Vicki Hinze - [Seascape 01]

by Vicki Hinze

  Instinctively, T.J. knew Maggie wasn’t the type to make idle threats, and she certainly wasn’t the kind to threaten a life without serious provocation. But he understood her threatening her father in this situation, and that the threat had been sincere. Obviously her father had known it, too.

  Another flicker of respect for her flamed to life inside T.J. Confronting her father had to be terrifying. He could’ve just as easily as not turned on her. Still, she’d done it. In the same situation, though T.J. couldn’t know for sure what his reaction would be, he liked to think he’d do the same thing. “I’m surprised your mother didn’t kick him out.”

  “No,” Maggie said, looking sad. “She would never do that—which is exactly why I didn’t just threaten to have him arrested. She’d never allow it, and he’d see to it that she didn’t.

  “One of the tragedies of abuse, Tyler. Abusers work on their victims’ self-esteem until the victims think they deserve the abuse. It’s their fault, see? Men like my father are very clever and very manipulative. Hell, they’re twisted. But they’re good at this stuff. And before the victims know what’s happened to them, they end up like my mother. Where they’ll put up with anything because they deserve nothing, and anything—even abuse—is better than being alone.”

  T.J. gave Maggie’s arm a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry you and your mother had to go through that.”

  “Me, too.” She patted his hand and gave him a watery smile. “But at least it’s over now. He’s gone, and we survived. She’s safe.”

  T.J. nodded. Why hadn’t Maggie included herself? Wasn’t she, too, safe? “So what happens now?”

  “We pick up the pieces and go on.”

  “Back to Maison’s?” He really shouldn’t be asking. What she wanted to tell him was different. Quizzing her, he was butting in.

  She shrugged, seemingly unoffended. “I don’t know. I love marketing, and Maison’s has been great to me. They refused my resignation and put me on an extended leave of absence so I could keep my benefits.”

  “Sounds like a good company.”

  She nodded. “Yes, but you know, MacGregor, I’ve been thinking. What I was doing there, well, in the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. I think I’d rather do something that matters.”

  He lifted his brows. “Solid marketing matters. It can make or break companies, and that makes or breaks the people working for the companies—and their families. Execs need straight-talking, bottom-line info to get to the public. They depend on marketing gurus like you to get it there efficiently.”

  “True.” She rubbed at her shin. “Maybe I just need to be more selective about what I market, eh?”

  He shrugged for show. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  Looking a little wrung out but a lot more at ease, she gave him a nervous laugh. “Hey, I’m supposed to be the listener here, not the soul-barer.”

  “Works both ways.” He smiled.

  Looking dazed, she opened her mouth and her lips spread apart into a brilliant smile that had his heart flipping over in his chest.

  “So are you going to tell me how you knew?”

  “About the painting and how it made you feel?”

  She nodded.

  “Not just yet. But someday.”

  “Unfair, MacGregor.”

  “I’m prudent.” He hauled himself to his feet and his knees cracked. “It’s life that’s unfair.”

  She let out a sigh she clearly meant for him to notice and stood up. “First you tell me there are no miracles, now you say life’s not fair.” She swatted at her damp bottom. “You’re blowing all my fantasies here, MacGregor.”

  “Right.”

  “Yeah, right.” She retrieved the painting then passed it to him. The serenity on her face had him aching. “But you’ll pay for it. I’m kind of fond of my fantasies, you know. I don’t take kindly to someone shooting them to smithereens.”

  He bet he would pay. “How?”

  She gave him a wicked grin that lit her eyes from the bottoms, turned, and walked back toward the house. “Hot water, MacGregor,” she yelled back at him. “Gallons and gallons of it.”

  He watched her go. The woman was as serious as a heart attack. And he’d croak before admitting it, but he thought he might just be developing a thing for sass.

  “Hey, MacGregor.” Maggie hiked off the garden path and cut across the lawn to the pond, her skirt swishing against the basket swinging from her hand then into her thighs. It felt good, being unencumbered by a coat and heavy clothing. Maine weather was nothing, if not changeable. From freezing last night to warm and toasty this afternoon.

