Beloved

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  "He'll manage. Those of us who're left on the island will chip in on the chores and shopping. I hate to see him lose his wheels, but ... he's been a little forgetful lately," Mac admitted with a sigh. "We're all taking this one day at a time," he added.

  "I like him; he's a straight shooter."

  "He talks too much."

  "Oh, sure; you'd think so."

  They exchanged tentative, ironic smiles. Jane drew a long, discreet breath, scrambling for oxygen. This was not on the agenda, this light-headedness she was feeling.

  It was Uncle Easy's fault. He'd put a ridiculous bee in her bonnet, and now she'd probably spend the rest of her stay on Nantucket second-guessing her — and Mac's — every look, every smile, every pregnant pause. Heck, she liked it better the old way, when all she wanted was for Mac not to despise her.

  "Have you heard from Jerry?" she ventured to ask, driving all such speculations from her mind.

  "Yeah, he's fine. The bandage is off and the stitches are on their way out. I think he's a little disappointed. Sic transit gloria mundi."

  "He'll have other shots at glory," she said, surprised once more by this thoroughly mystifying neighbor of hers. What did he do? Study Latin in reform school?

  "That was the damnedest accident," she added thoughtfully. "I still can't believe it was ..."

  "Was what?"

  She heard the warning in his voice: whatever it was she was going to say, he did not want to hear it. But Jane plowed on anyway.

  "An accident," she said.

  "He tripped," Mac said evenly. "That's called an accident."

  "But why did he trip?"

  "Because he wasn't looking where he was going." Irritation was beginning to seep into Mac's voice.

  "That's true; but what made him so inattentive?"

  "For God's sake, the thought of a Snickers bar, what else?" He turned his head sharply to study her. "What're you getting at?"

  Jane took a deep breath and plunged. "Okay, well, here's the thing: A lot of weird, unexplainable ... happenings ... have been, well, happening. You already know about my shoulder —"

  "Which you said yourself is fine —"

  "But I haven't told you about all the other things." She related in spare detail the events of the fallen bookcase, the missing spoon, the open bulkhead doors, and the muddy laundry. She expected Mac to laugh, but he didn't, and it frightened her. All in all, she would've preferred hilarity.

  "Have you changed the locks on your doors? Put locks on all your windows?" he asked her sharply.

  "Well, no. Bing said Nantucket was safe as gold bullion," she said, with a sinking, sickening feeling.

  "Do you believe everything Bing tells you? For Chrissake, you've got a handyman right there! He can install the locks. What're you waiting for?"

  "I don't know; for ... nothing, I suppose," she said stupidly. "But what good are locks?" she blurted. "Locks are for people, not for ..."

  "Not for what?"

  "Spirits?" she whispered. "I know; I know how you feel about this, but I'm not kidding. When I got back from your house on the day of the accident, Buster refused to go into the bedroom. He hunkered down into some kind of groaning howl; it was ... hideous," she said, closing her eyes at the remembrance.

  "So you think —"

  "I think there's some kind of curse on Lilac Cottage. That's what I think. I don't know how it all sorts out," she said quickly before he could interrupt, "but too many things have happened for them to be coincidence. And that includes Jerry's fall over the shovel," she said defiantly. "This all ties in to Judith Brightman. I know it."

  They'd driven back through town and were heading out on North Water Street toward Lilac Cottage. Mac slammed on the brakes so forcefully that Jane's seat belt locked. He swung hard onto a short, muddy lane that connected to South Beach Street and began heading back to the center of town.

  "What is it with you and this curse?" he said angrily as they went bumping over the cobblestones. "Every time I see you, you're prowling some graveyard ... and now you're looking for ghosts behind every missing teaspoon. You're like my Aunt Lucille, for Chrissake! What's next? Cutting open a chicken and reading the entrails?"

  Mac made a right turn so sharp that Jane ended up with a rib full of door handle; he was hopping mad. "Don't you get it? Someone must be stalking you — someone you've brought with you from off-island, I have no doubt."

