Beside a Dreamswept Sea

by Hinze, Vicki

“On what?” His eyes twinkled, as mischievous as Jeremy’s.

  “How juicy it is.” She batted her lashes, then gave him an innocent smile.

  “Fair enough. This isn’t juicy enough to get me into trouble.”

  “Darn.” She saved some boy’s corn dog from Lyssie’s reach.

  “Darn,” the angel mimicked her.

  “No, darling.” Cally tapped the edge of the baby’s nose. “Animal crackers.”

  The skin crinkled near Bryce’s eyes and he whispered so only she could hear. “You’re wicked, Cally Tate.”

  “Nope, ’fraid not. Just lousy—and a lover of juicy tidbits.”

  He dipped his chin, as if he were looking at her over glasses, and a lock of thick black hair fell over his forehead. “You’re not, nor have you ever been, lousy. You’ve been warned not to willfully perjure yourself, Miss Tate. One more slip and I’m afraid I’m going to have to petition the court for a restraining order against you.”

  “Gonna save me from myself, huh, Counselor?” So serious. So darling.

  He nodded and let out a mock sigh. “It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.”

  “And here I thought chivalry was dead.”

  “Honey, it’s not even napping.”

  Little bubbles of pleasure popped in her stomach, and she inhaled deeply, catching a whiff of his cologne on the breeze. Subtle and sexy. Almost as enticing as the smell of his skin. “So what’s this not-so-juicy, juicy tidbit that has you threatening me with legal repercussions?”

  He cocked his head toward Lydia. “Her real name is Lily.”

  “No.” Cally feigned a gasp.

  “It’s true.”

  “Under oath?”

  “Under oath.”

  “Well, now, Counselor.” She narrowed her brows and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Since you’re an officer of the court, I’d say we’ve got an ethical duty to unravel this mystery. Just what kind of nefarious acts would make a woman with a lovely name like Lily grab herself an alias?”

  “Sorry, darling. I know how much you love a good mystery, but this one’s already been solved.”

  She primed her mouth for another “darn,” saw Lyssie watching her closely, and opted for a substitute. “Animal crackers.”

  “Disappointing, I know. But don’t worry.” Bryce’s lips twitched. “I have it on good authority that small towns and villages are full of mysteries. T.J. and Maggie say it’s like living your life in a goldfish bowl. And, from what I’ve seen, I’m inclined to agree.”

  Cally couldn’t disagree. While stouthearted and anything but malicious, people here did seem to know everything about everyone in the village. And if they didn’t know something, it was because they didn’t want to know it, not because someone had successfully buried their skeletons in the proverbial closet. The bulletin board at the Blue Moon held shopping lists, bets, and all manner of news. “So why did Lily take on an alias?”

  “I’m afraid the story appears rather mundane.” Bryce wiped cookie crumbs from Lyssie’s mouth with a paper napkin, then wadded it up and again looked baffled at what to do with it.

  Cally wadded it up then stuffed it into his slacks pocket. “And?”

  “She thought Lydia sounded more regal.”

  “Hmm, more sophisticated, would be my guess.”

  “Probably.” He lowered his voice to just above a whisper, glanced around to assure no one else could hear them. “But I’m very observant, Miss Tate, and I’ve got my doubts about the woman. Just look at those beady eyes.”

  Cally nearly laughed aloud. “Hmm, valid point, Counselor. Sharp tongue, too.”

  “Sinfully.” He stiffened his spine and tugged his soggy cuff out of Lyssie’s mouth. “Teething, you know.”

  “I suspected as much.” A board would have noticed the baby drooling, for pity’s sake. Cally inwardly grinned. “Who’s the young man on the receiving end of that sinfully sharp tongue?”

  “Andrew Carnegie. Not the Andrew Carnegie, of course. Lydia and Horace’s son. He’s going to be a lawyer.”

  Cally’s stomach muscles clenched. From Bryce’s tone, she innately knew the boy had little or no choice in the matter of selecting his profession. If she were lucky enough to have a son, she’d just pray that whatever he chose to do, he’d be happy doing it. “Hmm, sounds as if Lydia cornered you for advice on the legal profession.”

  “She did. The best schools. The type of people we encounter in practicing. Salaries.”

