by Vicki Hinze
“Thanks, Lucy.” He slid onto a stool at the bar and settled in. “What we got today?”
“Blueberry and cherry.” Her gum cracked. “Name your poison, Sweetie.”
“Cherry. Big hunk.” He set his hat on the empty stool beside him. “Lord, but it’s been a wicked day. Those kids from Boston have been driving me nuts with their three-wheelers over at Pumpkin Cove.”
Lucy put a cup of coffee down in front of the man. “These the same bunch the paper said wrecked all the flowerbeds over at Indian Point yesterday?”
“The same.” He grimaced. “Tore up everything in a five-mile radius.”
“Why didn’t you arrest them?”
“Not a witness in sight.” He took a swig from his cup. “Those kids don’t have a lick of sense, Lucy. One more call and I’m tossing ’em into the tank even if I have to trump up charges to get ’em off the streets. Maybe if their folks have to drive over to bail ’em out, they’ll get mad enough to do something about this.”
“Sheriff Cobb,” MacGregor whispered to Maggie.
“I figured,” she whispered back, then looked at the second man. He was a good deal younger than the first—early twenties, not wildly attractive, but nice-looking. Better than nice if he’d get his long brown hair a decent trim—and very interested, it appeared, in the young lady who looked a lot like Lucy waiting on a table in the far corner. His nose was red, his eyes watery, and his grease-smeared jeans needed a good wash in a bad way but, from the way he carried himself, Maggie bet those jeans had been spotless before the man had gone to work this morning.
He spotted MacGregor and walked over, grinning. “Good to see you off Seascape, T.J. It’s been a while.”
“Yes, it has.” The men shook hands. “Maggie, this is Jimmy Goodson.”
The mechanic who often helped Miss Hattie at the inn—and who ran shopping trips for the villagers to Boothbay Harbor. Her cheeks went hot. “Hi, Jimmy. It’s good to see you up and around.” Maybe he’d gotten those condoms off the board, anyway.
“Excuse me?” His forehead wrinkled.
“I thought Miss Hattie had you on bed rest for your cold.”
He rolled his gaze ceiling-ward. “She does, which is why I’ve got to get back home—before she catches me and blisters my ears.”
He looked pleased at the prospect. Ah, Miss Hattie had told her that Jimmy was an orphan. Clearly, she’d adopted him. “I’ll bet she would.” Maggie unfolded her napkin and spread it over her lap—not an easy feat, one-handed.
“I need a word with you, T.J.” Jimmy blushed. “Private-like.”
Maggie looked at MacGregor, and her eyes stretched wide. They couldn’t break contact, he’d pass out. What should she do?
Lucy set the coffee and pie onto the table, looking at Jimmy. “Miss Hattie’s just left the cemetery for The Store, Sweetie. You’d best haul it back home pretty quick.”
He nodded. “ ’Preciate it.”
MacGregor rubbed Maggie’s thumb reassuringly. “Go ahead, Jimmy. You can talk openly in front of Maggie.”
“It’s, um, kind of delicate, T.J.” The young man’s face turned beet-red. “No offense, Maggie.”
“I know about the note on the bulletin board, Jimmy.”
“I took it down.” Jimmy looked straight at MacGregor, turned his back to Maggie, then dropped his voice to a whisper and passed MacGregor a small box. “Next time you need something, um, personal, just call me direct.”
MacGregor slid the box into his pocket and turned as red as Jimmy. And if the heat radiating from her face was a solid indicator, so had Maggie.
“Thanks,” MacGregor said. “I’ll do that.”
“No problem.” Jimmy cleared his throat. “I didn’t figure you’d want your personal business spread all over the village.”
Maggie grimaced. Geez, who was left that didn’t know? Why couldn’t the floor open up and swallow her? MacGregor recovered quickly and now looked amused, damn his hide. She resisted an urge to give his thigh a solid whack.
“Jimmy!” Lucy shouted from the front window. “Miss Hattie’s coming across the parking lot. Move it!”
Jimmy took off like a streak of lightning, hurtled over the bar, then vanished into the kitchen.
Fred slapped at the bar and grinned at the sheriff. “When he wants to, that boy can move.”
Leroy lifted his coffee cup to his mouth and grinned through the steam. “Miss Hattie inspires him.”