  He shot her a glance of pure fury. "No," he said through a clenched jaw, "you don't get it, do you? You came to Nantucket fully prepared to find ghosts, and by God, it's ghosts you're finding. Well, congratulations. I'll put your name in for hostess on the Haunted House Tour. Jesus! What did they teach you in finishing school?"

  Jane stared at him, agape, as he pulled up in front of the brick Town Building on Broad Street, leaned over in front of her, and threw open the door for her to leave. One part of her was saying, yes, it's definitely Old Spice, and another was quaking before the full brunt of his fury. She had expected cynicism and feared his sarcasm, but nothing had prepared her for this.

  "Why are you throwing me out here?" she asked, anger starting to displace her astonishment.

  "You want to know about Judith Brightman? You start with the death record. Have fun!"

  He slammed the door on her and roared off. Jane was left to dust herself off, so to speak, and continue on her way. Muttering under her breath, she walked into the Town Clerk's Office and asked for the death record of Judith Brightman, died 1852. In two and a half seconds she was handed a large, black, leather-bound book that said, "Deaths, 1850—1889, Town of Nantucket." Among the hundred and sixty-five deaths recorded in the year 1852 she found a simple, handwritten summary of Judith Brightman's life.

  Her "condition" at the time of her death was: widow. Her place of birth: unknown. Her age: just as the gravestone said. The name of her parents: unknown as well, dammit. The place of internment: Nantucket, big help. And the informant: an undertaker by the name of William Calder. Judith died not of dropsy or croup or pot ash (whatever that was) or bilious fever, nor did she die by burning or drowning or in childbirth as some others had. No, Judith Brightman died of fits.

  Fits. What in heaven's name were fits? Was she an epileptic? Was she insane, or hysterical? Or was she — could she have been — possessed in some way? If Judith had died, say, of consumption or influenza, then that would be that. A not abnormal end to a not abnormal life span. But fits. "Fits" had more than a touch of the supernatural about it.

  There was one other intriguing bit of information in the record: Judith Brightman's occupation was listed as "merchant." Jane had read that the nineteenth-century Nantucket woman was unusually career-oriented, and that merchandising was one of the socially acceptable ways for her to earn money while her husband was off whaling. Nonetheless, among the mariners, fishermen, coopers, sailmakers, laborers, farmers, and lawyers who'd died in 1852, Judith Brightman, female businessman, stood almost alone. She had to have been a woman of great determination.

  Jane's next stop was at the Atheneum, Nantucket's library. The Greek Revival structure, with its lofty columned facade, soared above her as she read with disappointment that winter hours were in effect. She'd have to come back later. So she trekked on home, fired with curiosity over this Judith Brightman, this merchant woman who died of fits. Suddenly Judith had become so ... legitimate. Up until a few minutes ago she'd been officially no more than half a gravestone. But now Jane knew she was real. She lived, she died. And she had some unfinished business on Nantucket.

  It was up to Jane to finish it for her.

  ****

  As she was walking up to Lilac Cottage, Jane saw Billy B. charging out of the driveway.

  "Where're you off to?" she asked when he stopped the truck.

  "Hardy's. For some window locks and a barrel bolt," he said, pleased that Jane saw he was on top of things.

  "Says who?"

  "Says Mac. He stopped by a little while ago. I have to say, his mood was blacker'
n hell."

  Her fists came up and since Mac wasn't around, they landed on her hips. "What did he say?"

  "Uh ... let me think. Exactly? 'If I can get so much as a flea's butt through this door tonight, I'll cut you in two and feed you to the wolves.' He didn't really mean it. We don't have any wolves on Nantucket."

  "Turn around, Billy. Locks are not on today's worklist," she said, turning on her heel for the cottage.

  Incredible. She'd opened herself completely to Mac, risked being treated like a fool, and he was treating her like ... a fool! As if she were some child, afraid of the bogeyman!

  She marched inside, looked up Mac's telephone number, began punching it in, stopped, slammed the receiver down, picked it up, got halfway through the number again, slammed the receiver down again.

  No. He wasn't worth it. He was too earthbound to see the possibility of another dimension, too cynical to believe in it if someone else pointed it out to him. Haunted house tour hostess. That jerk!

