it’s my curse.”

“Tyler!” A strong, phantom wind gust furled the end of her scarf like a flag.

“It’s true. My artistic ability has cost me everything that matters to me. Would a gift cost a man everything that matters?”

“It hasn’t.” They’d arrived at the road, at Main Street. Pausing, Miss Hattie looked up then down it, and, on seeing the way was clear, she crossed and started up the fir-lined drive to the house. “Your gift wasn’t responsible for your losses, and neither were you.”

“Then why can’t I leave here? Why do I land on my backside every single time I try leaving?”

“I don’t know.” Leaves crunched under their feet. “Jimmy really needs to do some raking. Remind me to mention it to him when I phone him about Bill, mmm? I’d be lost without Jimmy helping me out around here, but I do so wish he’d find himself a good woman and settle down.”

The swift subject switch had been intentional. She knew more than she was telling him. “How long has Seascape been an inn?”

“About twenty-six years. Why?”

“Twenty-six years. And I’m supposed to believe that I’m the only guest who has ever run into this kind of trouble.”

“Tyler, you sound like Beaulah Favish. Are you going to start troubling the sheriff with nonsense of weird happenings here too?”

“I’m not like your nosy neighbor, and you know it. Have I told anyone about this?” People—including Batty Beaulah—would think he’d slipped over the edge.

“No. I doubt you’d even have told Bill Butler, if he hadn’t come upon you prone during one of your failed attempts.”

T.J. wouldn’t have told Bill. Or anyone else. “Regardless, something weird is happening. You can’t deny it.”

Miss Hattie looked straight ahead and said not a word.

His heart rate quickened. She had her suspicions about exactly what that something weird was, all right. When Aaron had relayed the message from his father, she’d gotten the strangest, serene expression on her face. That worried T.J., and he prayed it didn’t signal another matchmaking attempt in his immediate future. Though well-meaning, he was about sick of her matchmaking attempts. But he wasn’t so sure matchmaking schemes had prompted that expression. “You aren’t going to tell me a thing, are you?”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know, dear.” She patted his arm. “Things will work out as they’re meant to. When one has little else, one must believe in fate.”

“Fate.” He sighed. Looked as if another attempt was inevitable, anyway. Irksome, but he’d nix it soon enough.

“You’re listening but not hearing, Tyler. You’ll come to understand. I will say, though, that soon there might well be burning at Seascape. We agree on that. But, unlike you, I’ll wager here and now that not a snippet of ash will be canvas.”

What did she mean by that? T.J. looked up at the attic window. Something flickered, and his skin crawled. Surprised at his reaction, he blinked and checked again, but saw nothing. A trick of the light?

“Tyler?” Miss Hattie slid him one of her helping-things-along looks he definitely recognized as a pre-matchmaking signal. “I need for you to move into the main house.”

Here it came. Opening the back door into the mud room, he paused. “Why?”

“The Carriage House needs a new roof. I intended to get it done this fall, but you so enjoy your privacy in its apartment, I didn’t want to disturb you. Yet I can’t wait any longer now. Winter is here.” She stepped past him, shrugged out of her coat, then hung it on a peg on the wall. “Do you mind?”

“Not really.” He minded a lot. He pegged his coat and toed off his muddy shoes, glad to be out of the biting wind and cold. “If the weather holds, I’ll move this afternoon.”

“I think Maggie Wright will arrive this afternoon and I hate to welcome a new guest while we’re in turmoil. This morning, mmm? After breakfast—which might well be late if my muffins have burned.”

He smiled. “They wouldn’t dare.”

She smiled back, then grew serious. “You know, Tyler, your situation sincerely troubles me. This is the first time in all my years at this house I’ve been uneasy. I sense you have reservations, but I truly have no idea what is happening to you.” She stared up at the ceiling as if miffed and speaking to someone else entirely, then added, “And I don’t much like it.”

He didn’t like it either. But what could he do about it that he hadn’t already done?

The smell of blueberry muffins drifted on the air. His stomach growled and, without an answer, he followed Miss Hattie into the toasty, warm kitchen.

The phone rang.

She walked over to the wall, pulling her clip earring from her lobe, then lifted the receiver to her ear. “Hello.”

