by Vicki Hinze
“Sure thing. What day?”
“Mmm.” Millie looked at her wedding band. A widow for years, she still hadn’t been able to bring herself to take it off. As long as she wore it, a part of Lance remained with her. It glittered in the sunlight streaming in through the window. “What day did Jimmy Goodson pick?”
Lucy chuckled. “December twenty-fifth.”
“A Christmas wedding?” Millie worried her lip. Just as Hattie’s was to have been. “I’ll take the twenty-fifth, too. Four o’clock. No, make that two.”
“Jimmy’s already got two o’clock. How about two-fifteen?”
Mmm, Millie considered it. Were they in Pennsylvania, there wouldn’t be a need to pause. There, weddings are always on the clock’s upsweep—the half-hour and funerals on the hour. But here... “No, I need two o’clock.” Same as Hattie’s. “I’ll split with the boy. I’m not greedy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lucy dropped her voice. “Can you believe Lydia Johnson is betting that they won’t marry at all?”
“Oh my.” Millie frowned. “This isn’t good news. Lydia is a bother I simply can’t abide, but she’s got a good nose for smelling love in the air.”
“Rarely misses.” Lucy agreed. “’Course, Jimmy wins the bets more often than not. Mmm, I guess this one could go either way, couldn’t it?”
“It seems so.” Millie glanced out the window. What was Aaron Butler doing with that spyglass? Bill had waited nearly a year for Millie to find the perfect one for him and, if the boy broke it, he’d pitch a fit. “Does Hattie know about Lydia’s bet?” Hattie would be devastated if another Christmas wedding failed to come to pass. Especially if it were Tyler and Maggie’s. Hattie had been so excited about them...
“I don’t know. She was in earlier today, checking on Jimmy, but I can’t say for sure whether or not she got a look at the bulletin board.”
“Well, I’d best phone her straight away.” Millie sighed, wishing she could avoid the task. But if her best friend faced possible heartbreak, she just had to prepare her as best she could. “This doesn’t look good at all, I fear. Not good at all.”
Chapter 11
“Tyler, I don’t feel well.”
T.J. looked at Maggie. In the bright sunlight, her skin paled to a pasty pallor and her forehead felt clammy cold. He looked around but there wasn’t movement on the street or so much as a bench this close to the cemetery. A horn tooted and Jimmy waved as he passed them, heading on down Main Street in his old truck. Obviously, he’d eluded Miss Hattie. “Let’s go sit in the church for awhile.”
“But I wanted to see whose graves—”
“Later, honey. They aren’t going anywhere.” Was it the entity making her sick? If so, why? They were on a harmless walk. Together, which seemed to be what the entity wanted. And T.J. himself felt fine. “What do you think is wrong?”
“Too much sugar, most likely.”
Could it be that simple? He led her up the wide, wooden steps, taking more of her weight. A distinct possibility with the pie and the cookies. But she’d eaten more sweets before—half a pie, once—and not been bothered. “Too much sugar? You, of the cast-iron constitution?”
“Shut up.” She leaned against him.
Feeling her shaking, he led her through the big wooden door, then into the last row pew. “Charming, honey.”
Deathly pale, she collapsed down onto it and sprawled. “I feel... awful.”
Pastor Brown came in behind them. He paused and tilted back his head, admiring the window. His close-cropped beard gleamed blue-black in the sunlight streaking in through the stained glass. T.J. liked the young pastor. He was single, which meant he suffered the same malady here T.J. suffered. Half the women in the village were after him, the other half were trying to hook him up with a favorite niece, a daughter, or a cousin’s child. Pastor fended them off pretty well.
