by Vicki Hinze
Vic shook the cloth in a greeting and mouthed, “Hi, Maggie.”
Glad to see a familiar face, she lifted a hand and smiled back, then walked on. Maybe if she just had tried to help MacGregor her conscience would stop badgering her. Turning her back on anyone in trouble reeked of indifference to their suffering, and wasn’t indifference just the worst kind of insult? She’d always respected anyone who—right or wrong—loved or hated and fought for or against anything with the passion of their convictions. It was the bystanders, those who elected not to get involved, those who didn’t care, that she’d held in disdain. She frowned. Now she was one of them.
The porch of the Blue Moon Cafe was freshly swept and empty of people. To the right of the front door, a blue moon had been painted on the green cinderblock wall. Like everything else this close to the sea and its salt, it had weathered and faded a little. The sheriff’s car was parked in the lot.
Rounding a rough cedar staircase, Maggie nearly collided with a short, stooped woman who rushed to the cafe’s door on thin, birdlike legs. Her coattail flapping behind her, she muttered something about a Mister High Britches needing a reminder that she’d once been his teacher. She deserved a little respect and he was going to give it to her or she was going to blister his ears.
Maggie skirted a half-barrel of orange silk flowers, replacing those in the dirt that surely bloomed there in summer, and the biggest anchor she’d ever seen, rusted and propped against the wall with a little mound of dirt hidden behind it. She caught a whiff of fried chicken. If she weren’t so troubled, she would’ve stopped in and had some. But she was troubled so, heavy-footed, she kept walking, silently damning MacGregor. Even here, she couldn’t get the man off her mind.
Near Fisherman’s Co-Op, she saw a knot of men sitting on its slab slate porch, rocking and laughing around a wire-spool table. Behind it, around the cove on a little point, she saw a lighthouse. The mild wind carried the men’s voices, and she heard snatches of stories they were swapping about fishing in the good old days. From the newspaper accounts she’d read, those days were ones preceding the fishing industry being thrust into crisis because of large government-funded boats and hi-tech electronic equipment. The big commercial fishermen had about fished out the Atlantic. Most of the fish caught here flirted with being listed as endangered species. Some already had been dubbed “commercially extinct.”
Maggie hurt for the little guy. Many of them third- and fourth-generation fishermen who now were in dire straits, in danger of losing everything they owned.
At the foot of the inn’s gravel driveway, she stepped between the rows of firs lining it and headed toward the house. MacGregor was a little guy, too. Not in stature but, like the little fisherman, he stood alone.
She stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets and blew out a heartfelt sigh that made fog of her breath. What if she forgot about Carolyn temporarily and tried to help MacGregor? What could she actually do for him? She didn’t even know what was happening out there on the rocks. Or where those strange whispers to her were coming from, though she strongly suspected they were no more than her conscience. What she did know was that watching him disturbed her, hurt her in ways she didn’t understand, and that robbed her of the peace and serenity she’d needed and found here.
The last thing she needed in her life was more turmoil. And MacGregor pounded out vibes of having a truckload of it. Well, she had her fair share, too. That’s how life worked, wasn’t it?
He had his problems, and she had hers. She couldn’t afford to be sidetracked by him and lose sight of her reason for being here—he might be a very large part of that reason. She still suspected him of being involved with Carolyn’s death, though she had to be honest, with a lot less certainty than when she’d first arrived here. MacGregor clearly was worried. She didn’t see his hopelessness growing stronger, but when she watched him attempt and fail to cross that line, she sure felt it. That worried her. And it made her feel even more guilty. Still, her first loyalty was to Carolyn. Guilty or innocent of manipulation, Carolyn was family.
No, Maggie promised herself, on Monday she would not watch MacGregor’s attempt. She wasn’t being hard or cold or indifferent—she’d even warned him—she simply had no sympathy to spare.
First light streamed in through Maggie’s windows. She opened her eyes, stretched, slid out from under the warm quilts, then padded over to the window seat and looked outside.
