Beyond the Misty Shore (31 page)

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?”

“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.

Maggie, the truth!

All right!
She answered telepathically, as she had on the cliff.
All right. I want to be with him too much, and that scares the socks off me, okay? That’s the truth.

It’ll do for now.

Tony—if you are Tony—

I am.

Well, you’re really being pushy here, and I don’t much appreciate it. I don’t like nagging. I’ve never liked nagging. Why are you making me tell you things that I just plain don’t want to tell you? I don’t like it.

The whisper grew to a clear voice. One tinged with sadness.
You don’t have to like it, Maggie. You do have to accept the truth. I’m never going to let you lie to yourself again like you did with Sam Grayson.

Sam Grayson? 1 didn’t lie to myself about him.

You told yourself you hated him.

She had.
He hurt me, Tony.
Maggie stared at the porcelain daffodils, wishing she could shrink down and curl up inside one of the petals.
I didn’t mean it, and I knew I didn’t. I was just hurt.

Pain is a part of life, but it’s not a license to lie. And you’re lying to yourself about Tyler now just as you lied to yourself about Sam then. It’s time you faced that truth, Maggie. It’s time you stopped running.

I’m not!

Right.

Sarcasm. Couldn’t she even get a ghost without an attitude? A man was bad enough.

He laughed.

Maggie frowned.
Okay, maybe 1 am running. But, geez, Tony, I know how men are about things. Are you forgetting about my father? What do you expect from me? That I just forget all the lessons I learned there?

Are you like Carolyn?

No! But what’s she got to do with—

Then why do you insist Tyler is like your father?

Maggie grimaced, hoping Tony would see it—wherever he was.
Don’t be absurd. MacGregor is nothing like my father. I see where you’re headed here, but you’re mistaken. They’re both men but nothing alike, just as Carolyn and I are different. But the lessons are the same, Tony.

Are they?

Were they? Was she doing the same thing with MacGregor about the lessons as she had about Carolyn? No. She couldn’t be.
You’re wrong, Tony. Look, why don’t you go pick on MacGregor? You’re supposed to be his entity. I just kind of stumbled into this mess.

No, you didn’t. I brought you here.

Surprise shafted up Maggie’s spine.
What?
She looked over at MacGregor. Still cooking. Still humming. Still blissfully unaware, damn him.

The lure at Lakeview Gallery—when you looked at the Seascape painting. You felt it?

That was you?

Nice touch, eh?

And was that you on the staircase, too—with Cecelia’s portrait?

No, sorry. Can’t take credit for that one, though it’s been me you’ve sensed watching you.

Good grief! Are you telling me there’s more than one ghost in this house?
Her heart nearly exploded in her chest.

Calm down, will you? I haven’t told you there are any ghosts in this house.

Well, if you’re not a ghost, then what the heck are you?

What’s the difference? That isn’t the question at hand, Maggie. The question is... what are you?

She blinked, then blinked again.
Last check I was sane and human, but I’d be scared to bet on either anymore.

He laughed.
You’re sane and human, Maggie. Never doubt it.

Tacky, Tony. And I sure can put a lot of stock in your conclusions. I’m sitting here having a telepathic conversation with a ghost who doesn’t know—or won’t admit he’s a ghost—worried sick about my sanity because I don’t believe in ghosts, and you’re laughing and reassuring me that this is oh-so-common? Geez, I can’t figure why I’d even think something was odd here.
She frowned, deeper.
And, while we’re on the subject of you, you’re as arrogant as MacGregor.

Thank you.

That wasn’t a compliment.

Sounded like one to me.

I definitely see where you’ve been influencing him.

He’s a man. Not so easy for him to discern my voice from his own conscience. Tyler and I have had a lot of conversations since he came here. I’ve been worried about him.

But you’re not worried anymore.

We’re not out of the woods yet. But we’re on the right path. I’m... hopeful.

MacGregor put a plate down near her elbow. “Here you are.” Then he sat down beside her and stopped humming. “You look peeved.”

“I am.”

“Why?” He shook the folds from his napkin then dropped it onto his lap.