"BLAST!" Carolyn loomed over the stubbornly stiff form of Claymore Gregg seated at his desk.
He'd just finished a long-winded explanation of why he couldn't possibly be expected to run a gas line to Gull Cottage when she only had a four week lease, and surely she could get by with an electric blanket and how cold showers were considered to be very good for the constitution.
When he heard her say Blast, however, Mr. Gregg turned quite red and began sweating profusely.
"You don't have to run new lines, Mr. Gregg, just blast out the old ones with one of those air pressure...things. You know what I mean." She glowered at him.
"Well, Mrs. Muir...I suppose maybe–"
"If it's not done by tomorrow evening, I'm leaving," she said simply. She had only paid half upfront, "AND I'm leaving a bad review on Yelp! A bad review of "Claymore Gregg Real Estate and…and, whatever assorted LACK of services", she went on. She'd cast a pall over his entire setup. She wasn't generally a vindictive person, but she was feeling especially stirred up and uncommonly empowered.
"Now, Mrs. Muir, let's not get nasty!"
"How would you feel if you hadn't had a shower in four days!"
His mouth bobbed open and closed a few times before he decided that this was a question he wasn't really meant to answer.
He opened a ledger on his desk and flipped a few pages. "I suppose I could have someone out–"
"Today!" She wrapped her knuckles on his desk.
"Yes! Today, there happens to be an opening."
"In fact, I've ridden my bike into town, I'll catch a ride home with the serviceman." She smiled down at Claymore.
"Oh, really, Mrs. Muir, I'm not sure...insurance...you see… I could send a taxi."
Carolyn shook her head, she recalled that the taxi that had originally taken her to Gull Cottage had "Gregg's Big Yellow Taxi Company" painted on the side. She wasn't going to put one more penny in his pocket until the gas line had been attended to.
"Well, if you insist!" Claymore conceded, closing the ledger.
"And by the way, who is the Captain?" She asked as Claymore stood up and reached for his brimmed hat.
He gave a nervous jump, sending his cap flying. "Captain? Why whomever do you mean?"
She caught the hat in midair and held it to her chest.
"The sea captain, the one whose painting is in my–he front bedroom," she corrected.
"Painting? Did you say painting?"
"Yes, painting, the wind blew off the dust cover and–"
"Oh, Mrs. Muir, that's no one you need to concern yourself with. In fact, I'll have Peevey cover it right back up. That's a very old painting, VERY old, and shouldn't be exposed to the salt air. No, it MUST be kept covered." He snatched his hat from her grasp.
"That's fine, but who is he?" She now had to double step to keep up with his long-legged and determined gait.
Suddenly Claymore turned on his heel and looked at her, holding his hat over his heart. "That sea captain is my esteemed ancestor, Captain Daniel Gregg. He built Gull Cottage. That room was his–how shall we say–quarters. His Captain's Quarters which he used when he wasn't at sea, which wasn't often."
"Daniel Gregg." She tested the name out
"Captain Gregg," Claymore said almost in a scold as if it was somehow disrespectful to refer to the dead man by his first name.
"It seems odd." Carolyn tilted her head. "A man having a painting of himself in his...quarters."
"Captain Gregg is an odd man, I mean he WAS an odd man, but, well, the painting didn't hang there while he was alive. I'm afraid he met an untimely death, and as a sort of funereal gift, the artist gave the painting to the family to remember him by." Claymore was stretched to his full height now, clearly proud of his heritage.
"Captain Gregg was one of the note-worthy inhabitants of Schooner Bay. In fact, he intended that after his death, Gull Cottage would become a home for retired sea captains." Claymore began walking once again.
"Why didn't it?" she asked. From what she'd seen of the place, it didn't appear set up for group living.
"Well, because there was no money!" Claymore said indignantly. "At least that is what I'm told. Sadly, Captain Gregg passed away before I was born. He never married and had no children and apparently, there was a lot of back and forthing between his cousin and his sister's children and eventually, they closed Gull Cottage up."
"They didn't sell it, or rent it?" It seemed not only strange but sad, that such a lovely home simply sat empty year in and year out.
"Oh, they tried, believe me, I've tried. It's been tried Mrs. Muir, it's been tried." He was getting rather red in the face again. "But the Captain, he was having none of it."
"The dead captain?" Carolyn made sure she was getting this right.
"Exactly, I mean–" He stopped again. "Well, Mrs. Muir, neither you nor I believe in ghosts, but some people are gullible." He put up his hand to his mouth as if to speak to her conspiratorially. "In a town like this. The story goes that the ghost of the Captain would drive out anyone who tried to take up residence in his house. Pure nonsense of course." He straightened up again. "But by the time I inherited, well, the word was out, high and low, Gull Cottage, haunted by an angry ghost!" He motioned with his hands as if the words were written on a marquis. "No one would come near the place."
"Why didn't you move in?" It seemed like the natural solution.
"Me? Oh, well...I'm a VERY busy man, you see. I have my finger in many pies and I wear many hats." He placed his cap onto his head. "A man of my talents needs to live in town, where he can keep an eye on things. Besides, if I lived out there...well, no one would want to go all the way out to Gull Cottage to conduct business, especially with its reputation. No Mrs. Muir, My place is here." He stamped his foot. "Here among the people I serve. I'm justice of the peace, magistrate, and head of the Library council." He informed her.
