WIDOW’S TALE
Maureen A. Miller
Smashwords edition
Copyright @ 2009 by Maureen A. Miller
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner.
PROLOGUE
Serena Murphy squinted into the wind, searching cliffs lashed by angry surf. Maine’s autumn freeze wrapped her in its clutch and whipped her hair over her face.
Serena was looking for a body.
The maelstrom assaulting the deck of O’Flanagans Tavern did not deter her. She leaned forward and gripped the rail.
A month had passed already, and each day before the dinnertime rush, Serena came out to search the cliffs for any trace of her husband, Alan, who’d been pronounced lost at sea.
Alan was dead. She was sure of that. Even the sea spoke to her, weaving a tale of his demise in the fishing boat she had urged him to repair. She was certain he was dead because he haunted her. Not as a physical ghost, but there were signs—small, intimate signals that could only be executed by Alan’s malevolent spirit.
"Serena! Get in here before you catch your death of cold!"
Tempted to ignore the intrusion, Serena caught a glimpse of her part-time waitress, Rebecca, with her head stuck out the back door.
What an image she must portray to the young woman. Every night Serena stood out here, perched atop these cliffs, searching for a body. Searching for ghosts.
But that’s not what her waitress saw. She saw a distraught widow anguished over the loss of her husband. She did not see her. She did not see the woman who feared Alan even after death.
It took effort, but Serena called across the wind, "I’ll be right there."
Alone with the waves that crashed against the rocks below, Serena waited for pain to envelop her. She waited for heart-wrenching sobs or any raw emotion that might signal despair over the loss of her husband.
Only the bleak whistle of the wind and the somber ring of a buoy answered.
CHAPTER I
O’Flanagans was as much a tradition in the small Maine coastal village of Victory Cove as were the lobster boats and sailors that kept the establishment thriving over fifty years, and through three generations. This colonial institution was the home of Serena’s childhood. It was also her legacy now that her parents had retired and moved to Florida.
Serena talked the O’Flanagans out of flying north after Alan’s disappearance. Instead, she was grateful to have the pub to keep her busy. Its patrons were family in their own right, protective and loyal to the last O’Flanagan.
The heavy oak door drew shut behind her, locking out the bad weather with a finality that almost made her feel safe. She leaned back against it and eyed the overhead wooden beams—timber rafters permeated with the aroma of beer and lobster bisque. The scent stabilized her. She drew in another deep breath and held it until the trembling in her limbs subsided.
"Yo, Rena, are you going to keep a thirsty man waiting, just hanging around here like a long-haired dog on a hot summer day?"
In this place, there was no time for emotion. Alan was dead. He would not hurt her anymore.
But finding his body would have made it seem real.
One last breath and Serena hoisted forward. "Thirsty my ass, Coop," she chastised Cooper Littlefield with affection as she ducked under the service panel to emerge behind the oak bar.
Serena eyed the empty mug with an arched brow. "Seems to me I just filled this about five minutes ago."
"Fast and plentiful, honey."
"Yeah, yeah," she fit the glass beneath the lager tap, "just like your women."
Her smile prompted Cooper’s worn old face to crack a grin, revealing a prominent gold-capped tooth. White hair was buried beneath a knitted black cap and gray stubble framed a congenial face. Eyes set in a permanent squint studied her.
"Well, that woman out there−" he flung a gnarled hand towards a window overlooking the Atlantic, "was a bitch today." Coop’s hand snapped back and wound over his mouth.
Serena shook her head.
"You can’t be afraid of everything you say around here. I’m okay, and you’re right, she’s a bitch every day. I know."
"Any news?"
"No." She clenched her trembling fingers. "No news."
She turned and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Haunted eyes stared back at her. She shook her head against the image, and before twisting back, dredged up a smile for Coop to ease his worry.
The old sailor lifted the beer to his chapped lips as she could swear that he murmured, "You’re a lot better off."
Every day, Serena prayed for news. But nothing had changed since yesterday, or the day before that, or last week. The police made their judgment based on Alan Murphy’s boat washing up on shore, soon followed by other personal effects found scattered along Victory Cove’s rugged coast.
There was one hell of a storm the afternoon Alan set out to sea. Most questioned why he went out at all. But the folk of Victory Cove had never taken to Alan Murphy. His slick, educated, condescending mannerisms were unwelcome in this small blue-collar town. Still, they kept their aversion to themselves because they loved Serena. She belonged to them.
Serena reached across the bar to swipe under Coop’s mug, throwing a fresh napkin down beneath it.
"Rena, honey, can you get me anothah?" Harriet Morgan’s voice boomed from the far end of the L-shaped bar.
Harriet exhaled into her clenched fist, wriggling her fingers to entice circulation. As she approached, the woman nodded at Cooper and then unwound her scarf to reveal a hefty secondary chin. "You didn’t pick up those extra traps, Coop."