  Sitting on the ground and leaning back against a gnarled oak, MacGregor watched her walk toward him. He’d taken his jacket off. It lay in the dirt beside him. His soft, sand-colored shirt, too, did wonderful things to his eyes and, this time, he’d ditched the killer glare and he hadn’t chiseled sarcasm into his lips to ruin them. Sweet progress, though she almost wished he had. He’d be a lot less appealing to her then.

  “What are you doing out here?” He tossed a stone into the pond. It plopped down into the water, raised a little splash, then the smooth surface rippled.

  “It’s too pretty to stay inside so I’d have come outside anyway, but it so happens”—she spread out his jacket between two exposed roots, then sat down on it—“I’m a woman on a mission.”

  He paled.

  “What’s wrong?” What had she said? The man looked ready to faint.

  He squinted at her, a hard glint in his eyes. “What kind of mission?”

  “Oh, chill out, MacGregor. No questions heading your way from here.” She shifted her bottom and got comfortable, then opened the basket. “Miss Hattie sent me with lunch.”

  “Lunch.” He scraped his back against the tree to hide his relief.

  Maggie nodded. “The kitchen’s a disaster. She’s making more soup for Jimmy, a snack for the roofers working on the Carriage House—isn’t that hammering driving you nuts?—and she’s whipping up a batch of muffins for Hatch. Vic’s going to pick everything up and deliver it when he makes his rounds with the mail.”

  “So we’re banned, huh?” MacGregor smiled.

  “That’s about the size of it.” Maggie opened the basket, pulled out napkins and passed one to T.J. “But get your tastebuds ready. They’re in for a treat. We’ve got roast beef and swiss on rye sandwiches, apple slices with some kind of dip I’ve not had before—but I snitched a taste and it’s nothing short of heaven—some kind of chips that Miss Hattie says have the right kind of fat in them. Don’t look at me—I don’t have a clue what they are, and I thought it wisest not to ask. And strawberry pie for dessert. Whipped cream is optional.”

  “Sounds good, all right. I didn’t realize I was hungry.”

  “I’ll share, provided you’re nice.”

  “Hey, I’m a walking paragon.”

  “Naw, you’re not. You’re a popsicle with a growling gut. Comes from those cold showers.”

  He grinned. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

  “Oh?” She passed a sandwich to him. Their fingers brushed and a pleasant little sizzle streaked up her arm.

  “Just how long does subtle revenge last?”

  She set out the bowl of apples, then tossed the lid back into the basket and pulled out the dip. “Depends. We’ll see how you do during lunch.”

  “Blackmail, eh?”

  “Yep.” She grinned. “As you so often say, ‘pure and simple.’”

  His eyes twinkled. Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t seen him without his mask before. Even when she’d told him about her mother, he’d buried his reactions. She liked this. She didn’t want to like it, but she did.

  “You’re a hard woman, Maggie.” He grabbed a piece of apple,
dipped it into the bowl, then crunched down on it. “I guess, in the interest of thawing out, I’ll behave.”

  “Glad to hear it.” She nibbled at her sandwich. The mustard was hot and spicy. Her nose tingled. “MacGregor, can we talk about what’s happening to you?”

  “I thought you said no questions.”

  “I lied.” She shrugged. “I’m curious, remember?”

  “Why? This is my problem, not yours.”

  “Because it’s strange.” She finished the first half of her sandwich. The man had the most gorgeous nose. Hers was the slightest bit crooked, so she really noticed noses. His was perfect. Not too long, straight and smooth. Perfect. “You’ve got to admit what’s happening to you is weird, MacGregor.”

  “My friends call me T.J.”

  She cocked her head. “You don’t look like a T.J. to me. You look like a MacGregor.”

  “Kind of rough around the edges, eh?”

  “Yes. And soft in the middle.”

  “Is that your subtle way of telling me I’ve got a gut?”

  “No, that’s my subtle way of warning you not to hog all the apples.”

  “I get a hog warning from the Hot-Water Head Hoggett?”