He was a bit progressive for the anti-progressive village, although on most issues they seemed to have found a workable balance. On drinking and such, Pastor was too stiff-lipped for the locals, and that likely would remain a bone of contention for a long time to come. No small part of the workable balance was due to Pastor’s excellent rapport with Andrew Carnegie, the son of Mayor Horace and the snobby, social-climbing Lydia Johnson. Lydia wanted the boy to be a lawyer and shoved it down his throat. Horace didn’t, but he knew that a man who opposes his wife is a man who enjoys precious little peace. Pastor talked to Andrew Carnegie often, telling him he could be whatever he wanted to be—not in front of Lydia, of course. She’d cut him off at the collection plate. But Horace knew of the good deed and, being of the opinion that one good turn deserves another, he smoothed the pastor’s path, listening to his progressive ideas with a kind ear—before promptly forgetting them.
The pastor walked over and stopped beside them. “Glad to see you two here—and that you’ve reconsidered on that shopping list.”
“Maggie’s sick,” T.J. said, in no mood for lectures.
She pressed a hand to his forearm. “Tyler, I need some water.”
“Tyler” not “MacGregor.” T.J. shot the pastor a worried look.
His expression turned concerned. “I’ll get it.”
T.J. stroked her hair back from her face until Pastor Brown returned with a full paper-cone cup. Taking it, T.J. pressed the edge to her lips. “Drink, Maggie.” His voice shook and his hand trembled, none too steady.
She sipped at it. Then sipped again. “Thank you.”
“Are you all right?” Her color was coming back, but she looked weak. Really weak. Had she started to suffer the boundary-crossing symptoms? They had been holding hands at the time she’d gotten sick, but that didn’t mean much, since they’d let go of each other at Miss Millie’s and they’d both been fine. Nothing was consistent anymore.
“Much better.”
“Good.” The pastor smiled. “I’ve got to run over to see Hatch. If you think of it when you’re ready to leave, lock the door. Still some tourists roaming around and the sheriff’s had a wicked day with those kids from Boston. Sure made a mess over at Indian Point, I hear. No sense tempting them here. Churches are easy targets for mischief these days.”
T.J. didn’t remind the pastor that they were tourists, nodded that he would lock up, and watched Brown leave.
“Can’t do that in New Orleans.” Maggie mumbled and took another sip of the water. Her hand trembled atop T.J.’s on the cone-shaped paper cup.
“New Orleans is a little bigger than Sea Haven Village, honey.” She looked almost normal again, thank God. “What happened to you?”
“I guess I overdosed on sugar. Until I decided to go into the cemetery to see the Freeports’ graves, I felt fine. It’s kind of weird, but as soon as I decided, wham, major sugar crash.”
More likely timing, rather than any decision, spurred the sugar crash—unless for some reason, the entity didn’t want her to see those graves. Could that be what had prompted this? What difference could seeing a few graves make about anything?
No, it had to be the sugar.
She licked at her lips. “Quit staring at me, MacGregor. I’m really okay.”
What if she wasn’t? How could he check it out? See if there was an entity connection? He couldn’t do much without Maggie—including leave Seascape. That presented an obstacle he’d have to think on for a while. “Could it be that you overdosed on worrying, too?”
“It’s possible,” she agreed.
Highly probable, he figured. Feeling guilty about his no small part in that, he grimaced. “Are we going to talk about it, or continue to pretend we didn’t hear what Beaulah said through Lucy?”
Maggie scooped her hair up off her neck then leaned against the pew and closed her eyes. “I’d kind of prefer to pretend.”
“Me, too. But we should discuss it. Do you think our entity i
s a ghost?”
Her eyelids snapped open and she stared at him. Without a word, she set her empty cup onto the wooden seat beside her then rotated her head against the back of the pew and looked at him. “That would be absurd.”
“Yeah, it would.” T.J. blinked then captured her hand in his. “About as absurd as me blacking out every time I try to leave Seascape alone.”
“That could be psychological, anyway.”
“And you feeling the same symptoms?” He stared at her hand, at her slender fingers, twining with his. “Could that be psychological, too?”
She worried her lip with her teeth. “Yes, it could. Empathy, because of our bond.”
Her honesty surprised him. The woman was still keeping secrets. He didn’t know what about really, he just sensed she was holding back. Could be his faulty judgment acting haywire again, but he didn’t think so.
