Vicki Hinze - [Seascape 01]

by Vicki Hinze

  “Makes sense.” Maggie looked up at him, a little frown creasing her brow. “I wonder why she took it that the snickers were meant for her?”

  “Leslie’s no different from the rest of us. She sees things in the familiar.”

  “Huh?”

  “She saw what she expected to see.”

  The words stung Maggie as if they were darts and she were a board they were penetrating to warn her of their significance. But why were they important? How did they relate to her and her situation? They did relate. She sensed it. But how?

  Unable to answer that, she tightened her grip on MacGregor’s hand and they walked on, back toward Seascape. Way too much time lately she’d spent wondering about things. Not the least of which was why she felt more and more comfortable with MacGregor while keeping secrets from him. She couldn’t fathom that—except...

  At Carolyn’s funeral and here at Seascape, had Maggie been like Leslie? Had she only seen in MacGregor exactly what she’d expected to see?

  The wind whistled. Its pitch heightened to a piercing shriek—then turned to that awful whisper.

  No trust.

  The words repeated and echoed in her mind again and again. No trust. No trust. No trust.

  Maggie stiffened, tried and failed to shut them out. And then the truth hit her with the force of a knockout punch. Leslie was just like them! Not just her. But them. Her and MacGregor.

  That had to be why it hadn’t felt right when they’d made love. They’d both admitted to holding back part of themselves. For different reasons, they’d both lacked trust!

  The wind stilled. Nothing moved, and there were no sounds. Total and complete silence surrounded them, then a gentle breeze began to blow. It strengthened, then gusted and grew fierce, spraying up sand that stung Maggie’s forearms and face. Frightened, she shut her eyes and buried her face against MacGregor’s chest.

  “Close your eyes, Maggie. It’ll pass in a moment.”

  He sounded calm, and she blessed him for that. Her eyes were closed already—and she kept them closed.

  It might have been seconds or minutes, but the wind calmed as quickly as it had started. Uneasy, not certain what to expect, she opened her eyes to slits, then snapped them wide open. The dark clouds which had hovered over the shore, had felt so oppressive and heavy and as if they were bearing down on her, had blown farther out to sea. Now they hung harmlessly just above the horizon. Ashore the sun shone brilliantly, bathing her and MacGregor in warm sunshine that heated her cold skin and dispelled her fear.

  Despite MacGregor’s insistence that the weather was completely unconnected to their entity, Maggie believed in her heart that Tony was their entity and he was giving her a sign. The oppression and clouds signaled his impatience at her slow awareness and grasp of what he wanted her to know and understand. And the sun signaled his approval and pleasure that she’d made those recognitions and the realization about trust. She’d pleased him—not that she’d mention it to MacGregor.

  Whether or not it pleased her, she hadn’t yet decided. Realizing something significant required one to act on it. Actions were life-altering. And though she’d sensed from the start that the oddities here were harbingers of something life-altering, she wasn’t at all sure she had the strength to alter her life. Or the courage.

  “Are you sure you don’t have a photo of Tony, Miss Hattie?”

  “Who, dear?” Miss Hattie rocked in her rocker and avoided Maggie’s glance.

  “Anthony. I meant Anthony.”

  T.J. heard the hope in Maggie’s voice, and he’d no doubt that Miss Hattie had heard it, too. Her soft eyes had veiled with worry and her hands, holding the green metal knitting needles, trembled.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t.” She rocked faster than the tempo of the music playing softly on the radio. “Jonathan took all of the family’s personal effects with him down to Atlanta.”

  Maggie frowned at that disclosure. So did T.J. Miss Hattie had loved the man all her life and she expected them to believe she had kept not a single photograph of him? She wasn’t being honest, yet she had a penchant against lying. So maybe this was a half-truth?