Miss Hattie listened, smiled, then cupped her hand over the receiver and whispered to T.J., “Maggie Wright.”

“Wonderful.” The matchmaking queen
was
at it again.

“Just a moment, dear.” She looked at T.J. “Go wash up, Tyler. Your help is on the way.”

His
help?
Did she mean the painting? Or the woman?

Chapter 2

“I’m afraid I’ve brought the rain with me, only here it’s sleet.” Maggie watched Miss Hattie finger through the little ceramic boxes on the old, L-shaped registration desk in the entry hall of Seascape Inn.

The round, ample woman looked ageless, her soft white hair in a neat bun and her kind green eyes catching the light from the banker’s lamp on the desk. With her floral dress, apron, and her rosy cheeks, she could have been Norman Rockwell’s
Grandma
model.

“Well, we’re glad to have it, dear. The plants and grounds need feeding too, mmm?” Looking distracted, the caretaker patted her pockets in time with the grandfather clock’s steady ticks. “Ah, there it is.”

Smiling, she fished the key out of her apron pocket, separated it from her handkerchief, then passed it to Maggie. “I expect it seems strange to you, but we live simply up here. Few locals lock doors, so keeping up with keys is more of a chore than it seems to folks from away.”

“Nice. That you have that luxury. Definitely not a good idea in New Orleans.” The registration book lay open before her. Both pages were full and Maggie quickly scanned the names. The inn was a popular one, judging from the number of guests. The pages dated back only to August. No opportunity right now to see if Carolyn had been here. Maggie would have to check later—hopefully, unobserved.

“I’ve put you in the Great White Room.” Miss Hattie replaced the pen from the open registration book to its wooden holder. Being bumped back into proper rows, the little ceramic boxes clinked together. “Top of the stairs, first door on the right. It’s one of the rooms with a phone, though I’m sorry to say that the thing works only when it wants.” She replaced the lid on the third little box. A lighthouse had been hand-painted on it. “I’ve had the phone company out three times, but they can’t find a thing wrong. Tried to tell those youngsters it has to be in the wiring, but they say it isn’t. Anyway, if you need the phone and it’s on the blink, you’re welcome to use the one here or in the kitchen. Hope that won’t be an inconvenience.”

“None at all.” Who would call her? These days, she rarely saw outsiders. “I’ll just need to check on my mother every couple of days.”

“Good.” Miss Hattie dabbed at her temple with a white lacy hankie, then tucked it into her apron pocket. “The Great White Room has the turret and faces the ocean. Pretty window seats, if you’re of a mind to do a little dreaming. From our chat earlier, I thought you’d like that.”

Maggie smiled, showing her appreciation for the thoughtful gesture, though after the past two years, she wasn’t honestly sure she knew how to dream anymore. “I’m fond of the water. It’s... vast. Helps a person keep things in perspective, you know?” She slung her purse strap back over her shoulder, then picked up her tapestry-designed suitcase.

“Indeed I do know.” Miss Hattie smiled back at her. “We all need our chance to dream.”

An odd tingle shimmied through Maggie. As if she’d just heard something extremely significant and was being warned to pay attention to it. But that was silly, wasn’t it? Miss Hattie was a sweetheart, only engaging in polite conversation to make a new guest feel welcome in her home.

Maggie tucked her briefcase under her arm, then lifted her makeup case, adding those items to her already considerable load. The stuff weighed a ton. She hoisted it, trying to get a firmer grasp. Her purse strap promptly slipped from her shoulder, dropping the purse onto the makeup case and threatening to knock the whole mess out of her arms.

Miss Hattie repositioned the strap and gave Maggie an apologetic look. “I’m really sorry Jimmy couldn’t be here to help you take your things up to your room. You’re loaded to the gills.”

She walked Maggie through the entry, past the grandfather clock. Its chimes tinkled charmingly and reverberated through the entryway.

Pausing at the foot of the stairs, Miss Hattie sighed. “It’s the storm. Jimmy’s out rescuing stranded drivers. Course, the boy will be down with a cold come tomorrow, but he says he does what he has to do. I’ve already taken the chicken out to thaw so I can make him up a big pot of soup. He’s orphaned, poor dear. Was even when his mother was alive, I’m sorry to have to say.”