  She was pacing through the house, trying to regroup, when she came upon the single strip of wallpaper she'd hung in the front parlor. It was a sudden and charming surprise to her, like stumbling on the little clump of blue scilla along the road, and it had an instant effect on her overheated temper. She made herself a soothing cup of tea, avoided Billy B. — who was avoiding her like crazy — and spent the rest of the afternoon hanging wallpaper. It was wonderful, watching the room come vibrantly alive strip by strip.

  When she heard the brass door knocker later in the evening, she was reluctant to answer it; she wanted nothing to break her mood of enchantment. But it couldn't be Mac — the door wasn't rattling from the force of his banging — so she risked opening it.

  Bing. She hadn't expected him until the next day, Saturday, and to see him standing there with that irresistible grin on his face was like being handed four dozen yellow roses wrapped in a tissue of sunshine.

  "Bing! I thought you were —"

  He caught her in his arms. "Nothing could have kept me away — nothing! — for another day. I've been counting hours, minutes, seconds," he said elatedly, lifting her from her feet and swinging her round. "Your getting a phone was a disaster for me. I was okay until I heard your voice, but after that —"

  She laughed giddily as he lifted her above his head. "After that?"

  "After that," he said, lowering her slowly to the ground, "after that I began to wonder how I'd make it through the week without you."

  He gave her a kiss of silvery sweetness that traveled like a kind of lazy lightning along her nerve endings. When he released her she said breathlessly, "Can you stay awhile?"

  "I was afraid I'd have to beg," he murmured, nuzzling the curve of her neck.

  He released her and she noticed, for the first time, a business envelope that had been slipped through the mail slot and lay on the floor underneath it. She picked it up; the logo said J & J NURSERY AND LANDSCAPING, NANTUCKET.

  From Mac — no doubt an apology. She opened the flap and read the contents.

  It was a bill:

  Lift holly.

  Plant holly.

  Time and equipment: $300.

  Chapter 14

  "What is it?" Bing asked. "You look surprised."

  "It's a bill. From Mac."

  "For what?"

  "Moving the holly tree.".

  "Moving it where?"

  "Where it was, obviously." Immediately Jane was sorry. She was letting Mac destroy a perfectly romantic moment without even having to be there to do it. "I'm sorry, Bing. This is nothing," she said, tossing the bill on the nearest table. "Just Mac being Mac. Let's have a drink, shall we?"

  Bing made rum and tonics while Jane peeled back the bedsheet she'd been using to protect the Empire sofa from work dust. She turned down the lamps to throw a soft golden glow over the worn reds of the tattered Bokhara, and tucked a couple of kilim pillows in the corners of the sofa. She loved the room, loved its romantic, exotic, ambience. What a pity that her aunt had spent the greater part of her life in it alone.

  Bing came back with their drinks and they settled in on the sofa together. Buster, who was visiting, settled on the floor alongside, happy for the company. Jane took off her shoes and tucked her stockinged feet under her legs, Indian style, aware that trying to appear sexy and seductive in jeans and a sweatshirt was pretty much a waste of time. The wonderful thing about Bing was that he seemed to be dazzled by her no matter what she was wearing.

  He was looking pretty dazzling himself tonight. There was something about him that made her think along the lines of Greek gods. His hair was as bright as spun brass, his eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea. His teeth — so white, so straight — were as perfect as his profile. Yes: Apollo, the Sun God. Patron of the arts. Lover of nymphs, goddesses, and daughters of kings.

  And — as she recalled — husband to not a darn one of 'em.

  "You have a very dreamy expression on your face," Bing said softly. "I wonder what you're thinking."

  "Oh ... I don't think you want to know," she said with a wry smile, fluttering her lashes. There was a silence, very pregnant, before she raised her head and said, "And New York? How goes the battle of the new wing?"

  It was a deliberate change of subject, and Bing knew it. With a smile and a shrug he obliged Jane with an amusing account of the trials and perils of building in Manhattan.

  When he finished there was a thoughtful pause, and then he said, "Did you know that Cissy's been spending the last couple of days buying out Fifth Avenue?"

