Beside a Dreamswept Sea

by Hinze, Vicki

  Cally forked her fingers through her hair. Maybe children were more resilient. Maybe Suzie was stronger. Cally didn’t know the reason, but whatever it was, it hadn’t gotten Suzie through anything unscathed. The dreams continued. And the child in her had died.

  The woman in Cally who dared to dream had died, too. Like Meriam, that woman hadn’t wanted to, she’d just died.

  For Cally, there’d be no little victories. No miracles. Only defeats and nightmares. She had to accept that.

  And Bryce’s kiss? Had that too been a nightmare?

  The memory of it warmed her all over. She loved and hated it and its memory. Bryce’s kiss was the worst kind of nightmare because it made promises that would be broken. It whispered to her soul, said, “I’m here, Cally Tate. I’m an attractive and loving man and I think you’re beautiful. I’m with you.”

  But that wasn’t true. Time would prove those promises lies. Lies no more real than reflections in a mirror. Bryce was lonely, for God’s sake. Any woman would seem beautiful to a lonely man who’d been celibate for two years. Even a woman as unworthy of being loved as Cally. Even one as . . . ugly.

  Bitterness rose in her throat and she slapped the towel on the bar, pinning it between the wall and the medicine cabinet. “I won’t do it. I won’t think of little victories and wake up in another nightmare. I can’t go through that again. I just can’t. I won’t.”

  Shaking hard, Cally spun away from the mirror. Stalked up the step into the bath, jerked at the tub’s drain to close it, then cranked open the water faucets, full blast.

  In the gushing water, she heard Bryce’s voice. Cally, you’re beautiful. To me, you are so beautiful.

  His words repeated in her mind, again and again. Deep inside she knew they were lies, but she wanted to believe them anyway. Oh, how she wanted to believe them anyway.

  Her eyes burned, tears welled, stung the back of her nose, threateningly close. She gripped the tub ledge and gave herself a serious lecture. What was she doing here? She didn’t dare to indulge in fantasies of Bryce Richards. Couldn’t afford to believe him. Yes, he seemed honest. Yes, he seemed sincere. And Cally felt sure he was sincere—at the moment. But, as Grandma Tate used to say, a stiff penis has no conscience. Crude, maybe, but there was a lot of truth in the remark. A sexually satiated Bryce would find Cally falling far short of beautiful, and that was the sorry truth. And—she banged a hip against the counter until it stung, making herself look at the reality of her situation—come on, she knew who she was, and what she was. Cally Tate. Lousy wife. Ugly woman. Thirty-two with everything she never wanted.

  She was not and never would be beautiful.

  Jerking off her blue sweater, she ordered herself to get these crazy thoughts out of her mind. Courage. She should focus on courage. That was her purpose. Not fantasies of Bryce Richards, or destructive self-talk. Courage.

  She flung the sweater onto the floor, toed off her sneakers, then unzipped her jeans. After shimmying out of them, she dumped them onto the pile, then tossed her underwear onto the top of the heap. Was he thinking of her, too?

  Grimacing at herself, she acknowledged the unwelcome visions of Bryce filling her head. Him smiling, tender, gently touching her face with hands far too big to feel so gentle. Why—oh, why—couldn’t he be a jerk?

  She dropped the washcloth into the water, watched it soak through, then sink. Why did he have to be an adorable stuffed shirt? So charming and refined, wearing crisp white shirts, knife-creased slacks, and various conservative ties while on vacation. Collin’s cane seemed to suit the man perfectly. As if it fit him somehow. In her mind’s eye, she could almost see Bryce standing on the rocky cliffs, surrounded by tendrils of mist, leaning on that cane, his dark brows knitted, his square jaw angled and his chin dipped, his hazel eyes focusing on an old-fashioned pocket watch. Mysterious. Alluring. Sexy. He didn’t resemble Collin. At least, not from the portrait hanging in the stairwell. But both men had a look about them. Actually, Bryce had it when he wasn’t thinking of Meriam and he was with his kids.

  Drawing in a sizzling breath, Cally lowered herself into the steamy garden tub. She toed away the washcloth, stretched out, resting against the sloped back edge, and let the hot water warm her chilled skin and relax her tense muscles. Bryce’s look wasn’t hard to peg. Cally recognized and envied it. She also craved it.

  Contentment.