  “Maggie, I think you’re just tired. If you don’t mind me saying so, after two years of nursing your mother, you need to relax. Enjoy yourself and don’t worry about such matters. They truly are best left dead and buried, dear.” The old woman’s eyes burned with concern and care. “You need to learn—”

  “To dream.” Maggie nodded. “I know, Miss Hattie.” Maggie stood up and paced alongside the table over to the counter, then back again. “I’d like to do that. Really, I would. But I’m caught up in a little bit of a nightmare here and, until I reason it all out so it makes sense, I just can’t focus on dreams. This is driving me crazy.”

  “It’s not—if you’ll allow this old woman her opinion.” Miss Hattie softened her voice. “You are driving yourself crazy, dear.” Dropping her needles into the little flowered bag beside her chair, Miss Hattie then stood up and went to Maggie.

  She clasped Maggie’s hands in her generous, blue-veined ones, her eyes shining wisdom, her voice as gentle as that of a loving mother. “You need to heal, child. You need to trust your heart. If you can believe in nothing else, believe in it and all it holds dear.” She gave Maggie’s hands a firm squeeze, then let go of them and turned to MacGregor.

  “I’ve got to go get ready for a special Historical Society meeting. I hope you children don’t mind, but as soon it stopped sleeting this morning and the sun came out, I phoned and arranged for Aaron to ferry you over to the island for a picnic.”

  “A picnic?” T.J. looked out the window and frowned. “Miss Hattie, the sleet’s stopped, but it’s as cold as all get-out outside. Maggie and I nearly froze on our way back from our, er, walk.”

  She lifted a dismissing hand. “Nonsense, Tyler. It’s as warm as a midsummer’s day out there.” Gazing at the ceiling, she paused only a second, then lowered her gaze to MacGregor. “Some things you might want to take along on your picnic are in the mud room.” She smiled, then left the kitchen, humming.

  Doubt riddling her eyes, Maggie looked at MacGregor and shrugged.

  He opened the window, stuck his arm outside, then pulled it back in and darted a worried gaze at Maggie. “Warm as a midsummer’s day—just as she said.”

  Maggie plopped down onto a chair and slumped over the table. “I dunno, MacGregor. Maybe Miss Hattie’s right. I came up here worn to a frazzle, and right now I feel like a ball of knotted wires—all hot ones, loose ends snapping and throwing sparks.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “Maybe this Tony and Anthony business of them being the same person is a coincidence. Maybe I just imagined him out there on the cliffs. Maybe none of what’s happened has been real, only tricks of my exhausted mind.”

  T.J. stared at her. And he kept on staring at her until she looked at him. “Do you believe any of that?”

  She didn’t answer.

  She didn’t have to. He saw in her eyes the doubt and fear that she had slipped into insanity, in the defeated slump of her shoulders. They’d both be more comfortable thinking none of the events here really had happened, but Maggie doubting her sanity was to him worse than the prospect of accepting they were dealing with a ghost. “Damn it, Maggie, do you believe it?”

  Her chin quivered. “No.”

  “Good,” T.J. said, inwardly sighing relief. “I don’t either.”

  “But you were there on the cliff and you didn’t see him—or hear him.”

  Poor Maggie. God, but he hated to see her fighting herself like this. “True. But I know what I feel.” He cupped his fingers over his heart. “In here, I know the truth.”

  Her expression crumbled. “Me, too.”

  Upset, Maggie ate or bathed, and because he didn’t want her alone while she stood on such shaky groun
d, he deliberately lightened his tone. “Now that that’s settled, do you want something to eat before we boat over to the isle?”

  “Why not?”

  A valiant effort to pull herself together. To reward her, he smiled. “I make a mean grilled cheese. Sound okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  Bless him, he was trying so hard to get her soothed. Feeling tender and bruised, Maggie watched him pull out the bread from the box on the counter, the cheese and butter from the fridge, and a griddle from the drawer under the stove’s oven. His movements weren’t clipped or jerky, just economic and deft—especially for a man his size. That economy never failed to surprise her and, again, the urge to see him paint shuffled through her. “MacGregor?”

  He put a piece of buttered bread onto the heated griddle. It sizzled. “Yeah?”

  “Have you given any more thought to painting?”

