Beloved

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  She paused at the gutter to plan her next move and was dismayed to see that Mac was at the foot of the ladder, steadying it. No doubt it was the neighborly thing to do, but it had the effect of rattling what was left of Jane's nerves. She completely forgot Billy's advice to step on the outside of the rungs, and came down the centers instead.

  The ladder held her fine — until she slipped on a rung about two-thirds of the way down, then lost her footing and came down hard on the next rung, which broke, sending her flying backward through midair and knocking Mac to the ground underneath her.

  She ended up in a sitting position across his midsection. "Thank you," she said with as much dignity as she could muster.

  "My pleasure," he drawled, propping himself on his forearms. "Any broken bones?"

  "I'm afraid not. Sorry."

  They were very, very close. Close enough so that she could see brown flecks in the rich hazel of his eyes. Close enough so that she could see that his lashes were thick and brown, and that he had three small freckles on the side of his temple. Close enough so that she could feel him stir beneath her, could feel the heat.

  She scrambled to her feet, scalded by his nearness once again. Maybe she was overreacting, but if so, it was his fault. He could have had the decency to be embarrassed.

  "Yo, Jane!" It was Billy on the roof, looking relieved. "I guess you were right about the ladder!"

  Only now, as she stared up the formidable height of the ladder, did it occur to Jane that she might've broken her neck. She might've been the perfect ritual victim, if it hadn't been for Mac. Apparently she owed him; she found the notion ironic.

  "I saw you in the lane outside my house last night," she said coldly as Mac rose to his feet and brushed off his khakis. "What were you doing there?"

  "Wa-a-ll, I was in the area —"

  "I know you were in the area. What I'd like to know is why." She folded her arms across her chest like a nineteenth-century schoolmistress. Prim. That's what she felt. Prim.

  Her body language seemed to strike a nerve with him. The cautiously friendly expression on his face turned dark. "God, you want to know why. I would've thought it was obvious. Someone has an interest in you that's not what I'd call healthy —"

  "Because they threw my laundry in the mud? Believe me, mister, that's the least of my problems right now."

  She considered telling him about the paranormal experience that she'd had on the roof. But how could she possibly describe it to him? That was the problem with the paranormal — it wasn't normal.

  She settled for saying, "I appreciate your keeping an eye out for me, but I think the window locks and barrel bolts will do just fine. Billy's putting in a yard light, too. All I'll have left to do is sign up for the handgun course," she added sarcastically.

  She jammed her hands in her pockets and said in a sulky voice, "But I would like to add that all of this is just whistling in the wind. It won't solve anything." She looked away from him and up at Billy, driving nails with an expert hand.

  "I take it you're still on your Judith kick," Mac said perceptively. "Did you find anything useful in the death record?"

  "Only the bare bones of her life," Jane admitted. "She was a merchant and she died of fits."

  Mac raised his eyebrows in an ironic grimace. "Not much, but you can build on it, I'm sure."

  "You bet I can," Jane said, her chin coming up defiantly. "I can tell you that Judith Brightman was married to a whaler named Ben; that she was friendly with, or even related to, the wife of the captain of a ship named the Chelsea; that the ship ran up on a bar somewhere near the island; and — I'm not positive about this part — that Ben may well have drowned trying to make it ashore."

  When Mac gave her a puzzled look, she said, "I have not made this story up, nor have I read an account of it anywhere."

  When he still didn't say anything, she said, "I can add, with complete confidence, my belief that Judith Brightman is far and away the fiercest, most singleminded and devoted woman ever to have lived on this island."

  That got him. "What do you mean, 'is'?" he said under his breath. His attention was divided between Jane and Billy, who was coming down from the roof. "What the hell are you saying, Jane?"

  "I'm saying I've made contact with her," Jane answered, with far more triumph than she felt.

  Mac simply stared at her.

  "At least, I'm assuming it was Judith Brightman," she said less confidently. "I'll be able to verify it Monday when I go back to the town clerk's office."

  Like a sailboat that's been knocked down by a gust of wind, Mac struggled to right himself. "Your ghost keeps office hours at the Town Clerk's Office?"

