Inconnu(e)

by Vicki Hinze

  Vic’s face went as pale as the winter magnolias.

  MacGregor’s hand tightened at Maggie’s waist and he stiffened. “You know about the blackouts, too?”

  Grim-faced, Vic nodded.

  “Hell, is there anything going on around here that everyone doesn’t know?”

  “If there is, I ain’t figured it, T.J.”

  Once again, proof that life in a small town was like living in a goldfish bowl. The upside was knowing who you’re swimming with. The downside, everyone knows when you sink, swim, float, or skinny-dip. Maggie licked at her lips. “Are there any other strange things happening at Seascape?”

  “Only according to Batty Beaulah.” The old man scoffed. “That woman drives the sheriff slap crazy with her senseless ravings—and by Aaron, of course. Repeats every word Beaulah says, that one. Not that anybody pays either of ’em no never mind—’specially not Beaulah.”

  “Why not?” MacGregor asked.

  “Because everyone in the village knows she’s put out with Miss Hattie and Miss Millie.”

  “I didn’t know it.”

  “Well, I can’t rightly say you would’ve noticed, keeping yourself locked up in the Carriage House, T.J.” The wind caught Vic’s cap. He tugged it back down over his ears. “Miss Millie don’t invite Beaulah or Lily to the Historical Society meetings because Miss Hattie can’t abide Beaulah’s being nosy, and Miss Millie can’t abide Lily’s uppity ways.”

  “Lily?” MacGregor relaxed, loosening his death grip on Maggie’s waist.

  “Lydia Johnson—the mayor’s wife. Her real name’s Lily, but she thinks Lydia is more regal so she renamed herself that right after her and Horace got married.” Vic frowned. “Would’ve swore I’d told you that before.”

  “You had. I just forgot it for a second.” T.J. toed a stone on the path. “My mind’s been kind of... occupied with other things.”

  Vic shrugged. “Sometimes us old-timers forget, too, though when we do, Lily sure does take offense. And Beaulah, well, she don’t take the slight of being excluded on the chin so well, either. Takes off to Little Island every time they have a meeting.” He shrugged again. “Poor woman thinks nobody knows where she’s going, or why. ’Course, don’t nobody tell her no different. Folks need their secrets, Hatch says. Wise man, Hatch.”

  Maggie frowned. Batty Beaulah was a lot more sane than she was given credit for being. She hadn’t been wrong in her report to Lucy on MacGregor, only her timing of that report had been wrong. “Where does she go?”

  Vic slid Maggie a reprimanding look. “Sorry, but I ain’t one to carry tales, young lady. If you’re wanting to know the answer to that, then you’ll have to be asking Beaulah yourself.” He hitched up his bag, adjusting its strap on his shoulder. “I’d better be getting back to my route. Don’t want to run late today. There’s a dance at the Grange tonight and a band from Camden is playing.” He nodded. “T.J.”

  Maggie stood at MacGregor’s side and watched Vic head down the sandy path, back toward the village. When he was out of earshot, they started over the cliffs. The roof of Fisherman’s Co-Op steepled up above the craggy rocks straight ahead.

  “He’s an amusing walking contradiction, isn’t he?” Maggie laced her fingers with MacGregor’s. “Telling us so much then clamming up as he did.”

  MacGregor sighed. “His heart’s in the right place.”

  “Yes, it is.” Her nose tingled, numb from the cold. Those heavy, black clouds were moving closer to shore at a good clip. She admired Vic a lot. Being so loyal to Tony and to Miss Hattie.

  “So do you think Anthony Freeport is our entity?”

  Maggie thought long and hard. “I think there’s a strong possibility. My instincts say he is, but I need to see Anthony Freeport to know for sure.”

  “Honey, I doubt Sheriff Cobb will seek permission to exhume Anthony’s body based on us telling him we think he’s causing us some paranormal challenges over at Seascape.”

  Maggie imagined the big, burly sheriff’s expression on hearing that request, and in her mind she saw him grabbing his coffee cup and hightailing it out the Blue Moon Cafe’s door to hide from them as he’d hidden from Beaulah. She grinned at MacGregor. “I doubt he would. But I was thinking of something a little less blatant—and a lot less disturbing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Photographs.” Maggie touched her free hand to MacGregor’s arm. “If Miss Hattie will let me see a photo of Anthony, then I’ll know if he’s the same man—or ghost—I saw on the cliffs.”

  MacGregor frowned. “She might refuse.”

  “True. She’s very protective of Seascape, and it wouldn’t be good news for the inn for something like this to get out.” Maggie looked up at him. “But then again, she might not refuse. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. We’ve got to give it a try.”

  “Maggie! T.J.! Wait!”

  A very excited Leslie Butler raced over from her minivan and intercepted Maggie and MacGregor on Main Street, right in front of Fisherman’s Co-Op.

  Out of breath, her chest heaved, tugging at the buttons of her brown print suit. “I just got back from my first auction representing Bill’s catch.”

  T.J. smiled. Obviously, from her excitement, things had gone well. “How’d you do?” He asked the expected question, anyway.

  “The guys were less than enthused to see me there, but I turned an increased profit—an extra $12.72.”

  Maggie laughed aloud, her eyes sparkling as much as Leslie’s. “That’s wonderful!”

  “It was... exhilarating!” Leslie nodded. “Of course, the fishermen snickered—though they did no better themselves.”

  “They snickered? Really?” Maggie cocked her head, clearly surprised at that.

  “I snubbed them.” Leslie shrugged a slim shoulder. “But $12.72 is $12.72. Buys a couple gallons of milk. And that milk will be in our fridge, not theirs.”

  “That’s terrific.” T.J. shook Leslie’s hand. “You should be really proud of yourself.”

  “Thanks. You know, I really am. Maybe it’s not humble or modest, but it is the truth. I didn’t think I had the guts to try. But Maggie got me to thinking. And failing was the worst that could happen. So I figured I might just get lucky and fail my way to success. It was worth a shot, and I’m really, really glad I took it.” She swallowed a little laugh. “You’ll have to come with me some time. Auctions really get the blood pumping, you know?”

  “We’d like that.” Maggie answered for both of them.

  “Well, I’ve got to run tell Bill.” She grinned ear to ear. “I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him the news.” She squeezed Maggie’s hand, whispered a heartfelt thanks and then rushed back toward the Co-Op.

  When Leslie reached the door, Maggie turned to MacGregor. “Okay, what is it?”

  “She’s found her niche here and doesn’t yet know it.”

  “Maybe.” Maggie stared off into the clouds. They somehow had her feeling oppressed, as if they were heavy and closing in on her. “I’d find that easier to believe if the fishermen hadn’t snickered—”

  “Honey, I’ll bet you fifty dollars right now that they were snickering at the buyers, not at Leslie.”

  Maggie frowned. “Why would you say that?”

  “She got the price up. The fishermen are bound to be pleased by that.”

  “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 ground, 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?”

&
nbsp; “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.