Vicki Hinze - [Seascape 01] Page 3

  “Tyler, no!” Miss Hattie gasped and squeezed his arm. “You can’t squander your gift. It isn’t—”

  “It isn’t a gift. Painting used to be... everything, but not anymore. Now, it’s my curse.”

  “Tyler!” A strong, phantom wind gust furled the end of her scarf like a flag.

  “It’s true. My artistic ability has cost me everything that matters to me. Would a gift cost a man everything that matters?”

  “It hasn’t.” They’d arrived at the road, at Main Street. Pausing, Miss Hattie looked up then down it, and, on seeing the way was clear, she crossed and started up the fir-lined drive to the house. “Your gift wasn’t responsible for your losses, and neither were you.”

  “Then why can’t I leave here? Why do I land on my backside every single time I try leaving?”

  “I don’t know.” Leaves crunched under their feet. “Jimmy really needs to do some raking. Remind me to mention it to him when I phone him about Bill, mmm? I’d be lost without Jimmy helping me out around here, but I do so wish he’d find himself a good woman and settle down.”

  The swift subject switch had been intentional. She knew more than she was telling him. “How long has Seascape been an inn?”

  “About twenty-six years. Why?”

  “Twenty-six years. And I’m supposed to believe that I’m the only guest who has ever run into this kind of trouble.”

  “Tyler, you sound like Beaulah Favish. Are you going to start troubling the sheriff with nonsense of weird happenings here too?”

  “I’m not like your nosy neighbor, and you know it. Have I told anyone about this?” People—including Batty Beaulah—would think he’d slipped over the edge.

  “No. I doubt you’d even have told Bill Butler, if he hadn’t come upon you prone during one of your failed attempts.”

  T.J. wouldn’t have told Bill. Or anyone else. “Regardless, something weird is happening. You can’t deny it.”

  Miss Hattie looked straight ahead and said not a word.

  His heart rate quickened. She had her suspicions about exactly what that something weird was, all right. When Aaron had relayed the message from his father, she’d gotten the strangest, serene expression on her face. That worried T.J., and he prayed it didn’t signal another matchmaking attempt in his immediate future. Though well-meaning, he was about sick of her matchmaking attempts. But he wasn’t so sure matchmaking schemes had prompted that expression. “You aren’t going to tell me a thing, are you?”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know, dear.” She patted his arm. “Things will work out as they’re meant to. When one has little else, one must believe in fate.”

  “Fate.” He sighed. Looked as if another attempt was inevitable, anyway. Irksome, but he’d nix it soon enough.

  “You’re listening but not hearing, Tyler. You’ll come to understand. I will say, though, that soon there might well be burning at Seascape. We agree on that. But, unlike you, I’ll wager here and now that not a snippet of ash will be canvas.”

  What did she mean by that? T.J. looked up at the attic window. Something flickered, and his skin crawled. Surprised at his reaction, he blinked and checked again, but saw nothing. A trick of the light?

  “Tyler?” Miss Hattie slid him one of her helping-things-along looks he definitely recognized as a pre-matchmaking signal. “I need for you to move into the main house.”

  Here it came. Opening the back door into the mud room, he paused. “Why?”

  “The Carriage House needs a new roof. I intended to get it done this fall, but you so enjoy your privacy in its apartment, I didn’t want to disturb you. Yet I can’t wait any longer now. Winter is here.” She stepped past him, shrugged out of her coat, then hung it on a peg on the wall. “Do you mind?”

  “Not really.” He minded a lot. He pegged his coat and toed off his muddy shoes, glad to be out of the biting wind and cold. “If the weather holds, I’ll move this afternoon.”

  “I think Maggie Wright will arrive this afternoon and I hate to welcome a new guest while we’re in turmoil. This morning, mmm? After breakfast—which might well be late if my muffins have burned.”

  He smiled. “They wouldn’t dare.”

  She smiled back, then grew serious. “You know, Tyler, your situation sincerely troubles me. This is the first time in all my years at this house I’ve been uneasy. I sense you have reservations, but I truly have no idea what is happening to you.” She stared up at the ceiling as if miffed and speaking to someone else entirely, then added, “And I don’t much like it.”