“How’s the pie?” Lucy glanced down at their plates and frowned. “You haven’t touched it.”
“We’ve been talking with Jimmy.” MacGregor snatched up his fork. “Lucy, Maggie was wondering whose graves Miss Hattie puts the flowers on. Do you know?”
“’Course, Sweetie. The Freeports.” She smacked her gum. “God love her heart, she never misses a Tuesday, rain or shine.” Lucy glanced over to Maggie. “Hattie Stillman don’t forget those in her care—dead or alive.”
Cecelia and Collin Freeport. Seascape’s original owners. “She’s an angel.” Maggie took a healthy bite of pie. How could someone dead be in Miss Hattie’s care?
“Durn near.” Lucy grinned. “Well, as close as a body can get to being an angel without being dead.” She leaned over an empty chair. “Maggie, me and Fred’s been having this little debate for a couple years about this very thing. Do you think angels can be dead people, or can they only be nonhuman spiritual beings?”
T.J. tensed and squeezed her fingers in a death-lock, warning that this was a hot family debate. She looked over at Lucy. “I’d say that depends.”
“On what?” Lucy swatted at T.J.’s shoulder. “Would you quit interfering with your warning looks and just let the woman speak her piece?”
“Sorry.” He looked anything but.
“It’s all right.” Lucy returned her gaze to Maggie, her eyes glittering. “So what’s it depend on?”
Maggie gave her an angel’s smile. “God’s will.”
Lucy laughed out loud. “Oh, Maggie, that’s choice. About the smartest answer anyone’s ever given us. Shoot, me or Fred could hardly disagree, now could we? And yet you haven’t sided with either one of us.”
“Well, you could disagree,” Maggie said softly, knowing it wouldn’t happen.
“I don’t think so, Sweetie.” Lucy gave her gum a good crack. “I’m a Mainiac, but I ain’t a fool. When Fred asked me to marry him, I told him I would if he promised me two things. One, we neither one ever dispute God’s will. And, two, we never mess with IRS—at least not without solid proof and a big stick.”
“Sounds like a good plan, doesn’t it, MacGregor?”
He nodded, lips pursed.
“T.J.” Lucy looked at him, her eyes shining. “You’ve got a real winner here.”
Maggie opened her mouth to object to the insinuation that she belonged to MacGregor, but he squeezed the fool out of her hand until it tingled, his gaze never leaving Lucy’s, and assured her silence by saying, “She’s special, all right. I’m a lucky man.”
The phone rang.
Lucy glanced up at the Budweiser clock and her grin faded. “Three-thirty. Hell’s bells. The sheriff’s already having a bad day.” She stretched over to the end of the bar and lifted the phone receiver from its cradle. “Blue Moon.”
She listened for a second then rolled her gaze heavenward as if praying for patience. “I’ve been busy, Beaulah. Um, the sheriff?” Lucy gazed over at him.
Sheriff Cobb frantically waved both hands, gesturing and silently moving his lips. I’m not here.
Lucy frowned at him.
The sheriff slid off his stool, reached back for his coffee cup, then nearly ran out the front door.
A smile dancing in her eyes, Lucy snapped her gum. “Sorry, Beaulah, you just missed him. He left in a bit of a hurry tod
ay.”
Big, burly Sheriff Cobb running from tiny, birdlike Beaulah—a woman nearly twice his age. Maggie grinned at MacGregor.
He grinned back.
“I’ll tell him, Sweetie. T.J. MacGregor”—Lucy looked at MacGregor—“is busting the cliffs with his head and ruining the topography because a ghost is after him over at Seascape and won’t let him leave there. Uh-huh. Sure enough, Beaulah. I’ll pass that vital info along to Sheriff Cobb right away.”
Lucy hung up the phone. “Dang, I’m standing here looking at you, T.J.”
He shrugged and smiled.
She gave the phone a soulful look. “Poor woman’s losing it, bless her heart.”
A ghost? Maggie avoided his gaze, knowing he was avoiding hers, too. A ghost? Her stomach furled in on itself. Impossible. Ridiculous. Absurd.
The sheriff cracked open the door and peeked inside. “You off the phone yet, Lucy?”
