Vicki Hinze - [Seascape 01] Page 21

  Darling? Her heart skipped a full beat, and she mumbled into the receiver, lost in sensual thoughts too rich to not indulge in. “Uh-huh.”

  Leslie and Bill were talking. On some level Maggie heard them, but she just couldn’t focus on anything other than MacGregor and the heat in his eyes.

  Again, he cued her. “Uh-huh.”

  She blinked, then blinked again, forcing herself to snap to and pick up on her surroundings. How had he done that to her? Beaulah was still raving, her tinny voice grating at Maggie’s ears even more than usual, considering where her thoughts had been only moments before. She slid her gaze to Bill. Why did he look amused? Leslie seemed genuinely upset. The phone buzzed a dial tone in her ear. When had Beaulah hung up? And what else had Maggie missed while lost in lust?

  She passed the receiver to MacGregor, who stretched and put it back onto its cradle on the bar. While leaning close, he whispered in her ear. “Leslie thinks she’s not accepted by the fishermen because she’s a black woman.” He nuzzled Maggie’s earlobe with the tip of his nose. “Bill’s challenged her to take over the auctioning of their catch and she wants your opinion on whether or not she should take the risk and do it.”

  Maggie swallowed hard. Her opinion was that the man in the chair beside her was a furnace—and clearly not as affected by looking at her as she was by looking at him. She patted his thigh, offering her thanks for him catching her up on the conversation, or to hide her disappointment—she didn’t dare to ponder which—then looked at Leslie. “Someone’s got to blaze the trail. Why not you?”

  “I could lose everything we’ve got.” Leslie looked excited, and scared half to death.

  Boy, could Maggie empathize with that feeling. Stroking MacGregor’s thumb with hers, she looked Leslie straight in the eye. “I think if your heart and mind agree that something is right, you owe it to yourself to at least give it a try.”

  Leslie lifted her gaze to the wall behind Maggie’s head, absorbing the advice. Bill winked at her. MacGregor gave her hand the most delicious squeeze. She could get used to him. So damn used to him. So easily.

  “Nothing comes with guarantees,” Leslie told Bill. “I’ll do it.” She pivoted her gaze to Maggie and it grew soulful. “Though the fishermen accepting me as one of them likely never will happen. Tight, closed-ranks, you know?”

  Bill clasped her hand, lifted it to his lips, and gazed at her through a husband’s adoring eyes. “They’ll love you.”

  Just like me.

  Bill didn’t say the words, but Maggie sure felt them. Oh, but to have a man look at you that way. To show such belief and support. Such... love.

  Leslie pecked a kiss to her husband’s brow, then pushed back her chair, her eyes glistening. “We should go home and... check on the kids.”

  “Yeah, we should.” Bill nodded and stood up. “You guys enjoy your meal.”

  From MacGregor’s tender expression, he realized, too, that Leslie and Bill were feeling tender and wanted some privacy, and it didn’t escape her notice that the pang of envy she felt that they could have that privacy while Maggie and MacGregor couldn’t reflected in MacGregor’s eyes.

  Lucy brought out platters of coleslaw, fried cod, and beans. Then she made a second trip from the kitchen and set a paper-lined red plastic basket of cornbread wedges down on the center of the table.

  MacGregor grabbed one, firmly pressed his thigh to Maggie’s, then released her hand and slathered the steaming cornbread with butter. The corner of his lip curled.

  Maggie frowned. “Why does Leslie feeling unaccepted amuse you?”

  “I wondered how long it’d be before you asked.”

  “Your attitude doesn’t usually extend to being an ass.”

  “Maybe you’re corrupting me.” MacGregor grinned, not looking at all offended.

  She’d misread this situation. “Okay, her feeling unaccepted doesn’t amuse you.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Well, what does then?” She cut into a wedge of cornbread. Steam spilled out over her fingertips and she blew on them to cool them down.

  “It’s her being so far off-base. Her acceptance has nothing do with her being black or a woman.”

  “Really?” Maggie wiped . butter sheen off her finger onto her napkin.

