Widow's Tale

by Miller, Maureen A.

  "Why did you do it, Serena? Why did you run from me? You should have just said it was none of my damn business."

  If she was in possession of all her faculties, she would have wrenched from his grip and lashed out. But she was too tired to fight him, and with the urge for battle doused, she could only whisper in agony, "It was an accident."

  Would the pain ever go away? "A terrible accident," she repeated.

  "Shh," Brett said. "Don’t talk about it." His hand moved from her waist to splay across the small of her back.

  As if his palm had the power to heal, warmth streamed from it and trekked up her spine. She let him help her to her bedroom, knowing full well she could make it on her own. The opportunity to lean on someone else for a change was something too tempting to pass up, let alone the solid shoulder of Brett Murphy.

  Only a few moments ago Serena had divulged that the ghost of her dead husband visited her every night. It was no wonder Brett supported her. He must have thought she’d gone completely mad.

  But he’d heard it too. Brett heard her ghost.

  How mad could she be?

  "Serena!"

  Brett bolted upright. He squinted against the sun. The front door vibrated under the insistent knock, which repeated over and over. Launching off the loveseat, he hauled it open. “What!”

  Rebecca’s mouth gaped. Her eyes slid down his chest as he glanced down to see his shirt was halfway out of his pants.

  "I—um—" Rebecca faltered. "I’m looking for Serena."

  "I gathered that," he scowled. "She’s sleeping."

  The redhead’s lips opened and closed like a guppy as she tried to glimpse beyond him.

  "It’s okay, Brett." A soft whisper prompted him to relent and step aside. "I’m up."

  Brett searched Serena’s face for effects from last night. Her eyes were puffy, but there was more color in her cheeks. That flush gave him concern. He brushed the back of his hand against her skin in search of fever, and caught the slight flare in her sun-spiked eyes.

  Satisfied that she had not suffered any serious health repercussions, he took his hand away from the promise of her flesh and retreated into the kitchen, mumbling about coffee along the way.

  “Hi.” Serena motioned Rebecca towards one of the loveseats.

  "Don’t you dare hi me, Serena O’Flanagan Murphy."

  Cabinet doors slammed in the kitchen. Serena cocked her head towards the sound, and smiled.

  "Get your deprived, small-town, romance-novel reading mind out of the gutter, Becky," Serena said. "Brett— I fell last night, and if he hadn’t found me—"

  "Fell?" Rebecca leaned forward to grasp her hand. "What happened?"

  "It’s a long story."

  Brett set down three mugs on the dining room table with no intention of serving them. Serena smiled at the gesture.

  "And he felt it necessary to spend the night and keep an eye on you?" Rebecca challenged.

  "Yes."

  Rebecca stammered. "I see."

  "I’m leaving." Brett hoisted his suede jacket off the chair. "I’ll see you later," he added.

  Serena rushed to reach the front door before him, but once she got there, she brushed the curtain aside and pretended to study the weather.

  What could she say? In the harsh light of morning, her phantoms seamed surreal.

  Yet Brett had heard them too.

  "You don’t have to come back tonight." Her throat caught.

  The scowl disappeared from his face.

  "I know I don’t," his voice was husky. "But I’m going to."

  Locked by Brett’s gaze, she wanted to thank him, but something in that grave expression said it was unnecessary.

  "I’m going to," he repeated for only her to hear.

  When Brett looked at her that way, she felt vulnerable to the core.

  God help her, it felt good.

  Serena watched him start down the staircase and then sagged against the door jamb with relief, knowing that he would return tonight.

  "Okay woman, spill it."

  Serena turned towards the petite ball of energy that bounced up and down on the couch with scarcely contained curiosity.

  "Calm down, Becky," she chided. "He’s Alan’s brother. He’s concerned about finding the truth. So am I."

  "How friggin noble." Rebecca snorted. "He’s very hot."

  Serena cleared her throat and on reflex, reached for the blanket on the floor, folding it in quarters and draping it over the chair. "He doesn’t much look like Alan, does he?"

