Landlocked

by Marilyn Baron

Amelia turned to face Alec. “Are you running a bed and breakfast here?”

  “Marie Antoinette’s family. She’s like my sister. Her daddy’s gone all the time, so she doesn’t have anyone to watch out for her. Mama used to care for her, but since she’s been sick, I’m all Marie Antoinette’s got.”

  “Marie is Bundy’s daughter?” Amelia asked. “But she’s so young, and he’s, well, a lot older. How did that happen?”

  Alec laughed. “I’m guessing the usual way.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Uncle Bundy’s wife was not much older than Marie Antoinette is now when she married him. She was a real beauty. He went off on a drinking binge one weekend, and when he came home he had Aunt Shelley with him. He moved her into his cabin. Said they were married. Not long after that she became pregnant, and Marie Antoinette was born. Aunt Shelley had a passion for all things French.”

  “Where’s Aunt Shelley now?” I asked, following Alec and Marie Antoinette into the kitchen and sitting at the table.

  “We don’t know. Marie said she heard them fighting one night, and then Aunt Shelley just disappeared. No one ever saw her again. My mom took Marie in, tried to look after the girl, but then when she got sick Marie just started running wild. I’m trying to rein her in, teach her some things, help her make the right decisions about life.”

  “You said you felt responsible for Marie. You mean like a sister?”

  “She’s my cousin, but yes.”

  “Alec, what do you think happened to your Aunt Shelley?”

  Alec looked away. “I don’t know. She just disappeared.”

  “Do you think your Uncle Bundy could have had something to do with his wife’s disappearance?”

  Alec shrugged. “I’m not for certain. I need to run to the office to take care of some things. Eat your breakfast. I’ll be back, and then I’ll show you the rest of the property, and we’ll meet some of the landowners.”

  Amelia narrowed her eyes. “Don’t think I’m falling for your Mr. Nice Guy routine just because you made me breakfast. And don’t keep me waiting too long.”

  “You came here loaded for bear. I think you need an attitude adjustment.”

  “Is that a threat?” Amelia shifted in her seat, heat permeating her body. Somehow, Alec managed to make that pronouncement sound vaguely sexual. The country lawyer was beginning to make her uncomfortable in more ways than one.

  Chapter Six

  Relaxing on the hammock, suspended in utter silence and pleasure, Amelia finally understood her grandfather’s desire to build his home in the mountains among trees as far as the eye could see, with restful scenic views of the valley, clear cool mountain streams, and towering mountain ranges. Away from the humidity, grit, and grating traffic noise of Miami and Fort Lauderdale. Away from the stress. With year-round delightful climate. Cool summer nights, mountain wildflowers, twittering birds. It was an idyllic spot. If she wasn’t careful, she’d fall under what her grandmother called the spell of the mountains.

  Amelia pulled out her iPhone to check her e-mails. There was no Internet connection. Of course. They were in Bradyville. Her thoughts moved on. There was something about that painting. She’d studied Moss Hathaway in art class. He’d disappeared some thirty years ago. The details were a little murky. She couldn’t wait to Google him.

  She walked into the house and tried to access the Internet again. This time she got a connection. There were a number of entries. She selected the top one and began reading:

  Landscape Painter Moss Hathaway

  Disappears Without a Trace

  The art world is stunned by the disappearance of well-known painter Moss Hathaway, 40, who vanished without a trace on a painting excursion in the rural North Carolina mountains. He is presumed dead, but his body has never been found. His car was abandoned in the small town of Confrontation. Local authorities suspect foul play in this unsolved mystery of his disappearance. He is survived by his wife, Eleanore Mays Hathaway.

  “Moss Hathaway was one of the greatest painters of this century,” noted longtime friend and Swan House Gallery owner Reid Pickett, who represented Moss Hathaway’s work in the United States. “It was not uncommon for Moss to go on unscheduled sketching trips, but he always kept in contact with Eleanore or his friends. He traveled extensively throughout the United States and Europe in search of subjects and inspiration. The art world will mourn his loss. It is a tragedy to lose someone at such an early age, especially someone of the stature of Moss Hathaway. We will all feel his loss.”

