Beloved

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  "This wasn't a backdraft, this was Judith." She nearly spat the word: "Judith!"

  A thought occurred to her. "I can prove her to you! I have her on tape," she said, rushing to the camcorder.

  There was, of course, no electricity to run it. Frustrated by the failure of everyone, including Mother Nature, to cooperate, Jane slammed her hand down on the machine. "Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch, son of a bitch."

  Mac flashed the light briefly over her face and said, "Hey, hey, Miss Drew. That's no way for a lady to talk."

  It was obvious that he was worried about her, despite his light tone. But she wanted him to admit it. "Why did you shine that light in my face, Mac?" she asked in a dangerously still voice. "Reality check?"

  "Maybe," he said quietly.

  "Do you think I'm hysterical?"

  "Not clinically, no."

  "You infuriating — give me that!" she said, snatching the flashlight from his hand. "Look at this sketch. Look!"

  She flashed the light on Aunt Sylvia's charcoal drawing of the young Quaker woman — it was Judith, of course — who was pictured exactly as she'd appeared in Jane's dream. The same imploring pose, the same thick, dark hair. And that coal-skuttle bonnet on the floor beside her: it must have fallen from her lap when she went to answer Jabez Coffin's knock.

  "That's Judith Brightman," Jane whispered, holding the beam of light unsteadily on the sketch. "She's just been set aside from the Society of Friends ... and forbidden to enter the Burial Ground. Jabez Coffin did this to her. My God. There's nothing I can do about it now ... nothing."

  She turned slowly to Mac in the darkness and flicked the light over his face. He winced, but whether because of the bright light or her state of mind, she could not say. "Do you believe me?"

  "Can you think of a reason why I shouldn't?"

  "Yes," she admitted sadly, letting the flashlight droop by her side. "You can point out to me that I had the dream after I'd studied the sketch. And you can add that a lot of what I know, I could have learned subliminally as I scanned through issues of the Inquirer, or from what you told me when we walked that day in the Burial Ground. But Mac — oh, please — believe me anyway," she whispered.

  "Am I to believe your Aunt Sylvia as well?" he asked her gently.

  "Aunt Sylvia? What has — oh. I see. She had to have had the same dream that I did, to be able to do that sketch." Jane laughed — a small, hopeless sound. "Boy. It's not looking too good for me, is it?"

  She handed him back his flashlight as if she were handing over the scepter of command. "What do they call people like me? Delusional?" It was a measure of her respect for him that she assumed he would know precisely which psychotic category she belonged in.

  "I'd call someone like you damned tired," he said gruffly. "You should be in bed."

  "No!" she said in a panic, thinking of the videotape. "She might be there." She felt her cheeks glow with embarrassment; it all sounded so absurd. "I know I sound like a kid afraid of the dark, but —"

  "I'd ask you to my place," Mac interrupted in a strained voice, "but somehow I don't think that's such a hot idea."

  She had no idea what he meant by that, so she agreed with him politely. "N-no, of course not. I'd be fine, if only I knew how to use the kerosene heater. I could sleep right here."

  Mac seemed relieved to shift the talk to things mechanical. Before long he'd located the old heater, verified that it was filled with kerosene and not something dumb like gasoline, cleaned the wick with his knife blade, and had a nice clean blue flame going. He showed Jane how to turn down the wick and blow it out if she needed to, and then it was time to go.

  She thanked him profusely while she stood wrapped in the cocoon of her blanket, as close to the heater as she could get. She was thanking him all over again when the unmistakable smell of singed polyester reached her nose and Mac's at the same time. Mortified, she yanked the blanket off the heater.

  "We're going to have to get you flameproof Dr. Denton's to sleep in," Mac said wryly. "Just how accident-prone are you?"

  "Can you possibly think this is f-funny?" she snapped, beginning to shiver violently again. She'd had one too many near-misses in a row; she was becoming unraveled.

  He didn't bother answering her question, but he said, "I'll sit with you awhile." It wasn't an offer, it wasn't a request. It was a simple statement of fact.