Dawn had come, but the sky remained a dull, weak gray, as if it struggled under November and prayed hard for an early spring. She’d left the window shade up to catch first light. Sounds carried in the quiet house, and she hadn’t wanted to risk awakening MacGregor by setting an alarm.
It was Monday. She’d made a vow and she intended to keep it. She would not watch him. She’d be dressed and down in the village long before MacGregor turned over in his bed much less before he pulled his nasty morning ritual of rapping on the bathroom door and rushing her out.
Ten minutes later, she sneaked down the stairs like a thief, feeling as guilty as she had when at six years old she’d stolen that piece of bubble gum from 7-Eleven. She passed Cecelia’s portrait and deliberately avoided looking at it. Still, knowing she’d passed it, Maggie felt guilt sink deeper into her and it weighed heavily on her conscience. Cecelia would have found a way to help MacGregor.
The third stair creaked.
Maggie’s heart thundered. She stopped, darted her gaze back to the landing, expecting MacGregor to appear any second and look at her with those accusing gray eyes.
When he didn’t, she breathed easier, rushed down the last of the steps, then on into the kitchen.
The smells were wonderful.
Miss Hattie took a pan of fresh blueberry muffins out of the oven and set them on the white counter, then closed the oven door. “My, but you’re up with the chickens this morning.”
Maggie’s face went hot. More guilt poured acid into her stomach. “I saw a lighthouse on my walk yesterday. I wanted a closer look.”
“Mmm.” Miss Hattie pulled the mitt off her hand and set it aside. “Aren’t you going to have breakfast first?” She reached into a cabinet and pulled out a pretty rose-pattern plate.
“Those do smell sinfully good,” she said, watching Miss Hattie transfer the muffins from the pan to the plate, “but I’m anxious to get going.”
“I see.” Miss Hattie’s green eyes sparkled. She took a white cloth from a stack on the counter, freshly laundered or brand new, from the looks of them. “Well, take a muffin or two with you to bribe Hatch for the full tour. He loves muffins.”
“Hatch?” Maggie zipped up her blue and green parka. Her boots were in the mud room. Was she forgetting something important? No, no. She’d talked with her mother last night, and she’d been fine. A little more time to adjust...
“Hatch is the lighthouse keeper,” Miss Hattie said, setting three muffins inside the cloth. She caught the corners, drew them up, then folded them over the muffins. “Well, he was. The lighthouse isn’t functional anymore, of course. Coast Guard took over all of them a couple of years ago. Automated them.”
The twist of Miss Hattie’s lips clearly conveyed her opinion on that bit of progress. She opposed. “So Hatch was tossed out?”
“Oh my, no.” She refilled the muffin pan from a large stainless bowl still half-full of batter. “The Judge would never sit still for that. He worked out a special deal with the Coast Guard about our lighthouse. Not sure how he did it, exactly, but he said something about humanitarian reasons.” She slid the pan into the oven, then passed Maggie the cloth-wrapped muffins. “Hatch was born, raised, and has grown old in that lighthouse. Moving would’ve killed him, and that’s fact. He can stay there, so long as the light isn’t functional.”
Maggie took the muffins. They felt warm against her palm. “I never thought of the Coast Guard as having a heart before, but cl
early it does. That’s comforting, isn’t it?”
“I think so,” Miss Hattie said, “and I reckon Hatch does, too. Very wise man, Hatch.”
Maggie walked toward the door to the mud room. “There’s a lot of comforting things here, Miss Hattie.” Maggie gestured with the muffins. “Thank you.”
The white-haired angel patted her soiled apron and looked at Maggie through those sparkling emerald, too-seeing eyes. “We’re all capable of comforting, dear. Sometimes it’s the comfort that’s hardest to give that brings the greatest rewards. Remember that, mmm?”
