Beloved

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  And all the while, Mac drove up and Mac drove down the narrow strip of land that was his lifeline to the outside world. Often he had an assistant in the truck with him. For a while he had Jerry. The back of his dark green pickup was always filled with balled-and-burlapped shrubs and evergreens when he left. When he came back, late in the day, it was empty. Occasionally some other pickup came through, filled up, and left, but that was rare. Jane wondered just how profitable Mac's business was, and spent a lot of her time daydreaming about ways to improve it.

  Mac almost never stopped to talk. He'd speed up, in fact, to get past her house quickly. If they happened to make eye contact, he nodded stiffly, and she smiled even more stiffly. Once or twice Billy flagged him down and asked about Uncle Easy. Mac's answers were short and to the point. Soon Billy gave up. He could tell something was wrong. A ladybug could tell something was wrong.

  One afternoon, Mac did stop. He leaned out of his truck window and said, "Billy! Any idea where Phillip Harrow is?"

  "Not re—"

  "Tell him Phillip is in Grand Cayman," Jane muttered under her breath.

  Billy looked at her and looked at Mac. "He's in Grand Cayman," he yelled.

  "Any idea when he'll be back?"

  "Thursday," she murmured.

  "Thursday!"

  "Thursday? Thanks. Uncle Easy gets out of the hospital on Thursday," Mac called back.

  Billy turned to Jane and said, "Uncle Easy gets out of the—"

  "For God's sake, I heard the man; I'm not deaf," Jane said irritably.

  "And, Jane?" Mac called softly from the seat of his pickup.

  She caught her breath at the sound of her own name and turned to him, her eyes flashing with tears of arbitrary, pent-up emotion.

  "Uncle Easy says thanks for the flowers and the bubble gum cigars."

  "Tell him — tell him I'm glad he's coming home," she said.

  "He'd rather hear it from you, I think. I'll be off-island tomorrow," he added meaningfully.

  "Ah." No risk, then, of some awkward meeting between Mac and her; no danger of being forced to chitchat politely in front of Uncle Easy. "I'll be there," she said. Too bad Mac wouldn't be; she could blow him away in a chitchat contest.

  Chapter 22

  Lilac Cottage was scraped, sanded, and waiting for dry weather. It looked about as bad as a house can look. So Jane was stunned when Phillip Harrow came back from Grand Cayman and promptly offered her more than she thought she'd get for it in her wildest dreams.

  "You've done a very nice job with it," he said, "given the limits of your budget." He smiled good-naturedly and added, "I've been cheering you on, you know; you remind me of me when I started out in real estate."

  They had just completed a tour of the inside and were sitting in the front room, looking out at a rainy, foggy day. Billy hadn't come today; Jane and Phillip were alone.

  "So you're the interested buyer?"

  "Yes and no," he admitted. "I have an aunt and uncle who've just sold a big house in Minneapolis. It had become too much work — he's ailing — and nowadays they hate snow. They're a sweet old couple, but they have no children; I'm their closest relation. They need looking after, and if they were in Lilac Cottage I could do that. We walked around it while you were away and they were very taken by it."

  "Just like that? But ... the stairs are steep; and there's no upstairs bath," Jane confessed.

  "I'd put in a small bath for my aunt. My uncle would stay downstairs, in the room you haven't redone."

  It was implicit that Phillip's relations were putting up the money in some capacity. So there it was: no broker's fee, an easy transaction, good neighbors for everyone else, and Phillip would be able to do someone a great kindness besides. Jane could hardly do better than this sale.

  And yet she hated the thought of it. She didn't want any stranger in Aunt Sylvia's room, sweet or not. She didn't want anyone else digging around in Aunt Sylvia's crocuses, or building a fire in her fireplace, or chopping down the holly trees because they blocked the light. Even worse: Mac's prediction about Phillip going after Lilac Cottage was coming true. Of course, Phillip's interest in it seemed perfectly logical, but who was to say there wasn't some grand design, some ulterior motive.

  Phillip could see the anguish in her face. "Jane, you don't look ready to sell," he said in a kindly voice. "Obviously you love this place. Is this going too fast for you?"

