by Nina Bruhns
"What has changed, sweeting?"
Pain lanced through her, sharp and agonizing. "You're leaving today."
"That is not anything new."
She crossed her arms over her abdomen and hugged herself. "I'm sorry. I can't pretend it's a day like any other. I can't just lie next to you, make love with you, knowing any minute you'll stand up and walk out of my life forever." She glanced away, out the window to the garden where two bluebirds twittered. "Don't ask me to do that. I can't."
"Fair enough," he said, sliding his boots off the bed and rising to his full, impressive height. "But don't ask me to spend my last day sharing you with Jake Santee."
He walked around the furniture toward her and her breath caught. God, he was handsome. Handsome, dauntless and everything she'd ever wanted.
She stepped backward. "I promised. To get the diary." He tossed away his eye patch and kept coming. She kept moving back. "Maybe we can find it—what Wesley Peel was looking for, I mean." She gasped as he caught her around the waist.
"Don't think you can avoid me, Clara Fergussen."
"Please," she pleaded, desperately gripping his arms. "Please, Tyree. If I touch you … if you kiss me … I'll fall apart."
He studied her for a moment. The tiny scar under his eye twitched. Then he let his hands drop to his sides. "Go then. Because I can't look at you and not want to hold you."
He turned on her and stalked to the window, grasping the frame with white-knuckled fingers.
And she fled.
* * *
The village was packed.
Tourists had invaded Magnolia Cove in droves for the Pirate Festival and jammed Fouquet Street, which had been blocked off to traffic and was now filled with scores of bunting-festooned booths selling pirate souvenirs, Low-country arts and crafts, Southern culinary delicacies and tons more. They jostled for space on the narrow sidewalks and filled every inch of the village restaurants, boutiques and the pirate museum, where Mrs. Yates was spending the day helping as a volunteer. The Moon and Palmetto was standing room only.
Even the fire station was a crush, as firefighters showed off their new ladder engine and various other equipment in a display for crowds of curious children.
Clara didn't know why she had ever thought this would be fun.
She found Jake Santee hiding upstairs, hunched over a desk in the station common room.
"There you are," he said, closing her diary with an annoyed grimace. "I was just going through all the journals again, trying to figure out why Peel is so interested in them."
"Why don't you just ask him?" she suggested, taking a seat on the arm of a beat-up sofa next to the desk.
"I would—" his grimace turned even grimmer "—but we haven't caught him yet."
"What?" she asked, surprised. "I thought you arrested him last night."
"He wasn't at his apartment when the police got there. They've had it under surveillance ever since, but he hasn't turned up. You didn't happen to mention our conversation to anyone, did you?"
She blinked. "Well, I did tell Mr. um, Tyler. But he wouldn't have—"
"Where is he now?"
"Trust me, he didn't talk to anyone after that."
Santee's brow arched knowingly. "Okay, I'll take your word for it." He handed her the diary and picked up three similar volumes from the desk. "Don't suppose you'd be interested in going through these? I could use your expert eye. You might spot something I missed."
"Well, I'm actually leaving for Kansas in the morning." She was amazed she could say it out loud so calmly. Without screaming or dissolving in a torrent of tears.
"And you want to see the festival. I understand."
"Not really. Too crowded." She shrugged. "Okay, I'll try to take a look at the diaries. But you'll have to pick them up at Rose Cottage tomorrow. I doubt I'll have time to bring them back."
"No problem. I appreciate the help."
Tucking the books carefully into her tote, she made her way back through the throng. She paused in front of the Moon and Palmetto and found herself staring at the poster advertising tonight's unveiling of Tyree and Sully's portrait. By Thom Bowdon.
Hmm.
Surely, Wesley Peel wouldn't attempt to steal that one? Not in front of a thousand witnesses and knowing he was being hunted by the police?
No. He wouldn't be that stupid.
Santee wasn't stupid, either. She was sure he'd have the cops watching the pub, just in case.