  They sat down on the Empire sofa, with the blanket pulled loosely over Jane's lap. She was reminded of the practice of bundling, peculiar to old Nantucket, that allowed a male suitor, fully clothed, to climb into bed with the object of his affections, also fully clothed, so that they could court without wasting precious island firewood. A board placed lengthwise between the couple was supposed to keep things from getting too cozy.

  Not that we'd need the damn board, she thought with a sigh. Mac's willpower amazed her. Any man — she thought of Bing — who found himself in the company of a half-way attractive woman, in the dark, with no heat, would think he'd died and gone to heaven. That much she'd learned in her dealings with the opposite sex.

  But not this man. In the dim light of the kerosene heater she could see Mac clearly, leaning back on the sofa, his hands locked behind his head, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He looked maddeningly relaxed. He wanted her to be at ease; she understood that. But he didn't have to be so good at it.

  "I was wondering," she ventured, "how you manage to be so content to live alone. I thought the isolation was charming — at first. But look at me now. I'm a basket case."

  He laughed softly and then added, "Who says I'm content to live alone?"

  The question sent a kind of sweet chill of hope rippling through her. She said, "I guess it just looks that way to someone like me."

  "Because I'm not living with someone, you mean?"

  "Well, yes. That has to be by choice." She was as much as admitting he was irresistible.

  "I suppose it's true that I'm not at the frantic stage yet," he said thoughtfully, oblivious to the compliment.

  "Frantic. I can't imagine you frantic," she said dryly.

  He laughed out loud at that, the most good-natured, seductive sound she'd ever heard. "You think I'm too deliberate," he said. "Yeah ... you're probably right," he said, leaning forward pensively, resting his arms on his thighs. "Chalk it up to my misspent youth. It's made me think twice before I act on some bright idea."

  She wanted so much to ask him about that misspent youth, but now was not the time. Still, she took heart from the fact that they were at least talking comfortably to one another. In a strange way she thought that Judith deserved some of the credit, and she was grateful.

  "I've been meaning to ask you," she said softly. "Did you know my Aunt Sylvia well?" She'd asked him once before, and he'd brushed aside the question with one of his evasions.

  "Pretty well. I liked Sylvia," he said this time. "She was very much her own woman. Sharp as a tack, well informed ... a CNN junkie, in fact. We didn't see eye to eye on politics, of course, especially local politics," he said, chuckling at the memory. "She wanted more laws, I wanted fewer."

  "That sounds about right," Jane said, smiling. "I remember the day I first saw you," she added. How could she possibly forget? "It was at Aunt Sylvia's funeral, and it was pouring out."

  "That was your mother with you, right? A striking woman; I'd recognize her again."

  "I bet she'd be able to pick you out of a li — a crowd — too."

  She went back to the subject of the funeral. "You tossed a tiny red rose in Aunt Sylvia's grave."

  "Yeah. Before she moved into the home off-island, she gave me Wicky to take care of, and also a miniature rose she'd bought for herself years earlier. I asked her why she wasn't taking the rose to the nursing home. She told me it'd be pointless. I've wondered what she meant by that; everyone else there had a plant in her room."

  "You were there?"

  "Of course," he said, surprised that she would ask. "I'd go whenever I got off the island
— which as you know isn't very often."

  Jane did know. Lately she'd been locked onto the comings and goings of his truck like a radar scope; but of course she couldn't tell him that.

  "She never told me about you."

  "She never told me about you."

  "She was good at keeping secrets," Jane said, thinking of the sketch on the wall. "She never said a word about Phillip either, even though Phillip told me they were great friends."

  "Phillip lied."

  Mac said it with such finality; for a moment Jane almost believed him, even though it made no sense.

  "Why would Phillip lie about his friendship with my aunt?"

  "He wants to buy your place."

  "Mac! I've already told you —"

  "Let me rephrase that. He wants to buy my place. But first he has to get his hands on your place. That'll tighten the noose around my neck nicely."

  His mood was turning black, as it always did when the subject of Phillip Harrow came up. Mac's grudge ran deep, and Jane couldn't blame him; there was bad blood between the two men. But it would be so much better if Mac could put it behind him instead of letting it affect his judgment this way.

