Growing Pains

by Tabitha12

By Mary and Chantal Jonathan exercises one of the privileges of youth during an evening with his friends, which leads to trouble for the Ghost and Mrs. Muir....

Title: Growing Pains

Author: Chantal & Mary

Rating: PG

Summary: Jonathan exercises one of the privileges of youth during an evening with his friends, which leads to trouble for the Ghost and Mrs. Muir....

Disclaimer: The characters from 'The Ghost and Mrs. Muir ' belong to 20th Century Fox and David Gerber productions. No infringement is intended, no profit made, and they will be returned unharmed from whence they came. This story is for enjoyment only.

"All other characters, plots, storylines and development of GAMM characters belong to the authors of this story and may not be used or changed without express written permission.

November, 24, 1978

"In the dead of night the lookout shouted: 'breakers ahead!' and Captain Joshua Webster rushed forward to see two-hundred foot waves hurling white foam over an outcropping of rocks. The ship struck the east end of Mermaid Island Point — A one-hundred and fifty by seventy-five-yard slab of craggy rocks some twenty miles off the coast of Maine. The surf tossed the ship alongside the rocks, where she started to break up. Webster and his crew, however, went up on deck. Then the force of the sea soon broke the masts, and they fell right, toward the shore. Joshua Webster then ordered his men to crawl to the tips of the fallen spars in an effort to make for land . . . "

"Nonsense, Madam!" stated Daniel Gregg, materializing into view as he continued to peer over Carolyn Muir's shoulder. "How many times must I tell you that NEVER, for any reason, whatsoever, have I lost a ship that was under my command?" He stepped back from the typewriter, placing his hands behind him, assuming the 'seamen's stance' that Carolyn knew so well. "I'm surprised at you, dear lady!"

Carolyn eyed him critically. "My dear Daniel!" she said, her face relaxing into a grin. "Not every sea tale I write is about you, you know! I would think that after ten years of reading over my shoulder that you could remember that I always use 'Joshua Webster' as my 'working name' for the sea captains in my stories. For good luck, don't you know? Then I change the name later when I type the final draft."

"Writers and their superstitions!" The seaman shook his head. "Well, yes, I suppose I DO remember that, my dear. It's just that it's not that often that you write a tale where the Captain goes down with the ship . . ." he protested.

"Who says he is going to? I think it would be better if you wait until I have finished WRITING my story before you start RE-writing it." Carolyn smiled fondly at the spectre in front of her. "Things usually work out better that way." Carolyn turned back to her typewriter.

"I haven't rewritten a story of yours in years! Actually, it's . . ." The seaman broke off.

Carolyn turned back to the seaman again. "Daniel?" She gave him a concerned look. "Did you need something? I mean, something other than a glimpse of 'my deathless prose,' as Claymore used to call it? I thought you were downstairs in the alcove, working on those sea charts of yours."

"Well, I was, Carolyn," the seaman replied. "But I finished the section I was working on, and realized how late it was, and decided that I should look you up and . . . "

". . . You know perfectly well that once I get rolling, I can still write all night, if I need to — as long as I have plenty of coffee around!" Carolyn gave Daniel another tender look. "But thank-you, dear, for checking up on me. Now, if you will excuse me, it's early yet, and I think I better get back to work before I lose . . ."

"Actually, my love, it wasn't you I was looking in on," the seaman replied. "At least not more than I normally do." Daniel frowned, and turned his back on the beautiful woman in front of him, strolled over to the balcony window, and looked out into the night. "It's Jonathan." The seaman peered into the blackness, a worried look on his face.

"Jonathan?" Carolyn asked, absently, inserting a fresh sheet into her typewriter. "Well, you know it's Thanksgiving break, and Candy spent the holiday in Philly with her college roommate. Thanksgiving was yesterday, of course, and it has been quiet here this week, what with Martha married to Ed now and them living in town. I told Jonathan he could spend the evening with Danny Shoemaker, Tommy Williams and George Gilbert at Danny's house." Carolyn stood and moved to the window and stood beside the seafarer. "Daniel?" she paused. "Were you two supposed to be doing something this evening?"