  He didn’t like it either. But what could he do about it that he hadn’t already done?

  The smell of blueberry muffins drifted on the air. His stomach growled and, without an answer, he followed Miss Hattie into the toasty, warm kitchen.

  The phone rang.

  She walked over to the wall, pulling her clip earring from her lobe, then lifted the receiver to her ear. “Hello.”

  Miss Hattie listened, smiled, then cupped her hand over the receiver and whispered to T.J., “Maggie Wright.”

  “Wonderful.” The matchmaking queen was at it again.

  “Just a moment, dear.” She looked at T.J. “Go wash up, Tyler. Your help is on the way.”

  His help? Did she mean the painting? Or the woman?

  Chapter 2

  “I’m afraid I’ve brought the rain with me, only here it’s sleet.” Maggie watched Miss Hattie finger through the little ceramic boxes on the old, L-shaped registration desk in the entry hall of Seascape Inn.

  The round, ample woman looked ageless, her soft white hair in a neat bun and her kind green eyes catching the light from the banker’s lamp on the desk. With her floral dress, apron, and her rosy cheeks, she could have been Norman Rockwell’s Grandma model.

  “Well, we’re glad to have it, dear. The plants and grounds need feeding too, mmm?” Looking distracted, the caretaker patted her pockets in time with the grandfather clock’s steady ticks. “Ah, there it is.”

  Smiling, she fished the key out of her apron pocket, separated it from her handkerchief, then passed it to Maggie. “I expect it seems strange to you, but we live simply up here. Few locals lock doors, so keeping up with keys is more of a chore than it seems to folks from away.”

  “Nice. That you have that luxury. Definitely not a good idea in New Orleans.” The registration book lay open before her. Both pages were full and Maggie quickly scanned the names. The inn was a popular one, judging from the number of guests. The pages dated back only to August. No opportunity right now to see if Carolyn had been here. Maggie would have to check later—hopefully, unobserved.

  “I’ve put you in the Great White Room.” Miss Hattie replaced the pen from the open registration book to its wooden holder. Being bumped back into proper rows, the little ceramic boxes clinked together. “Top of the stairs, first door on the right. It’s one of the rooms with a phone, though I’m sorry to say that the thing works only when it wants.” She replaced the lid on the third little box. A lighthouse had been hand-painted on it. “I’ve had the phone company out three times, but they can’t find a thing wrong. Tried to tell those youngsters it has to be in the wiring, but they say it isn’t. Anyway, if you need the phone and it’s on the blink, you’re welcome to use the one here or in the kitchen. Hope that won’t be an inconvenience.”

  “None at all.” Who would call her? These days, she rarely saw outsiders. “I’ll just need to check on my mother every couple of days.”

  “Good.” Miss Hattie dabbed at her temple with a white lacy hankie, then tucked it into her apron pocket. “The Great White Room has the turret and faces the ocean. Pretty window seats, if you’re of a mind to do a little dreaming. From our chat earlier, I thought you’d like that.”

  Maggie smiled, showing her appreciation for the thoughtful gesture, thoug
h after the past two years, she wasn’t honestly sure she knew how to dream anymore. “I’m fond of the water. It’s... vast. Helps a person keep things in perspective, you know?” She slung her purse strap back over her shoulder, then picked up her tapestry-designed suitcase.

  “Indeed I do know.” Miss Hattie smiled back at her. “We all need our chance to dream.”

  An odd tingle shimmied through Maggie. As if she’d just heard something extremely significant and was being warned to pay attention to it. But that was silly, wasn’t it? Miss Hattie was a sweetheart, only engaging in polite conversation to make a new guest feel welcome in her home.

  Maggie tucked her briefcase under her arm, then lifted her makeup case, adding those items to her already considerable load. The stuff weighed a ton. She hoisted it, trying to get a firmer grasp. Her purse strap promptly slipped from her shoulder, dropping the purse onto the makeup case and threatening to knock the whole mess out of her arms.

  Miss Hattie repositioned the strap and gave Maggie an apologetic look. “I’m really sorry Jimmy couldn’t be here to help you take your things up to your room. You’re loaded to the gills.”