  She hiked her chin and shrugged. “Hey, haven’t you heard? Life is unfair.”

  “Touché.” He finished his sandwich, scooped up a couple apples, then studied a thick slice. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I told you that.”

  “Do you know why it’s happening?”

  “No. Maybe.” He sighed. “I don’t know.” He scooted away from the tree to reach the dip and looked at her. “You clean up pretty good.”

  “That almost sounds like a compliment. Better watch it, MacGregor, or I might start thinking you’re interested in me. Mixed signals, you know.”

  He shifted the subject back to the topic at hand as if, of the two, the strange events were easier to discuss. “It might be guilt.”

  She nearly choked. When the coughing fit ended, she dabbed at her teary eyes and cleared her throat. “What are you feeling guilty about?”

  “I came here once before. A long time ago.”

  “Really?” Her throat still tickling, she set her sandwich aside, filled two glasses with ice, then poured them full of iced tea from the thermos.

  “It’s a long story.”

  Ice clinked against the sides of the glass. As the tea splashed over the cubes, they popped and crackled. “I’ve got time.”

  “Okay, but remember you asked for it.” He took the glass from her hand and leaned back against the tree, stretching out his long legs in front of him and crossing them at his ankles. “You know about me painting.”

  “Yes, I do. Tyler James, world-class artist. You can talk straight, MacGregor.”

  He nodded. “I’d just landed my first international showing in Europe. Officially arrived in the art world. My folks wanted to fly over for the opening, but I talked them into flying to London and then taking a train. My dad was a bit of a workaholic and my mom loved to travel. It seemed like a good way to get him to slow down a little and for her to see some of the European countryside.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.” Maggie swatted at an ant crawling on her ankle and began putting the food away.

  “The train derailed.”

  She fumbled the basket lid. It slammed shut. “Were they... ?”

  “They died.”

  “Oh, Tyler.” She clasped his hand and held it tightly. “I’m so sorry.”

  He nodded, stone-faced. When she tried releasing his hand, he gripped hers tighter, refusing to let go. This was hard, painful for him. Relaxing her fingers, she curled them around the thick, blunt tips of his. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Yes, it was. They never had been on a train and wouldn’t have been on that one if I hadn’t badgered them into it.”

  “They decided, though.”

  “Afterwards,” he said as if he hadn’t heard her, “I couldn’t paint. Months went by and I was starting to panic. A photographer friend of mine, Meriam Richards, told me about Seascape Inn.”

  “That’s how you knew.” Maggie scooted closer, her thigh brushing his knee. “She showed you a photograph of Seascape and when you looked at it, you felt all the things I felt when I saw your painting.”

  He nodded. “Meriam told me she’d had photographer’s block. She never said it, but I think she and her husband, Bryce, were having their problems. A shame. He’s a good man, and they’ve got three kids. Anyway, she told me that she’d come up here, and when she’d left, she’d left healed. She swore Seascape held magic.”

  Maggie half-agreed with her. Though she hadn’t yet decided if it was black or white magic. “So you came.”

  “Yeah, I did.” He lowered their clasped hands to his thigh. It was as hard as the rocks on the shore.

  “Did you heal?”

  “I painted the painting of Seascape Inn.” He dragged his thumb down her hand, fingertip to wrist, then back again. “After that, I went home and painted like a demon.”

  “So why did you say you aren’t painting anymore?”

  “Because I’m not. I haven’t for two years.”

  Two years. The same length of time since Carolyn’s accident. “How come?”

  “My fiancée was killed in a car accident.” He closed his eyes and lifted his chin. “My Seascape Inn painting was with her, Maggie.” His voice shook and he looked at Maggie as if steeling himself for her condemnation. “It’s my fault she’s dead.”

  Maggie’s thoughts spooled. Spots formed before her eyes. She took in three deep breaths and warned herself to calm down and not to jump to conclusions. “Like your parents’ deaths were your fault?”

  “More so. With them, I didn’t know what to expect. But with my fiancée...” He let out a sigh laden with self-disgust. “Have you ever sensed something coming and ignored it?”