  He nodded. “As a matter of fact, I have.” He glanced over at her, looking a little sheepish. “I figure you were right about that, Maggie. I should at least try.”

  Like Leslie had tried. She’d succeeded, and maybe—just maybe—MacGregor would succeed, too. Maggie gave him her best smile. “I’m glad.”

  “Yeah.” He snorted. “Well, we’ll see how it goes.”

  Hearing in his voice his doubt that it would go well, Maggie fell quiet. His heart and mind didn’t really agree on him painting again and that worried her. When it came to his art, he hauled around a lot of unjust emotional baggage, but that it was unjust didn’t make the baggage any less heavy for him to carry. He needed complete faith in himself or there was no way he could possibly succeed.

  A snatch of conversation from one of her and Miss Hattie’s talks came back and replayed in her mind.

  Tyler doesn’t believe in miracles.

  You have to believe enough for both of you...

  Maggie couldn’t. She’d tried to help him. She certainly owed him for her nasty suspicions, and she was attempting to make it up to him. But she couldn’t believe enough for both of them, and that was the simple truth. She couldn’t do it because she didn’t believe in miracles, either.

  Propping her elbow on the table, she dragged her finger over its top, tracing the grain in the wood. She wasn’t looking forward to this picnic. What she needed was a little distance from MacGregor to grant herself a lot of perspective. Around him, her feelings got all muddled up with her logic and, considering their circumstances, that had to be a big mistake. If she hadn’t left her sense at home in New Orleans, she’d have drawn that conclusion a long time ago. Perspective. Yes, that’s exactly what she needed. Perspective.

  Tell the truth, Maggie. If not to me or Tyler, then at least to yourself.

  The whisper. Instinctively, she looked ceiling-ward as Miss Hattie had, but of course saw nothing but the brilliant white plaster.

  The truth!

  She started shaking, darted her gaze to MacGregor. The egg turner in his hand, he stared down at the griddle, whistling along with the radio. Obviously, he hadn’t heard anything. Her mouth went bone dry.

  Maggie, the truth!

  All right! She answered telepathically, as she had on the cliff. All right. I want to be with him too much, and that scares the socks off me, okay? That’s the truth.

  It’ll do for now.

  Tony—if you are Tony—

  I am.

  Well, you’re really being pushy here, and I don’t much appreciate it. I don’t like nagging. I’ve never liked nagging. Why are you making me tell you things that I just plain don’t want to tell you? I don’t like it.

  The whisper grew to a clear voice. One tinged with sadness. You don’t have to like it, Maggie. You do have to accept the truth. I’m never going to let you lie to yourself again like you did with Sam Grayson.

  Sam Grayson? 1 didn’t lie to myself about him.

  You told yourself you hated him.

  She had. He hurt me, Tony. Maggie stared at the porcelain daffodils, wishing she could shrink down and curl up inside one of the petals. I didn’t mean it, and I knew I didn’t. I was just hurt.

  Pain is a part of life, but it’s not a license to lie. And you’re lying to yourself about Tyler now just as you lied to yourself about Sam then. It’s time you faced that truth, Maggie. It’s time you stopped running.

  I’m not!

  Right.

  Sarcasm. Couldn’t she even get a ghost without an attitude? A man was bad enough.

  He laughed.

  Maggie frowned. Okay, maybe 1 am running. But, geez, Tony, I know how men are about things. Are you forgetting about my father? What do you expect from me? That I just forget all the lessons I learned there?

  Are you like Carolyn?

  No! But what’s she got to do with—

  Then why do you insist Tyler is like your father?

  Maggie grimaced, hoping Tony would see it—wherever he was. Don’t be absurd. MacGregor is nothing like my father. I see where you’re headed here, but you’re mistaken. They’re both men but nothing alike, just as Carolyn and I are different. But the lessons are the same, Tony.

  Are they?

  Were they? Was she doing the same thing with MacGregor about the lessons as she had about Carolyn? No. She couldn’t be. You’re wrong, Tony. Look, why don’t you go pick on MacGregor? You’re supposed to be his entity. I just kind of stumbled into this mess.

