by Vicki Hinze
“I’m sorry.” Maggie looked down at the untouched bowl of pudding before her on the table. The whipped cream had melted into the crumbled vanilla wafers. “I just don’t have much of an appetite these days.”
Pausing to tune the old-fashioned radio behind her, Miss Hattie stopped the dial on a Big-Band-era station. Strains of soft blues filled the kitchen. “Ah, that’s better.” She picked up her knitting and her lips moved, as if she counted stitches, then she resumed rocking. “I’ve also noticed Tyler’s appetite’s declined. I have to say, dear, that it appears you two have been avoiding each other this past week. Is there a connection?”
Boy, was there. Maggie sighed and rubbed her cheek against her upper arm. “I’m afraid I’ve done the dumbest thing I’ve ever in my life done—and there have been some real lulus.”
“Anyone who’s lived has suffered their share of lulus, I’d say.” She kept rocking, kept counting her stitches. The chair creaked five times, then she added, “It might help to talk about it.”
Tempted, Maggie hesitated. Because she’d always had to stand on her own, she’d learned young to be a decent judge of character and something in Miss Hattie did invite trust, but Maggie should handle her problems alone. She always had. And wasn’t it just a godawful weakness to not meet personal challenges head-on, under your own steam? Besides, she’d leaned once on MacGregor, and look at the misery that had gotten her. Who needed another week of lonely hell?
“I don’t want to intrude, dear.” Miss Hattie tucked her knitting down into a little black bag embroidered with yellow flowers on the floor beside her rocker. The metal needles clanked. “But a fresh eye never hurts.”
“I shouldn’t worry you with it.” Maggie grimaced. “I got myself into this and, somehow, I’ve got to get myself out.” She gave Miss Hattie a heartfelt look laced with all her doubts. “It’ll take a miracle.”
Rosy-faced from the warmth of the fire burning in the grate, Miss Hattie dabbed at her temple with her hankie then pressed it back into her blue sweater pocket. “Just offering food for thought—not directing you in your affairs, by any means—but there are times when we all need to lean on others.”
“I appreciate the advice.” Tempted, Maggie fingered her spoon, tapping its bowl to the table. No. If she failed, better she had only herself to blame. “But I think I should try to work through this myself.”
“I know what you mean. I’m independent, too, when I can get by with it.” She fell quiet for a long moment, then clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “I’ve lived in this house all but one year of my life. Have I mentioned that?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t think you have.” Relieved at the topic shift, Maggie curled her foot up under her on the chair. The smell of the wood burning, the gold flames licking at the screen, the fridge motor purring, calmed her tattered nerves.
“My father was the gardener here and my mother cared for the house, as I do now.” Her voice dropped lower, softened and grew more melodic. “I’ve seen a lot of miracles happen inside these walls. And I’m hoping”—she paused and slid her gaze to the ceiling as if speaking to someone else entirely—“for another one. One for you and Tyler.”
Maggie’s heart sank. “Tyler doesn’t believe in miracles.” Why did that bother her so much? She couldn’t exactly claim to be a staunch advocate herself.
“I know.” Rocking gently, her comfy old chair creaked. “I’d say that means you have to believe enough for both of you.”
The refrigerator’s icemaker dumped ice, and the trickle of water refilling the trays blended with the calm crackles of the fire. The homey sounds conspired, and Maggie grew wistful. “I’d like to believe in miracles, but I’m not sure I do. Not anymore.” After the way her father had treated her mother, how could she believe in miracles? How could she believe in relationships?
“Mmm. I know you and Tyler care deeply for each other, Maggie—just as I know that, since you were a child, you’ve been weighed down with responsibilities that shouldn’t have been yours. Children need the chance to dream. You’re no longer a child, of course, but you still need to learn to dream, dear, and to believe in life’s magic.”
How did Miss Hattie know that—about her responsibilities and her childhood? “Magic?” What magic? If she didn’t respect Miss Hattie so much and know her heart was well-meaning, Maggie would have snorted. “Life isn’t Pollyannaville, Miss Hattie. I’ve wished it were a million times, but it’s not.”