"Oh, no. Nothing like that." Daniel Gregg replied, still gazing out the window to the sea. "Jonathan said goodbye to me before he left to join his friends. I was just wondering, did you lift his curfew for the holidays, my dear?"

"Of course not!" She turned, surprised, and looked up at him. "His curfew is eleven p.m. — the same as always."

"That's what I thought," he replied gravely, looking down at her. "Because it's midnight, now, and the lad still isn't home."

Carolyn gave a little gasp and glanced at the clock beside the bed. "Oh, heavens! It certainly IS late! Way past curfew!" She gave the seaman a sheepish look. "I guess I lost track of time. You know how I get when . . ."

". . . When the muse bites, as Candy says!" Daniel finished Carolyn's sentence and gave her another affectionate look. "Indeed I do, my dear! So — what's the verdict?" he asked, staring at the phone, as if he was willing it to ring. "Do we wait for the boy to get home on his own, or do you call the Shoemakers and find out if our wayward lad is still there, or do I go and look for him?"

"I suppose I should call the Shoemakers first," Carolyn sighed. "On one hand, I hate embarrassing Jonathan by acting like a worried parent, after all, he IS sixteen now, barely, but . . ."

". . . But on the other hand, you ARE a worried parent, and I wouldn't want to find out that he has been stuck at the side of the road, or lying in a ditch somewhere for the last hour either!" Daniel finished for her. At that moment, the telephone rang.

Carolyn made a dive for the phone. "Hello?" Daniel Gregg watched Carolyn's face as the features he knew as well as his own started to react to the voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes, Mr. Shoemaker . . . I see . . . Uhh-huh . . . No. It's never happened HERE before either . . . No, definitely a first! . . . Yes, I DO believe you . . . Right. I think the best thing would be for me to come and pick him up . . . No, it's not a problem . . . Yes. I'll see you then . . . No, don't worry about it . . . No, I don't think it's 'all your fault.' The boys are old enough to make a few decisions by themselves . . . Well, thank-you so much for calling, Mr. Shoemaker." Carolyn Muir hung up the phone quietly, her mouth now set in a tight line. Silently, she walked back to her desk and snapped the switch on her IBM Selectric typewriter to the 'off' position, grabbed her sweater from the back of the desk chair, and headed toward the door.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on, or not?" the seaman asked, dematerializing and re materializing at the door to their cabin. "Where are you going?"

Carolyn gave him a surprised look. "You didn't listen?" Captain Gregg gave her an equally surprised look in return.

"Of course not. You took the call. I rather assumed you would tell me," he answered, quietly. "Maybe I SHOULD have listened. What seems to be the problem? Has there been an accident? Please, my dear. I haven't seen you look this upset in years! Is Jonathan hurt?"

"He's GOING to be hurting by the time I get through with him!" Carolyn answered shortly, opening the door. "It would seem while Jane and Sam Shoemaker were out at their bridge game tonight, Danny and the other boys, including Jonathan, made themselves at home in his parent's liquor cabinet, and the boys had a party all their own."

"You mean . . ." the seaman started.

"They've been having a ball." Carolyn answered the seaman, as she started down the stairs. "The Shoemakers got home about a half-hour ago . . ."

". . . And found them." Daniel finished. "And I am guessing that the lads made a good first effort?"

"Extremely!" Carolyn answered, now out by the car. "They are, all of them, besotted, buzzed, drunk, inebriated, sloshed, smashed, wasted, and wiped . . . way past imbibing! Blast!! I cannot begin to tell you how I . . ."

"Would you like me to go with you?" Daniel inquired of the furious woman before him. "Invisibly, of course!" he added, eyeing her with some alarm. Never had he seen her so angry!

"No. I need to do this alone — I think!" she replied, seating herself in the car and giving the seaman a grateful look. "I have to go to the Shoemakers and check out this situation myself. Maybe it's not as bad as I'm sure it is." Carolyn gave a disappointed sigh. "I was so hoping we would be able to avoid this particular part of the growing up process, but I suppose the statistics are right! It was bound to happen!" And she gave the seaman another look that spoke volumes. "Thank-you, Daniel! For offering to come, I mean. I wish you COULD come, but I do think it's better if I handle this by myself. Please wait up for us, however! I have a feeling I will be needing a little help by the time I get Jonathan home."