  "Very funny. I just need to be sure of my facts."

  "Facts! You call those facts? I've seen more facts in the graffiti on a subway car!" His eyes were blazing, his voice a strained growl. "You naive little twit! There's nothing funny about this. You've got to stop —"

  Suddenly he pointed to her pile of leaves. "If you're going to put them on the curb for pickup, don't," he said in a complete change of tone. "I'll throw them on my compost pile."

  "What? Oh. Sure," Jane said, turning around. Billy was walking past, an amiable smile on his good-natured face. She wondered how much he'd heard.

  Billy tossed a scrap of leftover flashing into the back of his pickup. "Did you ask Mac what a Humane House was?" he said to Jane. "Maybe he'd know."

  "Humane Houses? That's what they called the lifesaving stations that used to be located around the island." Mac turned to Jane and said, "Why do you want to know?"

  Jane sighed and shook her head. "Ben Brightman was trying to reach a Humane House after the Chelsea went up on the bar," she said quietly. "He was coming home from a three-year voyage; he didn't want to die within sight of Nantucket's shore."

  "You read about this somewhere," Mac said, almost angrily. "In a tourist brochure. In a history of the island."

  Jane answered him with a sad and forlorn smile, as the pieces to the mystery continued falling quietly into place for her.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. It was very chilly. Low gray clouds had crept in from the southwest, and an energetic sea breeze was whipping loose strands of her hair across her cheek. She had no desire for this argument. Mac didn't believe a word of her story, and of course he never would. How could he? He'd put all of his faith in rich, brown earth, and deep roots, and green leafy things. There was no room in that doctrine for something as evanescent as a ghost.

  Mac was looking off in the distance, to where a view of the sea would be if it weren't blocked by scrub trees and brush across the road. His jaw was set in the way she was learning so well. It depressed her, more than she was willing to admit; he was so unyielding. He zipped his canvas jacket and flipped up its collar, then turned to her, his back to the chilling wind.

  "Don't pursue this, Jane," he said in deadly earnest. "Don't. You're stepping where angels will not tread."

  Again she shrugged. "I have no choice, Mac. Can't you see that? Anyway, I'll try to go on tiptoe." She said it with a lightness she did not feel.

  It was another one of their standoffs. Afterward Jane thought that they might have grown old and died on the spot where they stood if it hadn't been for Billy.

  "Hey, Mac," he said, driving a playful fist into his mentor's solid biceps. "Carol tells me you're throwin' a shindig for Uncle Easy. Eighty, that's a big one. We'll be there for sure."

  "Great," said Mac without much enthusiasm. "And bring the kids. It's a family affair."

  At the mention of the words "family affair," Jane did the polite thing and began to take her leave.

  "Just a minute," Mac commanded, stopping her in her tracks. "Uncle Easy specifically asked for you. A week from next Saturday. If you can't come, of course we'll understand," he added with typical irony.

  It was an invitation, an honest-to-goodness invitation. Sort of. Jane couldn't have been more impressed if she'd been asked to a state dinner.

  She
smiled graciously and said, "I love birthday parties. When and where would you like me?"

  Chapter 15

  As it turned out, Uncle Easy had "specifically requested" just about everyone around for his birthday party, since most of his own friends had "gone off-island once and for all," as he put it. So Bing was invited, and Cissy too, for no other reason than that they were there, and they were alive.

  "I met the old guy exactly once," Bing said, laughing, as he, Cissy, and Jane lingered over hashbrowns in town on Sunday. "He's a real piece of work — I remember he tried like hell to sell me some broken-down truck he had no use for. Brother. He must think I have 'City Slicker' written all over me."

  Jane, new proud owner of the truck in question, smiled weakly and changed the subject. "So, Cissy, how's your Mr. X? Not on the island, I guess, since you're here with us. Whatever the reason, it's nice to have you back."

  And it was. Cissy was wonderful therapy. Unlike Jane, she seemed incapable of feeling tense, anxious, or depressed. Having an estranged and angry husband in the wings didn't seem to bother her a whit. Cissy could face down anything, including Judith Brightman; if Cissy ever bumped into her, she'd probably offer to take her downtown for a new wardrobe.

