Widow's Tale

by Miller, Maureen A.

That was how Brett found her.

  Used to the reproachful stares by now, Brett didn’t care. The only set of eyes he was intent on lost their smile when they landed on him.

  "Bar’s closed." Coop challenged.

  "Cooper!" Serena admonished.

  There was no doubt in Brett’s mind that Serena was unsettled by his presence. She avoided looking at him.

  "You be polite, Coop," she admonished. "Remember that everyone is allowed into O’Flanagan’s for some food and spirits."

  On the last word, Brett caught her hasten a glance towards the ceiling. She wrapped her arms about her and reached for the thermostat, snapping back when Coop bellowed, "Woman, it’s already about eighty degrees in here!"

  Brett noticed a tremor quake through Serena’s limbs.

  "Actually," he argued, "it’s getting real cold out. You probably should turn that up."

  With a mute nod of gratitude, Serena upped the thermostat.

  She hoisted a glass under a nozzle and said to Coop, "To cool you down. It’s on me."

  "Well in that case, little Rena…" Clearly mollified, Coop grinned, "−you can turn up the heat any time."

  Reluctant to move away from Coop’s congenial smile, Serena flicked a nervous glance in Brett’s direction. Aware of his eyes on her, her heart drummed faster under the perusal. When Brett straddled a bar stool and put his elbow on the counter her nerves wrought havoc on her hands. She tried to keep herself busy, but there was no way to keep from staring. Brett Murphy seemed larger than life. God, she wondered if his strong arms could warm the chill that stole through her body. Where the hell did that thought come from?

  "A Sam Adams, please."

  Serena immersed her trembling hands into the vat of chopped ice and withdrew a dark bottle. Uncooperative fingers fumbled with the twist cap as she extended the drink to him.

  "Thanks."

  Brett watched Serena’s unnerved gestures and wondered what tale she had recalled this afternoon. She hadn’t been the same since then. He was curious enough to want to stay and confront her after closing.

  "And thanks for the trip today." He saluted with the bottle.

  Beside him, Coop’s black cap spun about. Brett found himself stared down by a pair of jaundiced eyes.

  "You went out on the Morgan?" Coop gaped. "With him?"

  Serena dodged the question by waiting on another customer. Her absence allowed Coop to sneer at Brett. "What are you up to, Murphy? What do you want from her?"

  Brett set his beer down and stared at the wooden Cuckoo clock, willing it to move faster.

  "You know," he said. "I’m getting tired of everyone asking me what I’m doing here, and accusing me of having less than savory intentions for their little Rena. You know why I’m here. I want answers. I believe she has some." His eyebrow hefted. "As a matter of fact, your resentment makes me even more convinced than ever."

  Coop was silent for a minute. "Maybe you’ll find those answers you’re looking for," he ducked his head. "But I don’t think you’re going to like ‘em."

  As Serena returned, she flicked her gaze from Brett to Coop and back again.

  "Are you playing nice, Coop?" she asked.

  Coop swiveled in his seat so that his attention was rooted to the hockey game on the overhead television. He slid his empty glass towards Serena and declared, "Just sitting here watching TV and minding my own business."

  She looked to Brett for confirmation, but he just shrugged.

  Alone. Brett wanted to talk to Serena alone.

  Studying her, he watched her tremulous effort to maintain a cordial smile. She nodded graciously to departing customers and executed timely jokes to the ones who remained. Yet, beneath, he sensed fatigue and despair slowly breaking her down. Gradually, the crowd thinned, and Brett waited out Coop whose head dipped forward. Several times the man emitted a hearty snore before the sound jarred him awake.

  "Coop," Serena called, "come on, it’s time to go home. Martha’ll be worried."

  "I ain’t going home and leaving you here alone with him." His neck lolled in Brett’s direction as Brett caught the heavy stench of beer.

  "Both of you are leaving. It’s closing time." Exhaustion added just the right dose of irritation to Serena’s voice to prompt the old man out of his seat. Ambling towards the door, Coop hesitated to see if Brett followed. The motion caused him to sway and reach for the wall.