  The watercolorist and oil painter was at the peak of his career when he disappeared. Moss Hathaway has often been compared to the British romantic landscape painter J.M.W. Turner in his use of color and light.

  Amelia stopped reading when her eye fell on the picture of the painter in the article. The man staring back was handsome as any movie star, with the most beautiful blue eyes. He looked vaguely familiar, but then of course he would. She had studied his work in college.

  She looked up Eleanore Mays Hathaway. The young widow had remarried soon after her husband was declared legally dead but never had any children. How sad that she’d died never knowing what had happened to her first husband.

  Amelia looked at the date on the article and frowned. That was thirty years ago. Her grandparents had been at the cabin around that time. She dialed her grandmother. Maybe she remembered something. Her grandmother had good days and bad days. Hopefully, this would be a good day.

  “Hello.”

  “Grandma, it’s Amelia.”

  “Hello, dear. How are things going up there? Have you made any progress?”

  “Not really. Things are moving slowly. But I’m determined to stay here until everything is resolved. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried at all. I know my land is in good hands.”

  “Grandma, you wouldn’t recognize the place if you saw it again. Alec has made so many improvements. It looks nothing like the pictures. But speaking of pictures, there is a breathtaking portrait of a woman hanging on the wall of the, well, I can hardly call it a cabin now, it’s changed so much. But the portrait—it’s of a beautiful woman, Necey Brady, Alec Brady’s mother. It’s by Moss Hathaway. The same man who painted the cabin picture hanging in your condo. Do you know anything about that? Do you remember seeing it when you were here last?”

  Amelia was met with stony silence.

  “Grandma? Are you still there? Is something wrong? Were you up here around the time that Moss Hathaway disappeared? Moss Hathaway was a landscape artist. He wasn’t known for his portraits. But the color, the style, and the energy of your painting remind me of this picture in the cabin.”

  “Yes,” the voice on the other end of the line whispered. “He stayed at our cabin.”

  “What?” Amelia shouted. “Speak louder. I can hardly hear you.”

  “He used our cabin to paint and to—”

  “He stayed in your cabin? Are you serious? That’s amazing. You know, he just disappeared one day. The police never found out what happened to him. Grandma, do you know anything about that?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Grandma, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “You have to promise not to tell a living soul.”

  “Grandma, how can I promise not to tell something if I don’t know what it is I’m promising?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me.”

  “Please, just tell me.”

  “Moss Hathaway was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. Movie-star handsome. And the most kind and gentle person. His eyes were the most beautiful shade of blue. And he—”

  “He what, Grandma?” Amelia coaxed. Something was bothering her grandmother, and she was determined to find out what it was.

  “When he came to us all those years ago, he was exhausted. He said he needed to rest. He hadn’t painted in months, and he came to the mountains to get away from it all—his fame, the publicity, the failure of his marriage. He just wanted to p
aint again. It was more of a need than a want.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, his car had broken down at the foot of the mountain, and he walked the path to our cabin. The poor man was so worn out, we said he could spend the night. Of course, I had no idea who he was at the time. The very next morning, Necey Brady came over and brought us some fresh eggs from their chickens, and that was it. Moss Hathaway was a married man, and of course Necey was so young, barely seventeen, just a child herself, but when he saw her, it was like a lightning strike. They couldn’t help themselves.

  “Your grandfather and I let them use our cabin to paint and to be together, away from her father and her brother. Ben Brady, Necey’s father, was very strict. He didn’t let his girls out much. He was very protective, to the point of obsession. Her older brother, Bunnell, was the same way. And they kept the triplets pretty much under lock and key. The girls were home schooled, and no one thought of sending them off to college. Bunnell was insane. He was so jealous of Necey and wouldn’t let any man near her. Of course, she was a beautiful woman, a treasure, and any man would have been interested.

