Beyond the Misty Shore (16 page)

He forced himself to calm down and think. There had to be more to this than what she’d told him. She’d felt the symptoms at the bench and then she’d turned to him for comfort and solace. Now she was turning away from him. Why? There
had
to be more...”You heard another whisper, didn’t you?”

She didn’t answer, just stared at him.

“Maggie, damn it, tell me the truth.”

“Yes.”

His heart nearly stopped.
Please, please don’t let it be that she could die, too. Please!
“What did it say?”

Her voice cracked and her chin trembled. Her eyes looked too big for her face, too small to hold all her fears. “To stay away from you.”

T.J. stilled. That didn’t make sense. It had told her to help him. Warned her. Now it’d done a one-eighty and told her to stay away? “Honey”—he softened his voice—“are you sure it wasn’t your conscience?”

“I’m sure.” She looked devastated. “It’s told me the same thing, but it has my voice. This message had the man’s whisper.”

She’d been afraid of facing this entity alone, but she’d chosen to do it, and clearly there was no way he could sway her decision. T.J. knew it. Just as he knew she’d made that decision to protect him.

He stood up, so humbled and rattled his knees felt weak. He wanted to hold her, to reassure her, but he couldn’t. Against this entity, they were helpless. How could they fight an adversary without knowing even its form?

They couldn’t. That was the bottom line. But if she stayed away from him, her odds of staying safe had to be better. Yet just the prospect of her being distant with him had his chest feeling as tight as his throat. “Thanks for trusting me enough to tell me, Maggie. That, um, means a lot to me.” She meant a lot to him. More than even he had realized, until now. He gave her arm a gentle squeeze, and kept all he would have told her, if he’d had the right, locked inside him. “I think we’d better listen to it.”

Her eyes wide and glossy, she nodded her agreement.

And because he needed it, as she’d needed it earlier, he kissed her. This time—God give him the strength—goodbye.

Maggie stared out the kitchen window.
Bleak and dreary. Again.

“Well, I can see my banana pudding doesn’t rank nearly so high as my blueberry pie or apple cobbler.” Seated in her rocker, Miss Hattie kept her gaze on the knitting in her lap, the needles quietly clacking with her stitches.

“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.”