  Just like Collin’s.

  From all Miss Hattie and Lucy Baker had said about Collin, he and Cecelia had been wildly in love. They must have been, to have survived the loss of their son in the war and to have kept their marriage strong. Their son had been engaged, too. He was Miss Hattie’s soldier, bless her heart.

  Now she had courage. Tons of it. She’d built herself a fine life alone. It showed in her twinkling eyes, her peaceful manner. Cally lifted the soap. Well, Miss Hattie had looked peaceful until after Bryce and Cally had returned from their walk on the cliffs a few nights ago. Since then, Cally had to admit, Miss Hattie had seemed troubled. Trying hard to hide it, but troubled. Cally and Bryce had discussed it, and had approached Miss Hattie about it, but she’d insisted she wasn’t ill and that nothing was wrong.

  Like Bryce, Cally knew when something was wrong, and something was wrong with Miss Hattie. Vic had told Bryce that Miss Hattie was a bit preoccupied because Thanksgiving was getting close and her and her soldier had become engaged on Thanksgiving. That could be it, Cally agreed. But for some reason she sensed it was more. That whatever was troubling Miss Hattie ran deeper. Much deeper. And it carried a scent Cally recognized too well: fear.

  Miss Hattie had denied that too, and Cally and Bryce were at a loss as to what they could do to help her. Bryce had said he’d talk to Suzie’s Tony. Cally shivered and rubbed at her arms. Talking to a ghost didn’t sit well on her shoulders, but Bryce vowed Tony was friendly and he’d loved Miss Hattie for over fifty years. Who was Cally to argue with that kind of motivator? If anyone could help the angelic woman, surely it’d be the man who’d loved her so well for so long.

  Still, he was a ghost. Before coming to Seascape, Cally wouldn’t have believed he could exist. But now, well, she had no choice. She’d heard him. Bryce had heard him. And Suzie had seen and heard him. He was real.

  Suzie, imparting her friend Selena’s sage advice on Tony, suggested that they all just accept his existence. That the older we get, the more we realize how very little of our world and lives we truly understand. Selena was right about that. And while Cally waffled on whether to find that truth comforting or distressing, she surely wasn’t ditzy enough to dismiss it as truth, or to deny its validity.

  The warm water rippled over Cally’s tummy and breasts. Lord, but it felt good to just crank back and relax. Maybe she’d just have to take a walk over to Miss Millie’s Antique Shoppe and see if she had any idea what was wrong with Miss Hattie. They were best friends, so it was likely Miss Millie would know.

  A saddening thought struck Cally. One that left her feeling adrift and out of sorts. If Miss Hattie couldn’t find contentment alone, as angelic and iron-willed and Maine-stubborn as she was, then Cally didn’t stand a chance.

  She dunked the washcloth, then let the water from it drizzle over her face. “Like I said, Counselor. Big defeats.”

  Tony watched Hattie. Saw the very second she became aware of his presence in her bedroom. Saw her shiver against the sudden chill. And suffered the immediate shot of resentment that burned in his stomach at having caused it.

  Her hair hanging loose around her shoulders like a soft cloud, she darted her gaze wall to wall, then crossed her chest with her arms, bunching her white satin nightgown under her ribs. “Tony?”

  It hurt to look at her. He swung his gaze to the desk, to the little gold frame that held their photographs. Standing together, their arms twined around each other’s waists. Smiling. Happy. So much in love.

  Feeling all the emotions now that he did then, he couldn’t resist the temptation to lift the frame, hold it midair and st
udy the two of them together, as they had been. As they should have been. As they should be now, but never would be again.

  “I’m scared, Tony. I’m so scared. What’s happening here? Why do I have such a strong feeling I’m about to lose you?” Hattie’s voice trembled and shook. “I—I can’t lose you.”

  Tony stayed near the desk. Every fiber in his being insisted he go to Hattie, hold her, tell her everything would be all right. But he couldn’t. And even if he could, he wouldn’t. It wrenched his heart to see her upset but never, not once in sixty years, had he lied to her. He couldn’t, wouldn’t start now.

