Beyond the Misty Shore

Blurb

Welcome to the first book of
The Seascape Trilogy
, three mystical romance-mystery novels Vicki Hinze wrote under her pen name, Victoria Barrett.

Publishers Weekly
said: “Barrett successfully launches the new Seascape series with a debut contemporary that revolves around a mystical bed-and-breakfast of the same name. The whimsy begins when Tyler MacGregor, a world-class artist, returns to Seascape Inn to find peace and healing after the death of his fiancée. The peace is short-lived when Tyler discovers a mysterious ‘something’ is holding him against his will and he can’t leave. With the arrival of spunky Maggie Wright on the scene, it isn’t long before both are embroiled in the mysterious happenings. Barrett’s vivid imagination is contagious, and her clever fusion of humor, mystery and romance makes the story almost believable.”

Literary Times
said: “A must-read for any genre romance reader!
Beyond The Misty Shore
is a really terrific romance! It shares a subtle message that we all can learn from... Powerful, moving and uplifting! Victoria Barrett writes pure magic!”

Coming next:

Upon a Mystic Tide, and Beside a Dreamswept Sea.

All three novels are being re-issued by Bell Bridge Books in multi-format ebook editions and new trade paperback editions, beginning in September 2011. For more information visit Bell Bridge Books at
http://bellbridgebooks.com
.

Other Vicki Hinze Titles Coming Soon From Bell Bridge Books:

Military Romances

Shades of Gray, Acts of Honor,
and
All Due Respect

Metaphysical Romantic Suspense

Festival

Maybe This Time
.

Beyond the Misty Shore

Book One in the
Seascape
Trilogy

by

Vicki Hinze

Bell Bridge Books

Copyrights

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
eISBN: 978-1-61194-064-0
ISBN: 978-1-61194-054-1

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 1996 by Vicki Hinze

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Beyond the Misty Shore
Vicki Hinze writing as Victoria Barrett; first published in mass market paperback by St. Martins Press, NY

We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.
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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo credits:
Beach (manipulated) © Jo Ann Snover | Dreamstime.com
Woman (manipulated) © Elena Alykova-sergeeva | Dreamstime.com

:Etbm:01:

Chapter 1

T.J. MacGregor tried to leave Seascape Inn, but every time he crossed the property’s boundary line, he blacked out.

For nine months now, he had attempted to find out why. Yet, after all this time, he stood alone on the misty shore, his feet wedged into crevices in the jagged rocks, without so much as a weak hypothesis.

Hoping for a miracle but fearing he’d used his ration of them long ago, he looked to the horizon. A wall of fog headed inland, rolling over the white-capped Atlantic. The frigid November wind soon would carry it onto the cliffs and it, too, would enshroud him. That had new resentment heaping onto the old and burning in his stomach. There had to be a reasonable explanation for this.
Why couldn’t he find it?

Angry waves crashed against the sea-jutting rocks forming the coastal barrier and the narrow strip of sandy beach below. The smell of salt spray filled his nose. It tingled from the cold, as his nerves did from tension, and he looked down at his hands. They were red and raw and trembling. He rubbed warmth into his numb fingers, setting them to stinging and him to cursing at not having gloves. If he’d expected to winter in Sea Haven Village, Maine, he’d have had gloves. But he’d expected to be at home in New Orleans. He’d expected to be painting.

The resentment burned deeper, welled in his throat. His eyes stung and teared. He blinked, then turned away from the ocean, letting his gaze dart past the dead grass, brown and bent and broken under the weight of blade-clinging ice. Feeling equally burdened, he looked on toward the nest of firs and the hints of rooftops beneath the steely gray clouds in the sleepy village to the south, then up the western path leading back to the house that once had seemed to heal and now had become his prison.

Seascape Inn.

Across the road and atop a little hill, it looked so... ordinary. Just three floors of gray Victorian clapboard with stark, white shutters. A widow’s walk. A wide porch strewn with rockers and a swing. A north tower stretching up into the heavy clouds.

Ordinary.

Yet no one knew better than Tyler James MacGregor that Seascape Inn was anything
but
ordinary.

During his time here, most guests had attributed Seascape’s “special” assets to its caretaker, Miss Hattie, an angel if ever one walked the earth. But some had claimed Seascape itself the haven: a wonderful old house with seemingly magical, soothing powers where a person could come broken-bodied, or broken-spirited, gaze out upon the star-spangled sea, and heal.

On departing, three guests had seemed disturbed, though they’d refused to disclose their reasons, which could have been entirely unrelated to the inn. But the majority of the guests had said nothing out of the ordinary and had radiated silent contentment. A rare two guests, however, actually had called Seascape “The Healing House.” With those particular two, T.J. closely identified. Though cynical now, he’d felt that same way years ago, on his first visit here.