  “Really.” MacGregor sipped at his drink. The chilled glass sweated. “Fishermen are a special breed. They hang tough no matter what. They respect their families, their boats—they’re sacred. But the sea... Ah, the sea, sweet Maggie, is like a seductive mistress. If Leslie wants to belong, then she has to do to them what the sea has done.”

  Maggie nearly choked. “You mean she has to seduce them and become a mistress to the fishermen?”

  “Not hardly!” MacGregor dabbed at his mouth, chuckling, then leaned closer. “I was speaking poetically, Maggie. Doing it poorly, too. Leslie has to earn their respect and her place among them, just as the sea did. That’s what I meant.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Maggie didn’t bother to hide her relief. “Oh, wait. I get it. She needs to see things in the familiar.”

  “Exactly.” MacGregor rewarded her with a heart-stopping smile. “You worry too much.”

  Maggie planted an icy chill in her tone. “Some things are worth worrying over, MacGregor.”

  “True.” He sipped from his glass then set it back down to the table and met her gaze, not a trace of humor left in his eyes. “But some things just are, Maggie, and, sooner or later, you’ve got to accept them.”

  Like us.

  He hadn’t said it, but he hadn’t needed to. The words hung between them, no less clear because they’d gone unspoken.

  Maggie looked away, slid a half-full bottle of ketchup across the table. It clanked against the salt and pepper shakers. He was no more talking about Leslie than about his work. He was talking about them and their relationship, and the awful man was letting her know he’d recognized her pang of envy for Leslie and Bill and their privacy, too. “Why doesn’t Bill just tell her?”

  MacGregor grunted. “Because he’s not crazy.”

  “Why would—”

  “Think subtle revenge, Maggie.” MacGregor interrupted. “A man telling a woman how she feels is bound to earn him tons of it.”

  He had a point. Still...

  MacGregor smiled at her over a forkful of cod. “Besides, when Leslie figures it out for herself, she’ll be happier about it, anyway.”

  And so, too, would Maggie. Again unspoken, but not unheard.

  MacGregor laughed. “Don’t look so forlorn, sweetheart. Nothing will happen between us that you don’t want to happen.”

  It would. It already had in her heart and her mind. Unable to meet his eyes, fearing he’d see that truth in them, Maggie looked past his shoulder, let her gaze drift to the wall, to the infamous bulletin board, hanging under the Budweiser clock. A shiver raced up her spine. Jimmy had taken the condom request off the shopping list. So why were her and MacGregor’s names on it now? And what was that scribbled beside them? She squinted to see more clearly. Dec. 25th, 2 p.m.—Millie $5, Jimmy $20, Lydia “No Way” $17.52.

  Maggie stared at the board. Miss Hattie had explained that when Jimmy went to pick up auto parts in Boothbay Harbor or New Harbor, he also ran errands for the villagers who posted their lists on the board. But why were their names there? What did the names, the money, and Lydia Johnson’s “No Way” mean?

  The night air was clear and cold. Though T.J. didn’t look forward to being confined at Seascape again, he didn’t linger on the walk back to the inn. Maggie seemed fine, but she was shivering, huddled beneath the crook of his arm and in her jacket, and he feared whatever had made her feel bad earlier might come back again.

  He opened the mud room door and Maggie scooted past him. “Boy, a cup of hot coffee sounds good, doesn’t it
, MacGregor?”

  He closed the door, slid out of his jacket, then pegged it on a hook beside Maggie’s. “Yeah, it does.”

  Miss Hattie evidently had gone on up to bed, so they had the first two floors of the house to themselves. He was glad of it, though he damn well shouldn’t be, but he wasn’t ready for their day together to end.

  Minutes later, they settled down on the salon sofa holding steaming coffee mugs. The room was comfortable, inviting, and small enough to be intimate without seeming crowded. A television was near the far wall, in a corner, and a white fireplace centered on that wall. Floral paintings, brass sconces, and a gold-leaf branch centered between two windows lined the white walls. And two wing-back chairs covered in soft damask not only looked comfortable, but sat comfortably. He liked this room. Always had. But even more so now, being here with Maggie and them not at odds.