  She tried to draw him away from his anger. "If Phillip really wanted your property, surely he'd go after Bing's place first. But we know from Cissy —"

  "Damn Cissy!" Mac said angrily, jumping up from the sofa. "What does a little peanut like Cissy know about anything? Look, Phillip got Bing to grant him first refusal on his property, all right?" he said bitterly. "Now you know."

  He balled his right hand into a fist and punched it into his left palm. "And I have to live with that knowledge every goddamned day of my life."

  Slowly it began to dawn on her. "So if Bing decides to sell his property, he has to offer it first to Phillip. And if Phillip buys the place—"

  "I'm at his mercy," Mac said in a grim voice. "I may have to get in and out by helicopter."

  The image was all too plausibly clear. If Mac was right, he was in a horrible position. His beloved homestead and two hundred years of family history would be completely in the control of his worst enemy.

  If Phillip was as hostile as Mac said he was. And if Phillip really did have first refusal. "Are you absolutely sure Bing and Phillip have an arrangement?" she asked.

  Mac was staring out the window at the storm, which seemed at last to be abating. "I can't swear to it, no. Once I forced myself to ask Bing outright about it. His answer? 'I'd rather not say, but you have nothing to worry about, old boy.'"

  She saw that it must have cost him dearly to ask Bing. As for Bing's refusing to charge him for the right to traipse back and forth across his land — she knew already that Mac considered it an act of charity and resented it as such. And yet, what were his options? He couldn't afford to buy Bing out, and even if he could, he'd have to get in line behind Phillip.

  She threw off her blanket and went over to him. She wanted to comfort him. She wanted to put her arms around him as he had around her, and say, "The hell with 'em. You'll work it out." But there was something about the set of his back that made her murmur lamely, "Still and all, you aren't positive that Bing granted Phillip first refusal."

  Mac stiffened, if possible, still further. "Ah, yes — the communication thing," he said caustically. "I forgot I don't speak or understand English."

  "Dammit, you know that's not what I mean," she said, dismayed that they were sliding down that slippery slope again.

  He spun around angrily. "Maybe. But I know goddamned well what Phillip Harrow means," he growled. "The son of a bitch means to have my land."

  He's paranoid, Jane decided. In his own way he's more deluded than I am. He has no hard facts, nothing, only a gut hatred for Phillip Harrow.

  "Hey, hey, Mr. McKenzie," she said, trying to mimic his earlier tone. "That's no way for a gentleman to talk."

  He grabbed her by her shoulders. "But isn't it what you expect from me? Good vulgar, savage behavior?" He yanked her toward his chest; his breath fell hot on her cheek. She hadn't seen it coming, was overwhelmed by the raw, sexual power in him, left breathless by the force with which he held her against his broad, hard body.

  She didn't know what to say. She should be angry — she was angry — but somehow it wasn't working out that way. Somehow her lips were parting, her eyelids lowering, in anticipation of his kiss. Somehow her breath was on hold and all her nerve endings on tiptoe, waiting.

  He held her pinned to him as they stood in the dark, their lips half a breath away from one another.

  "God."

  The single syllable was wrenched from him with obvious pain; she knew he would not yield another.

  He released her, then turned on his heel and walked out, leaving her to wonder which of them was more tormented in his own particular hell.

  ****

  If it weren't for the strange, swishing sound, Jane might have slept around the clock. But the noise was subtle and different, more distracting than a jackhammer. It wasn't Billy; he had a small job to do for his mother this morning. It wasn't squirrels in the attic; by now Jane knew exactly what squirrels in attics sounded like. She thought it might be bats — she'd had two or three of those up there, too — but no, it wasn't bats.

  She got out of bed, the bed she'd crawled into just after dawn, and began tracing the sound: it seemed to come from between the walls. Sleepy but curious, she put on jeans and a heavy sweater and raked the tangles from her hair with her fingers, then made her way down the stairs. She caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror: oh well.