"So you closed your tackle shop," he muttered, "and came down to O’Flanagans to bring ‘em to me?" Coop’s narrowed eye caught the twenty-ounce mug sitting before the robust woman. "And the thought never occurred to you that you might tip back a few while waiting here."
"I don’t need your sorry ass as an excuse. You know damn well I got me a keg undah the counter at the shop." Harriet’s cheeks were unnaturally rosy, and in just the right light, her gray hair appeared blond.
"Weather’s hell out there today," Harriet rambled on. "I got no business, so why not come down and drink in good company." She tipped her head at Serena.
Coop snorted as some of the white froth caught on his mustache. "Well, I’m flattered, Harriet, I really am, but the missus has been good to me." A quick grin flashed a golden tooth. "I’ll die a loyal man."
"I ain’t talking about you, Bittyfield, so shut that mouth before I come over there and shut if for you."
Serena laughed. It felt good to watch Cooper and Harriet in their verbal volley.
The door to the tavern opened. Wind penetrated the bar, propelling napkins off the polished surface to spiral in erratic bundles on the floor. For a suspended moment a shadowy stranger stood eclipsed by the harsh sky outside. The door slammed shut and left the brooding figure to glare at the proprietor of O’Flanagans.
"Well, if it isn’t the grieving widow."
Serena’s chuckle died on her lips. She stared at the tall visitor with his windswept dark hair and eyes the color of a turbulent gale. It was as if the Atlantic had come to life in the form of a man and then surged into her tavern to re
in its force upon her. Her breath caught when he stepped forward.
"Hello, Sis."
The stranger slanted a glimpse at Coop’s scowl and Harriet’s combative pose, but the intense gray eyes swiftly returned to their target. The force of that stare made Serena swallow and clutch the counter.
"Brett?" Her voice was a hoarse whisper.
"You remember me?"
Was there amusement to Brett’s tone? His slight grin beguiled Serena with memories.
"Is there something we can do for you, sir?" Coop bristled, his chest puffing up on a wheeze.
Brett Murphy acknowledged the question with a flicker of his glance and then approached the oak bar, splaying his hands on it.
"I’m looking for my brother."
"Alan—he’s…"
"He’s what, Mrs. Murphy? Are you going to tell me that he’s dead?"
Serena recoiled, and were it not for the shelf behind her she would have stumbled backwards to flee the judgmental gaze. Instead, her Irish temper surfaced.
"That’s what they tell me."
All the pain of the month-long search for Alan’s body−all the despair by the lack of effort on behalf of the police−all the nights of phantom sounds whispering to her, each shadow holding the promise or threat that he might reappear, poured into her retort.
An unnamed emotion flickered through Brett’s eyes. Was it regret? God help her, was it still desire? The storm settled again as black eyebrows sank into a frown.
"Can I get a beer?"
Serena hesitated and drew from the spout Brett indicated with a pitch of his head.
Undaunted by the stranger, Harriet rounded the corner and approached him with hands on hips.
"So you’re Alan Murphy’s brother." Harriet’s gaze scoured up and down his frame and finally narrowed into a scowl. "You don’t much look like him."
Serena silently concurred. Alan had dark hair and eyes that were black. His build had been lankier, not revealing the raw strength that stood before her now.
Brett tipped back his mug for a hearty swallow and then set it down with an embittered smirk.
"Why do I feel like this pack is going to drag me out back and lynch me?"
"They don’t take kindly to strangers." Serena challenged.
If her brother in-law had an issue to take up with her that was fine, but if he decided to drag in those closest to her, he had a hell of a battle on his hands.
Brett must have heard the aggression in her voice. He nearly smiled, or was it a trick of the light against those silver eyes?
"Do you have a moment to talk in private?" he asked. "I just met with the police. I feel like I’m getting the run-around." His eyebrow inched up. "Or maybe they just don’t want to talk to a city boy."
The spoonful of cereal Serena had for lunch churned in her stomach. She settled a hand over it and wished she could flee out the back door to her apartment upstairs.
Instead, she attempted a reassuring nod at Coop and then sent a wary glance at Harriet.
"It’s okay," she soothed them both.
But by no means did she feel confident that everything would be okay.
Aware of Brett’s eyes on her back, Serena had trouble breathing. She managed courteous smiles and nods to her patrons as she moved through the dining room, but as soon as she reached a secluded booth in the back corner and watched Brett’s long body tuck in across from her, a gasp dusted her lips.
"I’m sorry, Brett," she rushed out.
The sincerity of that statement ripped through her. But what was it that she was sorry for? Having to talk to Brett about his brother’s death? Having to face Alan’s death herself? Or was she sorry that in her deepest thoughts, she felt safer now that Alan was gone?
"Sorry?" Brett’s voice was husky.
"When Alan—when Alan—" Even now, Serena struggled with the word that followed. It all seemed so surreal.
"When it happened, I couldn’t find any of you. Your parents are in Europe somewhere," her eyes locked with his, "and you," she wavered, "well I haven’t seen you since the wedding."
Ten years ago.