  She dropped her shoes on the eggshell carpeting and curled her feet up under her. “You know, I love these Mainers’ wit. Dry, but hilarious. And they seem to know instinctively what’s really important.”

  “They do.” T.J. stretched out his legs and crossed them at his ankles. His thigh brushed against Maggie’s knee. “And they’re as opinionated as heart attacks on matters of consequence to them.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Maggie sipped from her cup, a smile tugging at her lips. “Do you think Leslie will do better than Bill at representing their catch at auction?”

  “Bill thinks so, or he wouldn’t have suggested it. He’s a shrewd businessman.”

  “I asked what you thought.”

  T.J. shrugged. “Maybe. It depends on if she sees what’s really there, or what she expects to be there.”

  “I suppose so.” She stared across the room at the blank television screen, looking thoughtful, as if she wondered if she, too, saw what was really there or what she expected.

  “I sat in on a few council meetings here. Spirited affairs.”

  “That spirit is part of their passion, MacGregor. People should be impassioned.”

  More than a little curious, he looked directly at her. “What impassions you?”

  She glanced down into her cup and studied its contents. “A lot more than when I first came here.”

  She didn’t sound happy about that. “Would I happen to be included?”

  “Yeah, you would. But I’m fighting it.” Maggie lifted her knee atop his thigh. How could she not fight it? Keeping the truth about Carolyn away from him? “We don’t really know that much about each other.” Even to her, that sounded lame. She knew a lot about MacGregor from their talks, from their time together, from their bond. And, right or wrong, blessing or curse, she especially knew how he made her feel.

  “I know everything I need to know about you, Maggie.” He dropped his voice, soft and intimate.

  Her heart welcomed that intimacy, but her mind refuted the joy of feeling so connected to him. She’d lied. How could she feel connected with him with lies between them?

  She set her coffee cup down on the oak table at her elbow. “You don’t, MacGregor. You really don’t.”

  “I do.” He reached over and set his cup beside hers. The handles kissed and clanked, bumping together. Rearing back, he lifted his hand and twirled a lock of her hair between his forefinger and thumb. “I know how you make me feel.”

  “That’s about you, not me.” Why did he have to smell so good, to have such warm and gentle hands? And why was she shaking so hard?

  “I know how much I love your smile.” He let a fingertip drift over her lower lip. “And the way you unconsciously touch me.” He caressed her with his gaze. “I wouldn’t mind at all if those touches became conscious ones, Maggie.”

  Enough courage for today.

  She stared at him for a long, breathless moment, then lifted her hand to his face, traced his features slowly, deliberately. His beautiful nose. His hypnotic eyes. The curve of his jaw, his forehead, his brow. He gave her a slow blink that had his dark lashes sweeping his cheeks, the tender skin beneath his eyes crinkling. His lips, always enticing, now lured her. God, how she loved his lips. The shape, the feel...

  She wanted to kiss him. That wanting spread heat through her chest that turned to need, spread on to her middle, then settled low in her belly. A little puff of breath escaped from between her parted lips and fanned over his face, as gentle as a lover’s whisper. She dipped her chin and fused their mouths. He curled his arms around her back, pulled her closer to him, and let out a telling little groan that might just be the sexiest sound ever heard by womankind. That same lure and tug she’d experienced at Lakeview Gallery on looking at the Seascape painting, experienced here on looking at Cecelia’s portrait, that same sense of security and connectedness—of belonging—she’d felt on linking hands with MacGregor to cross the boundary line flooded through her again and warmed the doubts and fears from her heart. Maggie nearly melted.

  MacGregor broke their kiss and let out a shuddered breath. He rubbed their noses and hugged her tight, then looked at her, his eyes desire-glazed, his voice thick and husky. “If I could paint, I’d want more than anything else in the world to paint you.”

  A knot of bittersweet tears lodged in her throat. “You’ll paint again, MacGregor.”

  “I don’t think I can—even if I could.”

  “One day you will, Tyler. I believe it.”

  “Maggie, I swear you almost make me believe in miracles—maybe even in the legend.”