  She walked Maggie through the entry, past the grandfather clock. Its chimes tinkled charmingly and reverberated through the entryway.

  Pausing at the foot of the stairs, Miss Hattie sighed. “It’s the storm. Jimmy’s out rescuing stranded drivers. Course, the boy will be down with a cold come tomorrow, but he says he does what he has to do. I’ve already taken the chicken out to thaw so I can make him up a big pot of soup. He’s orphaned, poor dear. Was even when his mother was alive, I’m sorry to have to say.”

  Jimmy. Ah, the mechanic from the shop she’d seen when driving through the village. That Miss Hattie worried over him was clear. Maggie liked that about her. “It’s good of you to watch out for him.”

  “Wouldn’t anyone?”

  They wouldn’t. But Miss Hattie’s expression proved that possibility had never occurred to her and Maggie refused to shatter the woman’s illusions. “I’d better get on upstairs before I scatter these things.”

  The lights flickered off, then came right back on.

  “Just the storm, dear,” Miss Hattie assured her. “I’ll fix you a snack. The Blue Moon Cafe doesn’t start serving dinner until five, and you look hungry now.”

  “Thank you, I am.” A guardian angel in the flesh. “I was timid of veering too far off the highway, and I didn’t see an open restaurant until I got to the village. Awful, but I have no sense of direction. I’d likely have ended up in Canada.” Maggie smiled then started up the stairs.

  The smell of lemon oil was pleasantly strong on the staircase and explained the mahogany paneled walls’ polished gleam. Everything she’d seen appeared well-tended, with not a speck of dust in sight. Even the third stair’s creak under her foot seemed homey and attuned, as if the house opened itself up and surrounded those in it in a safe and warm cocoon.

  Midway up, two large portraits hung side by side in fine oak frames. A handsome man and a striking woman. Looking at the portrait of the woman, Maggie sensed her gentleness, her caring, and felt both deep down inside. It was a strange sensation. One alien to her last week, but one experienced twice lately. First, when viewing the painting of Seascape Inn at the gallery and, again now, looking at this woman’s portrait. Feelings of peace and calm and serenity mirroring those she’d felt at the gallery flowed through her. How... odd. But, oh, how very welcome. The last two years had been worth everything they’d cost her, yet now that they were over she realized just how stressful they’d been. She really did need time to dream, as Miss Hattie had said, and time to heal. It seemed that this was the perfect place to do it. Already, she loved it here.

  Prisms of light from the chandelier overhead pooled on the wooden stairs and reflected on the brass platelets attached to the paintings. Maggie paused to read them. Cecelia Freeport and Collin Freeport. Mmm, were they the village founders? Seascape’s original owners? Miss Hattie’s relatives?

  No, Miss Hattie was the caretaker here. Not the owner. According to her, the owner was a judge in Atlanta. Maggie would have to ask about them.

  Someone was watching her.

  She glanced up to the second story landing. Empty. Not a soul in sight. She walked on up, feeling the slightest bit uneasy. Not frightened, by any means, just sort of aware. The sensation was a strong one, but not one that threatened.

  The hallway was long and dark, as all the other doors leading to it were closed and very little natural light slanted in through the bank of mullion-style windows at the end. She walked over a white Berber rug, passed the plump-cushion window seats and the hand-carved bookcases flanking them. Miss Hattie respected books. The spines were straight and aligned perfectly in depth on the shelves. Maggie slowed her step to glance at a few titles. Boats, Boatbuilding in the Twentieth Century, Tall Ships, The Atlantic, The Old Man and the Sea, One Man’s Army: A Guide of World War II; Ghosts, Goblins, and Bumps in the Night; Voodoo, Coming Up Roses. An eclectic mix.

  Maggie walked on, then stopped outside the heavy door to the Great White Room and gave the door a knee-nudge. It didn’t open. Leaning over, she put her makeup case down. Her purse fell off her shoulder and thudded to the floor. Par for the course.

  Someone hit her in the back from behind.

  Knocked forward, she dropped her suitcases and tumbled, scudding a good half-foot across the planks.

