Beyond the Misty Shore (30 page)

T.J. stepped beside Maggie
onto the road in front of Seascape Inn. Patches of ice clung to low dips in the spackled road where sleet pits had pounded into the light dusting of wet sand. Weeds and brown grass lining the sides of the surface crept onto its edges, and Seascape’s rarely used mailbox had melting sickles of ice dripping into the dirt and puddling at its base. “Vic’s probably headed toward the lighthouse. After Seascape, Hatch is next on the route.”

They hurried past Fisherman’s Co-Op. Leslie’s minivan wasn’t parked out front. Skirting around the wooden pier, they disturbed a squirrel who, indignant as hell, chattered angrily at them then ran on into the woods above the high-tide line. “Watch your step, Maggie. The ice is slick.”

She nodded and they went on, heading toward the narrow point at Land’s End where the lighthouse stood silhouetted against the sky. On T.J.’s first visit here, it had still been operational. He missed the light. It’d always struck him as a welcoming beacon, guiding the fishermen home.

The path’s slope steepened and, sure of his step, T.J. glanced up to the sky. It had clouded over, dull and gray, casting an odd pallor on the winter foliage and the ground, and the horizon had muddied, looking nearly black. “We’re in for more storms.”

Maggie scanned the sky, frowned, then lowered her gaze to Land’s End. The wind shifted, tugging at her hair. “Look.” She pointed, her nose and cheeks red from the suddenly frigid air. “There’s Vic. He’s coming this way.”

A few minutes later, Vic stepped up to them, his fur-lined cap riding low on his ears, his breath fogging in the cold air. “Morning.”

“Morning.” T.J. shook Vic’s gloved hand and reminded himself again to order a pair of gloves from one of his catalogues.

They dispensed with the courtesies, chatted for a few moments, then T.J. glanced at Maggie. She gave him the nod. “Vic, we need to ask you about something.”

He blinked, his eyes watery as he faced the wind. “If this is about the condoms, T.J.—sorry to be indelicate, Maggie, but that’s the tidiest word I know for ’em—I’ve been the soul of discretion. Ain’t mentioned ’em to a soul.”

Maggie’s face went red for the third time that day, and it wasn’t yet noon. “It’s not about that, Vic.”

“Oh.” He cleared his throat and hitched up the mailbag on his shoulder, looking sorry indeed that he’d raised the matter. “Well, what is it, then?”

“Do you know a man named Tony?”

Vic narrowed his gaze and clacked his teeth together three times, clearly pondering. “I’m
friendly by nature, but I ain’t usually so accommodating as to answer questions about locals for folks from away, but if T.J. here will personally vouch for you, young lady, then well, that’ll be good enough for me, and I’ll answer your question.”

T.J. nodded. “She’s trustworthy, Vic.”

Maggie’s expression crumbled and she looked as guilty as sin. About what, T.J. hadn’t a clue. He pretended he hadn’t noticed, hoping Vic wouldn’t either. She still hadn’t revealed her mission here. Maybe it wasn’t simply to rest, as T.J. had deduced. But what else could it be? Miss Hattie had told him all about Maggie and how she’d cared for her mother. Pretty much what Maggie herself had told him, though she’d been much more modest about it. That had put his mind to rest on the mission business. A woman who put her life on hold to care for another, well, she wasn’t apt to be the kind of woman to be doing anything sneaky or underhanded—or so he’d thought, until seeing that guilt in her expression.

“Figured you would vouch for her, T.J. Miss Hattie ain’t ever wrong about folks.” Vic rubbed his clean-shaven jaw. “Only Tony I ever heard of anywhere around Sea Haven was Anthony Freeport. Some of his close friends called him Tony, including me. From the time we were sprouts, we were about as close as friends can get. We were quite a team, me and him and Hatch. But, other than him, I can’t place a soul in these parts who goes by the name.”

Maggie let out a sigh of relief that had T.J. grating his teeth.

