Beyond the Misty Shore (32 page)

“Because Tony’s got his warped sense of humor and
your
attitude.”

MacGregor frowned. “What?”

Maggie sighed and shoved back her chair. She’d had it with both of them. “Just get your paint gear ready in time for the picnic, MacGregor.”

“Maggie, I said I’d try painting again, but I didn’t say that I’d try today.”

She leaned toward him, her thighs bumping against the edge of the table. “Today, darling,” she whispered the warning. “Or you’ll be old and gray before you ever so much as touch a drop of hot water again.”

“You can’t do that.” MacGregor narrowed his eyes. “We made a deal.”

“Extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary measures.”

“You’re welshing.”

“Yeah, I’m welshing.” She pecked a kiss to the tip of his nose, straightened up, grabbed the sandwich off her plate, then turned and walked out of the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” He shouted to her, now in the gallery.

“To take a bath.” She stopped and glared back at him. “And don’t you even think about interrupting me, MacGregor. You’ll lose fifty redemption points and you will
never
get that bath—and that’s a promise.”

The fifteen-minute boat ride
went quickly, and Aaron dropped T.J. and Maggie off at a dilapidated wooden pier on Little Island. “Don’t be late getting back here,” T.J. told the boy.

“No, sir. Five o’clock sharp.” He grinned. “I’ll be here, sure as spit.”

T.J. nodded, his paint gear in one hand, the picnic basket Miss Hattie had prepared in the other. Aaron sped away, his boat leaving a wake that broke the whitecaps.

A sinking feeling hit T.J. in the stomach, and he looked at Maggie. If her expression proved an accurate gauge, the woman was still ticked to the gills. What had happened to her in the kitchen? Tony had a warped sense of humor and T.J.’s attitude she’d said, but what the hell had she meant by that?

Whatever it was, it had to be bad. She’d stayed in the tub two hours.

Maggie at his side, they walked down the pier in silence, and he looked around the isle. A rocky face, not too big, sandy and lush with winter foliage. Pretty in its natural state.

“I can see why Beaulah comes here.” Maggie stepped over a patch of wild lilies that had fallen to winter weather. “It’s got a serene feel to it, doesn’t it?”

Finally, a civil word. “Yeah, it does. There’s a clearing over there—four o’clock, by that big oak.”

She looked to where he’d semi-pointed with the basket, nodded, then headed in that direction. “Does anyone live out here?”

“No. There aren’t any utility services. Until a couple years ago, the island belonged to Miss Millie. She donated it to the villagers.”

“Mmm, not to the village, but the villagers. Interesting.”

She
was interesting. A beautiful bundle of contradictions that he adored. T.J. stepped around a sharp-edged rock. “That way the Planning and Zoning Commission can’t do anything out here, like build. The villagers have to vote and approve any change.”

“So only locals are supposed to be out here.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, how come Miss Hattie sent us, do you think?”

“I’m not sure. According to Hatch, the whole reason Miss Millie donated the island was because the villagers were complaining that Sea Haven Village was getting
‘too touristical.
’
”

Maggie spread a red-and-white-checked quilt out on the ground, just beyond the oak’s gnarled roots. “Mmm. The locals and tourists—it’s kind of a love-hate relationship, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” T.J. set down the picnic basket then his paint gear. “Maine depends heavily on tourism. The locals know they need those dollars—they’re a big chunk of the economic base—but at the same time, they know that tourists don’t hold the same respect as the locals for the land and resources.”

Maggie chuckled. “Maybe they should put a sign beside the ‘Welcome to Maine’ sign. One that says ‘Send Money But Stay Home.’”

T.J. laughed and sat down on the blanket. “Hatch would love that.”

“I’ll bet he would.” Maggie eased off her shoes and used them to anchor down the edge of the blanket. “Amazing how warm it is when it was so cold this morning.”

“That’s Maine.” One day, he’d paint her feet. Just her feet. Well, maybe her feet and her calves. Maybe her legs. The woman had gorgeous, long legs.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Maggie?” He heard his hesitancy in his voice but couldn’t bury it. “Are you going to tell me what happened in the kitchen today, or are you just going to let me guess forever?”

She shrugged and held her smile, but it was forced. “It wasn’t anything important.”

“I could tell. The Head Hot-Water Hoggett—who said she
never
welshes on a deal—welshes over nothing.” He opened the picnic basket lid. “Makes perfect sense to me.”