  "Yes, she told me she was going shopping in the city. I must say, this sudden desire for a makeover surprises me; she's turned into a clotheshorse overnight. What's going on?"

  "That's what I'd like to know," Bing said with a thoughtful shake of his head. "Obviously she's going all out to please her Mr. X. But she's so damn secretive about the guy. I've never seen her like this, so devotedly in love. It's like he has some Svengali hold on her. She was nothing like this when she married Dave — although it's true she was even more of a child then."

  Bing got up and began pacing the room, clearly uneasy. "And that's the other problem — Dave. My Nantucket number's unlisted, so Cissy's been safe from his calls here. But he was able to reach her this week at my co-op. It was pure rotten luck that she picked up the phone.

  "He's called me in the city before, drunk and wheedling, trying to get me to intervene on his behalf. I've managed to keep things cool, but I guess when Cissy answered the phone he lost it. She told me he got pretty ugly. He always was a mean drunk."

  "Can you put the police on notice?" Jane asked, concerned for Cissy. She'd read too many stories of estranged husbands to be comfortable with what Bing was telling her.

  "What can I tell them? That they had an acrimonious conversation on the phone? What divorcing couple hasn't? It's not grounds for a restraining order. No, she'll be safe enough on the island, if I can just coax her out of Bergdorf Goodman and onto a plane. She's supposed to be here tomorrow evening, as soon as she's finished with her fittings at Saks."

  "You'll breathe more easily then," Jane agreed.

  "You think I'm an alarmist," he said. Jane denied it.

  "Dave's never hurt Cissy physically," Bing admitted. "Never even threatened her. But when she finally mustered the resolve to walk out on him and his escapades ... well, Dave's too macho to take something like that without lashing out. Can you blame me for worrying?"

  He had his hands in his pockets and was staring without seeing at the slant-top desk and its leaded-glass bookcase. "I wish to God our parents were here!" he burst out bitterly. "She's too much responsibility for me. Damn it to hell!"

  Surprised by his vehemence, Jane said thoughtfully, "I had a college chum who was a lot like you. She wanted everything to be perfect, from her boyfriend to her master's thesis."

  Bing turned and cocked one eyebrow at Jane. "Come again?"

  "Well, for instance: She could never walk into a stereo shop and say, 'That sounds good.
I can afford it. I'll take it.' Oh, no; she knew too well what the best equipment was. But it cost too much. So she sat in silence.

  "My friend wanted a garden filled with exotic delphiniums and tender calla lilies; no easy-care daisies for her. But she didn't have the time; she couldn't take the trouble. So she ended up with weeds."

  Jane smiled ruefully to herself. "Needless to say, she never finished her thesis; she was always researching one more aspect of it. For all I know, she's still in the RISD library."

  "So what're you saying? That I don't have a green thumb? That I'm poor material for graduate school?"

  He was being deliberately dense; Jane ignored it. "I'm saying that you cannot create a perfect life for your sister, no matter how hard you try. I'm saying your sister herself will not be perfect, no matter how much you want her to be. That doesn't mean you should resent the commitment — or walk away from the responsibility."

  "Am I really such a coward?" he asked with disarming candor.

  "You're an emotional idealist," Jane said carefully. She unwrapped herself from the lotus position she was in and went over to Bing. "And you're beating yourself up for no reason. I won't say Cissy's a big girl now — in many ways, she's not — but I don't think you can put her in a pumpkin, either. She won't let you. So far Dave is nothing more than a nuisance. As for her Mr. X, if she wants to date someone who likes fine clothing ...."

  It was as if two light bulbs went on at the same time. "Philip?" they both ventured at once.

  It was such a startling thought that they both burst out laughing. Phillip and Cissy? Phillip — who could name every wine district, parish, and chateau in Burgundy — with Cissy, who thought Burgundy was a shade of nail polish? And yet, Jane could see the match. Phillip was older, commanding, knowledgeable — everything that Cissy wasn't. As for Cissy, she brought youth, beauty, and an eagerness to please. That was enough for many a middle-aged man.