She'd be there, too. She wanted to see the portrait, and this would be her only chance. Besides, it would be a way to avoid watching the clock tick down toward midnight…
She drifted along, letting the jostling and bumping of the crowd direct her footsteps, getting lost in the anonymity of faces and limbs. She wanted nothing more than to be back at Rose Cottage with Tyree, but was scared to death to face him. What would they talk about? How would she keep the tears from falling? How could she stop herself from wondering what would happen when the clock struck twelve?
The mass of humanity closed in on her tighter and tighter, and finally she couldn't stand it any longer. Elbowing her way through the tourists, she practically ran through the village until she reached the oyster-shell path home.
Tyree met her halfway. "What happened?" His worried expression betrayed how stressed out she must look.
"Too many people," she said with a shaky laugh. "I got claustrophobic."
"You're sure that's all?"
"Yeah," she lied.
He put his arm around her and led her toward the shore of the inlet. "Let's go sit on the dock."
Puffy clouds wafted overhead, insects buzzed lazily and the sea grass bent back and forth to the caress of the breeze as they strolled along. The occasional rumble of loudspeakers from the village drifted over the water, disturbing the usual serenity. The waterway also hummed with the motors of folks going by boat to the festival.
Stopping halfway down the pier at the fishing platform where they could have more privacy, they stretched out side by side on the windblown wooden planks.
Neither of them spoke. Clara desperately wanted to relax, let the warm sunshine melt away her pain and her fear, but it was impossible. She was on pins and needles, expecting him to reach out to hold her. And if he did, she'd lose it completely.
"What did Santee have to say?" he asked, making her jump.
Grateful for the fairly neutral topic, she answered, "They didn't arrest Wesley Peel last night," and related the rest of her conversation with Jake. She also mentioned her concern about the portrait unveiling at the Moon and Palmetto.
"The man would have to be out of his mind to try it," Tyree agreed. "But I hope he does. That way, they're sure to get him."
"True." After a moment she said, "I'd like go see the painting." She turned to him. "Will you take me?"
He continued to stare up at the sky. "Mrs. Yates said something about wanting to attend the ceremony. Go with her. I don't want either of you alone in the village tonight."
Issuing orders to the end. If she'd been able to, she would have smiled. "Aye, aye, Captain."
"Clara—"
She gave her head a shake, warning him off, and heard him sigh. After another long silence she couldn't take it anymore. She rose to her feet.
"I have packing to do," she announced. "Oh. Here," she said, remembering the diaries in her tote bag and digging for them. "Why don't you skim through these for Jake? You'll probably… Hmm. That's odd." She stopped talking to concentrate on searching more thoroughly.
"What is it?"
With growing panic, she knelt down and dumped the contents of her bag on the dock. In disbelief, she stared at the scattering of items, seeing everything but what she was looking for.
"Omigod!" she exclaimed. "The diaries. They're gone!"
* * *
Clara berated herself over and over for her carelessness, but as Tyree pointed out, there was nothing she could do about it now.
Jake Santee was less than thrille
d when she called to tell him the news.
"At least we know Peel's still in Magnolia Cove," he muttered.
She hadn't thought of it that way and was glad for the small positive crumb gleaned from her colossal blunder.
Tyree agreed. "It also tells us he has unfinished business here, or he would be long gone."
"The portrait?"
Tyree shook his head. "I can't believe he'd be that foolish. There must be something else we're overlooking."
"Back to square one," she muttered.
A moment later, Mrs. Yates called from the museum and asked Clara if she'd meet her there when it closed. The poor woman was trying so hard to be brave, but her voice wavered when, after making their plans, Clara asked if she wanted to speak to Tyree.
"Better not, dear. We knew I'd be gone all day, so we said our goodbyes last night. Give him a big hug and a kiss for me, and tell him I love him dearly."
The last words were spoken with a tremor that broke Clara's heart. She wasn't the only one who was going through hell today.
"I will," she assured her. "I'll see you at six."
"So that's it, then," Tyree said when she'd hung up. "Six o'clock."