  One thing was sure: Cissy knew all about new wardrobes. Gone were the studded denim jackets and duct-tape skirts. Gone were the spiky hair and black funky boots. In their place was a young woman right out of Town and Country, in a softly cowled cashmere sweater, plain gold earrings, and a skirt neither too long nor too short. Her hairstyle was subtle, her shoes correct, her Coach handbag just big enough to hold the minimal makeup she wore.

  "I can't believe how more ... mature you look," Jane said, choosing her words.

  "D'you think so really? I mean, do you really? It was so weird, throwing out everything I owned. I mean, it's possible I might have worn this sweater, y'know, or the earrings, or even the skirt, but, like, never all together. And never the shoes," she added, sticking out her foot to display a low-heeled shoe of supple leather.

  She studied her foot, then sighed. "I'm just not sure it's me." But then she brightened, as she always did. "On the other hand, I've always dressed the way I felt and this really is how I feel now. I think. Y'know?"

  Bing exchanged an amused look with Jane and went back to the Arts and Leisure section of The New York Times. Jane wondered, not for the first time, whether Phillip ever permitted Cissy to open her mouth. Phillip Harrow. She shook her head. He couldn't be the one.

  She decided to try to find out. "So where is Phillip, anyway? Still in New York?"

  "Oh, no; he had to fly to Palm —" Cissy caught herself and stopped, blushing furiously.

  Bing lowered his newspaper and said gravely, "You may as well tell us, Ciss. It's Phillip, of course."

  "When did you find out?" she asked, biting her lip.

  Bing couldn't suppress a grin. "Just about now."

  Cissy looked like a child whose ice cream has fallen out of its cone. Jane tried to comfort her. "We won't say anything, Cissy, don't worry. But why is Phillip being so secretive?" Why indeed, unless his intentions were completely dishonorable.

  "Well ... he never did like to be the center of attention; you know how developers are. And then his wife drowned and he ended up right back on the front page. Can you blame him for trying to keep a low profile?"

  "Cissy, you know I worship the ground you walk on," said her brother. "But even I don't think Phillip Harrow's dating you is newsworthy."

  "Well ..." Cissy had been tearing her napkin into thin shreds and piling them up on her plate. She studied the little mound of paper and said uncomfortably, "That's what he told me."

  "I don't like this at all," Bing said, now that the subject of Phillip was finally out in the open. "You're both entitled to your privacy, but Christ. He acts ashamed of you."

  "No, no, he's not ashamed — well, maybe of the way I used to dress. But can you blame him? I looked like a hooker."

  "You looked like every other twenty-two-year-old," Bing said wryly. "Who does this guy think he is? Pygmalion?"

  Cissy smiled dreamily. "He's just like Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady," she said, completely missing the connection. "Rex Harrison really cared for Eliza. And Phillip really cares for me."

  She plopped her chin on the palm of her hands with an injured, disappointed expression that her brother had no doubt seen before. "I wish you wouldn't be like this, Bing. Phillip isn't Dave."

  Relenting, Bing sighed and said, "All right. But it's damn awkward. I'll see this guy and not know whether to welcome him into the fold or punch his lights out."

  Somehow Jane was convinced that Bing would be doing neither. Her guess was that Phillip was very good at leaving people holding the bag — whether it was Mac with a sunken Porsche, or Cissy with a broken heart. And yet, who knew for sure? Phillip had been really kind to Jane, going out of his way to send her a potential buyer. True, the buyer had seemed to have very little interest in lilac Cottage; but that wasn't Phillip's fault. He'd even promised to send her another prospect.

  Before the three of them broke up — Cissy to catch up on her sleep, her brother to fly back to New York — Bing took Jane aside.

  His expression was hesitant. "Look, are we all right with one another? After Friday night?"

  "Of course we are," she said, giving him a kiss right there on the street to prove it.

  "That's great," he said softly. "We're going to need some time to sort things out. I suppose it's a good thing that I have to get back to the City early. Still, the thought of being away for two weeks ...."