Maggie held out a hand. “Hush and pass the pickles.”

He handed her the jar but didn’t turn it loose. “You want a pickle? Then you tell me what happened.”

“That’s blackmail, MacGregor.” The sun streaked through the oak’s branches and onto her face.

“Yep, sure is.”

“Charming.”

“Thanks.” He smiled. “MacGregor’s rendition of subtle revenge.”

She shifted her gaze to the tree. “I guess I deserve that.”

“That’s about the way I see it.”

“You would. You do good nag. Unfortunately—”

“You don’t have to like it, honey, just accept it. I’m going to nag until you’re honest with me.”

“Figures.”

“I gave you my promise to always believe in you, Maggie.”

He’d said he loved her, too. But he didn’t.

“I meant it.”

Well, spit. What difference did it make in the long haul? She looked back at him. “Tony gave me a hard time.”

“In the kitchen?” T.J. asked only to verify. Getting her to give in had been easier than he’d expected. Obviously, she’d really wanted to talk about this, but still had been afraid to leave herself vulnerable.

“Yeah.”

That she was looking at him as if she feared he’d call her crazy had his heart aching. “Did you see him?”

“No. I just heard him—inside my head.”

“You’re sure it’s him?” T.J. let go of the jar. “Could’ve been your conscience again.”

“He said it was him.” Maggie unscrewed the cap, her hand trembling. “I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

T.J. passed her a sandwich. “Glazed ham on wheat.” When she took it, he asked, “What did Tony give you a hard time about?”

She took a bite of the sandwich and chewed slowly, as if engaged in a debate with herself about whether or not to tell him. T.J. girded his loins for the battle. He really hated nagging at her, but if push came to shove, he would do it.

She swallowed and lowered her gaze to the dill pickle. “Not being honest with myself about you.”

“He knew that?”

“Yeah, he did.” She bit off the pickle tip then crunched down on it. “And he sure didn’t hesitate to let me know it.”

When she had headed for the bath, T.J. figured this was serious. But with that fifty-point threat, what could he do? She’d needed space to work this through, and so he’d given it to her.

He stretched out beside her on the thick quilt. “I have to say, you seem pretty calm about this.”

“Calm? Don’t be absurd, MacGregor.” She finished her sandwich and finger-fished a second pickle out of the jar. “I figure I’m either having a very long nightmare, a complete nervous breakdown wherein I’m suffering delusions, or I’ve gone totally insane.”

He put a hand on her jean-clad thigh. “Sounds like losing situations.”

“Boy, you’ve no idea just how right you are.”

He’d known from the start that she had a hidden agenda here. What he didn’t know was if she’d ever be honest with him about the nature of that agenda. Just above her knee, he rubbed a little circle on the rough fabric with his fingertip. “Why don’t you tell me, then?”

“I can’t.”

He met her gaze. “Can’t or won’t?”

She licked at her lips. “Can’t.” Sending him a pleading look, she put her hand on top of his at her thigh. “I wish I could, Tyler. I swear I do. I’ve wished it a thousand times. But—”

“You can’t.” He turned his hand over and clasped her fingers. “Do you think you’ll ever be able to tell me, Maggie?”

“I hope so. I really, really do. But I can’t say for sure.”

Why did he have the feeling that this was out of her control? Or maybe it wasn’t out of her control, but something that would keep them apart? For a week, two questions had nearly driven him out of his mind. And this seemed the perfect opportunity to ask them both.

“Maggie, are you already married?”

“Geez, MacGregor. I can’t believe you’re asking me that. The way—”

“Are you?”

She stopped midsentence and glared at him. “No.”

He started breathing again and, until then he hadn’t realized he’d stopped. “I had to ask. With you not being willing to tell me what this is about, I can’t help exploring possibilities.”

“I can’t tell you.” Her voice went deadpan flat. “Can’t.”

He brushed at her thumb with his finger. “Are you a nun?”

Shock riddled her eyes. “Good grief! We’ve been to bed together, MacGregor.”

“I know.” He blinked hard.

“Would a nun do that?”

“I don’t know.” He answered honestly. “They’re human, too. And, if you’ll recall, it wasn’t right. If you were a nun, or married, you likely would hold back.”

“I am not a nun.”