“What is it, then?”
Maggie lifted then lowered her brows and pursed her lips. “It’s accepting that the good guys don’t always win. Sometimes the bad guys get off scot-free. And it’s conceding to the truth.”
“Which is?”
Maggie’s voice quavered. “That sometimes the best we can hope for is just to absorb our lumps and survive.”
“Of course you know best, dear.” Miss Hattie slid her a gentle smile. “But I’ve come to old age with the opinion that most things in life are profoundly affected by a person’s attitude. It’s pretty much what you make it. Life might not be Pollyannaville, but it doesn’t have to be Hades, either—unless you deem it so.”
Generous-natured, she hadn’t said it, but the implication lay as thick as a sheet of ice between them. “Like I’ve made it between me and Tyler this past week?”
“Only you and Tyler can answer that. Though if you’ll allow an outsider her objective opinion, it’s clear as a sunny day that being distant with each other has you both upset and unhappy.”
Maggie was upset and unhappy. She missed him. But Tyler? Fat chance. More than likely, he was relieved. Probably plotting out another virtual vacation from his travel magazines and not giving her a penny’s worth of thought.
Yet he had said he cared about her. He could be missing her a little. Maybe. She was all he had here, aside from Miss Hattie and, on occasion, Bill Butler and his son, Aaron. The man worked hard for a living and didn’t have much spare time, and the boy was fond of MacGregor, but he was a boy.
Considering their breach from his perspective rather than from her own, after nine months of exile, no doubt he did miss her. He’d have missed a toothache. A knot lodged in Maggie’s throat, and she lowered her gaze. “I didn’t realize we were both so...”
“Transparent?”
Miserable had been her first thought. But transparent fit, too, and it seemed a lot less confidence-draining to admit. She nodded.
“Don’t worry, dear.” Miss Hattie chuckled softly. “To most people, it wouldn’t be obvious.”
Deserting her spoon-tapping, Maggie propped her arm on the table, then fingered the petal of a porcelain bisque daffodil on the centerpiece. “Then why is it so obvious to you?”
“Because I’ve experienced what the two of you are going through now.” Miss Hattie let her gaze drift and glide along the ceiling. “The road to love is rougher than our rockbound coast. But, oh my, what a spectacular road to travel.”
Maggie smiled. “Tyler told me about your fiancé.”
Grabbing the poker, Miss Hattie stirred the fire, then lifted a log from the wood box and plopped it onto the grate. Sparks spewed up the chimney, flashed midair, then sizzled out. “Ah, he was a fine man. Field-promoted during the war, you know.” She closed the screen, then sat back down in her rocker. “A fine man.”
“I’m sure he was,” Maggie said, “or you wouldn’t have loved him so much.”
“True,” Miss Hattie said, her tone matter-of-fact. “But that’s in the past now, and you and Tyler are not.”
She lifted her hands to her rocker’s arms. “You know, dear, this is the second time in my life that I’ve watched Tyler suffer. I’d so hoped that you...” She fell quiet and her expression clouded.
“What?” Maggie urged, curious at what Miss Hattie had hoped.
Her gentle face turned serious, as solemn as if she’d said far more than she intended and regretted now that she couldn’t pull the words back inside and keep them unspoken.
“I’d hoped you’d have the courage to help him.”
Courage? An odd choice of words, unless... Surprise streaked up Maggie’s spine and the flower petal stabbed into the tip of her finger. “You know, don’t you?” Stiffening, she swallowed hard. “About the mystical entity?”
“Mystical entity?” Miss Hattie smiled, appearing totally at ease. “My goodness but that’s an uppity name for it.”
“Well, what do you call it?” Maggie frowned. “Tyler and I have no clue.”
“Most people call it love, dear.”
“Love?” Maggie nearly choked. “Good grief, Miss Hattie, I don’t love MacGregor.”
Seemingly unaffected by Maggie’s shout, Miss Hattie lowered the radio’s volume then resumed rocking. “Oh?” She studied Maggie through those too-seeing, emerald eyes.