  At the north window, he pushed back the soft curtains and looked outside. It was dark. Thin moonlight slanted between the clouds, dappled the stretch of firs and the stony ground. He glimpsed the edge of the Fisherman’s Co-op, and wondered about the new owners. A brisk breeze sliced through the trees, tunneled between the leaves on the ground and those still clinging to branches, making crackling sounds. He’d broken the rules. He’d interceded in Suzie’s dreams. Repeatedly. And he’d continue to do so until he could find a way to stop them, to alter what would become her history.

  Before the first intercession into Suzie’s dream, he hadn’t thought of what could happen to Hattie, of what his interceding could cost her. Or of how it could affect her. He should have thought about it, should have considered her, but he hadn’t. He regretted that. Just as he regretted that, now knowing the consequences and the effect on her, he still couldn’t alter his decision and not intercede. Nothing had changed. He’d trespassed into the forbidden to save Suzie’s life. To spare her father more heartache. And regardless of the costs to Tony, or to his beloved, to spare Suzie he had to do so again. And again.

  Those in his care had to come first. Their needs had to supersede the needs of anyone and everyone else. Even—God help him, and give him strength—his beloved Hattie’s.

  Never in his fifty years of service had he resented his responsibilities more.

  “I love you, Tony.” Hattie stood up beside her bed, her gown whisking around her ankles. “I want you to know, no matter what happens, that will never change.” Her voice dropped husky soft and she blinked furiously fast. “It’s near Thanksgiving. You always get testy around Thanksgiving. So do I. But no matter what else happens, our anniversary will come. I will remember you, and I will love you before and after it. Forever, Tony.” Her voice cracked. “I’ll love you forever.”

  His heart ached, felt sure to shatter. He looked from the woman to the photo, recalling a time when he could have taken her into his arms and loved her, something he could no longer do outside of his memories. He stared at the picture of her in her yellow floral dress. The dress she’d worn the night he’d asked her to marry him. The night he’d developed a deep fondness for yellow carnations. Joy. They meant joy. Hattie had been his joy then, and she was now. She always would be. And in his mind, he again heard her agree to be his wife. “Of course, love.”

  Of course, love. But they’d been cheated out of their marriage, out of their lifetime together. War and destiny had denied them what they’d both wanted most. And now, his own moral choice to help Suzie could separate them forever. In his heart he knew fate wouldn’t prove any kinder than destiny. He and Hattie would be separated for good. He ran his fingertip over the smooth glass, awash in regret, in a flood of resentment at having been forced to choose.

  But there was nothing he could do.

  Powerless.

  He stiffened at the memory of himself in Suzie’s dream. Summoned his resolve. His hand shaking, he set the photo back onto the desk, hopeless of finding a way out of this situation that wouldn’t leave Hattie brokenhearted. His own heart would be broken, too, but he’d chosen for them both. He deserved the pain. Hattie didn’t. He could cope better with this if only there were some way to spare her.

  The photo frame fell, facedown.

  The glass cracked.

  Sunshine’s message was clear. There was no solution. And there would be no reprieve. Not for his beloved Hattie, nor for him.

  God help them to endure the pain.

  A light knock sounded at the bathroom door. Cally sat up in the tub, swished away a thick clump of bubbles. “Yes?”

  “Cally,” Suzie called out from the door between the tub and dressing room. “Where’s my blue sweater?” She dropped her voice, clearly speaking to someone else. “Cally knows everything. Well, almost everything. She’s still figuring out that she might be my new—you know.”

  “Uh-huh. What doesn’t she know?” A second little girl’s voice seeped through the closed door, sounding far too old to be Lyssie.

  “That she’s gonna be my new mom. Maybe.”

  “So why don’t ya tell her?”

  “Tony says that doesn’t work. She and Daddy have to figure it out themselves. It’s a grown-up thing.”

  Cally groaned, resisted the urge to just slide down the tub and duck her head beneath the water. Everyone in the village would hear this tidbit before dusk. And she and Bryce would be added onto that blasted bulletin board they’d seen down at the Blue Moon Cafe which held shopping lists and the villagers’ bets on whether or not the guests at Seascape Inn would become lovers. Miss Hattie insisted it was harmless, so it surely was, yet Cally didn’t care to be their target. Most likely, thanks to Gregory, she was just hypersensitive about being anyone’s target for anything right now. She needed to work on that, too.

  “Suzie.” Cally grabbed the bar of soap, gave it a firm squeeze to help her keep her voice calm. “Who are you talking to out there?”

