"What am I supposed to do here?" he asked, amazed that she was serious. "How am I supposed to support you? Get a job in a canning factory?"
"No, obviously not," she said, hurt by the sarcasm. "Help me run the Inn Between."
"Oh, just what you need — a guy who thinks a screwdriver is a murder weapon."
"I don't need a handyman; I have Lloyd for that. I need you, Tom," she said, her lip trembling with emotion. "For me."
"Meg ... I don't want to run an inn."
"You have to want to run an inn. Don't you read Reader 's Digest? It's everyone's dream to run an inn."
He let out a small laugh of sinking expectations. "Now, see, that's the thing: I've always had this other dream. In my dream, I have enough money for food and car payments and — fingers crossed — to send my kid or kids to college. Call me crazy."
"I know what the problem is," she said, turning on all fours and beginning a nimble scramble down the rock. "This has nothing to do with college!"
He wasn't quick enough to track her exact route. The hell with it, he thought, and dropped to the ground from a fairly high point, setting his recovery back — again.
"All right," he said, hands on his hips. "You tell me. What's my problem?"
"Your problem is, you're a crime snob. Our crimes don't meet your minimum standard for violence. Well, give us time to catch up, mister," she said scathingly. "Everyone knows we're a backward state."
"Hey, don't sell yourself short. Your family has a damn good crime portfolio. Granted, you are the exception around here —"
"Go to hell," she said. She turned from him and started marching off.
He grabbed her and swung her around and didn't give a damn if she cried assault. "You're not walking away from this, Meg. We stay till we're done."
"Done what? Negotiating?"
"Yeah, okay, call it that!"
She looked at him incredulously. "We're talking about a lifetime commitment, not a trade union contract!"
"Tell me what you want," he said doggedly.
"I've told you! I want you! Here!"
"I can't do that," he repeated. "There's no career for me here."
"So you want me to give up everything — my family, my friends, my house, my responsibilities, my life ... what about you?" she suddenly asked, plunging her hands in the pockets of her yellow windbreaker. "What are you willing to give up?"
"All right," he said angrily, because he knew he didn't have much to put on the table. "How about this? I'll sell the condo. We'll live in a separate house, with a separate yard. We'll get a dog. And a riding mower. And I'll take every minute of my allotted vacation."
It was starting to rain. In her clinging windbreaker, with her wet ringletted hair, Meg looked like something he'd just fished out of the sea. He didn't care. It was part of her great beauty, that she could lose herself in her concentration on someone else.
He racked his brain thinking of what cops' wives wanted, what Lydia had wanted. "I can't do squat about the shift rotation," he confessed, thinking of the big thing. "The hours will be screwy. But I promise you, Meg, the way I never promised Lydia: I will do my damndest to put you — and ours — first, before the job. Believe me when I say I didn't do that before."
She was so intent, listening to every word, ignoring the rain that was coming down harder now. Everyone else had cleared out fast. The old man was gone, and all the kids. No one was there but him, her, and the rock.
Instead of answering him, she said with anguish, "What about Comfort? Who'll be there for her third trimester? What about my dad? He's frail and forgetful. Who'll run the inn? Who'll save the house?"
She rapped off the questions like bullets from an automatic, and she wasn't done yet. "Who'll stand up to Uncle Billy? Without me here —"
"Hold it, hold it!" he cried, unwilling to follow her down that road. He took her by her shoulders and yanked her closer to him, resisting the urge to shake some sense into her. God, she was a hard sell.
"There will always be someone who needs you," he said, at his wits' end. "Can't you see that? You're that kind of woman. It's like there's a sign around your neck: 'Bring me your shy, your needy, your laundry ...' I need you; I'm not denying it. I need you the way —"
He was utterly at a loss for words to describe how he needed her; he made a sound, deep in his throat, of frustration, then bent his face to hers and pulled her into a kiss that left him dizzy with love for her. "Like that," he said, his breath ragged. "I need you like that."
So much for the moon and the sun and the stars. All he could give her, all he could lay at her feet, was a kiss.