  No, you didn’t. I brought you here.

  Surprise shafted up Maggie’s spine. What? She looked over at MacGregor. Still cooking. Still humming. Still blissfully unaware, damn him.

  The lure at Lakeview Gallery—when you looked at the Seascape painting. You felt it?

  That was you?

  Nice touch, eh?

  And was that you on the staircase, too—with Cecelia’s portrait?

  No, sorry. Can’t take credit for that one, though it’s been me you’ve sensed watching you.

  Good grief! Are you telling me there’s more than one ghost in this house? Her heart nearly exploded in her chest.

  Calm down, will you? I haven’t told you there are any ghosts in this house.

  Well, if you’re not a ghost, then what the heck are you?

  What’s the difference? That isn’t the question at hand, Maggie. The question is... what are you?

  She blinked, then blinked again. Last check I was sane and human, but I’d be scared to bet on either anymore.

  He laughed. You’re sane and human, Maggie. Never doubt it.

  Tacky, Tony. And I sure can put a lot of stock in your conclusions. I’m sitting here having a telepathic conversation with a ghost who doesn’t know—or won’t admit he’s a ghost—worried sick about my sanity because I don’t believe in ghosts, and you’re laughing and reassuring me that this is oh-so-common? Geez, I can’t figure why I’d even think something was odd here. She frowned, deeper. And, while we’re on the subject of you, you’re as arrogant as MacGregor.

  Thank you.

  That wasn’t a compliment.

  Sounded like one to me.

  I definitely see where you’ve been influencing him.

  He’s a man. Not so easy for him to discern my voice from his own conscience. Tyler and I have had a lot of conversations since he came here. I’ve been worried about him.

  But you’re not worried anymore.

  We’re not out of the woods yet. But we’re on the right path. I’m... hopeful.

  MacGregor put a plate down near her elbow. “Here you are.” Then he sat down beside her and stopped humming. “You look peeved.”

  “I am.”

  “Why?” He shook the folds from his napkin then dropped it onto his lap.

  “Because Tony’s got his warped sense of humor and your attitude.”

  MacGregor frowned.
“What?”

  Maggie sighed and shoved back her chair. She’d had it with both of them. “Just get your paint gear ready in time for the picnic, MacGregor.”

  “Maggie, I said I’d try painting again, but I didn’t say that I’d try today.”

  She leaned toward him, her thighs bumping against the edge of the table. “Today, darling,” she whispered the warning. “Or you’ll be old and gray before you ever so much as touch a drop of hot water again.”

  “You can’t do that.” MacGregor narrowed his eyes. “We made a deal.”

  “Extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary measures.”

  “You’re welshing.”

  “Yeah, I’m welshing.” She pecked a kiss to the tip of his nose, straightened up, grabbed the sandwich off her plate, then turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  “Where are you going?” He shouted to her, now in the gallery.

  “To take a bath.” She stopped and glared back at him. “And don’t you even think about interrupting me, MacGregor. You’ll lose fifty redemption points and you will never get that bath—and that’s a promise.”

  The fifteen-minute boat ride went quickly, and Aaron dropped T.J. and Maggie off at a dilapidated wooden pier on Little Island. “Don’t be late getting back here,” T.J. told the boy.

  “No, sir. Five o’clock sharp.” He grinned. “I’ll be here, sure as spit.”

  T.J. nodded, his paint gear in one hand, the picnic basket Miss Hattie had prepared in the other. Aaron sped away, his boat leaving a wake that broke the whitecaps.

  A sinking feeling hit T.J. in the stomach, and he looked at Maggie. If her expression proved an accurate gauge, the woman was still ticked to the gills. What had happened to her in the kitchen? Tony had a warped sense of humor and T.J.’s attitude she’d said, but what the hell had she meant by that?

  Whatever it was, it had to be bad. She’d stayed in the tub two hours.

  Maggie at his side, they walked down the pier in silence, and he looked around the isle. A rocky face, not too big, sandy and lush with winter foliage. Pretty in its natural state.