Brett hadn’t changed much. He must be what, thirty-six now? His hair was still a rich, dark shade and his olive complexion made those gray eyes appear striking. Exotic. Her gaze dropped to the sharp slash of his jaw, framing a mouth that frowned more often than it smiled.
"The wedding was a long time ago, Serena." Brett’s voice hadn’t changed either—nor its affect on her. "You haven’t tried to find me," he hesitated, "you haven’t once tried to talk to me."
Was Brett referring to her attempts to reach him about his brother, or about the past decade in general?
"You are not an easy man to trace." She sought composure. "I called some of the major broker houses in Boston, but—are you still a broker?"
In the absence of his response, her fingers began to tremble. What didn’t help was Brett’s long look—an encompassing stare. Time had done nothing to diminish the impact of Brett Murphy.
Serena withdrew her fingers beneath the table and onto her lap, and then she scrambled for something more to add.
"I worked in London for awhile," he spared her. "Paid my dues there." An amused twitch tugged on his lip. "You know, they don’t call us stock brokers anymore. We’re FC’s. Financial consultants." The twitch was gone.
"I came back to New York last year." Brett continued. "About two months ago, Alan’s calls just suddenly stopped. That might not seem odd to you, but he used to phone me constantly. Always woke me up with the damn time change." A muscle in his jaw tensed. "So, the fact that they just stopped—it wasn’t like him."
A glass fell over on a nearby table and Serena’s body jerked.
"Two months ago—" how could she even guess what Alan had been up to? "He—he was busy—"
"Two months ago, Alan was alive." Brett injected.
The detached words hit her in the stomach.
"Brett, I—I still don’t want to believe it happened," she whispered. "I still look for him, even though the police say it’s over, I still look."
Because until she found Alan’s body, he would continue to haunt her.
"Well, now you’re not looking alone, Serena."
If the statement was meant to comfort her, the steely set of Brett’s eyes didn’t express it.
"Look," he began. "It’s been ten years. You seem awkward around me. There’s nothing to feel awkward about. Nothing happened. It was just—"
The inability to finish that sentence proved Brett wrong, because it was indeed awkward.
Brett hastened on. "I’m here for one reason, and once I find out what happened to Alan, I’ll be gone."
Caught off guard by the warmth that momentarily infused his words, Serena swallowed, "Brett, I wish I knew more. You have no idea how much I wish I knew more. He was so young, he was—"
"I know what Alan was. I won’t portray him as a saint, but character flaws aren’t an excuse to be dead. I’m not going anywhere, Serena." Brett’s tone was resolved. "Not until I find out what happened to Alan. I don’t know what you’ve done so far. I don’t know what efforts the police have put out, but I won’t let it go. I can’t."
Brett reached across the table, and had her hands been resting there, she wondered if he would have splayed his atop them.
"I have to know what happened to my brother."
It was well past midnight when Serena sat alone at the bar, frowning at her reflection in the mirror. Pictures of friends and patrons were taped along its frame just below the row of freshly cleaned glasses hung upside down. Some still dripped water onto the antique cash register, its brass face tarnished from years of such abuse.
Brett had not stayed long, but it was long enough to contemplate the grim resolve in his eyes. Had he convicted her as his brother’s murderer?
Serena cupped her forehead in her palms and wondered if Brett had grown that cynical. From Alan she had come to expect that look of aversion. But Brett, even though it had be
en ten years, she could still feel the heated glance he’d given her just five minutes before she married his brother. Such was the intensity in his eyes−she’d nearly tossed her fate to whim−nearly given it all up, just for the chance that he might touch her.
Nearly.
Fearful of the night, Serena hastened up the external staircase. Lately she had taken to leaving the living room light on so as not to come home to complete darkness.
The brass lamp cast a soft glow over the mantle of a stone fireplace, its innards charred from years of use. A patchwork throw rug covered the wood floor in front of twin loveseats positioned L-shaped before the fireplace. Reluctant to enter the shadows of the kitchen, Serena was drawn towards the lamp. She settled down on the loveseat and focused on the blushing shade.
Drifting into a restless sleep, as was the case every night for the past month, she woke to the sound of footsteps treading across the floorboards.
Fingernails digging into the sofa, she sprang up and stared into the shadows.
"Who’s there?"
The steps resumed, heavy and deliberate, seeming to resonate from directly behind her, yet when she spun about, nothing was there but a wedge of moonlight from the window.
Talking to the entity had done little to dissuade it in the past. Serena drew herself up into the corner of the loveseat and grabbed a throw pillow against her chest to muffle her wild heartbeat.
The next assault on her senses came with the same frequency. It was the anxious sound of a child crying. The nocturnal ghost who paced around her bore little impact compared to this agonizing peal.
No. Please, no.
She pressed her face into the pillow and listened to the infant’s wails. Mournful and persistent, they echoed around her in a cyclone of despair, spinning her until she lost her balance and felt reality mercifully slip away.
CHAPTER II
Widow's Tale Page 1