"As you wish, dear lady." Carefully the seaman shut the car door and watched as the car headed down Bay Road and toward the Shoemaker home at the far end of Schooner Bay.

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Carolyn looked on as Sam Shoemaker poured Jonathan into the car. Silently, he closed the rear door on the passenger side of the vehicle and turned back toward her. "Again, my apologies, Mrs. Muir," the balding man flushed. "I know Danny has probably gotten his own way too often in the past, and maybe we have spoiled him a bit, but never, NEVER has he ever been a party to anything like this!"

Carolyn nodded, tight lipped and then shrugged her shoulders. "It's all right, Mr. Shoemaker. Things like this happen, I'm told. More and more often lately, it seems!" She peered at her son's lanky figure sprawled in the back seat. "Just the times we are living in, I suppose. I am sure Jonathan is responsible for his own condition. I should get moving, and get him home though. It might take a little doing to get him into the house."

"I could follow you in my car, just in case . . ." the man said, reluctantly. "Maybe I should . . ."

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Shoemaker," Carolyn said, hastily. "I'm sure we . . . I can manage."

"Well, goodnight then. Rest assured, Danny IS going to be punished. How, I don't know yet — and he will be grounded for quite some time to come. In fact, I will call YOU when, and if, I decide that he will be allowed anywhere without a leash." Sam Shoemaker added, embarrassed, as he walked Carolyn around to the driver's side of the car.

"If only it was that easy!" Carolyn smiled ruefully. "Leashes, I mean. We can't, you know! Keep them tied up, that is. And we can't lock them in a closet until they are twenty-one either!" Her face turned serious again. "But, as I told you on the phone, no one held a gun to Jonathan's head and made him drink anything."

"Still, it was MY house where all this happened, and I DO feel responsible," Mr. Shoemaker insisted. "Jane told me to extend her apologies also. She's upstairs — trying to do something with Danny."

"Apologies accepted." Carolyn gave the man another weak smile and she started the car. "Tell Jane I'll see her at the town council meeting next Tuesday, the same as always." Silently, she shifted the car into gear and headed in the direction of home.

"Mom?" Jonathan's voice came faintly from the back of the car. "Mom, are you mad?"

Carolyn snorted. "Mad, Jonathan? 'Mad' doesn't begin to cover what I am feeling right now. What on earth got into you? Other than the obvious, I mean?"

"I really don't feel good . . ." Jonathan let out a huge belch and slumped even further down in his seat. ". . . We . . . I wasn't planning on . . ."

"Weren't planning on WHAT, Jonathan?" Carolyn's eyes shifted away from the dark road and back to her son for a brief moment. Even in his severely inebriated condition, Jonathan could see the fire in them. "Breaking into Mr. Shoemaker's liquor cabinet?" Carolyn continued, "Drinking under age? Embarrassing yourself, and me? What on earth were you thinking of?" Carolyn paused. "A rhetorical question really! You WEREN'T thinking!"

"Well, all we really wanted to do was taste a little of the beer Danny's dad got the other day," Jonathan began, miserably. "It was some new kind that Mr. Shoemaker bought, and Danny wanted to see what all the fuss was about. And we didn't break in, not really. Mr. Shoemaker left the keys to the liquor cabinet right there near the wet bar when he got us some sodas . . ."

". . . And you thought drinking beer illegally was better than a soda?" Carolyn interrupted. "Whose idea was that?"

"I don't remember!" Jonathan replied, weakly reaching to roll down the car window, hoping that the cold air would revive him. "But we did, and I really didn't like the taste of the beer much. It's nothing like I thought it would be, but I drank it anyway, and by the time we each had one, we decided they tasted pretty good after all, so we all had another one, and the second ones tasted better and then Tommy saw the bottle of vodka and George saw the brandy and Danny saw the scotch and I saw the rum, and I remembered that rum was what seamen like Captain Gregg drank, and I thought it would taste better than beer, and then Tommy, I think, suggested we try some of each kind to see which one of them taste best, and Danny pulled out the wine glasses, so anyway, we did."