"Yeah." She wiped her hands on her shorts. "I better get packing. I have an early flight in the morning."
"Aye."
They gazed at each other for a moment; then she turned and walked to the bungalow, Tyree following behind. He planted himself in the middle of the bed, stiff against the hard wooden headboard, arms crossed, morosely watching her pack her things into her pink tapestry suitcases.
When she finished it was already 5:30 p.m. She'd have to go soon.
Oh, God.
She sat down on the bed. She could feel his eyes on her back. "Come with me to the village," she said softly. "It's hours till midnight."
"Stay," he countered. "Make love with me instead. Mrs. Yates will understand."
She bowed her head, knowing if she went to him now the devil himself couldn't tear her from his arms come midnight.
She gnawed on her lower lip. Maybe that's what the curse meant by being willing to die in his place. She glanced around at him, searching his face. What would happen if she clung to him like Super Glue at the stroke of twelve, refusing to let go? Would the powers that be take her instead and let him continue on with his interrupted mortal life? Or would it be his walking death that would go on? Or would she just vanish with him?
"Clara!" he said, loudly, as though it wasn't the first time he'd called her name. He leaned forward and grasped her shoulders. "Whatever you're thinking, forget it."
"But—"
"Nay, Clara." The words were gritted out, brooking no dissent. He cursed under his breath. "This is exactly what I feared."
Or perhaps she would find the midnight minute passed just like any other, leaving her in its wake to choose between a lovable neurotic and her life's dreams…
"Enough!" He leapt from the bed, taking her with him. "You must go. Now. Meet Mrs. Yates, and don't come back here until after midnight. Swear to me you won't."
"Tyree—"
"Swear!"
"All right," she said, fighting to stay composed. This was it. Whatever happened, he would be gone when she returned. And she would never know what might have been. "I swear."
* * *
Tyree had done a lot of difficult things in his days on earth. As a child, he'd endured his father's beatings with nary a sound; he'd toiled his way up from cabin boy, subsisting for months at a time on maggoty hardtack and stale brown ale, until he'd made full sailor and, in record time, become captain of his own vessel; he'd brought down fully loaded merchantmen with no shots fired. He'd killed and been killed by his best friend; he'd stood by helpless as his dearest loved ones grew old and passed away before his own still-youthful eyes.
But nothing, nothing, compared to having to watch Clara Fergussen walk down that oyster-shell path toward a future without him.
When she'd gone, he stalked around the estate blindly, unable to see anything save her pale, heartbroken face as she'd said her last goodbye and turned away from him, never to look back.
He wanted to shout and curse and rage about like a madman, breaking anything and everything in his way. But what was the use? None of that would change his miserable fate.
Why couldn't it happen now?
For the next hours, he felt on the verge of insanity, rattling around the house unable to sit, unable to concentrate on anything. The only constructive thing he managed to do was hide the necklace in Clara's suitcase and the bag of gold coins in a box with her name on it.
Finally, after eleven o'clock, he went out onto the second-floor gallery and forced himself to take a seat on the porch swing, gazing out in the direction of the village.
Not long now.
What was she doing?
Between a packed evening schedule of festival events, ending with a spectacular display of fireworks at midnight, Clara would have had plenty to occupy the hours. Maybe she was sitting with Mrs. Yates now at the Moon and Palmetto toasting his newly unveiled portrait?
Christ's Tears, how he missed her!
He would give anything for one last look at her.
Just one look…
He took a deep breath.
Then vaulted to his feet, checking his pocket watch. 11:42 p.m.
There was still time.
* * *
Tyree paid no regard as to who could see him and who couldn't; this was the one day of the year being dressed as a pirate made him blend in. He darted back and forth between people, and occasionally simply strode through the body blocking his path.
Where was she?
Three times he'd searched the crowd gathered to watch the fireworks and had spotted neither Clara nor Mrs. Yates. He checked his watch for the dozenth time. 11:54 p.m.
Desperation crawled through his soul.
