Beyond the Misty Shore (5 page)

Unable to peg it, Maggie shifted on her chair. What had Carolyn seen in the man? True, so long as he kept his acid mouth shut, he was gorgeous. The things he did for a simple white shirt and navy cashmere sweater should come with
Unsuspecting Women Beware
warning labels. But the minute he opened his mouth, his attitude made the man insufferable.

Miss Hattie bustled back into the dining room, carrying an aromatic platter of roast beef surrounded by new potatoes and fresh carrots that smelled heavenly.

“Tyler, be a dear and pour Maggie some wine, mmm?”

“No, thank you. I don’t drink.” Seeing what alcohol had done to her father, and consequently to her mother, had made even an occasional glass of wine turn bitter on Maggie’s tongue.

“I’ve a fresh pitcher of iced tea, if you’d like some. Lemon’s already wedged.” Miss Hattie put the platter onto the table. “Tyler, will you carve?”

“Sure.”

“First get Maggie the tea, please. I’m a bit weary.” She gave him a totally false sigh. “Oh, Maggie, go with him, dear—so you can see where I keep the glasses and such.”

Though she’d rather walk barefoot on a bed of hot coals than into the kitchen with MacGregor, Maggie stood up and followed him.

It was a warm room with a homey, lived-in feeling, decorated in light oak with white lacy curtains at the windows and pretty ceramic canisters lining the white counter. A large bowl of porcelain bisque, yellow daffodils rested on the round, oak table, and a second bowl filled with red apples, bananas, and oranges rested on the counter edge. Before the corner fireplace sat a red rocker—obviously a favorite spot to rest, judging by the indentations in the checked cushions—and a toasty fire burned in the grate. Moisture seeped from the logs and the crackling blaze soothed her frayed nerves.

“Glasses are here.” MacGregor opened the cabinet door next to the fridge, pulled out a tall, square-cut glass, then stuck it under the ice dispenser in the fridge door. “Crushed or cubes?”

“Cubes.” Were his neck an option, her choice might have been different. “Please.”

The ice plopped down and clinked into the glass. The fridge motor clicked on and whirred softly. “You can lighten up anytime, MacGregor. We’ve established I’m not after your body—or anything else.”

“Remember our deal? You stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

The fire snapped and hissed. Crazy as it seemed, she had the feeling the fire was angry. Or maybe disappointed. She glanced through the screen at the gold and blue flames curling over the logs and, sensing nothing in the least strange, silently chided herself for letting her imagination run wild.

“I remember our deal.” She leaned a hip against the cabinet, eased off her shoe then rubbed her sore arch against the top of her other foot and took the ice-filled glass he offered. “I don’t understand why you’re determined to be an obnoxious jerk.” She stared up at him. “But then, it isn’t mandatory I understand, is it?”

The phone rang. Then rang again.

Miss Hattie answered it. Her muffled voice carried through from the entryway into the kitchen.

“No, it isn’t mandatory that you understand.” T.J. stared back at Maggie, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

She schooled accusation from her expression, forcing it bland. The man sent out confusing mixed signals. One minute, he wielded sarcasm as if it were a weapon. The next minute, he wore it as a shield. Which was it? One, the other, or both?

Time for an olive branch. “I really don’t want anything from you, but I might be able to help. Something’s obviously wrong. Won’t you tell me what it is?”

T.J. grabbed the ironstone pitcher and filled her glass. What wasn’t wrong would be an easier question to answer. Maggie wasn’t after him—when he’d mentioned it, her reaction removed any doubts he might have had on that—so why couldn’t he drop the ass act and treat her decently?

That he didn’t know why irked him. That he suspected he didn’t
want
to know why irked him more. Maybe she kind of, sort of, in an atypical, illogical way, appealed to him.

He grimaced. Hell, of course she appealed to him. She was a beautiful woman and he’d been here without any woman for a long time. Of course, she appealed. And, of course, her appeal to him irked him. What man with a record for destroying women he loved wouldn’t be irked at the first sign of attraction to another woman? Especially a woman he’d deliberately treated shabbily who still reached out a hand to help him?