She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling. “He
was
a villager.”

Feeling as if he’d been kicked in the stomach by a mule, T.J. tried to interrupt. “Maggie—”

“Vic, I’m so glad we asked you. I need to find Tony. Do you know where he lives now? Or maybe where he works?”

“I know where he is right this second.” Vic’s expression turned grim, deepening the lines in his face to creases. “Near the church. In the cemetery.”

Oh, hell! Anthony. Tony.
T.J. grimaced. Why hadn’t he put this together before now? True, he’d rarely heard the man referred to as Anthony. Everyone in the village and at Seascape just called him Miss Hattie’s soldier. Still...

Maggie frowned. “Is Tony the groundskeeper at the cemetery?”

Grumbling something under his breath, Vic rubbed at his neck and darted a covert plea for help T.J.’s way. “Er, not exactly.”

“Well, what does he do there?”

“Maggie,” T.J. cut in. “Vic’s trying to tell you that Anthony Freeport is buried in the cemetery. He’s dead.”

Chapter 14

Maggie’s knees threatened to collapse. She locked them.

“Tony died back during World War II.” Vic tucked a protruding letter back down into his mailbag.

“Are you all right?” MacGregor curled an arm around her waist.

She leaned against him. “I’m fine,” she lied. On the cliff, Tony had been wearing an old-fashioned green suit with shiny buttons. It could have been an Army uniform. Schooling her voice, she looked at Vic. “You knew Tony well.”

“Since we were sprouts.” He repeated his earlier remark, then slid MacGregor a look that asked if Maggie were slow to keep up. “Tony was my best friend.”

An Army uniform!
Shock streaked through Maggie like a thousand-volt power surge. She failed to keep it from her voice. “Anthony Freeport was Miss Hattie’s soldier, wasn’t he?”

Vic grabbed the bill of his cap and tugged it down as if to hide his eyes. Whether burning because of wind or remembrance, they were glossy. “Yep. Tony was the love of Miss Hattie’s life then, just as he is now.”

Maggie turned to MacGregor. “Tyler—”

“I know, honey.” He didn’t look at all surprised.

Why wasn’t he surprised?

“Tony was special,” Vic said. “Loved Hattie more than life itself. He swore nothing would ever separate them—not even death. Promised her that the day he left for duty. I drove ’em over to Bangor to the station, and I heard it with my own ears.” Vic’s expression grew melancholy. “Tony was a fine man. A fine man. He deserved Miss Hattie.”

Miss Millie had been right. Vic loved Miss Hattie, but he’d loved Tony, too. And because he had, he’d condemned both himself and Miss Hattie to spending their lives alone.

A flash of Miss Hattie at the cemetery putting yellow flowers on the grave came to mind. It was Tony’s grave she visited every Tuesday. And—oh, that had to be it! That had to be the reason Maggie had gotten ill so suddenly at the cemetery.

She and MacGregor had been about to see whose graves Miss Hattie had put the yellow flowers on. Tony hadn’t wanted Maggie to see his headstone because then she’d have known his name. And it wasn’t yet time. But... why?

MacGregor agreed with Vic. “Tony must have been special. He was well loved.”

Incredibly sad, Maggie fought tears. What had gotten into her today with this urge to cry business? Well, she had to admit that Tony and Miss Hattie and Vic’s situation was worth a good cry. Vic, worshiping Miss Hattie from afar, being a good friend to her. Miss Hattie, tending Tony’s grave nearly half a century after his death, regretting the life they didn’t get the chance to build together, knowing he’d loved her so much he’d vowed even death wouldn’t separate them. How very, very sad. And how very rare and special indeed their love had been.

Maggie blinked hard, her heart heavy. The vow. Had that been what Tony had wanted her to know before learning his identity? That he had made that vow? That it was why he remained at Seascape as an entity?

MacGregor’s deep voice claimed her attention. “Have there been reports of strange things going on at the inn?”

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.