"Ye GODS, Jonathan! You mean you drank some of EACH? Straight? From a wine glass? No mixer? No nothing??"

"Are you supposed to mix them with something?" Jonathan queried, faintly. He belched again and leaned toward the open car window. "Mom, I think I am going to throw up . . ."

Silently, Carolyn pulled the car over to the side of the road and stopped, just as her son flung open the car door and started to heave. Five minutes later, Jonathan Muir crawled back into the car and just as silently, Carolyn, who had come around to the passenger side to hold her son's head, started the car again and they continued toward home.

"I thank you for not throwing up in the car, Jonathan." Carolyn said, in a quiet, furious tone that Jonathan realized, even through his alcoholic haze, he had never heard before. "The smell of regurgitated alcohol is a particularly difficult odor to get rid of."

Approximately five minutes later, Carolyn pulled up in the front of Gull Cottage and looked to the balcony and then to the widow's-walk for signs of Daniel Gregg, who was nowhere to be seen. Miserably, Jonathan managed to open the door on his side by himself, and slowly he started to extract himself from the car; his tall, lean frame moving slowly, gingerly, from his seat.

Carolyn went around to the passenger side to join him and weakly, Jonathan leaned against her as, weaving, side by side, they made their way only a few feet up the flagstone walk. Carolyn realized the boy's knees were beginning to buckle, and more and more of the young man's six-foot frame was leaning against that of her five-foot-four, one hundred and ten-pound self.

"Your servant, Madam!" came Daniel Gregg's disembodied voice, and suddenly, Carolyn saw the front door of Gull Cottage open by itself, and then, just as quickly, Carolyn felt Jonathan's weight fall away from her as an invisible hand lifted Jonathan by the scruff of the neck — reminiscent, Carolyn thought, of the way that the Captain used to extract his erstwhile nephew from Gull Cottage in years past. Just as quickly, Jonathan was moved through the front door of Gull Cottage and deposited none-too-gently onto the couch in the parlor. Limply, the young man's six-foot frame slid slowly from the couch to the floor and lay spread-eagled, face down on the Persian rug, where it remained motionless. Silently, Carolyn watched an afghan rise from the couch and land near Jonathan's feet and then observed a small bucket float through the air and land two feet from Jonathan's head. Carolyn glared at the figure on the floor.

"Are you all right, my dear?" The seaman appeared next to her and looked at her closely. "I take it the other lads have been deposited with their parents? No permanent injuries in the bunch?"

Carolyn gave the seaman a look. "I suppose you mean BEFORE their parents claimed them?" she asked, a livid look in her eye. "They are all safely home now, as far as I know. At least I think so. As for Jonathan . . ."

". . . As for Jonathan, my dear Carolyn, you could yell at him until you are blue in the face, and it will be utterly useless with the boy in the condition that he is in tonight."

"You are so right, Daniel!" Carolyn tiredly wiped the hair from her eyes. "It wouldn't do me any good right now. Besides, I am furious with Jonathan — not to mention hurt and embarrassed, and you're right. I know yelling when I am this upset won't accomplish anything, but . . ."

"But nothing, my dearest lady. May I suggest that you tuck yourself in bed and try and get a good night's sleep? It is very late, and you still have your story to finish tomorrow, do you not? Come now, Carolyn, love. You need your rest. I'll bring you some warm milk, or perhaps a nice cup of herbal tea to help you relax."

"What about Jonathan?" She asked, again glancing angrily at the prone figure on the floor. "I suppose I should cover him, or something . . ." Tiredly, she reached for the afghan, still at Jonathan's feet.

"You should do NOTHING else, at this point, my love." Daniel Gregg gestured and the afghan scooted away from Carolyn's grasp. "It's close enough for him to reach, if he wants it, and if he doesn't wake up enough to cover himself, he won't perish. Might I suggest you leave Jonathan to me . . . at least for a little while?" The seaman gave her a wicked grin. "I guarantee you. You will get a chance to speak with the boy soon enough. Just give ME the opportunity to deal with the lad first. Tomorrow morning."