“Okay.” This wasn’t accomplishing anything constructive, except that her genuine responses had set his mind at ease on those two possibilities. Maybe it was time to just trust her. If he weren’t so damn concerned that his judgment was sorrier than hell, he’d have done that a long time ago. But she had told him about Tony. She’d definitely been afraid of that, afraid he wouldn’t believe her, and yet she’d done it. She’d earned his trust.

He kissed the back of her hand then looked deeply into her eyes. “You remember the legend, Maggie?”

She nodded, clearly offended and still smarting from his questions.

God, but he hoped he didn’t live to regret this. “You remember how Collin took a leap of faith and risked what he couldn’t afford to lose for Cecelia?”

Again, Maggie nodded.

“It worked for them, honey.”

Her hand trembled. He rubbed it in both of his. “I’m going to take a leap of faith, too.” He squeezed her hands gently. “I’m going to risk losing what I can’t afford to lose. For you, Maggie.”

“Tyler, don’t. You don’t love me. Collin loved Cecelia and that makes it different.”

T.J. swallowed a knot of pure fear from his throat. “You can tell me a lot of things, sweetheart, but you can’t tell me what I am and I am not willing to do. I’m taking the leap, Maggie. And I’m praying it will work for us, too.”

“Oh, Tyler.” Tears gathered on her lashes. “What am I going to do about you?”

Love me!
his heart cried.
Just love me.
He stretched up and whispered against her lips. “I have a suggestion, honey. Anytime you’re ready to hear it, you let me know.”

And, Lord, but he hoped she’d let him know soon.

Chapter 15

Miss Hattie had been right.

Panic surged through Maggie’s veins. God help her, she had fallen in love with the man.

How could she have been so stupid? So blasted stupid? She stared into MacGregor’s eyes, and regret washed through her as the waves washed against Little Island’s rocky shore. She would hurt him, just as Carolyn had hurt him, because from all signs, whether or not Maggie believed them, MacGregor really did love her, too.

He dropped his habitual emotional guard completely, and the truth shone in his eyes. “I’m going to trust you, Maggie.”

Trust.
Not love, but
trust.
Had Tony been right? She’d considered the possibility before, but hadn’t drawn a conclusion. Had she really been like Leslie, seeing in MacGregor only what she expected to see?

More certain all the time that she had, she felt worse than rotten. She felt manipulative and underhanded, jammed by doubt and suspicion and fear into a lose-lose situation with no safe way out. Tell him the truth and lose him. Or don’t tell him the truth, and lose him because she’d really never had him. Definitely lose-lose. Boy, had MacGregor nailed that one.

And maybe Tony had, too.

She hadn’t seen it, hadn’t considered it so much as a remote possibility, but maybe she was like Carolyn, after all. Tears stung the backs of Maggie’s eyes, set her nose to tingling. She fought them. But in her mind, she imagined the cleansing and healing luxury of seeing one—only one— tear trickle down her cheek.

MacGregor sat at her side, his long legs bent and tucked. “You seem so... sad.”

“I am.”

“My trust isn’t worth you being sad, Maggie. I’d hoped to please you.”

It
was
worth being sad about. Few things in life were more worthy of sadness. She blinked hard and tried to steady the shake from her voice. “I’m sorry. It’s a big responsibility, you know?” And a big disappointment that she was unfit to carry that responsibility.

He kissed her cheek. “It’s kind of flattering that it’s this important to you. But I hate to see you down.”

She started to correct his misconception, to tell him the truth, but Tony had explicitly warned her not to do it. Doing so anyway could cause MacGregor more trouble, more pain. She didn’t want to cause him trouble or pain. No, it was kindlier not to tell him, kindlier to let him believe a lie, than to know the truth. He’d again lose his faith in womankind. He’d be devastated that his judgment had again proved faulty. And it had. Because he couldn’t trust her and he had. She’d stepped over the line and become a manipulating liar... just like Carolyn.

He rubbed Maggie’s neck with the tip of his nose, his breath warm against her skin. “Wanna watch me try to paint?”

Her heart hurt. His request had been made simply enough, but she sensed the cry for support in it. Saw that he was leaving himself wide open, trusting her to witness his possible failure. He was living his promise to her.

Too moved to speak, she nodded.

He pressed a fingertip to her chin to force her gaze to his. “If I fail, honey, I want you to know that it won’t be because I’m not trying.”

“I know.” She kissed his forehead, the edge of his brow, the tender skin beneath his right eye. “Have faith in
you
, Tyler. You can do this.”