  "Is that your way of saying Alan wasn’t hot?"

  "You’re talking about a husband that I just recently lost.” Serena reprimanded. “And I never said Brett was hot."

  "Well," Rebecca drawled, "this is the most animated I’ve seen you in a month. Whatever Brett Murphy is doing here, it’s good to see some color in your cheeks again. For that, it’s worth it." Setting her coffee down, she declared, "of course, I will get all the juicy details out of you."

  Alone, Serena stood in the center of the living room. Last night she had fallen into an exhausted sleep and this was the first opportunity she had to digest what transpired. When Brett charged her with Alan’s accusations—Alan must have told Brett that she had gotten rid of the baby— not miscarried. Even now she clenched her coffee cup so tightly, that if she were any stronger it would shatter. Why did her husband hate her so much? And extending that hatred to his brother only compounded the matter.

  Across the room, behind her parents’ picture, Alan’s smiling face taunted her. She walked over and picked it up.

  "You can’t hurt me anymore," she vowed as she threw it into a drawer and slammed the drawer shut with her hip.

  But he did. Every night when he returned to torment her, it hurt. Perhaps tonight she would be stronger.

  She would not be alone.

  It was early. The sign on the door said CLOSED in handwritten letters. Pounding on the front door of the shop, Brett considered that Harriet might not be within earshot. Several seconds passed unanswered before he repeated the noise. He was startled when the door yanked open so swiftly a vacuum was created, sucking him in along with a swirl of dirt.

  "You again." The disheveled woman raked her glance up and down his body, feigning contempt. Harriet shook her head and then stepped back to allow him full entry.

  "Got a yearn to head out fishing this morning?" she barked.

  "Not exactly."

  "You better damn well buy something before you leave this store."

  Harriet’s face was puffed up with scorn, her chapped hands resting on wide hips. But he was on to her. Beneath this façade he witnessed the first hints of a derisive grin.

  Automatically, he reached for the closest item at hand, which ended up being the replica of a wriggling black eel intended to lure some innocent creature into captivity. Holding the item in the air for Harriet’s inspection, he heard her snort.

  "Five bucks." She turned her back to him and shuffled behind the cash register.

  Brett studied the twisted bait incredulously. "Five bucks for this?"

  Harriet arched a gray eyebrow and crossed her bulky arms. "Five bucks," she repeated.

  "Do you even know what to do with that thing?" She challenged, ringing up the sale.

  I have some ideas, he thought, but refused to take the bait, so to speak.

  Not offered a bag, Brett stuffed his purchase into his jacket pocket and then splayed his hands atop the formica counter. He gave Harriet his most absorbed stare, to which she just uttered a hmmmph and crossed her arms.

  "I didn’t think it was going to be that easy to get rid of you."

  He relented with a grin. "Come on, Harriet—"

  "Ms. Morgan."

  "Of course," he continued. "I’m just trying to find out what happened here. What happened to the marriage between my brother and Serena? I know I was neglectful in staying away so long, but till the very end, the conversations with Alan had seemed positive ones. How did it crumble s
o fast?"

  Settling down atop her swivel bench, Harriet glanced at the clock. She stared across the counter at Brett, and finally lost an apparent inner conflict to remain silent.

  "You know Alan didn’t want to come up here, of course," Harriet started. "He wanted to stay in the city. But Serena finally convinced him that there was land for the taking in this area, and that he could make a good start in Victory Cove. I think from that moment on, Alan began to resent her. He resented that she led a happy life up here and that he was an outsidah."

  Maine’s brittle wind jarred the glass panes of the front door, enough to cause a soft jingle of the strung bells.

  "The O’Flanagans now," Harriet continued, "they couldn’t alienate a soul. They welcomed Alan as family, but he didn’t seem to notice. As the years passed, he grew restless and found more and more excuses to leave the Cove. Serena knew that she asked a lot of him to come to this remote village, so she nevah tried to stop him from taking his business trips. At first Alan might be gone a week or two, then it became two or three months at a time."