"Tell me," he demanded hoarsely, "tell me you need me like that."
"I do," she answered, her eyes red with rimming tears. "But I can't. I can't leave everyone and everything behind, any more than that rock can be rolled away from this beach. This is where I belong, Tom. This is who I am."
His gaze followed her outstretched, pointing hand to Balance Rock: there it was, solid and immovable, as much a part of the coastline as the brooding fog that wrapped them both in its embrace. He stared at the rock with loathing; it represented everything about her that he couldn't overcome.
The rain was letting up, but the fog was moving in more closely, gray and misty and somehow magical. He felt empowered by it, and a little crazy.
He swung back to her. "If I move that rock," he asked her suddenly, "will you come with me to Chicago?"
She swept her wet hair away from her tanned face and said, "Oh, be serious, Tom."
"Yes or no?"
She laughed in confusion, then said irritatedly, "Yes, Lieutenant. Yes. If you move it, I'll go with you to your godforsaken city."
He nodded, then walked over to the huge, looming boulder and put his shoulder under the overhanging part, ready to roll it back to the damnable sea from which it came. He pushed, straining, until the sweat broke out on his brow, until he could feel the veins in his head and neck popping from the effort, until he felt a hot, searing pain flash through his groin.
And still he pushed at the rock.
"Stop it, stop it!" she screamed, rushing across the pebbly stretch of sand to him. She pulled him away from the boulder, breathless with fury at his antic.
He narrowed his eyes and stared at her from under a glowering brow. "All right. It's moved," he said, panting from his exertion. "Now ... will you come?"
"It hasn't moved," she said, wondering at his claim.
"It has."
"Prove it has!" she cried angrily.
"Prove it hasn't," he answered, still catching his breath.
"That's impossible. You're impossible!" She threw her hands up in frustration. "This whole thing is impossible!"
He looked at her and shook his head sadly. "But you'll never know that for sure," he said softly. "Will you."
He walked away from her then, ignoring the pain.
Chapter 27
In August the Inn Between got a new roof. In September it got two coats of paint. In October most of the guest rooms were refurbished. In November they found a buyer for the dollhouse. And in December, on the stormy night before the new owners were to crate the dollhouse and its tiny furnishings for eventual shipment to the Dallas Doll Museum, Gordon Camplin ran off the side of a mountain in his Mercedes, which exploded on impact in a fiery crash.
The news stunned the residents of Bar Harbor, no one more than Meg Hazard. She was in the kitchen, brooding over a cup of bergamot tea and listening to the storm lash out in fury at the quiet, mostly empty house, when the phone rang.
She heard Comfort pick it up in the other room. A few minutes later, Comfort, almost nine months pregnant, waddled into the kitchen as pale as a sheet.
"He's dead," she said in a gasp. "Gordon Camplin's dead!"
Instantly a weight the size of Balance Rock began rolling off Meg. She felt no joy or satisfaction in the news of Camplin's death; she just felt ... lighter. "Tell me what happened," she said without emotion.
&
nbsp; Comfort's facts were sketchy. She'd got them from Lloyd, who'd heard the news on the scanner during his poker game. One of the guys called the station, and that was how they learned whose car it was. Comfort, clearly upset, went over to the sink and peered through the window at the pounding sleet.
"Why was he back in Bar Harbor, anyway?" she wondered aloud. "Dorothea's trial won't be for months. Do you think this is related to the dollhouse leaving?"
"I don't know, Comfort," Meg said patiently.
"Do you think there was a guiding hand behind this? Do you think it was just a coincidence?"
"I don't know," Meg repeated.
"Yes, you do!" Comfort shot back. "You understand what this is about better than anyone!" She lowered her voice to a reverential whisper and added, "You've seen across the veil."
"Well, the veil's become a sheet of plywood lately," Meg answered tiredly. "I haven't seen a thing. I haven't felt a thing. Nothing."
"That's not good, to feel nothing," Comfort said, reading new meaning into Meg's words. With her legs planted broadly apart, she lowered herself into the armchair at the table, doing her best to balance the load she bore. She rubbed her hands idly, almost protectively over her belly, as if she were afraid that evil forces were on the loose now.