Jimmy. Ah, the mechanic from the shop she’d seen when driving through the village. That Miss Hattie worried over him was clear. Maggie liked that about her. “It’s good of you to watch out for him.”

“Wouldn’t anyone?”

They wouldn’t. But Miss Hattie’s expression proved that possibility had never occurred to her and Maggie refused to shatter the woman’s illusions. “I’d better get on upstairs before I scatter these things.”

The lights flickered off, then came right back on.

“Just the storm, dear,” Miss Hattie assured her. “I’ll fix you a snack. The Blue Moon Cafe doesn’t start serving dinner until five, and you look hungry now.”

“Thank you, I am.” A guardian angel in the flesh. “I was timid of veering too far off the highway, and I didn’t see an open restaurant until I got to the village. Awful, but I have no sense of direction. I’d likely have ended up in Canada.” Maggie smiled then started up the stairs.

The smell of lemon oil was pleasantly strong on the staircase and explained the mahogany paneled walls’ polished gleam. Everything she’d seen appeared well-tended, with not a speck of dust in sight. Even the third stair’s creak under her foot seemed homey and attuned, as if the house opened itself up and surrounded those in it in a safe and warm cocoon.

Midway up, two large portraits hung side by side in fine oak frames. A handsome man and a striking woman. Looking at the portrait of the woman, Maggie sensed her gentleness, her caring, and felt both deep down inside. It was a strange sensation. One alien to her last week, but one experienced twice lately. First, when viewing the painting of Seascape Inn at the gallery and, again now, looking at this woman’s portrait. Feelings of peace and calm and serenity mirroring those she’d felt at the gallery flowed through her. How... odd. But, oh, how very welcome. The last two years had been worth everything they’d cost her, yet now that they were over she realized just how stressful they’d been. She really did need time to dream, as Miss Hattie had said, and time to heal. It seemed that this was the perfect place to do it. Already, she loved it here.

Prisms of light from the chandelier overhead pooled on the wooden stairs and reflected on the brass platelets attached to the paintings. Maggie paused to read them.
Cecelia Freeport
and
Collin Freeport.
Mmm, were they the village founders? Seascape’s original owners? Miss Hattie’s relatives?

No, Miss Hattie was the caretaker here. Not the owner. According to her, the owner was a judge in Atlanta. Maggie would have to ask about them.

Someone was watching her.

She glanced up to the second story landing. Empty. Not a soul in sight. She walked on up, feeling the slightest bit uneasy. Not frightened, by any means, just sort of aware. The sensation was a strong one, but not one that threatened.

The hallway was long and dark, as all the other doors leading to it were closed and very little natural light slanted in through the bank of mullion-style windows at the end. She walked over a white Berber rug, passed the plump-cushion window seats and the hand-carved bookcases flanking them. Miss Hattie respected books. The spines were straight and aligned perfectly in depth on the shelves. Maggie slowed her step to glance at a few titles.
Boats, Boatbuilding in the Twentieth Century, Tall Ships, The Atlantic, The Old Man and the Sea, One Man’s Army: A Guide of World War II; Ghosts, Goblins, and Bumps in the Night; Voodoo, Coming Up Roses.
An eclectic mix.

Maggie walked on, then stopped outside the heavy door to the Great White Room and gave the door a knee-nudge. It didn’t open. Leaning over, she put her makeup case down. Her purse fell off her shoulder and thudded to the floor. Par for the course.

Someone hit her in the back from behind.

Knocked forward, she dropped her suitcases and tumbled, scudding a good half-foot across the planks.

“Damn.” A man towered over her, his arms as full as hers had been with hangered shirts, slacks, and a red-and-black-plaid coat. “I didn’t see you.”

T.J. MacGregor? Impossible!
Stunned, Maggie just lay there.
It is him. What on earth is he doing here?

Frowning, he shifted, adjusting his load. Hangers chinked together.

He didn’t recognize her.

She’d known that if she ever saw him again, he wouldn’t. They’d only seen each other once, at Carolyn’s funeral. They hadn’t spoken, and Maggie had being wearing the traditional black mourning veil. There was something positively galling in that the man had occupied so many of her thoughts, so much of her time in the past two years, and yet he didn’t know her from Adam.