  “That smirk of yours is telling me you filled her ear with a lot of nonsense, Bryce Richards. Did you deliberately mislead the woman?”

  “Yes, Miss Tate, I did,” he said, as stone-faced as Judge Branson had been when he’d ordered her to appear in court. “But don’t bother asking for remorse, because I don’t have any, and I won’t retract so much as one word.”

  Atypical behavior from the Bryce Richards she’d come to know. “Ah, Andrew doesn’t want to become a lawyer.”

  “Very astute, Miss Tate.” Bryce’s eyes lit up from the bottoms.

  His compliment warmed her. She liked this playful Bryce—and added that to her list of her dislikes. “Did Andrew tell you that—about him not wanting to practice law?”

  “Pastor Brown did. But that’s strictly confidential information.”

  “Got it.” She tipped a fingertip to her forehead in mock salute.

  “Pastor Brown is very progressive. Gets him into hot water around here on occasion, but because he’s got a soft spot for Andrew Carnegie, the mayor helps him out.”

  Men. They twisted things something godawful. “Why doesn’t the mayor help out his son?”

  Bryce slid her a devil’s smile. “Because he’s a man of wisdom, Miss Tate. He knows that to oppose his wife on a matter in which she’s issued a verdict means not only no appeal, but no parole, and certainly no peace.”

  That sure wasn’t the way it’d worked around her house. The wind caught the hem of her jacket and spread it like a sail, right over Lyssie’s face. “Sorry, munchkin.” She tugged it down and held it clasped, dropped a kiss to the baby’s nose, then looked back at Bryce. “Is that how it was with you and Meriam?”

  Bryce sobered. The teasing light shining in his eyes faded abruptly, then snuffed out.

  Great. She’d done it again. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It’s okay. Seriously. It just hit me that—”

  When he didn’t continue, Cally gave him a nudge. “What?”

  Surprise flickered through his eyes. “I haven’t even thought of her today.”

  “Darling, you don’t have to feel guilty about not thinking about her. She’s content, remember?”

  “Yeah.” A frown creased his brow. “Yeah, she’s content.”

  A gusty breeze tugged at Cally’s hair, whipping it across her face. She pushed it back from her eyes, and saw a young woman wearing a red sweatband across her forehead place a blue ribbon in front of a pie plate on a long table covered with a white cloth. “Look.” Cally squeezed Bryce’s arm. “Miss Hattie’s pie won.”

  “Hatch and Vic said it would.”

  “So did Lucy Baker and Sheriff Cobb.”

  Bryce adjusted Collin’s cane, affixing his grip. “Let’s see what Miss Millie is up to with all the kids over there.” He hiked his chin toward a huge oak near the little fence that surrounded the cemetery.

  Cally had heard all about Miss Hattie’s best friend. And she’d met her on a secret visit to see if Miss Millie knew what was wrong with Miss Hattie. According to Miss Millie, the two women had been friends all their lives and, since Miss Millie had been widowed, they’d grown even closer, attending church services together, co-chairing the Sea Haven Village Historical Society, and playing penny-ante poker every Thursday night. Their poker games too were confidential information to not be mentioned to Pastor Brown. It was said that he had a penchant for long-winded lectures against gambling, drinking, and sexy girlie calendars, like the swimsuit issue th
at hung in Jimmy Goodson’s garage.

  After losing their men, both women had made a fulfilling life for themselves. And, despite whatever had Miss Hattie fretting now, they’d both been successful at carving out their own niches. Seeing their successes deepened Cally’s own resolve to find her niche, to rediscover her dreams. Miss Hattie and Miss Millie had proven it could be done. Now Cally just had to figure out how they’d done it, then summon the courage to take those same steps in her own life.

  “Have you been to Miss Millie’s Antique Shoppe?” Bryce asked, rubbing noses with Lyssie.

  The baby gurgled a laugh. “Once.” Cally recalled the shelves in the back of the store that held jar upon jar of different scents of potpourri, together with the bolts of lace from which Miss Millie crafted the most darling sachets. “She has some lovely things.”

  Miss Millie, wearing a blue dress that made her silver hair look even more violet-tinged, had the children sitting in a semicircle on the ground. She passed out her drop-dead chocolate chip cookies from a lace doily-lined tray, warned the village hound, Walter, Jr., to eat his own and not mooch from the kids, then gave them all a little lecture on village history.