  When she sighed and nodded, he said, "I have a confession to make. My aunt and uncle fell irrationally in love with Lilac Cottage. The price they're offering is too much, but I told them you were on the fence about selling, and I think they were hoping to just ... dazzle you into it. Clearly their ploy didn't work." He stood up to leave. "Thanks for listening to the offer."

  "I am dazzled," she blurted, since he himself was being so candid. "But I just don't — can you give me a couple of weeks to think it over, Phillip?"

  "Of course. If they become enchanted with something else in the meantime, I'll let you know. Or would you prefer a written agreement?"

  "Well ... maybe a written agreement's not a bad idea," she said as she saw him to the door.

  They agreed that he'd have his attorney put something simple together, then shook hands on it and Phillip left. Jane wandered around Lilac Cottage adrift for the rest of the day, the wind taken completely out of her sails by Phillip's unexpected offer. It was over, then. Her work here was done.

  And yet it wasn't all done. What about Judith? Somewhere along the line Jane had accepted responsibility for Judith Brightman's spiritual destiny. Now Jane had two choices: She could jump back into that nightmare, or she could sell Lilac Cottage and sneak off the island, leaving Judith to fend for herself. That would mean handing over a probably haunted house to an aging, ailing couple. Not a nice thing to do, unless I reduce the price drastically, she decided with grim humor.

  But she still had two weeks. Anything could happen in two weeks. It was Thursday night and the Atheneum was open late. The rain had retreated and left behind a layer of sulky fog. Jane needed to think things out, so she put on a jacket and headed downtown on foot, careful to step out of the way of the occasional car that passed her.

  She missed Cissy. Cissy had the kind of blind faith that gave Jane the confidence she needed to work through her theories about Judith. Right now, in fact, Jane happened to be working on a doozie. She was remembering that the two times that Judith had appeared in the bedroom, the first time when Buster saw her and the second time when Jane did — those two times came after moments when she and Mac had connected in a very elemental, very physical way.

  The theory wasn't perfect (it didn't explain Judith's appearance, if that's what it was, on the videotape) and there were other possible combinations than Mac and Jane (Celeste McKenzie had been around, dammit, before both apparitions). But it did seem as if Judith's spirit was able to draw some kind of strength from the sexual intensity between a man and a woman.

  Jane thought about it and shook her head. If that's what you're looking for, Judith Brightman, then you're in big big trouble. The only thing intense about Mac McKenzie lately was his desire to keep his distance from her.

  Jane went into the Atheneum, waved to the librarian, nipped a Fig Newton, and headed downstairs for the microfilm viewer. Back to 1852 she went, scanning through the classified ads. Judith Brightman had been a merchant, and merchants advertised in the Inquirer. It was worth a shot.

  She scrolled her way through the ads hawking everything from white beans to dress silks, looking for Judith Brightman's name. The big advertisements were taken out by — who else? — the Macy and Starbuck and Gardner folk. But there were little two-liners by small-time merchants for everything from crushed sugar to cheap gaiter boots; those were the ones Jane read carefully. Some had names, some addresses. The most promising one, the one that made the hair on the back of Jane's neck tingle, was the following one:

  Long Shawls. Just received a new lot

  of fine quality black
shawls to be sold

  low. Also, tasteful muslin and cambric

  trimmings.

  There was no proprietor's name, only an address on Pine Street.

  Jane forced herself to keep reading through the classifieds until the Atheneum closed its doors for the night; but nothing moved her as the shawl ad did. It has to be her ad, Jane decided, almost out of desperation. I don't have time for it not to be.

  Pine Street was not Main Street; obviously the dry goods shop had been operated out of a private home, which wasn't uncommon back then. Jane hurried along the glistening cobbled streets, anxious to see what the establishment looked like. One thing she could count on in Nantucket: The house would still be there. She walked away from the town's center down the dark and empty street, listening to the sound of her own footsteps. The houses on Pine were typically Nantucket: plain, solid structures built originally for mariners and tradesmen.

