August 2, 1968
"Me and the Ghost Upstairs." Funny. When I was a little girl, my grandmother used to play that song. I loved hearing Fred Astaire sing it as much as I loved watching him dance with Ginger Rogers. Of course I had no understanding, then, of what it literally means to have a ghost upstairs, with all the unspoken implications that presence manifests, so to speak.
I think spiritualist Madame Tibaldi summed it up best when she declaimed Gull Cottage has a "Strong, proud, predatory male who says you're mine, and has a way of making us love it–!"
And I do. For the first time in years, I feel safe, wanted, feminine and OK with the world. At the same time, I'm afraid. Captain Gregg can be quite an overwhelming experience. We're both a little strong-willed. Right now, the battle (which I think I'm winning) involves the Captain treating me as an equal partner in the household, not a hothouse flower to be cosseted by Victorian standards. He was appalled that I wore a bathing suit to the beach yesterday and brought me a robe after he spied on us through that blasted telescope. I didn't know he could transport material objects, to use Star Trek lingo. I retaliated by slipping on shorts over my suit, and driving into town with my bathing suit for a top. I didn't get out, of course, but how was he to know? Martha thought I'd lost all sense of decency. The Captain pursed his lips and shook his fist at the sky. I saw him in the rear view mirror.
On the whole, I'd say the Captain and I are friends in equal measure but I'm confused by our relationship. Confused and afraid it could blow me off course, to use the Captain's language. To ports unknown.
Oddly enough, he's a very physical presence. When he materializes in a room, he's impossible to ignore and seems almost tangible, as if I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to. He's an alpha male and when we're together, he just dominates in a pleasant way that I really don't mind unless, of course, he's rambling on about "women" and their place in society.
I wonder how Captain Gregg feels. Maybe he, too is afraid. The looks he gives me and the tenderness in his voice when he acquiesces to our modernity or speaks eloquently of his life in the last century confuse and scare me, but somehow I relish them.
He's just an illusion and I must treat this relationship accordingly. There's no one I can talk to about this. No one who would believe me. Or maybe they would.
Candy and I went shopping today and I could feel, if not see, the whispers and stares. Ed Peavey is vouching for us, but I think that's because he secretly likes Martha. I caught Candy's new friend's mother pointing at us and talking under her breath to Norrie, proprietor of a lovely seaside restaurant where we lunched. I wonder if the women in Schooner Bay know about the Captain. I'm too new and too afraid of the topic to broach it with anyone – not even Claymore.
Lined up two articles to write. Maine is such a popular tourist destination that the New York Times still wants summery articles about things to do over Labor Day weekend here. And the Boston Glove seeks an article about deepwater harbors like Schooner Bay. There is an excellent historical society in Portland, and Claymore has kindly put me in touch with all of the junior leagues on the coast. I may have to travel and my phone bill will be high but the editors promise to recompense me for my troubles. I hope I've picked the right profession. I'm scared to death I will not be able to support us on a meager writer's income.