Feeling the warm whisper of heat warning her of something significant happening that she’d felt before, Maggie blinked, nodded, then blinked again. For some reason, she sensed approval. “I will,” she said softly, then nearly knocked to her knees by guilt about MacGregor, she went out to the mud room and closed the door.
By the time she’d skirted the back corner of the house and stepped onto the flagstone walk, she’d changed her mind fifty times, torn between going on and going back and watching MacGregor.
She had to stop this. Brushing against an evergreen, she saw a bed of giant delphiniums that had lost the battle to winter. Their stems drooped and what remained of their dull and faded blossoms kissed the ground.
Tears formed in Maggie’s eyes. Cursing herself as forty kinds of fool, she swore. “I will not feel guilty about this.” She shouldn’t. She’d come here for Carolyn and that’s where Maggie’s loyalty had to lie. MacGregor was part of that problem... maybe. His guilt about Carolyn could be the source of his troubles here.
What about the oddities?
Maggie plucked a leaf off her sleeve. She’d ignore them. The whispers, the despair, and even that flicker of interest she felt for MacGregor she had no business feeling, lied and swore to herself she wasn’t feeling and would give just about anything she owned not to be feeling—she’d ignore them all.
Someone was watching her.
At the side of the garage, she came to a dead stop. The feeling burned strong, nearly overwhelming her. She glanced toward the house, scanned the windows, and saw not a soul. Turned, looked across the sweeping lawn to the stretch of firs, let her gaze drift toward the pond, the gazebo, to the little stone wall between Seascape land and the next-door neighbor’s. Again, no one. Nothing but the morning haze, the gentle wind rustling the leaves on the evergreens and shimmying the sticklike branches on those left winter-barren.
Help him.
That godawful whisper! The hairs on Maggie’s neck stood on end. She ran to the front corner of the house, stopped, and stared at the rocks at the boundary line.
“MacGregor.”
Her chest muscles clenched. Her breath swooshed out. She couldn’t move.
There he stood, as he had all the other times, holding the painting. So still. So very still.
Help him.
“Shut up. Go away,” she pleaded. “Please.”
Help him.
The peace she’d recaptured drained away. Why couldn’t she move? “I can’t help him! Don’t you see that? I... can’t!”
Help him, Maggie. The whisper grew stronger, clearer.
Fear streaked up her spine and spiked into the roof of her mouth. She tasted it on her tongue, felt it permeate her every pore. God help her, the whisper hadn’t come from her conscience. It hadn’t come from her at all.
It had a man’s voice.
“Who are you?” She darted her gaze, but didn’t see any man anywhere. “How are you doing this?”
Miss Hattie’s words flooded her mind. Sometimes it’s the comfort that’s hardest to give that brings the greatest rewards.
“Never mind. I—I don’t care how you’re doing it. Just stop. Just go away.”
Help him.
Maggie cupped her hands over her ears to block out the voices. “Don’t you hear me? I can’t help him. I can’t do it!”
This time is different.
“Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”
He could die.
MacGregor fell.
“Nooo!” Maggie screamed. She ran, half-sliding, half-falling, down the sloping lawn toward the boundary line. Her feet pounded the ground, jarring her ankles, her knees, her teeth. Her heavy breaths fogged the, air and more than halfway there she realized that whatever had held her captive and had forbidden her to move had released her. Who—what—was it?
Her chest heaving, she dropped to her jeaned knees beside MacGregor. He was so pale! Surprised she still held them, she set the muffins aside on the ground. “MacGregor?”
No answer.
She checked his throat for a pulse and found it steady. It beat hard against her fingertips. “MacGregor?”
No response.
He was still alive. Think, Maggie. Think! She cupped his cool face, pulled back his eyelids with her thumbs and looked at his eyes. They were rolled back in his head. He was unconscious.
What should she do? The voice said to help him. But how? She wasn’t a healer! She didn’t know what to do.
Frustrated, feeling inadequate, scared stiff to even think about what was happening here, she gritted her teeth, plunged her fingertips through his thick, black hair and glided them over his scalp. No bumps. Was that good?
