Oct. 20

I love walking the beach at night, secure in the knowledge no roaming binoculars or roving eyes watch as I pick my way through our very private beach. Who might watch, and why? Probably no one. It's just that the consequences of some snoop or drunken teenager hiding along Cliff Road, watching me chat with an invisible presence, could be very costly. I may not care that locals like to invent a spectral love-life for me, but I would mind if Jonathan or Candy heard someone talking about "that crazy Mrs. Muir." The more I'm around the Captain, the easier it is to forget he is, after all, primarily an invisible presence to everyone else. It would be wrong to say we're "just that comfortable" together. It's more like, his presence – invisible or not – electrifies my every waking moment. I stand straighter, eyes wider, dress with him in mind…but at night, here on the beach, nobody eavesdrops, snoops, or passes judgment. "They wouldn't dare," Claymore apprised me yesterday in a low, dimple-quivering whisper. "Not after dark. Even Principal Hampton's afraid of the rumors, and won't deny he's seen and heard some strange things over at Gull Cottage. Nighttime on a deserted beach? No way." Yet here, his chin quivered and he sucked in his lower lip so far he almost swallowed his next thought: "It's you they're not sure of. I mean, everyone in Schooner Bay knows about old spook-face. It's you, Mrs. Muir. What is a lady like you doing in Gull Cottage with HIM?"

Me? I wondered tonight. Me in my casual chic, my Evan Picone dresses and my Mikimoto pearl strand. Carolyn-of-the-Muirs-of-Philadelphia, a respected if rigidly socially stratified family of wealth and privilege. My eyes widened. Me, a size-six stranger to any whiff of scandal. A widow and model of propriety seeking a quiet new life in a quiet little town (or should I say fleeing Philadelphia to start a new life without in-laws?). Yes, you, I chided myself, pulling the shearling jacket even tighter around my shivering form. You, whose idea of a good time is four hours of uninterrupted typing. I sidestepped the waves lapping ever closer to my feet.

Me/mine/my love is truly the kind that dare not say its name. I've fallen so deeply in love with a ghost that the odd circumstances of his otherworldly existence seem like second nature. My jaw slackens and eyes darken with desire at the very thought of Captain Gregg. Me, that Muir woman! "Still waters run verry deep," I overheard Mrs. Post intone coyly at the last PTA meeting on Friday, cocking her head in my direction. I believe I was staring out the window, pondering my ethereal love-hate relationship with his Magnificence instead of working out the details on activities for Candy's class's Halloween party. Is the Captain right? Do I look that satisfied? Am I considered scandalous, or are they just relieved to have someone in town to occupy and mellow their mercurial spirit? Do they want me to flee back to Philadelphia, or are they afraid I might?

"You're cursed by your looks, Mrs. Muir," Martha harrumphed one evening. "You're too pretty to be stuck out here without a serious boyfriend, widow or not. You've been on everyone's radar screen since the Captain tossed that series of potential suitors knocking on your door. And that good-looking Irish fellow didn't hang around very long either." Yet who in Schooner Bay would openly dare or care to accuse me of impropriety…with a ghost?

Tonight, on the beach, I relish the symphonic racket the tide makes as it lifts and displaces thousands of rocks on its journey in and out of our little cove. I stare at the waves rushing past my now-wet sneakers, hoping to see two very large feet materialize in front of me, planted sturdily in the sand a foot apart. I listen to the Atlantic's rhythmic roar, punctuated by cold spray and the surrendering hiss of the retreating tide.

I've won, mighty Atlantic, I think wryly. I am his mistress now.

"It's you they're not sure of."

I ran smack into Marjorie as I returned to Gull Cottage, entering via the kitchen door. I'd rather hoped my absence had gone unnoticed. Instead, I found Marjorie and Ralph in jackets, their faces evidently flushed from the same wintry wind I'd fought all the way up the cliff stairs. They seemed edgy. And still shivering. Had they been spying on me?

"Were you looking for me?" I stared at the two of them. With a generous sweep of his hand, Ralph invited me to sit at my own kitchen table to enjoy a cup of my own Earl Grey. This did not augur well. Neither did the sudden appearance of Captain Gregg, who seated himself in the small window alcove behind me.

"Madame, it is high time we jettisoned these stowaways," he murmured tautly into my ear. "They're trying to prove something's wrong with you so they can shanghai my crew back to Philadelphia. I want them off my ship!" I sighed, and wished the Captain could give me something more than over-the-shoulder support. A warm hand on my shoulder would be nice, for starters. Instead, he too was on edge, ready to 'keel-haul' anyone brazen enough to threaten his ship's integrity. I thought longingly of those silly TV shows like Bewitched, where the spunky heroine constantly fights and acts silly to protect her secret. If this were a TV sitcom, I could giggle or roll my eyes out of this situation. If Marjorie were my mother instead of my despised mother-in-law, I might surrender my precious information, knowing she truly has my best interests at heart. But Marjorie's and my family's best interests do not align. She wants Bobby's only legacy back in Philadelphia, where their pedigrees belong.

Here, dripping chilled righteousness on my kitchen floor, it's clear she thinks there's a possible case to be made for our return: My mental condition.