  "Is he driving?" Brett murmured.

  "No," Serena scowled. "You really do have a low opinion of me if you think I’d let him do this and drive. Coop lives down the hill, and if he doesn’t get home by eleven, Martha will be up here pulling him by his ear."

  Before Brett could act contrite, Coop’s voice rang unnaturally loud in the empty tavern. "Come on, Murphy. I’m not letting you stay here with her."

  Slanting a final look at Serena, trying to interpret her gaze, Brett reluctantly rose and pursued Cooper into the night.

  With the absence of customers, the silence engulfed Serena. Reaching for the remote beside the register, she aimed it at the TV, reducing the blond reporter to a horizontal line before she was obliterated. With three twists of her wrist, Serena flicked the switches to swathe O’Flanagans in darkness.

  Apprehension settled in with the shadows. Reluctant to make the trek upstairs, she eyed the door to O’Flanagans deck.

  Wasn’t it a better option than the terror waiting in her loft?

  Assaulted by the bone-chilling wind, she embraced the cold−its effect a reminder that she was still alive. She crossed the rutted planks and rested her elbows on the balustrade, listening to the waves below. Luminous under a full moon, the black cliffs still held their secrets with a tenacity that she could never resolve.

  "Serena?"

  She spun around, afraid that the ghost had chosen to assail her here in the wake of the moon.

  Chilled in his old suede jacket, Brett could only imagine how cold Serena was in her insubstantial fleece. Her shiver was apparent, but as he approached, he had the uneasy feeling that he was the culprit.

  "What do you want, Brett?"

  Brett moved into the ring of moonlight. He nearly succumbed to the need to touch her. To warm her.

  Frustrated by the affect she had on him, he again sought balance in accusation.

  "What are you doing out here? Are you looking for his body again?" He plunged on despite the impact of his words.

  "It’s quite the show," he said, "everyone seeing you out here every night, the grieving widow searching the cliffs for her husband who hasn’t returned from sea."

  Dammit, he wanted Serena to fight. He wanted her to defend herself so that he could sanction his emotions. It was crazy, but he wanted her to just come right out and say, "It’s okay, Brett. It’s okay for you to feel this attraction, because I feel it too."

  But no. When his mouth opened, it was to pose a desperate question.

  "Why did you do it, Serena?"

  Serena hugged her arms and tucked her chin against her collarbone to ward off the wind. She closed her eyes. If only she could be immune to Brett’s accusatory tone. If only his judgment wasn’t so important to her.

  It was cold out. And he was near. Irrationally, she wanted to lean into him and soak up his warmth. Instead, she cleared her throat.

  "I have nothing to defend. But if you want to condemn me, if it sets you at peace so that you can go home with a villain in your mind," she breathed, "so be it."

  "Dammit, Serena. What happened? How did you grow to hate him so much? Why did you do it?"

  Serena’s head came up. "I didn’t kill him if that’s what you think!"

  He cursed. "I’m not talking about you killing Alan!"

  With a quick gasp, her hand latched onto the rail. She ignored the bite of ice against her fingers. "What—what are you talking about?"

  Even in the dark she could see Brett’s jaw clench.

  "The baby," he whispered in torment. "Alan told me what you did to the baby. How could you?"

>   Conscious of the air stealing from her body, she felt a bout of vertigo that threatened to pitch her off the ledge. Echoes from her pounding heart muted Brett’s words, but she saw his lips move. She couldn’t stop to listen. She just wanted to run. Run fast and far from her ghosts.

  On a strangled cry she took flight.

  "Serena!"

  With each mounting stride, Brett’s appeal grew more remote. Serena raced up the grassy hill, increasing the distance between them. All that was discernable now were her brief puffs of breath as she blindly climbed the sea cliff.

  Instinct.

  Serena ran on instinct. Clouds of moisture billowed from her lips into her eyes, while muscles pumped and groaned against mistreatment. Unconsciously, she aimed towards the soaring silhouette of Victory Cove’s unmanned lighthouse. Racking sobs prevented her from advancing any further, though. Her knees folded and she fell headlong into the frozen pasture.