The beautiful woman in front of him smiled and she gazed back up at him. "You have a deal, my dear, dear Captain Gregg! He's ALL yours — with the GREATEST of pleasure!" With that comment, Carolyn Muir turned on her heel and headed for the stairs.

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Light poured softly into Gull Cottage, bathing everything in a gentle glow. At the touch of an invisible hand, the parlor's windows opened, letting in the chirping of the birds and a flow of fresh air.

Still sprawled on the floor, Jonathan shivered at the cooler air and pulled the afghan up to his chin. He cracked his eyes open a bit as he prepared to turn, spying as he did so two darkly-clad feet not six inches from his nose. Opening his eyes slightly wider and wincing at the sudden brightness, he gazed slowly up at the form standing next to him until he found himself pinned by two bright blue eyes, glinting down at him. "Captain?" Jonathan managed to croak, despite his parched throat.

"And good morning to you, too, Mister Muir," Captain Gregg replied, softly, as he looked critically at the young man from head to toe. He leaned slightly over the bucket resting by the couch. "You've had an eventful night, I see, laddie," the Captain continued with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. "Perhaps this will help." Without warning, he banged a steaming mug of coffee on the nearby table.

"Ow!!!" Jonathan moaned as he grabbed his head, his still pale skin growing a shade greener at the thought of ingesting anything. "You didn't need to do that, you know," the young man groaned accusingly through a mild wave of nausea.

The seaman gripped his lapels and kept looking down at the young man, clearly unimpressed. "Really — and I suppose you needed to get more hammered than a doornail, and to make your mother angrier than a tigress, hmm?"

Jonathan looked away, unable to come up with a suitable retort. "You have no idea what this feels like," he said dejectedly.

The Captain eyed Jonathan speculatively as he picked up the mug and presented it to him before sitting down on the coffee table. "On the contrary, my boy. I am well acquainted with your current suffering — very well, indeed . . ."

The waves lapped gently against the wooden hull, a pale haze lingering still over the surface of the water as the sun finished burning off the remnants of the previous night's mist. Out on the forecastle, near the port bow, a blond-haired, lanky young man lay on two piles of coiled rope, his slightly green-tinged skin barely visible from under his jacket, which he was using as a blanket. He suddenly jerked and winced as he heard footsteps coming his way, clattering to his ears as loudly as a broadside. "Oohh, my head," he moaned softly.

A rich chuckle answered him. "I'm told that's reassuring, Mister Gregg — it means it's still very much attached to the rest of you."

A steaming mug appeared, behind which Daniel recognized the unmistakable gray eyes of Captain Marsden. "Oh dear . . . What's that?" he asked in a voice weak as much from the previous night's rowdiness as the realization of who was holding the mug.

"Ginger tea," came the not-unkind response. "It helps settle the stomach." The older man watched as the young seaman struggled to sit upright, without offering him any help. Penance, after all, took on many aspects . . . "Are you on an even keel yet, lad?" When the young man nodded, the captain proffered the mug once more, watching as Daniel took it from him with unsteady hands and brought it to his lips. For a few brief seconds, it looked like the fragrant brew would turn the lad's stomach rather than settle it; then the captain smiled slightly as the color seemed to seep slowly back into the young man's cheeks after the first sip.

"Thank-you, sir," Daniel said quietly, unable to meet his captain's eyes. "Sir, I — "

"No need to apologize, Mister Gregg." A smirk appeared on Marsden's face as the young man looked up at him in surprise. "Believe me, you'll be doing a lot of it in the coming days — if I have anything to say about it." His smile grew wider as he saw the blush rise in the lad's cheeks. "Good — a little suffering is always good for the soul . . ." He sat on the coils of rope next to Daniel, his gray eyes fastened on the young man's face. "So — care to tell me what happened last night?"

"I thought you had already asked the others, sir," Daniel said sullenly, hedging, as he stared into his cup.

"I'm asking you." The tone, while quiet, brooked no dissension.