He gave her a bittersweet smile that had her heart wrenching as if it were being squeezed in a vise. She sat still, watched him set up the easel, lift the canvas to it, then begin preparing his palette. Oh, how she prayed this worked. He’d lost so much already. To lose his art, too, seemed so cruel and unfair.

Life isn’t fair, Maggie.

Tony? What are you doing here?

Helping. It’s obvious I’m needed.

She frowned, not at all sure MacGregor needed this kind of help.
Okay, so help him—but not as you have been. I don’t want to hear that life isn’t fair, Tony. That isn’t what MacGregor needs.

What does he need, then?

She paused for a mere twinkling.
Unconditional acceptance—success or failure. He needs his work. He loves it. And he deserves better than he’s gotten so far with this guilt business about it, too. He deserves... a lot better, and a lot more, Tony. So much more.

I think what he gets depends on him, doesn’t it?

Ultimately, yes. But he needs support. He needs to know—

What?

I don’t know.
She really didn’t and that had her frustrated, searching.
He just needs, Tony. That’s all. He... needs.

Liar.

Her temper flashed and she spoke before she thought.
Okay, so I’m lying. MacGregor needs faith. He needs support and loving and trusting and approval. He needs understanding. He needs all that and more. But I need this lie, damn it. I’ve lost a lot, too. And I will not risk losing anymore.

Think about what you just said, Maggie, mmm? Just... think.

T.J. watched Maggie
from under his lashes, sitting on the blanket as stiff as a board, encouraging him by saying nothing at all. He fell into the old moves—squeezing the paint tubes, laying out his brushes, blending his prep colors—familiar moves, as natural to him as drawing breath.

He wanted to do this painting. He’d done it a thousand times, in his mind. Maggie. Laughing. Her head back, her eyes sparkling joy as they had the day he’d first crossed the boundary line and not blacked out.

He’d never do her justice, and he knew it. But he would pay her tribute.

Mentally seeing the blend of colors, the intrigue of shadows and shapes and planes, he felt the fire inside him ignite. His adrenaline started pumping hard, and he reached for a brush.

His stomach twittered, then flipped, and his chest went tight.
Nerves. Pure and simple.
He looked at Maggie. She hadn’t moved so much as a muscle.
Only nerves.

Are you sure you want to do this?

T.J.’s mouth went dry. Was it his own voice, or the entity’s? He couldn’t be sure.

Are you? Your gift has cost you everything. Your parents. Carolyn. You could lose Maggie, too...

He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. She meant too much to him. He said he trusted her, now he had to prove it. She
wanted
him to paint. She realized how much he needed to paint. And he realized that without it he’d never feel fulfilled. His soul wasn’t content, and likely it never would be. This gift was as much a part of him as his heart. She’d been right. He had to at least try.

So go on, Tyler James. Paint.

He fumbled the brush. It fell to the ground and the blue paint on it splattered across the brown grass. Glancing at Maggie, he reached down and retrieved it. She still hadn’t moved.

Go on, you persistent, selfish bastard! Go on, do it! You killed all the others because you had to have your gift. Go on now, kill Maggie, too!

“No!”
T.J. squeezed his eyes shut. “No. I... can’t.”

Do it!

I can’t! I love her, damn it! I... love her.

Warm breath fanned the back of his hand, then tender lips brushed against his skin. T.J. opened his eyes and looked into Maggie’s.

She held his gaze, kissed each of his knuckles, the valleys between each of his knuckles, the top of each finger holding the brush, her own hands calm and steady, soothing. “You can do it, Tyler,” she said softly, confidently. “I know you can.”

“Maggie, I—”

“I know you can.” She cupped his jaw in her hand, smiled a serene smile that took the breath out of him. “I believe in you.”

A surge of warmth spread through his chest then burst like an explosion. His heart beat hard, his blood gushed through his veins, throbbed at his temples. Dear God, this couldn’t be. But it was. It was!

The magic was back.

She guided his hand to the canvas, then released it and stepped away, returning to the rumpled quilt. “You’ve got to believe it, MacGregor.” She cupped her fingers and tapped them against her chest, over her heart. “You’ve got to feel it in here.”

MacGregor
not
Tyler.
She
did
believe. Feeling slugged, and gifted with a long-sought-after treasure, he stared at her. Watched her sit back down on the checked blanket, so calm and collected and at ease. She tilted back her head and looked up at him—and he nearly came undone.