  The ground was hard and cold. Unforgiving.

  Her body writhed in pain across the brittle grass. Agony tore through her, though little had to do with the fall.

  All at once, the tears stopped. She listened to the distant sound of broken waves, and the roar of arctic winds. She felt so tired, but she finally felt—determined.

  Were it not for the cloudless sky and the near full moon, Brett might never have found Serena. She had charged the craggy knolls with a familiarity bred by a lifetime, while Brett stumbled over loose rock and slick grass, trying to gain ground on the ghostly specter outlined by a luminous ocean. He almost passed her. She was so silent, so still, that he felt his heart neglect a beat. Lying on her side, Serena’s knees were tucked up against her chest, her breath casting shallow clouds against the dirt.

  "Serena."

  No response.

  Brett stooped and hoisted her into his arms. Negotiating the trail with caution, he used the floodlights of O’Flanagans as a homing beacon, ever conscious of Serena’s soft breath against his throat.

  With his elbow, he nudged the door to her loft aside and crossed the wooden floorboards. Gently, he set her down on one of the loveseats and reached for a quilt to secure around her.

  The fireplace was heaped with half-used kindling. Brett stoked the mass into a roaring blaze that cast flickering shadows across Serena’s pale face. Heedless of the door he left askew, he sat on the edge of the sofa and leaned over the inert figure, his finger tracing the arc of her throat, feeling the pulse beating there.

  "Serena?" he whispered.

  Fawn-like lashes fluttered. Her eyes opened, taking several seconds to focus on him.

  "Are you okay?" he whispered.

  With a feeble smile, she managed, "Do I look it?"

  No, she didn’t. Her lips were blue, her skin pallid, and her breathing seemed too shallow to suit him, but she resisted his hold and attempted to sit up.

  "Lay down," he ordered. "You have nowhere you need to be right now. Just rest."

  Anxious, her glance searched the living room. "How do you know what needs to be done?" she argued. "I have plenty of things that have to be addressed right now. I need to turn on more lights."

  "They can wait," Brett challenged, but released his grip on her arm.

  "Please," Serena sat up fully, facing off with him.

  Her eyes dropped to his lips for a split second before she continued in hushed urgency. "Please, Brett, let me get up, I have to—I have to—" she stammered, "it’s dark in here."

  Brett stayed fixed, his arm across the back of the loveseat, a physical barricade that prevented Serena from rising. He studied the warm glow of the antique lantern, and the blaze of the fireplace. The lighting was nearly intimate.

  Perhaps she was right. Maybe they needed more lights.

  His eyes returned to her face.

  "There’s enough." His voice was husky.

  "No."

  Serena touched his arm as if to cast it aside, and froze when a footfall sounded behind her.

  Brett’s head snapped. He searched the shadows beyond her. Heavy footsteps paced across the floorboards, pausing as if indecisive what trek to take—then resumed with determination towards the front door.

  "What the hell?"

  Jumping up to intersect the path of the intruder, Brett heard the steady tread before him. Then as if the figure passed directly through his body, the steps continued past Brett, out the open doorway.

  "Stay right there!" he yelled over his shoulder while plunging through the door.

  The wind slammed it shut behind him.

  Serena clutched her arms about her. She stared at the door, willing it to open again. She willed Brett to return and not leave her alone for the next ghost. Its chilling cries were more haunting than the doleful steps of a man she could not mourn.

  CHAPTER V

  There had to be a logical explanation.

  The stranger had to be lurking out there somewhere. This man, this psycho, who stole into Serena’s apartment to assault her while she was alone and defenseless. The thought burned inside Brett.

  He reached the bottom step and scanned the vacant deck. Floodlights cast an eerie glow against the low-lying fog, providing enough light for him to explore the base of the sloping hills. No sign of an intruder. No tread marks in the thin coat of snow that had just begun to form.

  Brett’s fist curled around the balustrade as his gaze penetrated the slats between the steps, hoping for a glimpse of the prowler. He was tempted to give chase, search the grounds of O’Flanagans, but the thought of leaving Serena alone upstairs troubled him.

