Beyond the Misty Shore (4 page)

He walked past a Colonial washstand holding a cream-colored pitcher and bowl and looked at the windows. The panes were fogged. He rubbed the heel of his hand against the cold glass then looked out. Through a sleety haze and the stretch of tall firs, he could make out the village rooftops and the granite cliffs. A dull pain crept into his chest. Only in his mind could he go there, beyond the boundary line. Beyond the misty shore.

At night, he’d lie in bed in the Carriage House and imagine himself walking down Main Street, visiting Miss Millie’s Antique Shoppe in time for tea. At one time, her family had owned all of Sea Haven Village, Little Island—just offshore, which she’d donated to the villagers a couple years ago—and the land where Seascape eventually had been built. He could almost taste Miss Millie’s drop-dead, melt-in-your-mouth chocolate chip cookies. They were the best. And Lucy Baker’s cornbread. What he wouldn’t give for a quick run over to the Blue Moon Cafe for a slab of Lucy’s hot cornbread slathered with butter.

Heaving a sigh, he turned back to his chore. Something flickered in the mirror. The hair on his neck stood on end. He backed up a step, and looked to see what it had been. Sunlight reflecting?

But there was no sun. He glanced at the window. Still sleeting to beat the band out there.

Yet that was the feeling he’d gotten. That the flicker had been of some sheer, pure light. Strange...

“Hell, T.J.,” he muttered to himself. “You’ve knocked yourself out on the rocks one time too many. So now you’re seeing strange lights. So what?” He grabbed a bunch of hangers and slammed them onto the closet rod. “These days, what around here
isn’t
strange?”

He finished hanging up the clothes, then started on the suitcase he’d filled and carried over on the first trip, stuffing his underwear and sweats into the armoire on the east wall. Seeing a tiny crystal bowl filled with potpourri atop it, he sniffed. It smelled like the sea.

Until lately, he’d loved the smell of the sea.

With a little less enthusiasm for his task, he emptied out the forty or so travel magazines he’d accumulated in the last couple months and all the catalogues, then dumped them onto the desk, reminding himself to order a pair of gloves. From all signs, he was going to be stuck here awhile.

Bitterness burned strong inside him and that claustrophobic feeling had him banking down an anger that couldn’t be healthy. He snatched up a dry pair of jeans and a shirt, then headed for the bathroom down the hall.

That woman hadn’t noticed, but she wasn’t the only one around here who was tired, hungry, and wet.

Another twinge of guilt stirred in his belly. He’d really been obnoxious to her. But he’d been determined to quickly disabuse her—and Miss Hattie—of any ideas about throwing the two of them together coming out of the gate. No doubt, he’d succeeded. The woman had looked at him as if he’d stunned her—which he likely had, knocking her sprawling on her ass—then as if she hated him.

A shame, in a way. She had terrific legs, and he’d seen a lot of them when she’d taken the tumble.

The bathroom door was closed, but light seeped out from under it into the hall. Figured. He gave the door a hard rap.

“Yes?”

The woman. Who else? He grimaced and slumped against the jamb. “How long are you going to be in there?”

“I’m taking a bath.” She sounded irritated at him interrupting.

Hell, it could be hours. He sighed. “You’re supposed to put out the sign.” He looked at the bare nail meant to hold it, centered in the door.

“What is—Oh, I see it now. Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well, try not to homestead, huh? I’m wet, too—in case you didn’t notice.” Why did she grate on his nerves?

Maybe because right now everything grated on his nerves. God, he wished he could just go home. Coming back here had been a big mistake.

“Look, Mister... whoever-the-heck-you-are. I have just as much right to this bathroom as you do. So cool your heels—and your mouth, okay? I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

He grinned. He didn’t want to grin. In fact, he told himself he would not grin. But he couldn’t help himself. His size tended to intimidate and it wasn’t often a woman stood up to him. Obviously, he didn’t worry this woman a gnat’s worth.

Despite his resolve to hate Miss Hattie’s latest hopeful on sight, he had to admit that he liked her style. “I’m tired of thinking of you as
that woman.
My name’s T.J. MacGregor. What’s yours?”