Sighing in surrender, the young seaman related the previous night's events to his captain: the trip to shore in the longboat; his shipmates, insisting on paying for his dinner to celebrate his first successful passage; the more experienced seamen never letting his cup run dry, drawing him into drinking game after drinking game; finally, the long row back, with Daniel hanging over the side for most of the trip, as sick as he had ever been. Sheepishly, the young man cast a quick look at his superior, fully expecting to hear him say he was going to have Daniel flogged as an example to the crew.

Instead, the captain smiled and shook his head. "Don't worry, lad; I'm not going to flog you." Marsden smiled wider at the startled look Daniel threw at him, his mind clearly perusing that very question. "No amount of punishment will make you feel worse than you're feeling now, I reckon. However," he continued as he stood up, "I have just the thing to make you feel better." He paused, deciding to let the young man hang for a bit. "A chaplain once told me that the best way to repent for your sins was to work up a sweat. It so happens it's the same remedy to cure one of a hangover. Looks like you're in luck, lad — you get to kill two birds with one stone." With that, he put a holystone in Daniel's hand, but didn't let go of it. The young man looked up at him questioningly. "The sea may be a harsh mistress, Mister Gregg," Captain Marsden said quietly, "but the bottle is a harsher one still — one that clamps down on you harder than irons and more likely than not will deprive you of your life, and others of theirs, as well. Do you understand, lad?"

Daniel nodded slowly, still a little unsteady, but his gaze was unwavering as he gave his answer. "Aye, sir. I do."

Marsden eyed him a moment longer before nodding to himself. "Do try to remember that when you're at the helm of your own ship, will you?"

For the first time since waking up, Daniel smiled. "I will, sir. I promise."

"Good." The captain let go of the stone and stepped out of the way, gesturing at the waist of the ship. "Until then, Mister Gregg, the deck awaits. So look lively there, Sir!"

Blushing slightly, Daniel steadied himself as he stood up, then made his way slowly to a long morning of scraping the deck . . .

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Jonathan sat on the couch, the afghan wrapped around his shoulders, staring into his now empty mug. The Captain looked at him silently, watching with interest as some hard-earned wisdom began making its way slowly into the young man's head. Finally, Jonathan looked up at his mentor. "I really screwed up, didn't I, Captain?" he asked quietly, clearly remorseful.

"The privilege of youth, Jonathan," Daniel said with a small smile.

Jonathan looked down into his mug again. "Maybe so, but it's no excuse for embarrassing Mom like that — and you." He looked back up, his eyes shiny. "I'm really sorry for the way I behaved, Captain," he said, his voice quivery, but sincere.

Daniel nodded. "I'm very gratified to hear that, lad."

The young man's face paled slightly as he asked, "What are you going to do with me?"

"Nothing." Daniel couldn't help chuckling at the incredulous look Jonathan threw him. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, his eyes fixed on Jonathan's own. "Jonathan, much as I wish I could claim you as my son — and no father could possibly ask for a better one — the sad fact remains that you are not. I only had my say because I asked your mother permission to talk to you first, in the hopes of making you understand why what you did was disrespectful and irresponsible — as it was for me." He cocked his head, looking closely at the young man. "Have I succeeded in doing that, Jonathan?"

Jonathan nodded slowly, his eyes downcast. "Yes, sir. Very clearly." He looked up at the Captain uncertainly. "What do you think Mom's gonna do?"

"That, my boy," the Captain said as he got up, taking the mug from Jonathan's hands as he did so, "is for your mother to know and you to find out." Daniel smirked, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "She's your commanding officer, lad; I'm sure she'll think of something fitting — like sanding down the widow's walk, for example." He inclined his head toward the stairway. "Now, off you go — get yourself cleaned up and go apologize to your mother. She was very patient with you last night; you shouldn't abuse that patience any longer than necessary."

"Yes, sir." Slowly, Jonathan got to his feet, swaying for a moment as a wave of dizziness swept over him, then made his way gingerly toward the stairs. He turned back to the Captain. "Thanks, Captain — I won't forget." Letting out a long breath, he began trudging up the stairs, a long list of potential chores dancing in his head the whole way.

The End