  “Damn.” A man towered over her, his arms as full as hers had been with hangered shirts, slacks, and a red-and-black-plaid coat. “I didn’t see you.”

  T.J. MacGregor? Impossible! Stunned, Maggie just lay there. It is him. What on earth is he doing here?

  Frowning, he shifted, adjusting his load. Hangers chinked together.

  He didn’t recognize her.

  She’d known that if she ever saw him again, he wouldn’t. They’d only seen each other once, at Carolyn’s funeral. They hadn’t spoken, and Maggie had being wearing the traditional black mourning veil. There was something positively galling in that the man had occupied so many of her thoughts, so much of her time in the past two years, and yet he didn’t know her from Adam.

  “Are you all right?” He shoved the hangers down from near his chin so he could look at her without dumping the armload of clothing onto her head.

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I’m fine.”

  “In that case, would you get up? You’re blocking the hall.”

  She gained her feet, hanging onto the doorknob, fearing her cheesy-knees wouldn’t hold her. Why is he here? Why hadn’t Bill Butler warned me MacGregor would be here? Had he set me up? “Charming.”

  “Hate to disillusion you, but charming, I’m not.” He stepped around her. “We’re the only two guests up here right now. Goes that way during the winter, after the last of the leaf-peepers bug out. Let’s make a deal.” He gave her a cold, hard look. “I’ll stay out of your way, and you stay out of mine.”

  No apology? Arrogant ass. What was wrong with the man? Did she look ready to attack him or something? He certainly had nothing to fear there. She grabbed the hem of her brown skirt, which had ridden indecently high on her thighs, and gave it a good jerk down to her knees.

  The glimpse she’d gotten of him at the funeral had been obstructed by heavy coats and a sea of black umbrellas, and what she remembered most of all had been the slump of the man’s shoulders. Here, with her view unobstructed, he wasn’t at all what she’d expected from her memory. He stood much taller, about six-foot-two, lean and well-muscled, though broader. His coat back then hadn’t had padded shoulders after all.

  The man was supposed to look like an artist—intense and sensitive—not like a perfect-nosed, roughened lumberjack with huge hands. Doing intricate work on canvas had to be a hassle. His jeans were obscured by the clothing he carried, but his shirt was a typical, warm-
looking L.L. Bean classic in a faded blue that really did wonderful things to his gray eyes, especially in the soft light. A shame he spoiled the effect with his killer glare. His hair was on the long side, jet black and wind-tossed, loosely curled at his nape and plastered to his head in front by the droplets of what likely once had been sleet. Unfortunately, that didn’t do squat to diminish the impact of his face. It was interesting. Strong-boned and distinct, lived-in. Faces that looked as if their owners hadn’t lived in them a while bored her. T.J. MacGregor had lived plenty in his and, from the telling signs on it, he’d laughed and suffered his fair share.

  The devil deserved his due and she’d give it to him. He was dynamite-looking. Sinful that his TNT attitude, which she didn’t like one bit, and the chip on his shoulder the size of Maine’s granite cliffs, ruined him.

  And those sins paled beside his worst: He was a key player in Carolyn’s death. Maggie knew it as well as she knew she stood in the upstairs hallway at Seascape Inn, staring at the man.

  “Oh, I won’t bother you,” she assured him, and nodded to let him know she truly meant it. “I’m tired, wet, cold, and hungry. I don’t want to be bothered myself. But even if I did, I’d find myself another victim. Frankly, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to bother you.”

  “Frankly, good.” He smiled but there wasn’t any warmth in it. “Sounds perfect.”

  The tiny lines near his eyes crinkled and she cursed herself for noticing. The man was an egotistical, arrogant jerk. Tempted to tell him so, she yanked open the door to her room, then hauled her belongings inside. “Perfect,” she snapped, then slammed the door shut.

  Her hands were shaking. She was shaking all over.

  What on earth is he doing here?

  Miss Hattie definitely was at it again.

  T.J. dumped the hangered clothes onto the bed in the Cove Room, wishing he could go right back to the Carriage House suite and hole up until the new arrival finished her visit and went home. The last thing he needed was another matchmaking experience. He had troubles enough and he damn well didn’t have the extra energy to carry off being an ass.