“Maggie Wright,” she said, then grumbled something nasty, he was sure, though he couldn’t make it out through the door.

“Can we please do the honors another time? I’m a little busy at the moment.”

Water splashed. And for some reason, he pictured her jerking her arm at him in a heated gesture. That had him grinning again. He bit it from his lips. “Sure, Maggie Wright. But if I catch cold because you parked it in the tub for an hour—relaxing while I’m out here freezing my buns off—it’ll be on your head.”

“Your buns can fend for themselves until I’m done, MacGregor. I’ve earned this. It’s been a wicked day, and I’m not feeling very compassionate or gracious at the moment.” Another splash, followed by a content sigh. “Frankly, I’m feeling very self-indulgent. So go away.”

“I’ll be sick as spit for a week.” Aaron Butler would be proud of him, effecting one similar to his favorite phrase. And Miss Hattie would reprimand T.J. as if he, too, were only eleven years old.

“Sorry, fresh out of sympathy here. It all went to my aching arches. Blame the man who designed heels.”

Her sympathy remark held a ring of truth that went beyond her feet. “A man might have designed them, but you chose to wear those heels.”

“You’re blowing our deal.”

He was. Still, he intended to be obnoxious, right? She didn’t have to know he was also curious. “Why are you here? Tourist season is over.”

She hesitated along minute. “Go away, MacGregor. I’m sure there’s a Thou-shalt-not-harass-a-woman-in-the-tub house rule around here—and if there wasn’t, well, there is one now.”

He grinned again, and positively hated that. “Leave it to a woman to make up the rules as she goes along. I, at least, made a deal with you.”

More grumbling.

Shoving away from the wall, he dropped his clothes to the floor in front of the bathroom door, just to be contrary. He’d get her out of there. She was tired, wet, cold, and hungry, she’d said.

Ah, hungry...

Maggie’s mouth watered.

The smell drifted under the door and filled the bathroom. Beans. Hot pastrami and cheese? Beans being a New Orleans staple, she knew she’d correctly identified them, but the rest of the scents were debatable. Whatever they were, they smelled darn good, and her growling stomach proved it.

The rap at the door sounded.

Expecting it, she didn’t jump. Just toed the drain release so the water could start flowing out of the tub. “What now, MacGregor?” she said, forcing a sharpness into her tone that her mother wouldn’t have recognized.

“How’d you know it was me?”

His voice boomed through as if he stood on the rug next to her instead of on the other side of a closed door. “Who else around here nags the heck out of a woman while she’s bathing?” Had he forgotten that they were the only guests at the inn?

“Miss Hattie sent you up some food. If you want it, you’d best be out here in ten seconds, or you’ll be starving and hearing me tell you in minute, intricate detail just how delicious every single bite was.”

She dried off with the white, fluffy towel, rubbing briskly. The man wanted a bath badly. Or to convince her he was a total, unredeemable jerk—which was exactly what she’d decided mid-bath, and why she considered it prudent to keep her connection to Carolyn to herself. So long as Maggie got to Bill Butler first and gained his agreement to not mention it, she’d be okay. “Are you threatening to eat food you know is mine?”

Maybe she could worm her way around MacGregor’s attitude and into his life, where she could find out the truth. Shrugging on her pink, terry-cloth robe, she knotted the sash and gave it a firm tug. Provided the man didn’t provoke her into killing him first.

“Not threatening, Maggie. Consider it a friendly warning.”

She jerked open the door, stepped over his heaped clothes, then snatched the plate from his hand. “Consider it wasted.”

Lifting a pickle spear from the plate, she crunched down on it and walked away down the hall, back toward her room.

“Hey, this place is like a
steam
bath.” MacGregor groused. “It’ll be an hour before there’s any hot water.”

Maggie smiled and kept right on walking.

The grandfather clock chimed eight.