  Serena.

  His neck craned to look up the stairs. If he hadn’t been here—she could have been hurt. Or worse.

  His frown intensified with each step of ascent. Through the window he could see her. He entered and crossed to her side, staggered by the fresh stream of tears that gleamed down her cheeks. He lowered to the edge of the cushion, clasping her hand in his, rubbing the fingers to provide warmth. With a pained expression, he whispered, "I couldn’t find him."

  To his astonishment, Serena began to laugh. A hushed chuckle.

  Brett felt her fingers clench in his and worried that she had gone into shock from the exposure.

  "What’s so funny?"

  Serena’s laughter stopped, but the bright countenance remained. "You heard him?"

  "Who?” Fear for her made his voice harsher than intended. “The man that was just in here?"

  "You know it’s not safe up here," he censured. "Everyone knows your patterns, and anybody could sneak up those stairs and break in while you’re working down below. If I wasn’t here, I’d hate to imagine what could have happened to you."

  "You heard him," she repeated in awe.

  "Yes I heard him," Brett said roughly. "And it’s nothing to laugh about. You should be a little more concerned. A man was just staked out in your house." He almost touched her. "Dammit, Serena."

  Serena couldn’t help it. Another chuckle bubbled from her lips. If Brett heard the footsteps too, that proved that she was not going insane. Someone else heard them. Her ghost was real—not the sinister byproduct of madness.

  She sobered, recalling that Brett had not heard the other specter that haunted her.

  But then again, wasn’t that her own private ghost?

  "He’s here every night."

  "What?" Brett sat back, frowning.

  "Alan. He’s here every night. That’s why I want the lights on. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you be afraid of the dark if a ghost visited you every night?"

  Brett released his grip on her to shove his hands up into his hair. "You’re telling me Alan’s ghost drops by for a visit every night?"

  Serena slumped back against the cushions of the loveseat, but felt remarkably lucid.

  "I know you think I’m insane. I did too. But you heard him—he’s not just in my imagination." She drew her knees up and rested her arms atop them. "At this point I really don’t care if you believe me or not, Brett. You haven’t believed anything I’v
e said, so why should things change now?"

  Flinching at the accusation, he stood up.

  "Look, if you think this crazy tale is going to sidetrack me from finding the truth—"

  His bravado seemed to vanish the longer he looked at her. He stifled a curse and sat back down beside her.

  "Well, it looks like you’re taking on a boarder." His voice was gruff. "I hate that motel by the interstate, and I want to be here tomorrow to hear your ghost when it arrives."

  Serena thought of protesting. This had been her private battle. She snuck a quick look at Brett’s brooding face, the dark shadows and absorbing eyes—eyes that made her heart hammer when he looked at her. She wasn’t comfortable with the notion of sleeping under the same roof as him, but then again, when did she ever sleep? Perhaps with someone else around she might feel safer. After all, didn’t she feel it already? Right here with Brett so close, his arm brushing against her leg, the contact grounding her, making her feel that she was no longer surrounded by death.

  "Really," she managed. "I’m sure that’s the last thing you want to do."

  "It’s not up for debate."

  "Fine," She looked away. "But I keep lots of lights on at night, and I don’t want to hear any complaints."

  "Maybe if I’m here," his voice lowered, "you won’t need all those lights."

  In the background, the Grandfather clock ticked in time with her pulse.

  "Why don’t you try to get some rest?" Brett suggested.

  Serena swung her legs onto the floor, and for a moment felt as though all power had fled her. One deep breath and she tried for the energy to cross the loft and reach her bedroom.

  "Do you want a hand?" he offered.

  She shook her head and used her arms to propel herself upright, but then began to sway, seeking support in the closest thing she could find. Brett was there, one hand slipping around her waist, the other circling her wrist to steady her.

  "You could have frozen to death out there." His voice was hoarse. "You obviously haven’t been getting much sleep, you could have succumbed to hypothermia—" His grip on her tightened.