"I'm fine, Comfort," Meg said, forcing a smile of wellbeing. "But how about you? Are you okay? That baby is shaping up to be a twenty-pounder, it looks like."
"I know," Comfort said, looking down at herself. "I look too far along, don't I? But so far, so good," she said with a nervous smile.
"Go to bed, honey," Meg coaxed. "The kids are asleep, Dad's asleep. I'll wait for Lloyd. I'm up, anyway."
"Oh, I'm not worried — not really," Comfort said. "Lloyd's a good driver. He's a good man," she added softly. "I'm glad he gets to do this once a month." She pulled a chair closer to use as a handrail, then hauled herself to her feet and padded off to bed.
Meg sat awhile with the news of Gordon Camplin's death, wondering what it all meant. Like everything else in her life lately, it seemed to mean nothing. There seemed no point or purpose to it, just as there'd been no point or purpose to rushing to fix up the Inn Between. (At the moment they had two guests, both, alas, in one room. You'd need a crystal castle to lure more than that in December, and that was a fact.)
She went into the sitting room with her mug of tea, to bid the dollhouse good-bye. The sitting room — double parlors joined by an arched entryway — was large enough to hold the dollhouse, which Uncle Billy had insisted be removed from the shed so that it could be properly presented to potential buyers.
And, really, it did look wonderful in the Victorian setting. It was displayed at the far end of the room, flanked by newly slipcovered wing chairs. From there it cast its light down the long double parlor at a fresh-cut Christmas tree that stood, decorated and magical in its own right, in the bay window opposite. Comfort had turned off all the lamps, leaving only the tree and the dollhouse to illuminate the rooms.
It was early in the month to have the tree up, but Comfort — who was following her own inner holiday clock — had wanted to be able to trim it and enjoy it with plenty of time to spare. The baby was due on the twenty-third, although everyone except the twins was hoping for Christmas Eve.
Comfort had been knitting in her favorite stuffed chair; her half-a-sweater and needles were on the tufted hassock where she'd left them to answer the phone. Meg put away the knitting in Comfort's needlepoint sewing bag, and thumbtacked a pine garland back in place above the arched entry. She looked around the dimly lit, freshly wallpapered rooms with their old but charming furnishings and thought, How could he not want to run an inn?
Then she walked, not without trepidation, to the other end of the sitting rooms and pulled up one of the slipcovered chairs nearer the dollhouse. She'd spent many late nights during the fall in that chair, gazing into the little house, letting her thoughts drift aimlessly. Most of the time she'd been too sad to focus on the crimes, too sad to focus on vengeance. She'd thought only of Tom, and sometimes of Allie. And after a while, she became too sad to think of anything much at all. She would just stare at the little gabled structure and ... stare.
Just as she was doing now.
It did look pretty. Comfort had insisted that they decorate the dollhouse, too, for the holidays, and had bought a tiny artificial tree for the drawing room that she'd trimmed with red rickrack and decorated with earrings of hers and Meg's. At the top she'd pinned a tiny gold star, snitched from a garland on the real tree. The dollhouse tree was as primitive as could be, and not only that, but it wasn't even to scale. Meg loved it.
She was relieved to see that she felt nothing of Gordon Camplin's presence. It was over, then. A half-century-old injustice had been put to rest, and the dollhouse could do what it was originally intended to do: enchant and delight kids of all ages and generations.
She inhaled the rich, floral aroma of her bergamot tea and thought wistfully, So why am I not happy?
Everything was going so well. Comfort was breezing through her pregnancy, and Lloyd had found a temporary job on a low-income housing rehab project. Timmy was doing standout work in school, and Terry was knuckling down to his books at last. Her father had leveled off at a certain degree of forgetfulness, which wasn't too distressing, and Allie was keeping in touch, writing regularly about the lifestyles of the rich and famous. They'd know more when Bobby got back.