Miss Hattie swore that during her lifetime Seascape had seen more than its fair share of miracles, and everyone in the village considered her word bankable. Forced to agree with them, T.J. rubbed at his neck. Pure and simple, the woman could never lie. But she could be a victim of distorted perception.

Living here as a prisoner for the last nine months had opened his eyes in a way only forced, constant exposure can. What he’d known about the seaside inn back then hadn’t been the entire picture, and the entire picture had him wondering. Was Seascape a haven or hell?

Still uncertain, he squinted up at the thin rays of weak sunlight seeping through cracks in the early morning haze. They slanted against the attic room window, and the glass sparkled gold like a cocky, winking sentry, mocking him. His stomach churned and, seething, he glared at the glass. How had he been so blind? So enraptured with Seascape’s false sense of calm and peace back then that he’d convinced himself the house held the ability to heal? How had he been so arrogant as to truly believe it held magic and he’d captured that magic on canvas?

T.J. grunted. That was the trouble. He had believed. God, had he believed. So much so he’d neglected to remember something very basic in art, and in life: every object casts shadows.

He’d once experienced Seascape’s light, its healing magic—the object. Now, he experienced its dark side, its curse—its shadows. The light sucked a man in and blinded him to his troubles. The shadows lured him, then tortured his mind and smothered him until the man inside threatened to wither and die.

Forgetting that basic truth had been a big mistake.

He kicked at a small stone and watched it skid over the rocks then plunk down into the ocean. Why had he forgotten it? He had no high-blown illusions about himself. He was an artist—in a sense, an atypical one because he wasn’t atypical, just talented. No overestimation of his worth, by any stretch of the imagination. Ten world-class pros stood brush-in-hand right behind him, nipping at his professional heels and, at any time, he could be replaced by an up-and-coming. He was rich and made no bones about it. Why should he? Money was an accident of birth, useful only for the good that could be done with it—no less, but certainly no more. Only the way a man lived his life determined him a better or worse person than any other man. He reeked conservative. Definitely not-flashy in manner or appearance. He hated flash as much as he hated snobs, peach ice cream, government interference, closed minds, and garden-variety fanatics. And he never, never, used his personal clout to further his professional aims.

No, he shifted on the granite cliff and stiffened against a strong gust of wind, he had no illusions. In the physical sense, he was above average for a guy in his thirties, filling out a good forty-four-long suit just about right. Big men seemed to attract women and for that he felt grateful. He genuinely liked women. The way they walked, thought, sounded, and felt fascinated him. On the emotional front, well, he had a ways to go to get to average. But he loved those he loved, and he never lied to those he didn’t. All things considered, he rubbed his jaw, he was a guy with dreams and the desire to become a better human being who happened to paint for a living just as other men happened to run corporations or to work in mills. He played straight with everyone, personally and professionally. Tried to live right. Hell, he’d never even stinted and squirmed out of jury duty. So what had he done wrong?

Where had he failed?

This imprisonment had to be punishment for something. But what? What had he done to warrant—whatever in hell this was?

A lump of bitterness swelled in his throat. He swallowed it. No, even if Seascape were magical, it couldn’t heal him again. Though his friend, Bill Butler, disagreed, T.J. clearly had gone too far for it to help him this time. Bill might be one of the best fishermen, the most sensitive poets, devoted family men, and trusted friends a man could have, but about T.J.’s situation the man was dead wrong.

Or was he?

The wind shivered through the pines down to the tree line and lifted whorls of sand on the rocks below. The tide was coming in, splashing higher and higher on the rocks, and the wind was bouncing off them, gushing up and over T.J.’s skin and whistling in his ears. Okay, there was logic in Bill’s argument. If T.J. believed his art had caused him to become stuck here, then it did stand to reason that his art could free him. But could the mystery playing out here be that simple? T.J.’s gut instincts screamed that it couldn’t and, when Bill returned from New Orleans with the painting and T.J. tried, and failed, to cross the boundary line and to escape while holding it, Bill would see that this situation had nothing to do with logic. Like everything else sweet that had soured in T.J.’s life, this had to connect to his gift... somehow.

His
gift.

T.J. fisted his hands. Some
gift.
He never wanted to paint again. Why the hell would he want to paint again? It had cost him everything. His parents. His fiancée, Carolyn. His freedom. And now, he feared, his sanity.

His nerves were raw, his muscles clenched into ropy knots. He squeezed his eyes shut. No. No, Bill
had
to be right. This strange phenomenon
had
to be psychological. T.J. couldn’t fight insanity, but he could fight psychological. He was not insane. His attempts to leave here were not futile. He
could
fight.