“Are you all right?” He shoved the hangers down from near his chin so he could look at her without dumping the armload of clothing onto her head.

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I’m fine.”

“In that case, would you get up? You’re blocking the hall.”

She gained her feet, hanging onto the doorknob, fearing her cheesy-knees wouldn’t hold her.
Why is he here? Why hadn’t Bill Butler warned me MacGregor would be here? Had he set me up?
“Charming.”

“Hate to disillusion you, but charming, I’m not.” He stepped around her. “We’re the only two guests up here right now. Goes that way during the winter, after the last of the leaf-peepers bug out. Let’s make a deal.” He gave her a cold, hard look. “I’ll stay out of your way, and you stay out of mine.”

No apology? Arrogant ass. What was wrong with the man? Did she look ready to attack him or something? He certainly had nothing to fear there. She grabbed the hem of her brown skirt, which had ridden indecently high on her thighs, and gave it a good jerk down to her knees.

The glimpse she’d gotten of him at the funeral had been obstructed by heavy coats and a sea of black umbrellas, and what she remembered most of all had been the slump of the man’s shoulders. Here, with her view unobstructed, he wasn’t at all what she’d expected from her memory. He stood much taller, about six-foot-two, lean and well-muscled, though broader. His coat back then
hadn’t
had padded shoulders after all.

The man was supposed to look like an artist—intense and sensitive—not like a perfect-nosed, roughened lumberjack with huge hands. Doing intricate work on canvas had to be a hassle. His jeans were obscured by the clothing he carried, but his shirt was a typical, warm-looking L.L. Bean classic in a faded blue that really did wonderful things to his gray eyes, especially in the soft light. A shame he spoiled the effect with his killer glare. His hair was on the long side, jet black and wind-tossed, loosely curled at his nape and plastered to his head in front by the droplets of what likely once had been sleet. Unfortunately, that didn’t do squat to diminish the impact of his face. It was interesting. Strong-boned and distinct, lived-in. Faces that looked as if their owners hadn’t lived in them a while bored her. T.J. MacGregor had lived plenty in his and, from the telling signs on it, he’d laughed and suffered his fair share.

The devil deserved his due and she’d give it to him. He was dynamite-looking. Sinful that his TNT attitude, which she didn’t like one bit, and the chip on his shoulder the size of Maine’s granite cliffs, ruined him.

And those sins paled beside his worst: He was a key player in Carolyn’s death. Maggie knew it as well as she knew she stood in the upstairs hallway at Seascape Inn, staring at the man.

“Oh, I won’t bother you,” she assured him, and nodded to let him know she truly meant it. “I’m tired, wet, cold, and hungry. I don’t want to be bothered myself. But even if I did, I’d find myself another victim. Frankly, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to bother you.”

“Frankly, good.” He smiled but there wasn’t any warmth in it. “Sounds perfect.”

The tiny lines near his eyes crinkled and she cursed herself for noticing. The man was an egotistical, arrogant jerk. Tempted to tell him so, she yanked open the door to her room, then hauled her belongings inside. “Perfect,” she snapped, then slammed the door shut.

Her hands were shaking. She was shaking all over.

What on earth is he doing here?

Miss Hattie definitely
was at it again.

T.J. dumped the hangered clothes onto the bed in the Cove Room, wishing he could go right back to the Carriage House suite and hole up until the new arrival finished her visit and went home. The last thing he needed was another matchmaking experience. He had troubles enough and he damn well didn’t have the extra energy to carry off being an ass.

He was doing fine at it so far, though.

Guilt stabbed at his stomach. He grabbed up a few hangers and walked over to the closet. Maybe the new roof would be on in a day or so, and he could get back out to his suite, not that the Cove Room wasn’t fine. Large and comfortable and cathedral-ceilinged, it had plenty of space for a man to move around in. Three windows overlooking the pond, gazebo, and Batty Beaulah’s, provided decent light—and not first light, thank God, like the Great White Room. Forest green and brown-tone bedding and curtains and rugs spared him the lace and frills. Yeah, this room was okay. He could handle it for a few days, until the roof was done.