And Tom? Although he and Meg had had no contact — obviously they could never be just friends — Meg had read that the Chicago superintendent of police had declared his candidacy for the mayoral race, leaving room for those below him to move up a rung on the ladder. So Tom's career, almost by default, was right on track.
And it's driving you crazy, isn't it?
"What?" Meg broke out of her reverie and sat bolt upright in her chair.
You'd be happier if he fell on his nose and came out east.
Meg swung her head around left and right. She was alone in the sitting room. She took a deep breath and blinked hard.
That way, you could be in complete control. You'd have everything, then: your old life and a new husband. With any luck, Allie might even come back.
Meg jumped up from the chair, upsetting her cup and spilling the dregs of her bergamot tea on the worn Oriental carpet. "Who is this?" she whispered, cocking one ear as she waited for an answer.
She heard nothing; only the ticky-ticky-ticky of the walnut mantel clock. She walked entirely around the dollhouse, peering in each of its windows and scanning the open end, watching and listening for some sign. The dollhouse was charming and pretty, truly delightful. But that was all. She heard no psychic echoes of any kind. She felt sure of it.
She sucked in her breath and let it out, then bit her lip thoughtfully. The nursemaid doll was still in the nursery. Meg reached in and moved the armoire that served as a barricade against the nursery door. There was no need, anymore.
They're all sick of you, you know.
"Who is?" Meg said in a gasp, dropping the armoire and stepping back.
Your family. They're sick of your moping and drooping and pining. You make them feel guilty. They want you to go.
"Go? Where?"
To him. They'd rather have you happy and gone than joyless and here.
"Who are you?" Meg whispered, even though she knew.
Hark your noise and listen to me, child! Do you think men like him grow on every bush?
The voice, a female's, was all around her or inside her; it was hard to tell. But it wasn't coming from the dollhouse. "Is it ... Margaret Atwells?" Meg said softly, hardly daring to say the name.
You're frustrated as a cut cat. That's what's wrong with you. You've done all you can here, and now you sit, waiting for tourists. Give it up, girl. This place will never pay for itself year-round. Your brother has found outside work. His wife will have to find it, too. And they will, if you let them.
"I'm not holding anyone back," Meg said defensively.
You're holding everyone back. Let them be. See what happens.
"Where are you? Tell me where you are." Meg's voice cracked with urgency. When no one answered, she calmed herself back down and whispered, "Are you all right, now that Gordon Camplin ... now that ..."
Oh, him. He wasn't worth the powder it took to blow him to hell.
"But what he did to you! He was depraved!"
The voice that answered was serene and amused, and utterly, radiantly joyful. Do you think that matters to me now? Oh, my dear child, it does not.
"You're happy, then," Meg murmured, sighing with relief.
As it's in your own power to be.
"Do you think so? Truly?"
Comfort will be fine, but hold Lloyd's hand. He's always been a bit spleeny.
"Lloyd? What does he have to do with anyth —"
"Meggie!" It was Comfort's voice, almost giddily shrill.
Comfort was standing in the kitchen doorway with her coat on. Her little tan suitcase was at her side. Her face twisted in pain, then eased into an angelic smile. "Meggie — it looks like I'll be home for Christmas!"
****
Lloyd was more than spleeny; he was a nervous wreck from start to very near the finish. He worried about the storm outside, that it was a bad omen. He worried about the contractions — that they were too far apart, then that they were too close together. And when Comfort got loud, he panicked and began mumbling "it's a breech, it's a breech" over and over until the nurse took him aside and knocked some sense into him. Meg had to split her hand-holding between patient and partner; she did it with a sense of awe and privilege.
When the baby's head appeared — which it did in pretty short order, despite Lloyd's fears — that was when Lloyd let himself get into the ecstasy and joy of the birth of six pounds, nine ounces of pure, feminine wonder.
Through freely flowing tears, Meg watched as the doctor placed the baby in Comfort's open arms. Lloyd, calm now and proud, whispered, "Little Sally Atwells. It do fit. What do you think, mother?"
Comfort, her face transfigured with a happiness that Meg had never known, said softly, "It's a real good name. Isn't she beautiful?"
Embers Page 37