He stiffened his spine, determined to regain control of his life. Despite the frigid chill in the air, sweat trickled down his temples, between his shoulders, over his ribs, and down his back. So many times he had attempted this challenge and every time he had failed.

But this time he would succeed.

This time he would cross the invisible boundary line and step off Seascape land. He would walk down the cliff to the winding road and then on into the village. From there, he’d hitch a ride with Jimmy Goodson, the mechanic, and drive up to Bangor, where he’d catch the first flight out and go home to New Orleans. He’d leave Seascape Inn and its mysteries to its caretaker, Miss Hattie, the soft-spoken, iron-willed, and gold-hearted angel who for some unknown reason chose to spend her declining years as she had spent the rest of her life: residing here among the demons. This time, T.J.
would
leave. And he’d never look back.

Resolved, he opened his eyes, scuffed the toe of his shoe into the boundary line. While dragging it, lifting tiny stones and forming a ridge in the coarse, damp sand, he issued himself his standard pre-attempt reminder:
The sooner I get away from here, accept my loss, and bury everything that’s happened here, the better off I’ll be.

Feeling an adrenaline rush, a surge of fear chipped away at his certainty that this time would be different, he lifted his foot and stepped over the line.

The temperature plummeted.

That familiar veil of freezing mist blanketed him.

Those hated, icy fingers of cold applied pressure to the hollow at his shoulder.

Dread punched into his stomach and warning spots flashed before his eyes. Panic seized his mind and, fighting the unseen demon for all he was worth, he swung his fists and screamed,
“Nooo!”

Clipping only air, he swung again and again. His head grew lighter and lighter, his vision dimmer and dimmer. His chest throbbed. Oxygen-starved, his lungs burned and ached. He struggled to gasp, but couldn’t find air. Fought hard, then harder, but the unseen demon wouldn’t let go.

His strength drained. Helpless and weak, he crumbled onto the rocky ground, and despair settled in. God help him, it was happening again.

And again there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Sensation dulled.

He ceased struggling.

And he sensed... nothing.

After two years
in what amounted to a self-imposed prison, Maggie Wright stepped off the riverfront sidewalk and into Lakeview Gallery. A warm blast of heat welcomed her, and somewhere in the back of the building a bell tinkled softly, announcing her arrival. It wasn’t cold in New Orleans—it was rarely cold in New Orleans—but it was raining, and she’d gotten wet hiking the three blocks from the closest available parking space, which didn’t do wonders for her mood. At best, that mood bordered on grouchy, and it hovered too close for her comfort at downright scared.

Shoving aside the feeling she was forgetting something—being mobile and responsible only for herself again would take a little adjusting—she gave her shimmering teal raincoat a gentle shake and wiped her matching, drenched heels on the carpet in front of the glass doors. Why would anyone put white carpet in such a high-traffic area?

She looked around. The old warehouse had been remodeled by someone with an appreciable taste and talent that helped her recapture her confidence. She’d never been a wimpy woman—a
flaw
her mother had warned her against from the cradle.
Maggie, you’ve got to be less sure of yourself, hon. If you’re too independent, you’ll never snatch up the gold ring, much less the man dangling it.

Maggie grimaced at the memory constant repetition had burned into her brain—not that she considered it credible. In her book, feminine or eligible didn’t equate to helpless or dependent, and, even if it did equate, she lacked the panache to fake it. Who’d want a man who wanted a woman like that, anyway?

With a calmer eye, she scanned the gallery. Muted white satin benches circled the bases of tall white columns that stretched up to the high ceiling. The walls and ceiling, like the floor, were painted soft white. So was the long linear desk near the far south wall. In fact—she scanned the wide room—there was nothing present to detract from the purpose here. And that purpose was art. Visitors had to focus on the sculptures, on the paintings lining the walls, because there was nothing else to focus upon. Yet, the place didn’t feel cold or distant. It felt... alive.

The marketing expert in her appreciated the clever design and decor. Maybe the white carpet wasn’t so silly after all. The aesthetic gain far outweighed the hassle of dealing with a little dirt.

A black man stood across the cavernous room. His hand shoved into his slacks pocket had his suit jacket bunched up and pushed back at his hip. He had a kind, sensitive face, a tall, graceful body—clearly a runner—and, from his expression, the painting on the wall before him entranced him. He wasn’t a collector. While nice and immaculately pressed, his suit wasn’t expensive, and collectors who acquired art via Lakeview Gallery were notoriously as wealthy as the gallery was prestigious. More likely, he was an employee. Hopefully, one who could give her the answers to questions she’d pondered on, wanted, and waited two long years to hear. Answers, now that the time had come, she half-feared.