Where were they?
He prayed they were together and that nothing was wrong.
He'd already sprinted to the Moon and Palmetto and found it buttoned up tight; a note on the door stated the pub would reopen after the fireworks display. The place had been dark with no one about but a uniformed cop posted to guard the place.
Tyree swept his gaze back in that direction, hoping to see Clara and Mrs. Yates walking arm in arm along the cobblestones.
Instead, his blood froze at what he saw.
Smoke!
"Clara!" he roared, and flew down the jammed street, shouting, "Fire! Fire!" in case someone, anyone, could hear him.
But no one did. They only obscured his view and blocked his way as he struggled to move faster. It took every ounce of strength he had to concentrate on dematerializing through so many solid objects in a row. Finally, he broke through and turned the corner a block from the Moon and Palmetto.
His heart stalled.
Flames were everywhere, shooting out of the windows of the pub, leaping over the alley next to it and twisting up the wall of the neighboring boutique. The cop lay prone on the street, unconscious.
Tyree cursed violently, sprinted to the cop and grabbed his walkie-talkie, punching the signal button several times along with every other button as the thing squawked to life. That should bring the cavalry. Tossing it aside, he looked up.
And his world lurched violently. Mrs. Yates stood at the mouth of the alley gesturing frantically as Clara disappeared into it at a run.
"Clara!" he yelled, and took off after her.
"Captain Tyree, thank God! Hurry!" Mrs. Yates called out.
"What the hell is she doing?"
"Someone's stolen the painting!"
Dammit, dammit, dammit! Where the blazes was Santee? He'd known this might happen! Tyree heard the sound of sirens in the distance. Thank God!
Tyree charged for all he was worth down the alley after Clara. Would he have time to reach her before midnight?
The sirens grew louder. How many minutes did he have left?
The alley was fast becoming an
inferno. Fire consumed the buildings on both sides; inside he could already hear timbers crashing from the upper floors.
"Clara, stop!"
She didn't slow, but he was gaining on her. He saw the man she was chasing. A large canvas was tucked under his arm.
"Hey, you!" Tyree shouted.
To his utter shock, the man stopped and whirled. There was a gun in his hand aimed at Clara.
She slid to a halt, face ashen.
Pure panic flooded Tyree. "Give it up, Peel!" he shouted, waving his arms as he closed the gap between them, his mind desperately scrambling for some way to protect her.
Suddenly, the aim of the gun shifted. To him.
Peel could see him!
Behind them, a fire truck air horn blasted.
Tyree almost fainted with relief. "Throw down your weapon, Peel! They know who you are."
"They'll never catch me! I have the secret!" Peel croaked, coughing from the smoke pouring everywhere. The gun tipped down. "Not even you can stop me!" Jerking it up, he took aim again, right at Tyree's heart.
From far away Tyree heard the deep ring of a steeple bell.
Bong.
Please, not yet! Not enough time!
Peel's finger moved on the trigger. Clara screamed. And suddenly she was in front of him, arms spread.
Bong, the bell rang again.
The gun exploded and Clara's body jerked sickeningly.
"Naaaay!"
He caught her as she collapsed, blood blooming over her shoulder.
Bong.
He clutched her frantically around the waist and struck out with his fist at the gun that was still aimed at her. It sailed onto the cobblestones with a clatter.
Bong.
Suddenly there was a knife in Peel's hand. The long, deadly blade gleamed red, reflecting the flames all around them.
The air was stifling hot. Overhead, Tyree heard a loud crack.
Bong.
Peel lashed out, and a searing pain pierced Tyree's abdomen. He staggered briefly under Clara's weight. Strange, he thought. In disbelief, he looked down. Thick blood poured from a wound at the side of his stomach. He almost laughed. Blood? What madness was this?
Bong.
He staggered again, falling to his knees. Clara's head lolled against the crimson pool engulfing her chest. He panted in desperation, the edges of his vision blurring. His fingers went numb and he felt Clara slipping from his grasp.