Maggie stepped onto the foot of the stairs. The smell of hot, yeasty bread filled the entry and her stomach growled, clearly still on Central Time. In caring for her mother, she’d kept to a six P.M. dinner schedule, and to Maggie’s stomach, dinner was an hour late. Hopefully, the Blue Moon Cafe smelled half as good as Miss Hattie’s inn.

“Ah, there you are, Maggie.” Miss Hattie stepped from the kitchen into the gallery between the dining and living rooms. “I was about to send Tyler up with a message for you.”

“Oh?” Had her mother called?

Miss Hattie tilted her head and let her gaze drift over Maggie, head to toe, her expression serene and sweet. “My, don’t you look lovely. I adore pearls. Lovely. Doesn’t she look lovely, Tyler?”

“Lovely.” Smelling like winter pine, and sounding typically sarcastic, MacGregor breezed past her wearing gray wool slacks and a navy sweater. His scent lingered in his wake.

“Jimmy called a bit ago and said we’re in for a wicked night. The weather isn’t fit for man nor beast.” Miss Hattie wiped her hands on a red-checked dishtowel. “You’re welcome to have dinner here.”

MacGregor paused at the dining room threshold. “At the risk of having Lucy Baker cut out my tongue, unless you’re used to driving in heavy sleet, I highly recommend you stay put.”

Whoever Lucy Baker was, Maggie liked her. “We don’t get much sleet in New Orleans.” Staying would give her a chance to work on MacGregor. “Thank you, Miss Hattie. I accept.” Maggie walked into the dining room.

Already seated, MacGregor propped his elbow on the lace-clothed table, then rested his chin on his hand and stared at her.

Maggie stiffened, feeling like an ugly bug that just had slithered out from a crevice in the cliffs. If MacGregor weren’t so bored, she bet he would stomp her.

What was wrong with him? She couldn’t look that bad. Her dress was simple. A classic black sheath that fit like a good glove with only a single strand of pearls at her throat and ball earrings on her lobes adorning it. Definitely understated. She had swept her hair up because it’d gotten wet in the tub and she couldn’t muster the energy to blow it dry. Little tendrils fell free from the knot at her crown and tickled her nape and her face, but there was nothing odd about the style. She’d no idea how Mainers dressed for dinner, so she’d played it safe—or so she’d thought.

She slid MacGregor a glare and a cool smile she hoped would slam his attitude into a deep freeze. “Miss Hattie, may I help?”

“Oh, no, thank you, dear. Dinner is ready. Just keep Tyler company while I bring it in.” Looking angelic, the old woman smoothed her pristine apron over her tummy. “It’s such a treat to cook for more than two again.”

She turned, rounded the corner, then disappeared, heading toward the kitchen.

MacGregor stared at Maggie’s every move. Holding off a grimace by the skin of her teeth, she slid onto a padded chair opposite him and swept the tablecloth back from her lap.

He didn’t say a word. The grandfather clock in the entryway ticked softly, but in the silent stillness it echoed, thudding inside her head. The man was intentionally making her tense. Why? Regardless, she resented it. Suspecting him of involvement in Carolyn’s accident had her tense enough—if it had been an accident. God,
please
let it have been an accident because Maggie couldn’t bring herself to even think that awful “M” word.

The Tiffany light above the table set his hair to gleaming blue-black, accentuated the slope of his perfect nose, and hid his eyes in shadows. “Why are you here?” she asked, though she hadn’t meant to. The words just had tumbled out.

He unfolded his napkin then smoothed it over his knees. “I’m hungry.”

Maggie mimicked the gesture. “I meant, here at the inn.”

“I like it here.”

She held off a sigh. “Are you always so sociable?”

“Pretty much.” He slid his gaze over her face. “Especially when the matchmaking queen is hard at it.”

Surprise streaked up Maggie’s back. Just the thought of getting back into the dating scene after her two-year absence made her stomach knot. Returning to it with MacGregor made her absolutely nauseous. “Not interested.”

“Me, either.”

“Good. Then maybe now you can be civil. I know it’ll tax your good nature—providing you have one. I can’t say I’ve seen so much as a hint of it.”

“It left with the tourists.” Something dark glinted in his eyes.