“Well, at least we’ve learned that once we do leave Seascape, we don’t have to constantly touch.”
Didn’t she like touching him? Peeved, he frowned. “Too bad, that.”
She gave him a slow smile that tugged at his heartstrings. “Yeah, it is.”
She liked touching him, after all. Pleased, warmed inside, he sat up straight, looked around the church, and let that news settle in. It sat well on his shoulders, if a little heavy. Would he end up hurting her? Being responsible for something awful happening to her, too?
The wooden pews were worn smooth from years of use and the rugged cross hanging above the altar gleamed, bathed in flickers of rainbow-colored light from the stained-glass window. It bore Collin Freeport’s special mark. Had to be his work. He’d been a talented carver.
“It’s so still here.” Maggie sighed, clearly feeling better and relaxing. “I like that.”
T.J. liked it, too. He let his mind wander, refusing to let it focus on their troubles. Maggie laced their fingers together more firmly, holding the fragrant sachet in her free hand. He lifted it and drew in its scent. It smelled like the sea and Maggie. Fresh, clean, alluring—sunshine and spring. Soothing smells. Pressing their palms together, he sat in the quiet, content just to be beside her. Content just to hold her hand and watch her look at the ceiling and stare at the rugged cross with that faraway look in her eye. When she drifted away from him like that, where did she go? Maybe one day, he’d drift with her. But until then, he took solace in knowing she’d come back.
“I love this church,” she whispered softly. Snuggling closer to T.J., she rested her head against his shoulder. “I won’t ever get married, of course, but if I did, it’d be in this church.”
She’d marry. And envy for the man she’d make her husband slammed through T.J.’s heart like a prison cell door slams on a life-sentenced convict. “Why here?”
She didn’t answer right away, and he didn’t push, knowing instinctively that she hadn’t yet worked through this and pinpointed her reasons.
Her voice softened to a mere, whisper. “I think, because it feels like love in here.”
It did. But this kind of talk cut too close to the bone. It reeked of all the nevers he wouldn’t share with Maggie because neither of them were free to marry. All the memories they wouldn’t have. The joys and sorrows of a shared life they’d miss. Emptiness stole into his chest and flooded his soul. “Probably just the heat.”
“Charming, MacGregor.”
“Thanks.”
She frowned at him, fire blazing in her eyes.
“I think I see subtle revenge on my horizon.”
She lowered her lids and let her gaze drift to his mouth. “Maybe you can head it off.”
Sounded promising. “How would I go about doing that?”
“You could start by explaining why you let Lucy think we were a couple.”
He hiked a brow. “Riled about that, are you?”
“Miffed.”
“If you think about it, you’ll thank me for it.”
“I have thought about it, and I’m not thanking you.”
He pulled the box of condoms from his pocket. “Remember these?”
“Put those away. Geez, MacGregor, you’re in church, for pity’s sake.”
He leaned to the side and put the box back into his jacket pocket.
“What do they have to do with this, anyway?”
“I figured you’d rather everyone thought we have a very special relationship than they thought you sleep with men when you’re not even a couple.”
He heard her swallow. “Good point.” She nuzzled closer. “Thank you.”
“I’ll take the three points you charged me, three more for doubting I had a good reason, and the bath.”
“Five points—and that’s my best offer... for now.”
“Accepted.” She hadn’t tossed the tub into the realm of impossibility. She was weakening. Yep, the bath was all but a fait accompli. He smiled above her head.
“Wait a second. There’s a provision.”
“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me? More making up the rules as we go—just like with the kiss.”
“Provided” —she lifted her head and looked into his eyes—“you apologize.”
“For protecting your reputation?” Weird logic. A thank you, now a demand for an apology? Women. Sometimes they just didn’t make a snip of sense.
“To avoid subtle revenge.”
Ah, now he had it. She wanted a kiss. He studied her lips and they parted. The tip of her tongue touched her teeth. His heart flipped over in his chest. “I’d like that. Subtle revenge isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Me, too.”