  The door swung open and two girls stood there, side by side. Suzie, dark hair, pristine clean in her jeans and shamrock sweatshirt, and a misshapen tomboy with red hair and a fair sprinkling of freckles. At least she appeared to be a tomboy, judging by her jeans, baseball cap, and once-white T-shirt that now had oil smears and fingerprints swiped across the front of it.

  “It’s me and Frankie, Cally.” Suzie pointed to her friend.

  The daughter of the new owner of Fisherman’s Co-op that Vic had mentioned. Cally slid down under the bubbles, until they threatened her chin. “Hi, Frankie.”

  “Hi.” She tugged at her cap then glanced at Suzie. “She looks like a mom, all right. Even nekkid.”

  “Excuse me?” Cally stiffened.

  “It’s nothing,” Suzie said quickly, flashing Cally that smile that said it was everything.

  “Sweetheart, I like meeting your friends, but when I’m in the bath isn’t the right time.”

  Frankie leaned against the door jamb. “She’s ticked off ’cuz she’s nekkid.”

  Darn right she was. Cally frowned. “Frankie, would you quit saying that?”

  “Why?” Suzie cocked her head. “We’re all girls.”

  A valid point. Cally swallowed a groan. “I know. But, well, I’d just prefer to meet people when I’m dressed. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Suzie shrugged. “So do you know where my sweater is?”

  “Down in the mud room. It’s on a peg right under the Welcome Friends sign.”

  Suzie grinned at Frankie. “See? She knows everything.”

  “Not hardly.” Cally smiled. “But I’m happy to report that all the blueberry stains came out of your sweater.”

  Frankie frowned down at her chest. “Ya got anything for grease? Jimmy’s working on the pastor’s car, and I was watching. I’m building my own for the soapbox derby next summer, and Jimmy’s good with cars—even if he does look all dopey-eyed at Nolene Baker. Hatch said Jimmy’s waiting for her to grow up. Goofy, huh?” Frankie plucked at her T-shirt. “When my mom sees this, she’s gonna pop a cork.”

  Suzie slid Frankie an empathetic nod. “Mrs. Wiggins doesn’t like dirt, either.”

  “Sometimes you can’t help getting a little dirty, you know? ‘Specially when you’re working on cars.” Frankie grunted. “My mom wants me to be a lady. I promised her I would and everything, when I get around to it. Right now, I just wanna be a kid.”r />
  Cally barely withheld a smile. There was a lot of wisdom in insisting you get to live out your childhood. A shame Suzie hadn’t been gifted with that. Hmm, maybe she had, but she hadn’t been gifted with anyone to fight for her to make sure she got it. Some kids—heck, some adults, too—need an advocate. Frankie clearly didn’t, though, and Cally bet the girl gave her mother fits. Innocent ones, but definitely an abundance of them. She was adorable, this little tomboy. And so earnest. A perfect friend for Suzie.

  “I’m glad the stains came out of my sweater.” Suzie grinned at Cally. “You saved me. Mrs. Wiggins would’ve hit the roof.”

  “Thank Miss Hattie.” Cally rinsed the washcloth, then soaped it again. “She gave me some special cleaner.”

  Suzie perked up. “Do you think it’d work on Lyssie’s hair?”

  Cally inwardly groaned. “The stains didn’t come out of her hair?”

  Suzie shook her head. “But they cover up the orange.”

  Ouch. Some silver lining. Poor Bryce was probably tearing himself up over that, too, considering himself a rotten parent. “Is Mrs. Wiggins resigning again?”

  “Uh-huh.” Suzie grinned. “But don’t worry. Daddy’ll talk her out of it. He always does.”

  Suzie and Frankie turned to go. “Suzie,” Cally called after her. “Lock that inner door for me, will you?”

  “Sure. But the lock’s broken.”

  “Wonderful.” Now why hadn’t anyone bothered to pass along that tidbit of information to her?

  “It’s okay. The sign’s out on the nail.”

  “Sure is,” Frankie yelled. “Occupied. Says so right here.”

  Great. They could both read—and ignore. And poor Bryce was feeling like a failure because Lyssie’s hair, while no longer green from chlorine nor orange from juice, was now tinged blue from berry stains. Only God knew how many more colors it’d be before they convinced the child that everything smelling good wasn’t shampoo. And the battleaxe was resigning again.