“Everything’s fine,” he lied. “Lemon’s in the fridge. Top shelf.”

Miss Hattie came in, wearing her black coat. “I’m afraid you two will have to excuse me.” She scooted around T.J. and retrieved a covered dish of something from the fridge. “Jimmy’s gone and gotten himself sick, rescuing those stranded drivers. The boy is sneezing and hacking something awful already. I’m going over to see about him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Hattie.” Maggie sounded sincere.

She no doubt was sincere. The thought of sharing a meal alone with him couldn’t hold much appeal. T.J. looked at Miss Hattie. “Can’t Lucy check on Jimmy? She’s right next door, and you shouldn’t be out in that mess. You’ll get sick yourself.”

“Bah, I never get sick. Too stubborn, most likely. Anyway, Jimmy needs some hot chicken soup.” She hiked the bowl, balancing it on her hip. “Oh, I nearly forgot, Tyler. Vic was late with the mail today. You’ve got about a half-dozen catalogues and two travel magazines on the desk.”

“Sounds like Vic’s been to the Grange dance again.” T.J. grinned.

“Afraid so.” Miss Hattie sighed indulgently. “The man is awfully hard on his feet. But, my, he loves to dance.” She headed toward the back door. “Just leave the dishes. I’ll see to them later.”

“Be careful.” Tyler frowned at her back, then returned to the dining room.

Miss Hattie dropped her voice to a whisper. “Maggie, dear, forgive Tyler. He’s upset because he can’t walk me over to Jimmy’s. Be patient with him, mmm?”

Why couldn’t he walk Miss Hattie over to Jimmy’s? Maggie started to ask, but felt guilty about prying when she herself held a mountain of secrets. Instead, she nodded.

Seconds later the door closed behind Miss Hattie, and Maggie went back to eat dinner, certain it’d be the longest meal in her life. A shame really. With its attractive wainscoting, pretty pink-floral-on–navy-blue wallpaper that matched the pads on the chair seats, and its crown molding, the dining room was as charming as the rest of the house. A long, shiny buffet rested against the west wall, and three huge windows defined the south. Behind Maggie, French doors led to a veranda that she pictured laden in summer with hanging baskets brimming with marigolds, petunias, and impatiens.

T.J. sliced the roast. Though huge, his hands moved swiftly, deftly, and she suffered a totally unreasonable urge to see them busy doing his work. “When you aren’t hassling women in the bath or sending them sprawling over tons of luggage in hallways, what do you do, MacGregor?”

“I did paint.” He didn’t meet her eyes.

Past tense. An odd chill whisked over her nape. “Paint?”

He motioned for her plate. “Paint.”

She passed it over. Like pulling teeth. “What did you paint?”

“Miss Hattie claims I did a wicked job on her gazebo and greenhouse.”

Why was he lying to her? “Greenhouse. That explains the fresh flowers everywhere. They’re all yellow, too—even the porcelain ones on the kitchen table. Have you noticed that?”

He nodded. “She gripes about the expense—the woman’s as frugal as only a Mainer can be—but she loves tending the flowers. She has a real touch with them.” He filled her plate. “Lucy Baker says keeping fresh flowers is Hattie’s duty.” He lifted the meat fork. “And before you ask, no, I don’t know what she meant by that.”

Maggie accepted her plate back, then took a sip of tangy tea. “Who’s Lucy Baker?” He’d mentioned her several times.

“She and her husband, Fred, run the Blue Moon Cafe. Fred’s homegrown. Sits on the Planning and Zoning Commission.”

T.J. was confusing her again. Maggie frowned. “Why are you smirking?”

“Fred took the commission seat because he hates tourists. They don’t respect the land like locals do.”

“I’m figuring that eventually you’ll get around to explaining that smirk, MacGregor. What does Fred hating tourists have to do with it?”

“He married one.”

Maggie felt her lips curve. “Where’s Lucy from?”

“Mississippi, but Fred calls her a pseudo-local. Her father was from here. He relocated in Mississippi with his job, but Lucy and her family came back here every summer.”