  Cally paused to listen. Miss Millie was a natural-born teacher, relaying events in an interesting, almost captivating, manner. A shipbuilder had started the village, and after he’d died and his relatives had shut down the shipyard, the villagers had turned to the sea to provide for them.

  “They’re loving this,” Bryce whispered.

  The kids did look enraptured. Was it the cookies, or the storytelling? She listened closely. Heard how Cecelia and Collin Freeport had built Seascape Inn and had lived there all their married lives. How they’d helped all the villagers at some time; Collin with his wood-carving and woodworking skills, and Cecelia with her healing. And heard they were so beloved that on the night Cecelia had died, all the villagers had held a candlelight vigil on Seascape’s front lawn. Lobstermen aboard their boats far out in the ocean reported seeing the lights.

  Cally felt empty inside. If it’d been her dying, the lawn would have been empty. There would have been no vigil, no candles, no lights.

  Hatch cupped his mouth with his hands. “Tell ’em about Little Island, Miss Millie.”

  Miss Millie set the empty tray down on the ground then straightened up, seemingly fretting. “Did I forget that?”

  The kids let her know that she had.

  Hatch never let his gaze drift from Miss Millie. Cally wondered if the woman knew she’d captured a heart. Miss Millie and Hatch, Miss Hattie and Vic. It seemed the women of the village had a tendency toward that. And toward not noticing. Maybe they had some special something women from away just didn’t have. Of course, the reason for Miss Hattie’s oblivion waxed clear. Tony. Dead or alive, the man still held her heart. And she still held his.

  Cally rocked onto the balls of her sneaker-clad feet. What would it be like to know that a man loved you so much he refused to let even death separate you?

  She couldn’t imagine.

  “That bit of business from Hatch about Little Island,” Bryce said, twitching his nose. “Choreographed, I suspect, Miss Tate.”

  “Noted, Counselor.” Cally smiled at Bryce.

  He smiled back, and her stomach furled. She didn’t like it a bit, but looped her hands around his bent arm, anyway.

  “Well,” Miss Millie said. “Once my family owned all the land around here for miles and miles. It owned Little Island, too. And eventually I inherited it.” She paced a short path before the kids. “We older locals have watched Sea Haven Village change a lot in our lifetimes. And, while we appreciate tourists and depend on them, a few years ago, it occurred to some of us that our village was getting too touristical.”

  Bryce whispered, “Too many tourists, Miss Tate?”

  “I expect so, Counselor.”

  “We became afraid that our young people wouldn’t have the opportunity to see the beauty here that we’d been fortunate enough to see.” Miss Millie paused to sip water from a yellow paper cup. “Villagers, young and old, deserved the chance to know the Maine we had known. We believed, you see, that if they had a special place where only they could go, then they’d nurture it, and respect it, and they’d come to love that place. And they have. That place is Little Island.”

  Miss Millie let her gaze drift over the kids’ faces. “You children are villagers, too. Did you know that you and your parents now own Little Island? Well, you do. And your parents and all the rest of the villagers are depending on you to take care of it.”

  She looked over at Vic, who pointedly tapped his watch crystal. “Oh my, it’s time for the three-legged races. Scoot and find your parents now.”

  Cally sighed wistfully. “What a beautiful way to teach kids respect for the environment. By loving the land.”

  Bryce nodded, met Cally’s gaze. “There’s a lot of good in this village. A lot of care, and even more love.”

  The sunlight caught on the pristine church’s stained-glass window. Reflected color splashed blue, yellow, and green onto the white clapboard. “I think when I settle down again it’ll be in a small town. I like the way it feels.”

  “How did you end up in New Orleans?” Bryce asked.

  “Born to it.”

  “Me, too.”

  Suzie was holding a very serious conversation with Hatch, the crusty old lighthouse keeper, and he appeared to be hanging on to her every word. He was an interesting character, Cally thought. A face lined and weathered from long exposure to sea salt and sun, a yellow bandana tied at his throat, a rumpled T-shirt and blue slacks that sagged at his knees, and an unlit corncob pipe perched in the corner of his mouth. A lot of people, she supposed, mistook him as a man having little to say worth hearing, but Cally knew better. Looking into his eyes, she saw wisdom. Hatch was special. Gifted in ways she couldn’t begin to fathom. Suzie had chosen well, having her serious discussion with him.