“Yeah, Sweetie, sure enough. Come on back inside. I’ll even get you a second hunk of pie for sparing my soul. Can’t abide lying. Never could.”
Looking guilty as sin, Leroy shuffled across the floor, then slid back onto his bar stool. “Near miss. Damn, that woman makes me crazy.” He flushed. “Sorry, Lucy.”
She waved off his cussing. “No problem, Sweetie. Beaulah has a way of making us all forget ourselves. A shame she’s got no kids to look after her and keep her busy.”
Maggie polished off the last of her pie. A ghost? No, her and MacGregor’s entity couldn’t be a ghost. She’d considered it could be a multitude of paranormal things, but never a ghost. That was too frightening. A ghost would be totally and completely absurd. Oh she hoped it would. She swallowed hard, stiffened. Of course it would. Wouldn’t it?
Risking a glance at MacGregor, she saw the same question she’d just asked herself reflected in his eyes.
“Are those chocolate-chip cookies I smell, Miss Millie?” Maggie walked over to the petite, delicately boned widow about Miss Hattie’s age sitting in her chair beside her Franklin stove. The hem of her simple, forest-green dress brushed against the floor with her every rock.
She sipped from a delicate, china cup, then smiled up at Maggie and T.J. “They sure are. Hattie dropped by a while ago and said you children were eating your way through the village today, so I thought I’d whip up a batch.” She gave her short-cropped, violet-tinged hair a pat, then waved them to sit down on a rosewood settee opposite her. “Tea’s already steeped, too. You pour, Maggie.”
As they sat down across from her, she glanced at their clasped hands then gave them a crooked smile. “Tyler, it’s good to see you here.”
“Feels good to be here, too, Miss Millie. You been feeling okay?”
Maggie poured the tea one-handed, then passed a cup to MacGregor. Did Miss Millie know he was landlocked at Seascape? She could. She and Miss Hattie had been friends since birth—that Maggie had learned when she’d brought the book here for the Historical Society’s tea—and they talked on the phone every day.
While MacGregor and Miss Millie chatted, Maggie looked around the cluttered shop. No counter. The business conducted here was settled at a beautiful, old oak rolltop desk by the light from a Victorian lamp with a violet fringe shade.
“Maggie, help yourself to some cookies, dear.”
Maggie smiled and lifted one from the plate. “They smell wonderful.” The table beneath the plate was gorgeous. Beveled glass and wood trim that encased a collection of cut crystal figurines worth a small fortune. “You have a lot of lovely things here.”
“Thank you, dear.” Her gentle blue eyes twinkled.
“What smells so good?” MacGregor asked. “Aside from these drop-dead, melt-in-your-mouth cookies.”
“Potpourri.” Miss Millie motioned toward the back wall. “In fact,” she stood up, “come with me, Maggie, and we’ll make you a sachet.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
“I want to. A little thank you for bringing the book to the tea for me.”
Maggie swallowed. Did she dare to let go of MacGregor’s hand? She looked at him for guidance.
He nodded and whispered, “Let’s try it.”
Well, at least the man was sitting down. He wouldn’t crack his head on the rocks. Imagine Beaulah saying he was ruining the topography. What about the man’s skull? She released his fingers then waited a long moment. “Anything?”
“No,” he said uncertainly, slowly. Then more sure of himself, he added, “I feel fine.”
“Then why are you frowning?”
“This is baffling me. I just don’t get the pattern.”
“Me, either.” She started to touch his face, but pulled back. “Sure you’re okay?”
He shrugged. “Fine.”
“Maggie?” Miss Millie called out from the back of the shop. “Come choose your colors and scent, dear.”
Feeling torn, Maggie. hesitated.
“Go on.” MacGregor nodded toward the rear of the store. “I really am okay.”
Maggie wound past a sleigh bed, then threaded her way through the maze of expensive clutter to the back of the store. Wide-mouth glass jars lined the wall on two wooden shelves, and bolts of colorful tulle and fine lace stood on end in a dowel-stick bin.
“We need one color lace and one of the netting.” Miss Millie sat down at a work table. “And your fragrance, of course.”
Maggie fingered the fine netting in rich jewel-tone colors. The dark teal really appealed, but so did the royal blue. “Teal tulle,” she said. “And ivory lace.”
