Sept. 7, 1968
I arose today before the Captain. He was so exhausted it was easy to slip his arm from under my shoulder, his hand still cupping my breast. Has it been a century or so since he really slept with a woman? I sighed in remembered passion. He had certainly earned his slumber. I slid stealthily from the little piece of heaven where we slept, our bodies melded together as though we'd been married a lifetime (or beyond, depending upon your perspective…). So much for the movies. Ghosts obviously sleep with the same oblivion as the rest of us, and I can heartily attest they are NOT cold.
But reality was. From ecstasy to lunch pails and school buses. I crept out of our room reluctantly, knowing if I stayed much longer, I'd fall asleep again and lose any chance of beating Martha to our singular bathroom. He may be a spirit, but the Captain left me smelling exactly like a woman who'd spent the good part of a night satisfying a demanding lover. I smiled at the memory then stopped with a start, peering at my face in the bathroom mirror. Surely he couldn't. Not after 100 years in the afterlife. The warm stickiness had to be as ectoplasmic as the rest of him. I wondered what my obstetrician in Philadelphia might think if I showed up in his office, requesting that new pill to prevent pregnancy.
The power was still out so there was no water – I did the best I could with a sponge bath. Thankfully, Jonathan had forgotten to pull the plug after his own bath the night before. I made do with his frigid leftovers, shivering as I soaped myself down with a washcloth then rinsing myself with his Tony the Tiger shampoo cup. I threw a clean robe over my shaking form and just in time, too.
Tap tap. "Mrs. Muir, dear, are you all right?" I opened the door and there she was, bright-eyed, completely dressed and more alert than any human had a right to be at 5:30 a.m. "Aren't you up, say, about an hour and a half too early?"
"Good morning, Martha. Oh, I don't even know what time it is," I sputtered, thanking the incredible luck of having the time for a cold bath that left me perky enough to deal with Martha's incredulity. "I had this dream about a story I'm writing and I decided just to get up and finish it while I could still remember the dream. Is the coffee on?"
"I put it on the stove about 20 minutes ago so you should be good-to-go," she harrumphed suspiciously, already headed back for the stairs. Martha and I had history. "I didn't sleep too well myself last night what with the weather and all the banging noise from the wind," she said. It occurred to me that my bedroom is right above hers. I flushed as I followed her down the stairs.
Martha's worked for our family for over 20 years, and she can read my face like a book. I grew up with one or two servants always in the house and, to be honest, considered Martha more than just a "maid." Mother went through about two or three women until she found the stalwart Martha, to whom she happily absconded all responsibility for running the house and protecting my virtue. In fact, the sagacious Martha caught me sneaking out on numerous occasions, shinnying down the tree outside my bedroom window in classic rich-girl style. I was fairly wild even if I looked like an ice princess. Somehow Martha knew my mother wasn't the one to tame me. Martha's punishments were much more subtle, such as not ironing a dress I needed for a party or making Hungarian goulash instead of hamburgers for an overnight sleepover. "You have violated my trust," she would state simply. "When you have regained it, your privileges will be restored."
Martha always managed to rein me with understated disapproval that always left me feeling as if I'd disappointed her.
Truth be told, I didn't like disappointing her. But this morning? What could Martha, who knows nothing of the Captain, possibly think I was up to? I tried to fake my usual effusive goofiness (of the variety I've taken to covering myself when caught talking to the invisible-to-her Captain) but Martha ignored me. She still rules. And actually, although I haven't told Daniel, my mother pays her salary. Guilt money, I suppose, but Martha doesn't see it that way. She thinks my parents owe me. Big time.
I knew Ed Peavey had warned her Gull Cottage would get to me. Considering most of the locals thought of Captain Gregg and Gull Cottage as one inextricably linked entity, perhaps she was a little unconvinced by my story. Just incredible bad luck. The most taciturn person in Schooner Bay probably already has spilled the beans to my housekeeper.
Back to the kitchen: I think she saw me wince a little when I reached in the cabinet for a mug. After what, nine years? I was sore. Delightfully so. Fortunately, she didn't ask. Probably assumed I'd pulled a muscle with that new-fangled Yoga routine (her words) of mine.
All I wanted to do was grab another cup of coffee and fly back up the stairs to the Captain. Instead, I sat with Martha, sipping coffee and discussing sundry household items. I finally feel like a real woman, and what? Thirty-six years old and still trying to outwit the mother figure!
And suddenly, there he was. Pouring himself a big cup of coffee, a bottle of Bailey's in the other hand. With a wicked smile, he proffered the bottle to me, behind Martha's back. I flushed and a twitch moved involuntarily across my lips.
Martha ignored it and began making pancake batter.
My lover, the sea captain, waited until her back was turned before pouring Bailey's liberally into my half-filled cup. "To us, Madam," he whispered, immaculately groomed and devastatingly handsome as always. Other than that, he was ghost-as-usual, tipping extra chocolate chips into Martha's cookie batter and impatiently strutting around the kitchen. Once she was safely out of earshot, I burst into laughter, wiping tears out of my eyes as the Captain, who appeared quite pleased with himself, rose to his fullest height and topped my cup off with the creamy liqueur of his country-of-origin.
"To us, Madam, " he crooned intimately, looking shipshape and Bristol whatever, as Jonathan would say. It appeared ghosts are different from us in at least one matter: Showers were optional. I clinked my coffee cup against his. "To us," I cooed softly, completely smitten. And he leant forward and kissed me, barely grazing my lips.