  The fog was thick, the numbers hard to read. Jane passed the house right by, then had to back up to it. Not a good sign; I feel nothing at all she decided, reacting like some latter-day psychic.

  It was no captain's mansion. The little frame cottage was built on a high brick basement and, like so many Nantucket houses, fronted directly on the street. It had very little land, just a twelve-foot strip alongside to accommodate a car that no doubt wouldn't be showing up until July. Yet another pied-à-terre, Jane thought, feeling some of the distaste that Mac felt for the hit-and-run resident.

  She tiptoed into the drive, wincing at the noisy crunching of crushed white shells underfoot, to see what she could see. Each of the house's side windows, like the front door, was shuttered tight. There was a small back yard with what might have been a large lilac overspreading it; it was too dark there to tell. Squeezed between the drive and the house were a mix of shrubs and rosebushes, all of them pruned back severely to allow room for the owner's car.

  Once, this was a garden, Jane realized with sadness; but the parking shortage was a fact of life in town. She remembered reading that when cars were still a newfangled thing, people had tried and failed to get them banned on the island. Now there were fewer cabbages, fewer tomato plants as a result of their failure. Ah, well; the owners wouldn't be around to tend them anyway.

  She went back out in front and stood under a street lantern, trying to pick up some sense of Judith in or out of the house.

  Is that the house where she waited for Ben? Is that where she defied Jabez Coffin and the Elders? What about the gray shawl, the only gray one in the lot — did she fold it over a rocking chair inside that house?

  The dream. It began to come back. Jane stood very still, willing the forgotten dream of Jabez Coffin and the Elders to return. She remembered it all now. She remembered the rocking chair, the gray shawl, the little framed silhouette of Ben Brightman on the mantel. She remembered every word of Judith's final confrontation with the relentless and unyielding Overseer. It was as clear in her mind as a big-screen film.

  And now she knew something else: It was Judith's rocking chair that was sitting in the corner of Jane's bedroom. Not that it was surprising: Nantucket recycled its furniture the way some communities did their milk bottles.

  How odd, Jane thought, that there was no pain in her shoulder this time, no psychic whispers of "Warmer! Warmer!" from Judith. Jane felt nothing, nothing but a bedrock certainty that this was the house where Judith had lived with — and without — the man she had loved more than life itself.

  ****

  When Bing returned from Europe he looked a little thinner, a little older, and a lot wiser. He no longer had the sparkle of a man who believes that life's a cabaret, and most of the good-natured mischief was gone from his eyes. But his embrace was as warm and comfortable as ever; and when he let her go, Jane felt as if someone had taken away her favorite bathrobe.

  They were sitting in the fireplace room of Lilac Cottage, watching a whimpering Duraflame log do its thing. Despite the chimney sweep's reassurances, Jane hadn't had the courage to crank up a good wood fire since the night she nearly burned the house down.

  "You've had the damndest luck since you moved into this place," Bing mused after she explained that to him. He swirled the brandy in his snifter, no doubt remembering the one who'd had the worst luck of all. "Any more mysteries since I've been gone?"

  "Things have been quiet."

  "Mmmn — for me too. Every other time I've been in Rome — well, I've enjoyed doing what the Romans do. It's a great city, a great place to party. I love Rome. It has breadth. It has depth. It has the most heartbreaking sunsets I've ever seen. It has everything," he said, staring into the snifter.

  He put the glass down on the little gaming table and said, "But it didn't have you."

  "Rome knows how to party without me," Jane said, smiling.

  "Hear me out, Jane," Bing said edgily. "This is brand new territory for me. I don't want to get lost. What I'm trying to say is, losing Cissy left a big hole in my life, right where loved ones and commitment should be. If all of Rome couldn't fill that hole, then I'm doomed, unless ....

  "Jane," he said, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze, "you know how I feel about you. Maybe losing Cissy has crystallized those feelings, but I would've made it to this stage anyway, I'm sure I would have."

  "Bing —"

  "No. Let me ask. Will you marry me? Will you consider it?" he said quickly when she began to shake her head.