“Sounds like a good family life. Refreshing, these days.” A stab of envy slipped into Maggie’s voice. Realizing she’d spoken aloud, and not wanting to be pressed to explain, she quickly added, “What’s Lucy like?”

“She’s a great cook, and she chews a mean piece of gum.” He paused to reach for the salt, sprinkled his potatoes, and then continued. “But she’s a bit of a romantic.”

“Ah.” Maggie cut into her meat. The knife slid right through, promising it would be tender, and the smell of garlic had her mouth watering. “So she fell in love with Fred and stayed in Maine.”

“Actually, she says she fell in love with Maine and married Fred to stay.”

“Seriously?”

“No, just Lucy’s sense of humor.” He paused and cocked his head. “At least, I think it is. She seems nuts about Fred, but who knows? Appearances can be... deceptive. Especially in relationships.”

“True.” To outsiders, Maggie’s parents had seemed the perfect couple, and nothing could have been further from the truth.

T.J. spooned a large serving of carrots onto his plate. “You never mentioned why you’re here.”

Dangerous Ground
warnings flashed in her mind. She chewed slowly, then swallowed. She’d better stick as close as possible to the truth. “I needed a rest.”

“From what?” Clearly surprised, he stabbed a hot-buttered carrot with his fork then raked it into his mouth.

“My mother was injured in an accident. I’ve spent the last several years caring for her.” Her hand shook. Had she been too specific?

He looked down at his plate. His voice lost its acidity, almost gentled. “Did she... recover?”

Strange. He seemed genuinely empathetic. Because of Carolyn? “Yes, she did.”

Empathetic? Genuine? Impossible. Maggie took another bite of hot, succulent roast, warning herself to be careful here. This man was
not
what he seemed.

As soon as the thought formed in her mind, a whisper of heat crept over her skin as if verifying the thought. Again feeling watched, Maggie instinctively turned to look behind her. But, as on the stairs earlier, she saw no one. Nothing except the French doors, which were tightly closed.

“Something wrong?”

T.J.’s voice startled her. Maggie whipped back around in her chair and forced a smile to her lips. “No. No, everything is fine.”

He watched her warily, and she tilted her head. “There’s something... I don’t know... special about this house. Do you feel it?”

He didn’t answer. Just chewed his food and stared daggers at her.

What had she done wrong now? Well, hell. At this rate, they’d both die of old age before she got past his first line of defense. “Have you been here long?”

“Yes.” He speared a potato.

And he didn’t like it. So why didn’t he leave? “Mmm.” She sipped at her tea. The chilled glass was sweating, and droplets of moisture ran down it in rivulets to the tablecloth. “How long will you stay?”

“Until I leave.”

Why did he sound upset? Evasive? “Miss Hattie mentioned magazines. Do you enjoy traveling?”

He polished off his last carrot, dabbed at his lips with his napkin, then stood up. “If you’ll excuse me. This session of Twenty Questions is over.” He lifted his plate, then went into the kitchen.

Maggie let out a frustrated sigh. Something wasn’t right here. What it was, she didn’t have a clue. But MacGregor reeked of being a man in trouble—and one peeved to the tips of his arrogant ears about something. The question was what. Did it have anything to do with Carolyn?

After finishing her meal alone, Maggie took her plate and the platter into the kitchen.

MacGregor stood at the sink scrubbing a blue enamel roasting pan, his arms submerged in hot, soapy water up to his elbows.

She set her plate onto the counter and, when he finished rinsing the pan, she grabbed a dishcloth and reached for it. “I’ll dry.”

He frowned, didn’t utter so much as a whisper, but passed the pan.

She took it, her cool fingers brushing against his warm, wet ones. Their gazes locked. Emotions fumbled through MacGregor’s eyes. Hope. Bitterness. Then anger. His frown deepened. Before he could smart-off at her, she gave him her best, disgusted look. “I don’t know how long you’ve been here, MacGregor, but your social skills could stand a little elbow grease.”

“I’m not social.” He plunged the lid into the suds. A wall of water splashed onto the counter.

“No kidding?” She cupped her hand and swiped the water back into the sink, then patted the counter dry with the cloth.