Geez, had she lost her sense? Of course no bumps was good—unless there was internal swelling. “MacGregor?”
Still no answer.
He’d been out for so long! Much longer than the other times.
This time is different.
He could die.
“Oh God, MacGregor. If you knew how lousy I was in a crisis, you’d come around.”
In her mind, she saw Bill pulling MacGregor back onto the Seascape side of the boundary line.
“Yes! Yes!” She scrambled to her feet. Shoved, tugged, and pulled until she’d lifted his shoulders and worked her arms around his middle. He was too big. She was too little. She couldn’t stretch that far and still gain leverage with her feet. The rocks were so slick!
Fighting panic, she kept her grip, sat down and heaved, hauling his back up against her thighs. His head slammed against her chest. It stung and her jacket zipper cut deep into her skin. Bending her knees, she wedged her boots into hollows in the rocks, then lay back and pulled.
MacGregor moved with her!
Heartened, she scooted back on the dirt-covered rocks, bent her knees, found new footholds, and lay back again. And again, MacGregor scraped the dirt and moved with her.
Certain now that it hadn’t been luck, that the method worked, Maggie repeated it again and again, inching closer to the line.
By the time her bottom slid over it, she was exhausted. A little farther, just a little farther, and MacGregor, too, would cross over. Her arms and legs ached, felt as heavy as lead and trembled, water-weak. Her muscles burned, and her backside hurt more than when at twelve she’d tried to impress Sam Grayson by sitting on the hood of her father’s car, then lied to him about it. That day, her father had spanked her for the first and last time, and he’d put her on six weeks’ restriction.
Carolyn had laughed.
Maggie had cried—and had sat gingerly for two full days. But she’d learned from the experience. Carolyn had told on her because she liked Sam and she wanted Maggie out of the way. That had been but the first of many of Carolyn’s manipulations. And the last time that Carolyn, Maggie’s father, or anyone else had seen Maggie cry. Not since that day had Maggie allowed herself the luxury of tears.
Finally—dear God, finally!—MacGregor’s loafered feet crossed the line. Maggie twisted and tugged her way free of him, then gently lowered his head to the ground, scraping her knuckles raw on the gritty sand-covered rocks. He still hadn’t come to. Why?
What else had Bill and Miss Hattie done?
Th
e handkerchief.
Maggie grimaced, shoved back her sweat-drenched hair. Where was she supposed to get a damn handkerchief?
The muffins!
A white cloth would just have to do. She rushed over, grabbed it, then ran back, unwrapping the fabric folds and stuffing the muffins into her jacket pockets. She shook the crumbs from the cloth. A script S had been sewn inside an oval at one corner. This wasn’t a napkin. It was a hankie. A brand new hankie.
Shivering from all that implied, when combined with Miss Hattie’s remarks about comforting, Maggie bent low over MacGregor, as Miss Hattie had, then flapped the hankie back and forth near his face. “Come on, MacGregor. Wake up. Would you just wake up?”
His eyelids fluttered, then opened, and he stared up at her. When he focused, disappointment, then regret, flashed through his eyes, and his mouth twisted into a frown.
Maggie stuffed the hankie into her pocket and just looked at him, so relieved she wanted to cry and so choked up she knew if she tried to whisper a single word she’d bawl for hours.
“Oh, no.” MacGregor squeezed his eyes shut.
Was he blacking out again? “Tyler?” She touched his shoulder. “Tyler, don’t!”
He snapped his lids back. “Why you?”
What did she say to that? Deflated, she frowned back at him. “Charming. How do you manage, MacGregor?” She dropped and sat down beside him, then pulled a muffin from her pocket and took a healthy bite. Her hand shook like a tree caught in a gale. With luck, he’d still be too preoccupied with himself to notice.
“Manage what?” He rolled to his side then sat up, swaying and looking a little woozy. He shook his head.
“Carting around so much arrogance that you’re above saying thanks to a woman who’s just saved your backside.”