  Harriet shook her head. "We all saw the pain on Rena’s face, but pride kept her going, pride and people that loved her."

  "Why didn’t she leave him?"

  "Bull-headed damn woman." Harriet cursed. "She didn’t want to admit failure. She was consumed with making their marriage work. She kept thinking he would grow out of the phase he was in."

  "And I bet she thought the baby was going to solve everything."

  Stricken by Brett’s words, Harriet’s eyes seemed evasive. "How did you know about the baby?"

  "Serena told me."

  "I find that hard to believe." She frowned. "It’s not something she evah talks about." She eyed him again. "No one even knew that she was pregnant. I knew though. She couldn’t hide the signs from me. I brought it up, and she finally confided in me. It was a surprise to her." The shop owner blushed. "With Alan gone so often, the occasions for such a thing to happen were rare—"

  Harriet cleared her throat with a gruff cough. "But given this gift, yes, she did see it as a chance to rebuild their relationship. She couldn’t wait for Alan to get home so she could tell him."

  Harriet’s head tucked down, enhancing one of her chins.

  Brett leaned on the counter, the tale playing out for him like a movie.

  God help him—he dreaded its conclusion.

  "What happened?"

  Head up and arms crossed, wrinkles of pain surrounded Harriet’s eyes. "No one knows about any of this, Mr. Murphy. Even Serena’s parents never knew she was pregnant. I am trusting that you will keep this between us."

  His nod was sincere.

  "All I can tell you is that Alan and Serena left on O’Flanagans Stew that morning with a baby in her belly. When she returned, she started having bad pains and next thing I knew she was in the hospital." Mist filled Harriet’s eyes. "She hasn’t been the same since. I have tried to pry it out of her, to ask what happened out there, but she won’t talk about it. She just walks away. If the baby was only a month or two along—well these things happen. But Serena was well into her fourth month, something drastic had to occur."

  Harriet unclenched her arms and dropped her hands to the faded polyester at her knees. She looked up. "I know he’s your brothah, so I don’t mean to offend you, but I can’t help thinking that when Serena told Alan about the baby—he was less than happy about the news."

  The implication hung heavy in the hush of the tackle shop. And in that protracted silence, Brett found the answer he was looking for. The knowledge saddened him. It angered him. He wanted to escape this coastal village. He wanted to head out on the Interstate and never look back.

  "I appreciate your time, Ms. Morgan."

  He turned towards the front door, but Harriet’s voice halted him.

  "Don’t hurt her."

  Brett stopped, pained that no one cared that his brother was dead. No one sought to even pursue the matter.

  Yet the grief that plagued him the most was his own betrayal, conceding that his brother was capable of these accusations. And yes, the guilt. If he had just had the courage to steal Serena away that day, she would have been spared.

  Embittered, he answered, "I’ll try not to."

  Elbows resting on the bar, Rebecca cupped her face in her hands, and gave Serena a tentative smile. "So it’s just us now. Are you going to fill me in on what Brett Murphy was doing in your apartment this morning—looking shall we say, pleasantly rumpled?"

  The heat in Serena’s cheeks must have stemmed from lifting the heavy tray. Her chuckle was forced. "I told you why he was there. Quit looking for gossip, Miss Sorrenson."

  "Well, I just think that—" Rebecca’s voice halted as a telltale breeze fluttered the stack of napkins near her hand. She turned towards the door to find the daunting figure of Brett Murphy. With a gurgle low in her throat, Rebecca slipped from her bar stool.

  "Rena honey, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve just had it. Are you sure you’re okay cleaning up that mess?"

  Baffled by Rebecca’s hasty flight, Serena acknowledged Brett with a tip of her head and answered, "I’ll be fine. Go get some rest. It’s going to be like this through the weekend.”

  Rebecca grabbed her scarf and wound it about her neck. She nodded at Serena and plowed past Brett.

  "Was it something I said?" His eyebrow arched.

  He cleared his throat. "I wanted to get here earlier. I was afraid you’d be upstairs already."