  She purred and stroked his chin, loving the sound of his voice, the dreamy feelings inspired by his kisses. “What legend?”

  He leaned back. “You don’t know about Seascape’s legend?”

  His surprise had a smile threatening her lips. “No.”

  “It’ll cost you. Legends are worth at least ten points.”

  “Ah, sweet redemption.” She let a fingertip wander over the curve of his lip. “I’m feeling gregariously good natured at the moment. I’ll give you seven.”

  “Nine.” He caught the tip of her finger between his teeth and gently raked it.

  “Seven.” She said on an indrawn breath. “I’m feeling good natured, not generous.”

  “Deal. Let’s get a refill”—he nodded toward their coffee cups—“then I’ll tell it to you—upstairs.”

  A flutter ruffled her stomach. “Upstairs?”

  “There’s only one place to tell the Seascape legend, Maggie.”

  She swallowed hard. “The widow’s walk?” she asked hopefully, half-squinting.

  “The turret.”

  Oh, God. “The, um, one in my room?” Of course it was the one in her room. It was the only turret in the house.

  He nodded.

  She paused, knowing full well that they were discussing far more than the relaying of a legend here. They were discussing making love. Her chest muscles constricted and her hand shook. Did she want to make love with MacGregor?

  He stood up and she let her gaze drift down him, head to heel. She did. With all her heart and soul.

  He doesn’t know the truth. Can you do this with lies between you?

  The whisper. She squeezed her eyes shut. I need him. As much as he needs me.

  A warm heat breezed across her face and she felt eased, soothed, encouraged. Definitely the entity, not her conscience. Whether or not it was a ghost, she’d no idea. But about her and MacGregor making love, it was pleased. In fact—

  “Honey, I haven’t asked you to forfeit your life in the electric chair, only to hear the legend.”

  Liar. She lifted her chin. MacGregor had asked for a lot more than her life. He’d asked for her honor.

  Courage.

  Maggie silently responded. Enough for today. The entity was pleased and, more importantly, so was she. “This better be a good legend, MacGregor. Seven points is nothing to sneez
e at.”

  He grabbed their cups. “It’s good enough for ten—and the bath.”

  She cast him a doubtful look.

  “Would I mess with a woman overly fond of subtle revenge?”

  Would he? Wishing she knew, Maggie stood up.

  Chapter 12

  T.J. closed his eyes inside the Great White Room and absorbed the quiet. So much emotion had been felt in this room. He sensed it. Its intensity and its magnificent force. Was that the reason so many guests experienced healing here? Sensations of serenity and calm? Of acceptance and peace?

  The Great White Room once had been Cecelia and Collin Freeport’s private domain. The room where they shared their secrets, their joys, their worries, and their love. Their son and daughter had been conceived here and, T.J. smiled, he could almost imagine them sitting here, debating and deciding everyday issues during their children’s growing years. Miss Hattie had told him stories of their son’s request to move upstairs to the attic room so that he might strut his independence safely in his struggle to grow from boy to man, stories of their daughter falling in love and marrying and moving away. Here, most likely, they’d consoled each other on Mary Elizabeth’s wedding day, knowing that she’d still be a woman when next she came to Seascape, but never again would she be their little girl. Likely it had been here that they had celebrated the joys of becoming grandparents to Mary Elizabeth’s son, Jonathan Nelson, the Atlanta judge who now owned Seascape, and that they’d comforted each other when their own son had left Seascape for the Army, then again when the hearse carrying his body had driven past the turret window down Main Street to the cemetery for his burial.

  All of that happened years before T.J. had come here, of course. But the emotions felt in this room hadn’t stopped with Collin and Cecelia’s passing. Or with those of their children. T.J. himself had seen Miss Hattie in this room more than once. All these long years later, when absent of guests, Miss Hattie still sat alone in here for hours. Though he’d never considered intruding and asking, he felt sure she’d been thinking about her soldier, Collin and Cecelia’s son, and the lives theirs would have been had he not been field-promoted in the Army, not been sent to fight a war, not had died while saving the life of another.