  “We let her, let them, sleep there, and he painted the most wonderful portraits of her, of the mountains. He said it was some of the best work he’d ever done. Necey was his inspiration. He called her his muse. They were so happy and so in love.”

  “How long did this relationship go on?”

  “For months. She was going to run away with him. She’d packed two suitcases, and when Bunnell was drunk, she slipped away to be with Moss.”

  “Eventually, Bunnell woke up, and when he found his sister gone, he was furious. He must have found out where she was from one of Necey’s sisters. He probably beat the poor girl within an inch of her life before she would betray Necey’s trust.

  “He pounded on the door of our cabin like a madman. I think he was half mad. He broke down the door and caught them together. He pulled Necey out of bed in her negligee, slapped her around, and dragged Moss out of the bedroom and into the living room and—”

  “And what, Grandma.”

  Amelia could hear heavy breathing over the phone.

  “Grandma, are you crying?”

  “It’s nothing. I’ve got to go, honey.”

  “But you didn’t finish the story. I need to know what happened.”

  “It’s best to keep the past in the past.” Her grandmother hung up the phone abruptly. Amelia redialed her number, but there was no answer.

  Amelia went back into Necey’s room and looked through her bureau drawers. She didn’t know what she was looking for. Proof, but what kind of proof? And proof of what? Nothing in the dresser drawers and closets but clothes. Clothes Alec hadn’t been able to give away. She looked on shelves, through books, even under the rug. Then she saw a hatbox on the top shelf of the closet, pushed all the way to the back. Inside, tied with a blue ribbon, were letters. She pulled out the packet of letters, closed the bedroom door, and began reading the private correspondence from a ghost to a ghost, love letters that hadn’t seen the light of day for more than three decades.

  Part II

  Necey and Moss: Love Letters

  Chapter Seven

  Summer 1985

  Miss Necey,

  The first time I caught a glimpse of you standing there in the summer light, in your pearly white shift, your beautiful blonde hair flowing down to your waist, your dancing blue eyes as deep as the ocean, I swore I was looking at an angel. I thought I had gone to heaven. But my two feet were planted solidly on the ground.

  Right then and there, I knew I had to paint you. Had to have you.

  And I knew God landed me in this perfect place to find you.

  To love you.

  My angel.

  I was lost when I came here, truly lost, but now I know I’ve been waiting my whole life for you. I am not free to love you yet, but I could no sooner stop my heart from reaching out to yours than I could stop a comet from streaking across the heavens. Now that I’ve found you, I am finally home.

  I wish I could fathom what is going on in that marvelous mind of yours. Your shy smile puts Mona Lisa to shame and seems to tell me all I need to know.

  I can only hope that you return my feelings.

  I think true love comes around only once in life, my dearest Necey. You are my chance, and I will take it.

  You are an artist’s dream. May I paint you? Will you sit for me? I would immortalize you.

  Truly Yours, Moss Hathaway

  ~*~

  Mr. Hathaway,

  You paint a pretty picture with your words of love. I came to deliver a basketful of eggs and happened on a Romeo who would court his Juliette. I’ll let you in on a little secret. My heart soars when I look at you. I can hardly catch my breath, and I’ve only just walked across the way. I truly don’t know what’s come over me. When I look at you I feel like I’m floating. My stomach does flip-flops. You stir up feelings I can’t explain and don’t know what to do with. My pulse races, and I can’t wait to see you again.

  Yes, I will sit for you. I will come to you tonight when the moon is full, if I can get away. When I come again I will see whether my mind is playing tricks, whether you still have that effect on my heart that you had on our first meet, or whether I just imagined you.

  Necey

  ~*~

  My darling Necey,

  One sitting couldn’t possibly satisfy me now that I’ve gotten a taste of you. One lifetime couldn’t be enough to look into your glorious face, to gaze into your bottomless blue eyes, to capture your ethereal spirit on my canvas. Come again, my angel, and again until I have looked my fill of you. But I fear that will never happen.