  She forced herself to go into the fireplace room, where the mess on the rug came as a brutal reminder of the night before. The smell of burnt wool was unmistakable. She threw open the windows to air the place out. The sound was definitely louder in that room; it was coming from inside the chimney. Puzzled, Jane went outside. Perched on top of her roof like a large crow was a man dressed all in black and wearing a soft peaked hat—obviously a chimney sweep. He had his broom and he had his vacuum, and apparently he had his orders.

  "Hey, you up there!" she called, cupping her hands around her mouth. "What're you doing in my chimney?"

  "Heard you had some problems, and lady, I can see why," the fellow yelled down. "You have enough birds' nests in here to start your own aviary."

  "Who — ?" But it was obvious who. For an aloof neighbor who hated anyone butting into his own business, Mac McKenzie seemed to have very few compunctions about butting into hers.

  "Could the nests have caused a bad backdraft?"

  "Sure could," he yelled down.

  Ha, she thought. What did he know?

  "How much is this going to cost me?" she yelled, on her guard.

  "Don't worry about it; Mac and I worked something out."

  Worked something out. She shook her head and began walking back to the house. Didn't anyone use American currency on this island? And what the hell was Mac up to, anyway? She was getting deeper and deeper in his debt. The only bill she'd ever got from him was for moving the holly up and down, and she'd had to beg for that. And he hadn't cashed her check anyway. Since then he'd mowed and cleared her grass when she was in town; thrown her trash in the back of his pickup for carting off to the dump; and hauled away a massive limb that had been lying behind the house probably for years.

  And every time, he had an excuse for refusing payment. Either he happened to have the riding mower out anyway, or he was headed for the dump anyway, or he could really use the firewood anyway — he was an expert at maintaining the upper hand over her. It had to stop. She would've loved to have been on equal terms with him, to give and to take as friends and neighbors do. But this give, give, give on his part ... it was a form of rebuffing her, of keeping her at arm's length.

  Of course, there are some who'd say I was being a little weird about this, she decided with a rueful smile. And anyway, was he really trying to keep her at arm's length? Last night —

  Last night.

  Two loud beep
s of a horn sent Jane jumping out of her reverie. She turned to see a car she didn't recognize pull into the drive. It was Mrs. Adamont's; she was delivering Gwendolyn Drew to Lilac Cottage, four days early.

  Mrs. Adamont rolled down her window and greeted Jane. "I was just getting off work at the A&P when I overheard Mrs. Drew directing a cab to your place. 'Well, why should she pay good money?' I said to myself. So here you are. Cheerio, Jane. I'll see you Saturday night."

  She and Jane's mother exchanged good-bye pleasantries and then the elderly woman backed her Dodge out of the drive, leaving Jane standing there in a state that best could be described as psychologically naked. Jane always liked to have some warning before her mother's arrivals so that she could put on the best linens and set out flowers in the guest room, lay in some decent wine and good cheese, clean up the place, clean up her self, and have something from the New York Times nonfiction bestseller list sitting on the coffee table.

  She wasn't ready — he'd never be ready — for a visit from her mother.

  Chapter 18

  Mother! What a surprise this is!"

  "Darling, what a mess you are!" Gwendolyn said, brushing her daughter's cheek with her lips. "Your hair has grown absolutely wild."

  "I've been awfully busy," Jane said, rearranging the tangles.

  Her mother added, "And your nails!"

  "Mother, I'm rehabbing a house, not writing poetry," Jane said testily. "It's very physical work."

  "The only thing that needs rehabbing around here is you, dear heart," said her mother, squeezing her affectionately as they walked back toward the cottage. "How've you been? I've missed your calls."

  Jane took her suitcase and said, "I'm sorry I haven't done more. But this whole Nantucket thing has turned very ... well ... intense. You look wonderful, Mother," Jane added, and it was true: as usual, not a hair was out of place. "What brings you to Nantucket early?"

  Her mother caught the gentle reproach. "I should've called you, I know, when I found myself in New York. But I didn't want you fussing at the last minute; no notice seemed better than short notice."