  "Bing, I haven't let myself think about —"

  "No, no, of course not. You're ambitious; you have plans. I know that. And I can help you realize them. The children would have to wait. Or maybe you don't want children at all — I hope you do — but if you don't, I'll understand that too."

  "Well, no, I want children, sooner or later," Jane said in confusion. "But we're putting the cart before the horse."

  He took her by her shoulders and said, "Jane — don't you see? If we don't grab at life now, if we don't just take love when we find it and hold on to it, it'll be gone. We'll be gone."

  There was a look of fear in his eyes that made her say, "Bing, don't. You're letting your sister's death stampede you —"

  "I'm not being stampeded. I love you, darling. I love you. I want you to love me."

  He was drowning; she had to reach out to him, to keep him from going under in grief and panic. "I do care for you, Bing; I do. It must be love ...."

  His blue eyes lit up in triumphant relief as he pulled her to him and kissed her, hard. If Jane needed proof that Bing was not The One, the kiss was it. There was a time when she thought he made her hear bells ring. Now, after Mac, it was like listening to a compact disc after she'd stood in the bell tower itself.

  "But it's not the love you mean," she said softly, taking his hands in her own.

  And he knew it; he could tell by the kiss. Jane was afraid he might be angry, but he was mostly puzzled. "I don't get it," he confessed. "We're a perfect fit, completely in gear with one another."

  "True. We make great pals. But maybe there need to be one or two sharp edges between a man and a woman. It creates some pretty good sparks as they rub one another smooth."

  Bing laughed skeptically. "Tell that to a machinist."

  He didn't give up right away. They went round and round and round, until one or so in the morning. The last thing Bing told Jane was that he considered his proposal to be still pending. The last thing Jane said to Bing was, "Please don't tell my mother that." He laughed, and she closed the door after him and leaned tiredly against it.

  So. Bing Andrews wants to take me away from all this. Philip Harrow wants to send me away from all this. And Mac McKenzie just wants us all to go away.

  "Nantucket," she said with a sigh, "you're breaking my heart."

  * * * *

  Early the next morning Jane struck out down the lane to Mac's place, his sweater draped over her arm. She would've returned it sooner but she had too much sense than to throw her body in front of his speeding truck, trying to get him to stop for her. Sec
retly she hoped it was his favorite sweater, and that he'd be forced to come begging for it; but trying to outlast Mac McKenzie was a fool's game, and Jane Drew knew it.

  Her excuse was the sweater, but her mission was to tell Mac that she planned to accept Phillip's offer on the house. She had no choice; it was an offer most people would kill for. She felt obliged to let Mac know first, even though she still wasn't one hundred percent sure she'd accept. Funny, how she was able to decline the hand of a demigod without a second thought, and yet was still hemming and hawing over a house that made no sense to keep. Pretty funny.

  She saw Mac before he saw her. He was on a backhoe, scooping a four-foot Austrian pine out of the earth. He'd already removed three others; each sat neatly with its root ball on an open square of burlap. Buster was lying nearby, paws stretched out in front of him, tongue heaving contentedly. It was impossible for Jane to look at the dog without thinking of Cissy chasing madly after him, an empty leash dangling from her hand. Maybe that was a good thing: Buster kept the memory of her alive.

  The dog got to his feet and came toward her with his tail wagging, ready and willing to knock down small buildings with it. Mac, still seated, swung partway round on the seat of his backhoe. He was surprised to see Jane there; the muscles working in his jaw were a dead giveaway. Then he saw the sweater, and seemed relieved. Okay, you have a socially correct reason for being here, was how she read the sun-squint look under his baseball cap.

  "You're up early," he said, turning off the noisy engine of the backhoe. "And how was Rome? Still eternal?" Obviously he knew that Bing had been over and stayed late.

  "I think Bing said something to that effect," she said. "I brought you your sweater," she added, holding it up for his inspection. "I'd forgotten all about it." Except for all the times I buried my face in it as I passed it on the hook by the kitchen door. "Would you like me to put it somewhere for you?" she asked, seeing that there was no place on the small backhoe for it.