  "Didn’t want to miss any of the action up there?" Serena’s voice was spiteful, but not to him, rather the insanity that plagued her. "Don’t worry, no matter what time I come home at night, the ghost accommodates my schedule."

  "I wanted to be here," he stepped up to the bar, "because I didn’t want you going upstairs alone."

  Serena’s emotions betrayed her with the slight tremor of her lip. She broke from Brett’s gaze and slipped through the service panel to attack the mess in the dining room.

  "I won’t be long." She brushed her hands against her thighs.

  "Let me help." He offered.

  Before she could object, Brett reached for the loaded tray and conveyed the clanging mass of dishware to the counter. Hesitant, she followed, passing by him to slide behind the bar and dump her pile into a sink full of suds.

  Amidst a shower of bubbles Serena glanced up and asked, "Can I get you anything while you’re waiting?"

  Brett’s grin was quick. "You’ve got your hands full. How ‘bout I come back there and pour it myself?"

  Before she could react, Brett ducked beneath the panel. Now he was standing next to her, so close she could smell a hint of musk and ocean.

  He reached for a mug and tugged the tap nozzle. He set the glass down and hoisted up the sleeves of his black pullover sweater, revealing strong forearms that she tried not to stare at. To her surprise, he dipped those arms into the mass of foam.

  "You—you don’t have to do that," Serena stammered.

  The turbulent clouds in Brett’s eyes abated. "It’s actually kind of relaxing," he said. "I don’t mind."

  Feeling the tension in her shoulders ease, she yielded to a grin. "Ten-fifty an hour and you can have all the relaxation you want."

  "Where does this go?" Brett held up a long-stemmed wineglass for Serena’s inspection.

  Following her tilted head, he reached up towards the other flutes hanging in rows above the cash register.

  Serena was in his way so he stretched over her to slide the stem of the glass into its wooden channel. In doing so, he became conscious that he was draped over her, involuntarily pressing her back against the counter.

  In slow motion, his arm dropped. He met wide eyes brimming with incredulity. Without considering the move, his hand settled on Serena’s arm, his fingers dusting around it. He felt a tremor course through her.

  Managing restraint, Brett cleared his throat and stepped back. Temptation still licked at his fingertips so he reached for a dirty dinner plate
to occupy them.

  Serena dragged in a breath and touched her hand to her face. For one crazy moment she thought Brett was going to kiss her.

  But that thought was ludicrous, wasn’t it? He was only here to keep an eye on her, to see if she revealed anything about Alan.

  "I guess that’s it." Brett interrupted her musing.

  Serena jerked her eyes up towards the clock. Half past eleven.

  Would her ghosts still be up?

  "Are you sure about this?" she hesitated, "It’s probably inconvenient to you."

  Brett reached into one of the booths to hoist an overnight bag over his shoulder. He reassured her with a wink.

  "No, Serena, I don’t think I’ll be inconvenienced."

  CHAPTER VI

  "I’ll get the fire going."

  Brett stoked the flames to life. It was a source that drew Serena to his side as she stood with her hands fanned out above the heat.

  In his periphery, he studied her, noticing the tense set of her shoulders and the worried frown. He crossed his arms and kept his eyes averted. "I know this is awkward for you.”

  On an absurd laugh, she brushed past him to reach for his overnight bag. Brett pursued, following her into one of the small bedrooms. The ceiling was angled, with a dormer window overlooking the latent town of Victory Cove. Brass oil lamps atop lace doilies cast dual arcs of gold across the wooden floor. Above the bed spanned a vivid painting of a clipper ship−so vivid that he could nearly feel the sway of its deck beneath his feet.

  A final glance around the bedroom and he felt as if he had been transported to an era long ago, when a weary sailor just back from months at sea bedded down in this very room.

  "Will this do? I’ve kept it clean, but other than that, it hasn’t been inhabited in a long time."

  He smiled at her awkwardness, aware that the room was so confining they were forced to be close. "It’s perfect." Then he added, "Serena, you know why I’m doing this don’t you?"

  Serena’s chin tilted up. "Yes."

  "Oh really?"