He dipped his chin and, lips to lips, smiled, then kissed her lightly. “There.”
“Uh-uh. A sincere apology, MacGregor.” She cupped his head and pulled him back to her, then kissed him firmly, thoroughly, deeply.
A little groan escaped the back of her throat, vibrated against his hand. Knowing he’d earned it, he shuddered in sheer pleasure and thought he might just love this church, too.
For the first time in over two years, aside from the glimmer on the Seascape stairs, he felt a small measure of peace.
The Blue Moon Cafe had been busy this afternoon, but tonight it hummed. Nearly all of the thirty seats inside were occupied and the clattering of forks and animated conversations made for a cheerful welcome.
Pastor Brown sat at a table near the bar, his black hair and beard slicked down, his winning smile absent. The man Maggie had seen at The Store wearing the Local Yokel baseball cap sat across from the pastor, looking worried and rubbing at his neck. Right next to them, at a table for four snug to the bar, sat Bill Butler and a very pretty woman dressed in royal blue who Maggie figured had to be his wife, Leslie. All four of them talked simultaneously.
Maggie homed in on the voice of the Local Yokel. “I can’t see any harm in having a keg with cold drinks by the door on weekends, Pastor. Folks get thirsty, and even Jesus drank wine.”
“You’re missing the point, Horace.”
“I can’t see that I am. Just as I can’t see that Jimmy’s calendar hurts a soul. It’s not hanging outside in public view.”
“It’s hanging. That’s the problem.” Pastor Brown leaned forward to drive home his point.
T.J. gripped Maggie’s shoulder and whispered close to her ear. “Looks to me as if Bill would welcome a diversion.”
MacGregor’s subtle scent had her throat thick and her wishing they could be alone, though she knew darn well they shouldn’t. Bill did look rather grim-faced, and supposing she should be grateful for the reprieve, Maggie nodded and began the walk over to his table.
Bill looked up and saw them. Relief flooded his face. “Hey, you guys come join us. Be warned, though. Leslie’s in a foul mood.”
“Bill!” She swatted at his arm, gave him a s
olid frown, then grinned at Maggie. “The foul mood welcomes you, Maggie.”
MacGregor held out a chair and Maggie sat down, glad she’d already “informally” met Leslie via phone. “I’d be in a foul mood, too, if I’d lost my backside at auction.”
Cocking his head toward Maggie, MacGregor told Leslie, “She’s been griping for hours about the big boats depleting the stock and making life tough on the small fishermen.”
Both Bill and Leslie looked pleased that Maggie had concerned herself with their plight. “Sinful, isn’t it?” Bill asked.
“It is.” MacGregor motioned, and Lucy came over with two iced teas. “I’ll have whatever you cooked—and cornbread.”
“Me, too,” Maggie added, thinking that what was sinful was the way MacGregor enraged her senses. Why was she so intimately aware of everything about the man?
“Coming right up.”
The phone rang.
Lucy grabbed the receiver and wedged it to her ear with her shoulder. “Blue Moon.”
She listened for a scant second, then rolled her gaze, cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, and looked at Maggie. “Sweetie, will you hold this for me? It’s Beaulah reporting another Seascape oddity sighting, bless her heart, and I just don’t have time to mess with her right now.” Lucy thrust the receiver toward Maggie. “Just say ‘Uh-huh’ every now and again. Don’t worry. You wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgewise if you wanted to.”
Maggie tucked the phone to her ear.
MacGregor grinned and squeezed her hand beneath the table. When mischief twinkled in his eyes, he was gorgeous. When it didn’t, he was still gorgeous. She inwardly sighed. Carolyn or no, Maggie was in big trouble when it came to this man. It seemed he grew more dear, more important to her with each passing moment. Did looking at her do to him what looking at him did to her?
Their gazes locked and he smiled. She smiled back, heavy-limbed, heat pooling in her thighs, and mentally drifted, mesmerized.
MacGregor poked her in the ribs. “Say uh-huh, darling.”