  Surprise streaked up her backbone. She’d tried to ignore him, his despair, those ominous whispers. “Yes.”

  “So did I. That’s why her death is my fault. I knew she was headed for trouble, and I didn’t stop her.”

  Knowing Carolyn, he couldn’t have stopped her. Once she’d made up her mind, she’d had tunnel vision until she’d gotten what she’d wanted. Was that all there was to MacGregor’s involvement in her death? Was the guilt Maggie had sensed he’d caused only that he hadn’t stopped Carolyn from self-destructing? “Maybe you weren’t supposed to stop her. Maybe you were just supposed to try.” Maggie rubbed his finger with the forefinger of her free hand. “Did you try?”

  “Too late, but, yes, I did. She wouldn’t listen.” His Adam’s apple bobbed and the veins in his neck bulged. “I—I really don’t want to talk about that anymore.”

  It hurt him. Maggie could see that it did. But did it hurt because he’d loved Carolyn, or because she’d died? “All right.”

  “The bottom line is I couldn’t paint again. Every-time I picked up a brush, or even thought about picking up one, I remembered just how much my gift has cost me, you know? Everything and everyone I care about is dead—because of my gift.”

  “Tyler, that’s not true.”

  “It is. My parents were coming to see my exhibit. Carolyn had my painting with her—she was obsessed with the damn thing, Maggie. They died. They all died.”

  She cupped her free hand over their linked ones. “So you came back here to see if you could again be healed.”

  “Yes.” He loosened his tight jaw. “I don’t want to paint—how could I want to paint?” He paused and dragged in a shuddered breath. “I need peace, Maggie. I just... need peace.”

  His torment reflected in every fiber of his expression. “I understand.” She scooted closer still and rested her bent knee on his thigh. Her shadow spilled over his chest
and slanted onto the root-roughened ground beyond him. “Do you think maybe it’s because you feel guilty about these things that you can’t leave here?”

  “Yeah, I do. But it isn’t all in my mind. Bill Butler thinks it is, but he’s wrong. I’m not crazy.”

  “Of course, you aren’t crazy. But you aren’t guilty either, and yet you still feel guilty. Maybe that’s what’s happening to you. You think you can’t go, so you just can’t go. You feel guilty.”

  “I am guilty.”

  “Okay. I disagree, but I’m not going to argue the point with you.” A little speckle of dip spotted his cheek. She reached up and thumbed it off.

  “Maggie?” he whispered.

  She looked at him, their hands clasped, her thumb still resting against his jaw.

  “What would you think about us kissing?”

  “Bad idea.” She wanted to pull back, meant to pull back, but it was as if someone held a hand at the center of her back, refusing to let her. She stared into MacGregor’s eyes. So dark. So intense. So many emotions flitting through their depths.

  “Very bad idea.” His pupils dilated and he focused on her mouth. “You wanna do it anyway?”

  Her heart careened, nearly shattering in her chest. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I guess I do.”

  “I have to taste you. Just once.” He let go of her hand, cupped her face in his upturned palms, and leaned toward her.

  “Just once.” His lips were warm, soft, and as gentle as a summer breeze. She fisted her hands on his thigh, wanting to touch him, to let her fingers drift through his hair to see if it was as soft as it looked, to stir his heated, winter pine scent that conjured all manner of romantic fantasies in her mind, to feel his chest to see if his heart was beating as hard as her own. She wanted to do all those things, but she didn’t do any of them. She couldn’t. She had no right.

  He pulled back and looked into her eyes, his own, solemn.

  “MacGregor?”

  No answer. He just looked at her.

  He knew she felt torn about this. And he wasn’t going to make it easy for her. In fact, he wasn’t going to sway her decision either way. She shouldn’t do it. It wasn’t right. She wasn’t playing straight with the man, and she wasn’t any more sure he was playing straight with her. But he looked so good. Smelled and tasted and felt so good. And if she didn’t get one really serious kiss from him, she’d die wondering what it would have been like. She didn’t want to die wondering...