Inconnu(e)

by Vicki Hinze

  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 sneeze 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.

  Some sadness, but mostly joy and love had flowed in this room. T.J. liked to think that some of it remained. It was possible. If when we make a sound, it carries on and on, then the love we feel surely carries on and on, as well. Love is much stronger than sound.

  “Penny for your thoughts.” Maggie’s hushed whisper slid over him like heated honey.

  He reveled in it. “I was thinking that this room is big enough to echo.” True, though she couldn’t possibly realize he meant to echo the emotions felt and not the words spoken within its tall, paneled walls.

  “I think the rugs and furniture absorb the sound, so it doesn’t. But if it were empty, it might.”

  Stripped bare of furnishings, this room could never be empty. It’d taken him nine months of enforced exposure to understand that. Maggie would see it much quicker. Sitting on the plush, blue-cushioned window seat inside the turret, knees-to-knees with Maggie, T.J. smiled. Her subtle perfume filled the intimate space, reminding him again of soft summer breezes, of fresh air and spring, and of the sea. Always the sea. As tempting and alluring as Bill at his poetic best had described it.

  She’d taken off her shoes and left them on the round woven rug in front of the window seats. The little tulip lamp beside the bed lifted a blue-tinged light from the coverlet and pooled on the floor, leaving her shoes in shadows. Comfortable, at ease, together and, finally, alone. He sighed contentedly and let his gaze drift past the window to the star-studded sky. A man could want for little more than sharing a quiet moment of peace with a beautiful woman in a room where so much love had been shared.

  “You were going to tell me the legend.”

  “In a second. I’m soaking up some of your serenity.” Amazing, but true. It’d been so long since he’d felt at peace and, until he’d sat down here and let all his anger and frustration seep away, he’d glimpsed serenity only once here on this lengthy visit—on the stairs, and then only a brief flicker.

  He lowered his gaze to the ocean. Absorbing moonbeams, it sparkled like a thousand diamonds reflecting light. Romantic, intimate, and mysterious. Perfect for telling Maggie the legend.

  She shifted around, leaned back against the narrow wall, and put her feet in his lap. “Okay, you’re serene enough.”

  “Maggie.”

  “Seriously, MacGregor. Five more minutes and you’ll be snoring.”

  He chuckled. She was likely right.

  “So what’s this legend that’s worth ten points and a bath that you sold for seven without one?”

  “Care to renegotiate?”

  “Welshing, are we?”

  “No.”

  “Trying to play weasel, then.” She feigned a sigh. “The deal’s been made, sweetheart. Now let’s hear it.”

  She’d used an endearment, talking to him. His heart skipped a full beat and that tender hitch her dragging him conjured knotted in his chest. That was the first time ever she’d used an endearment when talking to him. He glanced down, watched her rub the arch of her left foot with the instep of her right. He moved her right foot onto his thigh, then rubbed the left for her. “You know Cecelia had the touch for healing.”

  “Right there. Oh, that feels good.” Maggie grunted. “You told me she was a nurse and midwife.”

  “Right.” He rubbed harder, working his fingers down her arch to her heel, then up to her instep. “Well, the legend goes that Cecelia and Collin were nearly newlyweds when they first came here. The Stanfords owned all the village land and the villagers had been trying to buy some for years.”

  “Stanfords. Wasn’t that Miss Millie’s name—before she married Lance Thomas?”

  “Yes, it was. It was her family.” T.J. let his hand drift up, under the hem of her slacks to her warm calf, and worked the knots from its muscle. Her skin felt whisper soft, silky smooth. Had she used his razor? That she might have had warm heat pooling in his belly. “When Stanford—the old man—saw how much in love Cecelia and Collin were, and how much they loved it here, he agreed to sell them this property.”

  “Ah, so they bought it and built—”

  “Not yet. It was too expensive. They couldn’t afford both the land and the house.”

  Maggie closed her eyes and rubbed her toes against his stomach. “So how’d they end up with it, then?”

  “Collin took a leap of faith. A big one. He told Mr. Stanford that he was risking everything to buy the land because Cecelia loved it and—”

  “He loved Cecelia.” Maggie pointed to her other foot. “It’s feeling neglected.”

  T.J. switched feet and began massaging the neglected one, grinning inside. “Right, because he loved her.”

  “Have you ever loved anyone that much—to take a leap of faith for them that might cost you everything?”

  Wasn’t that what he was doing here right now with her? Or was it? “I’m not sure.” He gave her the only answer he could. “Have you?”

  “Not, yet. Well, maybe almost.” She shifted as if uneasy. “Get back to the legend that’s costing me seven points.”

  She was teetering on loving him, if she didn’t. And that had warm satisfaction mingling with cold, hard fear in his stomach. He agreed. The legend was much, much safer to discuss. “Well, Collin bought the land, and a couple months later he inherited a fortune—totally unexpectedly—and that’s when he and Cecelia built Seascape.”

  Maggie smiled. “They were very happy here. I felt it the moment I walked in, though I didn’t know then it was them, of course. I remember walking up the stairs for the first time and feeling as if I’d stepped into a warm cocoon where I’d always be safe. Then the entity started...”

  He didn’t want to talk about the entity. He wanted to enjoy this serenity for as long as possible. Reality would intrude soon enough. “They were very happy here, to hear Miss Hattie tell it. And if it has anything to do with Seascape, she knows about it.”

  “So why doesn’t she know what’s happening to you here?”

  “Because that’s about me, not about Seascape.”

  “Mmm, a fine line there, but I won’t disagree. I see the difference.” Maggie worked a kink out of her neck, rotating it. “Did Cecelia and Collin have a lot of children?”

  “Only two. Their son died, but their daughter, Mary Elizabeth, is the mother of the man who
owns Seascape now.”

  “Jonathan Nelson—the Atlanta judge.”

  T.J. stopped rubbing. “Have you heard this story before?”

  “No, he called to check on Miss Hattie yesterday and we chatted for a minute or two. Very nice man, though when I was talking to him, I kept getting the feeling he was lonely.”

  “Probably your imagination. I’m sure he’s very well adjusted.” T.J. pressed circles on her arch.

  “You can be well adjusted and still be lonely, MacGregor.”

  “Okay, you’re right. Don’t get into a snit. I wasn’t thinking it through.”

  “So what’s the legend?”

  “Mary Elizabeth grew up and went to college. She fell in love there, married, and drifted off to live her own life. Cecelia and Collin stayed here and grew old together: her with her healing, and him with his carving.”

  Maggie frowned and shifted on the cushions. “This is one sorely-lacking legend, MacGregor. No offense, but where’s the magic?”

  “You don’t see any magic in a man and woman loving each other through an entire lifetime?”

  “Well, yes, of course. But—but... Heck, you know what I mean.”

  He did. “It’s coming, honey. Patience.” He set her foot down and let his hand rest on her thigh. “Collin got cancer.”

  “Geez, MacGregor.” Maggie sat straight up. “That’s magic?”

  “It—”

  “It better get a whole lot sweeter than this, or you’re never gonna see the inside of that tub with me in it.”

  Not a mite’s worth of intimidation. Shoot, not an atom’s worth. “That Cecelia kept Collin alive far longer than modern medicine deemed possible was magic.” T.J. clasped their hands and laced their fingers together. “Some of the villagers suspected Cecelia resorted to dabbling in her Haitian grandmother’s habit.”

  “Which was?”

  “Voodoo.”

  Maggie drew in a sharp breath, and her eyes stretched wide. “I saw a book on that—out in the landing bookshelves.” She scooted closer, swung one foot down to the floor. “MacGregor, you don’t think our entity—”