“No. Why, that would be absurd.” Maggie fidgeted on her chair, restless and agitated. Didn’t she know about the entity after all, then? “I mean, he seems like a good man and he’s certainly attractive, but love? Oh, no. That’d be absurd.”
“Why?”
Maggie had to think a moment. Good grief! Because of Carolyn, of course. “He’s too temperamental,” she lied. She couldn’t tell Miss Hattie about Carolyn.
“True, but he has been under an awful lot of pressure, dear. That’s worth remembering.” She stopped rocking. “Tyler fears he harms everything he cares about, which is why he’s so, er, temperamental, when it comes to you.”
Was he? Maggie felt rotten. Lying to Miss Hattie. Letting herself have feelings for a man who might be involved in Carolyn’s death. How much lower could she sink? “I care about him,” she confessed, “and I’ve tried to help him. But I don’t love him.” She could never let herself love any man—most especially not MacGregor.
“You know best, dear.”
What she knew was that if she told Miss Hattie about the entity, about it warning her to help MacGregor, then warning her to stay away from him, Miss Hattie would lock her inside a padded room and surround her with men in little white jackets who study inkblots and ask embarrassing, probing questions about mothers.
“Carolyn hurt Tyler very deeply,” Miss Hattie said softly, her gentle eyes filled with concern. “He fears you because you can hurt him even more.”
She knew about Carolyn! Maggie’s heart nearly stopped. “I—I, um, don’t think so. He was engaged to her. He meant to spend the rest of his life with her.”
“Yes, I know.” Miss Hattie’s gaze leveled. “But he didn’t love her.”
“He did,” Maggie countered, her voice carrying her conviction. “MacGregor wouldn’t marry a woman he didn’t love. He’s not that kind of man.”
“True.”
Confused, Maggie frowned and straightened back in her chair. “But you just said—”
“He thought he loved her.”
He might have. Him alone, having lost his parents, thinking Carolyn alone, too, after having lost hers. Maggie picked up her spoon and stirred the crumbled wafers soaked with melted whipped cream into the pudding. The banana scent enticed her, and she took a nibble, then a bite. Hadn’t MacGregor told her this same thing? That he’d thought he’d loved Carolyn but... no. No, he’d said he’d thought she’d loved him but that she hadn’t. Big difference.
Maggie looked at Miss Hattie. “I lied to him.” She dropped her spoon. It splattered pudding onto the table and landed with a dull thunk. Why had she said that? She hadn’t meant to say that!
Miss Hattie didn’t bat an eye. “I know, dear. And I suspect he does, too, though of course he doesn’t know your reasons.”
Heat gushed up to her face. Not eager to meet Miss Hattie’s gaze, Maggie dabbed the corner of her napkin at the pudding splotches. “Do you know them?”
“Your mother and I had a nice, long chat about it—and about her ceramics class. She’s loving every second of it.”
Maggie squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her forehead. Great. Just great. Now Bill and Miss Hattie knew the truth about why she’d come here. She should just take out an ad in the Portland Press Herald and call it a done deal. “Are you going to tell Tyler?”
“Not unless he specifically asks me. But if I might give you a bit of advice—”
“I know. I should tell him.” Maggie sighed and slumped over the table. “But I can’t. Not now. I waited too long.”
Miss Hattie sent her a sympathetic look, her eyes bright. “You know best, I’m sure. But remember that love is too precious to be squandered on half-truths and deceptions, dear. It’s like quicksilver. It can be snatched away as quickly as it’s given.” Her gentle nod set her white hair to shimmering in firelight. “Don’t let it slip through your fingers, mmm?”
Love again. Why was she insisting that Maggie loved the man? “I agree in theory, just not in this case. I really don’t love Tyler, Miss Hattie. I, care about him, but I don’t love him.”
“Really?” She arched her brows and retrieved her knitting from the little black bag beside her rocker, then situated the shiny green needles in her hands.
“Really.” Maggie didn’t... did she?
Of course not. She’d never love any man—and that was that.
“Well, as I said, I’m sure you know best. But for a woman who doesn’t love a man, you sure are willing to go to extraordinary lengths to protect him.”