  He hesitated, then said, "Jane, there's something I think I should tell you before I go. After I left your place on Friday, I stayed up and read. When I finally turned in about three in the morning, I looked out and saw ..."

  He took a deep breath. "Well, I saw Mac. He was leaning up against a tree, watching your house. Naturally I went out and confronted him about it. He told me you'd had some trouble — which was no secret — and that he was just keeping an eye out. So I suppose it's all right; but I'd rather you knew. I told Mac I was going to mention this to you," he added scrupulously. "He wasn't very happy about it."

  Jane realized that Mac must've returned after she saw him leave. She was amazed. "You two were carrying on under my window at three in the morning, and I never even heard it? I don't believe this. No wonder someone's getting away with murder around here."

  "I don't like anything about this," Bing said quietly. He left Jane reluctantly, with a troubled good-bye.

  ****

  The next morning, Jane saw Mac's dark green pickup parked by the Town Building on Broad Street. So! He was trying to beat her to Ben Brightman's death record! It was incredible nerve, to call her a naive twit and then sneak in ahead of her to find out if he was right. She stormed the building, ready to do battle.

  On her march down the long, narrow hall to the Town Clerk's Office, she nearly ran him down. But Mac was coming out of the Registry of Deeds, not the office of the Town Clerk. Momentum-wise, Jane felt as if she'd tripped and fallen on her nose.

  "You're supposed to be in the Town Clerk's Office," she said indignantly.

  "I can't imagine why. The plot maps I was looking at are in the Registry of Deeds."

  "But —"

  A man in a suit and tie walked past and said, "Mornin', Mac."

  "Hey, Pete. How's it goin?"

  "But what about Ben Brightman?" Jane demanded to know.

  A young woman, neatly dressed, had her child in tow. "Hello, Mac," she said with a friendly smile. The boy smiled too.

  "So, Jimmy — you taking good care of your mom?" Mac asked, tousling the boy's hair. They toddled off, and he turned back to Jane. "Ben Brightman is your problem, not mine."

  "Okay, fine," she said stiffly. "Will you believe my story if I come up with proof that he died around 1830?"

  "You won't find that proof in the death record."

  "Mac, my main man! Big game Sunday, don't forge
t."

  "Gotcha, Ned."

  "You know what your problem is?" she said, annoyed that people seemed to like him. "You've got an attitude."

  "Mac."

  "Bill."

  Almost as an afterthought, Mac turned back to Jane and said gently, "I know what you want to believe: that Ben Brightman was buried without a gravestone, and that Judith Brightman wants you somehow, some way, to make it right. It's a lovely, romantic idea. But unless this Judith Brightman of yours has become more than a pain in the shoulder and is actually at the chitchat stage, or unless she's left behind a diary of her grievances tucked between your floorboards, I can't see how you're going to figure out her problem, much less a solution to it. Have you considered —"

  He interrupted himself to shake the hand, in mysterious silence, of a bearded man who'd come up to him.

  "Have you considered a séance?" he asked her.

  Was he serious?

  "You're outrageous, you know that?" she said quietly, and she turned on her heel and left him, presumably holding court for the small remainder of the forty-three hundred registered voters he hadn't greeted so far that morning.

  Once again Mac had been able to read her like a book. Yes, she did think Judith and Ben were the star-crossed lovers behind the Legend of the Cursed Rose. And yes, she was willing to consider a séance, maybe, if it wasn't too expensive. She walked into the Town Clerk's Office in a complete snit, determined to track down the facts of Ben Brightman's death and rub them in Mac's face.

  But — it was not to be. Nantucket's formal death records dated only to 1843, too late for Ben, if her theory was correct that Ben's death was behind the furor over the rosebush. To trace a death in 1830, she'd have to pore through the clerk's genealogy records. Jane did that, but soon discovered that they were filled exclusively with the family trees of the rich and famous of Nantucket: Coffins and Gardners, Folgers and Swains, Husseys and Macys. Obviously the Brightmans didn't rate.

  All of which Mac, a keen historian, must have known. He might have saved her the trouble, dammit, instead of making easy predictions that she would fail.