His Maggie, his adored Maggie who didn’t cry, sat there with unshed tears shining in her beautiful eyes. They weren’t sad tears, they were joyful ones, celebrating his victory. How he knew that he had no idea, but he did know it. And then she smiled.

His own eyes blurred at the show of emotion and support. Neither had been easy for her. Any easier than her dragging him back onto Seascape land. Yet, once again, she’d done it. His throat constricted nearly shut, blocked by a wealth of feelings that sprang from his heart which he could never adequately verbalize. He dipped his brush into cerulean blue, his favorite emotion color, then tapped the left edge into alizarin crimson—a touch, no more than a touch—then dragged the entire edge through yellow ochre. He glanced at Maggie one last time and, far too emotional to speak, he smiled then set to work.

The first few strokes were unsteady, uncertain, and unsure, but within minutes, he settled into the old pattern, working furiously, slapping paint onto the canvas then brushing furiously to smooth it into the images and shapes and shadows he saw so clearly in his mind. Every few moments, he paused and studied Maggie. She remained sitting there statue-still, her beautiful smile never wavering.

He understood now what she’d meant by his trust being a big responsibility. Her support was a big responsibility, too, and he didn’t want to let her down. He
wouldn’t
let her down.

And then the art claimed him, and he worked like a man possessed, his focus total and complete. And in his heart, he felt the old, creative joy well.

The moment his love for his work
overtook him, Maggie sensed it. And she used the break of showing unwavering support to have a long-overdue, deep and serious discussion with her conscience. One she’d hoped to avoid, for obvious reasons, but one she’d known the minute MacGregor had told her that he trusted her, she couldn’t avoid any longer.

Okay, Maggie, here’s the deal. You’re in love with the man, and that’s a factor. You’re also in a lose-lose situation here, and that also is a factor. Combine the factors, and what you’ve got is nothing. There it is. He doesn’t really love you, just thinks he does, and there’ll never be anything more for you here. There is no relationship. There is no happily-ever-after. There is no love.

True.
She choked.
All true. So what now?

Now, you tell the heart to quit aching and the regret to take a flying leap. You’re no dreamer. You knew better than to ever expect the kind of love Cecelia and Collin, or Tony and Hattie, shared. So there’s no great surprise in that you won’t ever have it.

No, no great surprise.
She plucked up a bit of dead grass and worked it between her finger and thumb.
But there is disappointment. I never dreamed of that love, but I sure wouldn’t have minded it.

It hurts like hell—even if you didn’t lose your head and dare to dream, like Miss Hattie told you to do—but you’ll survive. You always have, and you’ve never had love like that, right?

Right. But it would’ve been

Forget would-have-beens. They’re like
almost
and
also ran.
Worthless. And forget that business that it was okay to know you wouldn’t have that rare kind of love before MacGregor came along because you didn’t know what you were missing, and now that he has come along, and he’ll be going along without you, the knowing has left a hole inside you. It just isn’t so, Maggie. You still don’t know what you’re missing because you’ve never trusted MacGregor. Right now, right this second, you still don’t trust the man.

So now what? I just end up empty and alone?

That’s up to you. You now have the bottom line. You’re going to lose him either way—if you tell him, or you don’t. So the question is, do you lose him by becoming like Carolyn? Or do you lose him by being honest and retaining at least an atom of your self-respect and dignity? The choice is yours.

Some choice. Maggie fingered the nubby blanket, stared at the dancing shadows where sunlight spilled through the curled, crisp leaves on the trees and dappled the quilt. It sounded so simple, so easy. But it wasn’t simple
or
easy. It was damn hard. To keep her self-respect, she had to go toe to toe with Tony, who’d expressly warned her against telling MacGregor the truth. She had no idea what he would do. But if she had to lose MacGregor, which seemed inevitable, then she should at least be permitted to retain what was left of her dignity and self-respect. True, after her shoddy treatment of him, both were pretty tattered, but they were all she’d have left. Tony had said he’d brought her here. MacGregor had been secondary, and she felt certain Tony wouldn’t hurt MacGregor—thank God for that. Because Maggie feared she would hurt him plenty by herself. But Tony well might hurt Maggie for defying him. Who knew what a ghost would do? Yet, to ever meet her own eyes in the mirror again, regardless of what Tony did to her, she had to tell MacGregor the truth. And that was the final, bottom line. She had to tell him the truth. Today.