“I’m not and you know it.” Certainly her mother had dispelled that illusion. “I’m trying to find out if he had anything to do with Carolyn’s death.”
“He didn’t.”
The woman sounded just like Bill Butler. The idea of MacGregor being involved was not that far a stretch. Maggie grimaced and lowered her voice. “The Portland police report says no other car was involved in the accident, and there were no signs that anyone had tampered with Carolyn’s car. They did a very thorough investigation and found nothing unusual.”
“Then why do you feel suspicious?”
“Because, to me, something extremely unusual happened.”
“What?” Curiosity glinted in her eyes.
“There was a painting in the car with Carolyn. The car exploded and she burned beyond recognition, but that painting wasn’t touched.” Maggie leaned closer, dropped her voice a notch lower. “The police in New Orleans insist Carolyn stole that painting from the gallery. But if it’d been in the car at the time of the accident, then it would have been destroyed like everything else. Since it wasn’t, that’s got to mean that someone put it into the wreckage after the accident. And that means someone else had to be there.”
“You suspect Tyler?” Miss Hattie guffawed, then stilled and stared up at the ceiling as if listening to something Maggie couldn’t hear.
The little hairs on Maggie’s neck prickled. Did Miss Hattie hear the entity’s whispers, too?
“Oh my.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “What is it?”
“Nothing, dear.” Miss Hattie lowered her gaze to meet Maggie’s, worry creasing her aged brow. “Nothing at all.”
This nothing was definitely something. Miss Hattie fairly reeked of it. Maggie licked at her lips. “Miss Hattie, is there anything... unusual going on here?”
“At Seascape?” The worry disappeared and her laughter tinkled through the fire-warmed kitchen.
Stiffening, Maggie nodded, not at all reassured.
“Why, things here are just as they’ve always been, dear.”
Maggie let out a nervous little laugh, then started to express her relief, but stopped short. As they’ve always been?
It had been the longest, the most miserable, of all his miserable months of weeks here. Maggie avoiding him at every turn. Him knowing she avoided him to protect him and worrying that nothing he could do would protect either of them. Him fearing that this entity—whatever in hell it was—would play with them until it tired, then do only God knew what to them. And, T.J. finally accepted it, him knowing that more than his next breath, he needed to talk with Maggie. To just be close to her.
&n
bsp; She’d gotten to him.
How had it happened? Why hadn’t he seen it coming and stopped it?
Hell, he had seen it coming. He just hadn’t realized his heart had been at risk. Had he mistaken serious attraction for a good dose of lust because the woman had stunned him?
He stared at his bedroom ceiling and pondered on it. Maybe. Her reaching out to him when he’d deliberately been acting like an ass toward her had stunned him. But maybe she’d gotten to him because when she’d said she wasn’t interested in him he’d known she’d been telling the truth and he’d let his guard down. Or maybe—just maybe—she pulled off this coup because, before he’d recovered and raised his guard back into place, she’d crept inside him and seeped soul-deep. At this point, what difference did how or why make? It had happened, pure and simple.
Unlocking his bent arms from behind his head, he rolled out of bed, then crossed the creak-ridden floor to the window and looked outside. Gloomy and gray. He sighed. Again.
She’d taken this last warning to stay away from him seriously. Not once had she forgotten to hang out the Occupied sign on the bathroom door’s nail. Not once had she snitched his razor. He frowned and tapped the heel of his fisted hand against the window sash. He’d nearly slit his throat because he’d expected a dull blade and instead had gotten one that hadn’t been touched. And not once had she ventured down to the boundary line to watch him attempt—and fail—to cross it without her.
That might just hurt most of all.
He paced the length of his room, the woven rug muffling his footsteps. God, it felt stifling in here.
Back at the window, he jerked it open. Pine-tinged fresh air gushed in and he breathed in deep, filling his lungs. Still, he felt ready to suffocate. Almost as if the house had shrunk in on him and he couldn’t get enough oxygen into the room.
Claustrophobia? With his head hanging out a window? With crisp air blowing against his face, tugging at his eyelids, and slicking back his hair?
Hell, it wasn’t logical. But then what around here was logical anymore? Maybe if he went outside...