  Yours forever, Moss Hathaway

  ~*~

  Mr. Hathaway…Moss,

  When I stood before you and you touched me, slowly lowering the robe from my body, to position me just so for my portrait, I ached for your fingertips to touch me where I’ve never been touched. To follow the path of your greedy eyes. I hardly know you, but somehow I know your touch would not be rough and controlling but gentle and easy. And that you would never hurt me.

  I know I have finally found peace. I have finally come alive. You were close, but I wanted you to come closer. Is that love or lust?

  Whatever it is I’m feeling, I trust you. I cannot turn away, and I cannot go back.

  I will see you tomorrow when the light breaks at dawn.

  Yours, Necey

  ~*~

  My dearest Necey,

  Could it be that you feel about me the way I feel about you? Can you feel my heart beating with every stroke of my brush? It’s pounding like a drum.

  You are my muse. With you by my side, I can paint again, I can create. I am whole.

  When I was arranging your robe, my fingers wandered and, in my mind, I touched your breasts and you sighed and melted into my arms. I think that was a dream. I want to make it a reality. When can you come again to the cabin? When can you come to me, my sweetest love?

  Moss

  ~*~

  Dear Moss,

  My father and brother will be away for the day tomorrow morning. That would be a good time to come. I will be there at the light of day.

  Your willing subject, Necey

  Necey

  I came across the dirt road to the Rushing place on my daily egg delivery. It was my favorite time of the morning. Mrs. Rushing loves our fresh eggs, and I love making her happy. She’s such a wonderful woman. I can tell her anything. She reminds me of how my mama might have been before she got so worn out raising babies and had no time for private talks.

  It was an ordinary day. The sun was shining, spreading light over the mountainside. When I approached the house, a strange man was outside working at an easel. His back was turned to me. He was concentrating on the cabin and the mountain in the distance and the way the light danced against the foliage. I took the opportunity to study him, his long, lean, sturdy body, the way he caressed the brush. After a while, he tur
ned, and I could see his profile. The sun’s rays lit a most attractive face framed by soft, curly brown hair, and when he noticed he had company and looked at me full on, the most dazzling smile and kind, deep blue eyes I’d ever seen.

  It had started out as an ordinary day. One look at the stranger and nothing was the same again. One look was not enough, would never be enough. I almost dropped my basket of eggs. The man’s mouth was open wide, and he wouldn’t stop staring at me. But I didn’t think he was rude. I thought he must like what he saw. I see the way men look at me, at church, at the farmer’s market, even at home, on the mountainside. But this man was different. He didn’t look at me with lust in his eyes but with wonder, like he couldn’t believe I was real and alive on this earth and standing right in front of him.

  It was bold of me, but I walked right up to him and held out my hand.

  “I’m Bernice, Bernice Brady, but everyone calls me Necey. I’ve never seen you around here before.”

  He managed to close his mouth when he took my hand in his. It was like a lightning spark, the kind of instant attraction you read about in romance novels. His hand felt warm in mine. I didn’t want to let it go, and by the silly grin on his face, neither did he.

  “I’m Moss. Moss Hathaway.” He waited a beat, like he expected me to recognize his name, and when I didn’t, he nodded toward his easel. “I’m a painter.”

  I studied the canvas. This was no ordinary artist. “Your work is beautiful. Have you come to Confrontation to paint our mountain?”

  Moss continued to hold my hand, so I had to steady the basket on my other arm.

  “My car broke down at the bottom of the mountain, and the Rushings were nice enough to let me stay with them for a while. They won’t take my money, so I’m doing a painting of their cabin as a gift.”

  “How long’s a while?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound too eager.

  He swung my hand and circled his finger lightly across my palm, creating another electric shock.

  “Well, now, Miss Bernice-Brady-everyone-calls-me-Necey”—and he smiled when he said my name—“that depends on how long the Rushings can tolerate me and whether you’ll be around.”