  Frankie came running, then skidded to a stop beside Hatch and Suzie. Her dirty sneaker gained traction, lifting a little cloud of sand and dust. Hatch grinned at her.

  “Hmm,” Bryce whispered. “Definitely a conspiracy brewing there, Miss Tate.”

  “My thoughts exactly, Counselor.”

  The three of them—Suzie and Frankie, flanking Hatch—linked hands, then walked toward Cally and Bryce.

  Suzie had cookie crumbs at the corner of her mouth. On seeing that evidence of the little girl in her, Cally felt her heart was light enough to float.

  “Fine day for a festival, ain’t it?” Hatch lifted his stubbly gray chin to the warm sun.

  “Yes, it is.” Bryce shifted Lyssie, crooked in his good arm, then nodded at Hatch. “Good to see you again. We really enjoyed the lighthouse tour.”

  “We did,” Cally added. “Suzie’s talked about it for days.”

  “And complained about the Coast Guard automating all the lighthouses.” Bryce nodded. “She’s written a letter of complaint to the President.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Hatch slid Suzie a gap-toothed grin. “I’m officially wintercating, but the tour was a pleasure. Amazing what a man will do for some of Miss Hattie’s muffins.”

  “Wintercating?” Cally asked.

  “Gearing up to watch the snow fall,” Suzie explained, her expression dead serious.

  “Ah.” Adorable.

  “I like Miss Hattie’s apple muffins,” Suzie said.

  Hatch grunted. “Don’t be thinking this old man would snub his nose at ’em, but Miss Hattie’s got a heavy hand with cinnamon in her apple. Blueberry’s my pick.”

  “Her banana’s the best. They’ve got nuts. I love nuts.” Frankie jerked at her skirt, clearly unhappy at wearing a dress, and looked at Suzie. “Better get that cookie off your face before my mom sees it. She can spot a speck at fifty yards and she’s determined we look and act like ladies today.”

  Wanting to giggle, Cally shook out the paper napkin from her funnel cake, knocking the powdered sugar loose, then pa
ssed it to Suzie. “This might help.”

  Suzie gave her lips a swipe. The crumbs tumbled in the sunlight down to the ground.

  Biting back a grin, Hatch made a production of clearing his throat then stuffing his unlit pipe into his shirt pocket. “Me and these two upstarts have been talking.”

  “I’ll tell him, Hatch.” Suzie looked from the man to Bryce. “I wanna see my island, Daddy.”

  Bryce smiled at Suzie. “Honey, you’re not a villager. Little Island belongs to the villagers.”

  “Miss Millie was talking to me, too.”

  Hatch interrupted. “I’m of a mind to take her, Bryce, provided we’ve got your permission. What I mean is, I’m inviting all of you to come. Frankie’s folks, Sam and Edith Green—”

  “They own Fisherman’s Co-op, Daddy.”

  “Yes, Suzie, I know.”

  Hatch went on. “The Greens have a boat, of course. They’re from away, but good folks planning on putting down roots here.”

  “They’re planning on making me a lady, too, Mr. Richards,” Frankie explained further.

  “I believe I’ve heard you mention that, Frankie.” Bryce nodded thoughtfully.

  “She’s mentioned her mom, Daddy, but her dad wants it, too,” Suzie said.

  “Listen up, half-pints.” Hatch squinted at the two girls. “If you’re wantin’ me to talk your folks into this, then you’ve got to let me get out more than two words between your interruptions so I can see the job done. Zip it.”

  Suzie and Frankie both made motions of zipping their lips shut.

  Bryce didn’t correct Hatch at the reference to Cally being the other half of Suzie’s folks. Cally didn’t, either. And she didn’t like it that she hadn’t. She especially didn’t like it that the idea of Suzie being her daughter felt sensational and appealed so much it left her heart feeling like mush.

  “Now.” Hatch hiked up his pants. “I’m of a mind to build myself a sand castle or two, and these two upstarts have agreed to help me build a double-decker. If it’s okay with you two.”

  “Please, Cally.” Suzie covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry, Hatch. I forgot.”