“That’ll be pretty.” Miss Millie smiled. “Can you bring the bolts over here?”
“Sure.” Maggie put the two bolts on the worktable. It was a well-crafted piece of furniture with heavy, dark wood and claw feet. The surface gleam showed not a scratch. For a worktable that seemed impossible, but this clearly wasn’t a typical worktable. It’d been pampered and well-tended. “Very attractive table.”
Miss Millie looked pleased by the compliment. “Thank you, dear. My husband, Lance, made it for me a few years before he died. I had it in my kitchen, but I spend more time here than there, so I had Hatch and Vic and Jimmy move it over here where I can enjoy it.”
She cut an eight-inch square of tulle, then one of the lovely antique lace. “Vic oils it for me twice a year. A good man, Vic.”
Maggie returned the bolts of fabric to the bin. “I think he has a crush on Miss Hattie. At least, when he comes by to deliver the mail, he seems flustered around her.”
“Guilt’s what’s got him flustered.” Miss Millie pulled a spool of deep teal satin ribbon from the shelf, then unwound a length of it.
MacGregor came up behind Maggie and put a possessive hand on her shoulder. “Why should Vic feel guilty?”
“Why, he’s loved Hattie for years.” Miss Millie snipped the ribbon then returned the spool to the shelf, the soft fabric of her dress swishing at her calves. “He and her soldier were best friends, you know. It still upsets me so that he had to die before he could marry Hattie. She was crazy about that man.”
“She still is.” MacGregor polished off the last of a cookie.
Miss Millie nodded her agreement, sad-faced at her friend’s misfortune. “Have you chosen your potpourri, Maggie?”
“Not yet.” Maggie walked over and sniffed at the jars, one by one. Why had MacGregor avoided talking about the possibility of their entity being a ghost? Likely for the same reason she had. It was a ridiculous idea. Ghosts weren’t real. Paranormal events were possible, though she still hadn’t ruled out psychological in this case—despite the whisper insisting this wasn’t psychological because that whisper could have been psychological, too. But not ghosts.
A strong whiff of Winter Rose had her threatening to sneeze. She twitched her nose and read the label on the jar next to i
t. Seashore Secrets. Mmm, wonderful. Inhaling it, she grew dreamy, almost dazed, and visions of MacGregor filled her mind. Visions of them walking along the cliffs hand-in-hand. Of them bathing together in the big garden tub. Of them lying together in the Great White Room’s blue-coverlet-draped bed.
Knowing she shouldn’t, she pulled the jar off the shelf and brought it to Miss Millie. Her hands weren’t quite steady and her body temperature had definitely spiked at least ten degrees. Of all men, why did it have to be MacGregor who made her feel all these wondrous things?
Miss Millie sprinkled the potpourri onto the tulle, pulled up the corners of it, and of the lace beneath it, then secured it with hands far too deft for their many blue veins by tying the satiny ribbon into a pretty bow. “There you are, my dear.” She passed it to Maggie.
“It’s lovely.” Maggie smiled. “Thank you.”
Miss Millie gave her a crooked grin, then winked. “I’ll make you another on your wedding day.”
Maggie laughed and stepped closer to MacGregor. He glided his arm around her waist, and she felt more at ease. “I’m afraid that could be awhile.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve no intention of ever marrying.”
“Oh my,” Miss Millie blinked then shifted her focus to MacGregor.
“Me, either,” he answered before she could ask.
“I see.” She stared down at MacGregor’s arm circling Maggie’s waist.
“We’d better get going,” he said, shifting his feet. “I promised we’d go for a walk before dinner.”
“Burn off some calories.” Maggie nodded, not liking Miss Millie’s look a bit. It was that same too-seeing one Miss Hattie gave her all too often. The women were the best of friends, and Miss Millie had Miss Hattie’s “they’re in love” look in her eye. “Thanks again for the sachet.”
Millie watched them leave the shop then walk on down the street toward the church. When they stepped from her sight, she lifted the phone receiver from its cradle on the old rolltop desk, then quickly dialed.
Lucy answered on the third ring. “Blue Moon.”
“Afternoon, Lucy. It’s me, Millie.” She wound the phone cord around her fingertip. “Put me down for five dollars on Maggie and Tyler.”