"So you rent it out."
"Exactly. It's the perfect seaside escape! Very popular, VERY popular."
She raised an eyebrow at him, she wasn't buying it.
"But you know how these things come and go. The fashions changes. For a while everyone and their Aunt Lucy wanted to rent a summer place in Maine, next thing it was all Disney World and Fantasy Island, then bed and breakfast became all the rage. Now camping, and I simply haven't the time." He pulled his hat down further on his head and began walking once again.
The story sounded plausible and could explain why the road had been allowed to fall to ruin and the other houses out that way were also unoccupied. It made more sense than the idea of an angry ghost.
Bed and breakfast, Carolyn mused as she followed the man across the two blocks of town towards the car repair garage. She could imagine Gull Cottage filled with happy couples, it could be a romantic setting. There could be roses growing around the door, campfires on the beach, and breakfast served on the blue and white stoneware dishes she'd found stacked in the pantry.
All it needed was some sprucing up. A ghost of an idea ran through her brain. Maybe she could do it! It would give her something to do, a fresh start. If Claymore was half the businessman he claimed to be, he could front the money and she could work onsite.
"Mr. Claymore, I think a bed and breakfast is a lovely idea! It's the perfect setting. Why it really wouldn't take that much to–"
He put up a hand to stop her chatter. "I'm afraid it's out of the question. Insurance rates." He clucked his tongue and shook his head. "And health regulations. My goodness, the amount of money it would take to bring it up to code." He shook his head sadly.
"So you're just going to let the place fall down?!"
"Mrs. Muir!" He stopped abruptly and looked quite offended. "I'll have you know that Gull Cottage is on the list of National Historic Buildings. Fall Down! Of course not, of course, if it burned down, well it would be a terrible loss." His eyes had a glassy excitement in them.
"But all those relics and antiques. You could make a museum." Her mind was whirring now.
"Oh, the Captain wouldn't like that," Claymore muttered, looking up at the sky as if he expected a bolt of lightning to hit him.
"Mrs. Muir, please don't worry yourself. Sometimes the hands of progress move very slowly. Just put the fate of Gull Cottage out of your head. The Council of National Historic Buildings has a long agenda and eventually, they will decide the fate of that hallowed house. In the meantime, if I can rent it out every now and then, you know, just to cover expenses, then I am doing my part."
They had reached the garage where a tall thin man wearing overalls was fumbling under the hood of the "Gregg's Big Yellow Taxi".
"Hello Mr. Peevey This is Mrs. Muir, she's renting Gull Cottage." Claymore began to make introductions.
"Gull Cottage?!" The man's dark eyes grew wide as he looked back and forth between the new arrivals.
"YES," Claymore winked at him broadly. "And it seems that the gas lines could use a little–" He puffed his cheeks out and blew.
Mr. Peevey was rubbing the back of his neck with his greasy hand. "Gull Cottage, you know Claymore–"
"I know, say no more. Time and a half it is, but it MUST be done today!"
Mr. Peevey nodded towards the taxi.
"That can wait, you can pick up the compressor at the hardware store, and carry Mrs. Muir and her bike back to the cottage with you."
Mr. Peevey looked Carolyn over. "Are you sure about this Ma'am? There're some nice rooms to rent right here in town."
"Oh, I like the cottage, and it's a lovely beach. But I've been there four days now and I really would like some hot water and to be able to cook on the stove."
"Four days!" His eyes widened, and he looked her over again, but this time with more respect. "Nights too?"
"Well, of course."
"You heard the woman." Claymore pressed on the man's arm. "She LIKES the Cottage."
"I heard her, but I'm having a time believing her."
"Surely YOU don't think the house is haunted!" Carolyn guessed the source of the man's discomfort.
"Me? Oh, no, well...ghosts…" He brushed away the notion with a sheepish smile. "Still. It's no place for a woman alone."
"I appreciate your concern." Carolyn smiled at him, "My housekeeper is arriving tomorrow you see, so I really need the gas to be on."
It was a lie that came to her on the spot. But she decided it probably was better if all the men in town didn't know she was staying in an isolated cottage alone for the next three weeks. "Martha is a very large and capable woman." Carolyn went on. "She has trophies for shooting… and arm wrestling."
Ok, so that was a lie, but she had no doubt it could be true. Martha was amazingly talented, capable, and had a colorful background.
"Sounds like my kind of woman!" Peevey said with a hopeful smile.
"Well then, it's settled, let's be on our way!" She batted her lashes ever so slightly, hating that she was reverting to such behavior to get something out of a man, but as her husband used to remind her, "It's the price of doing business, Carolyn." When he had to attend another boring business meeting or conference or entertain a bore at their home for dinner.
Carolyn found Mr. Peevey quite talkative and interesting once they got on the road. He filled her in on Schooner Bay history, and some of the gossip as well as his various solo enterprises and the ones he shared with Claymore Gregg.
"Claymore's not a bad fellow," Peevey assured her. "His heart's in the right place," he said thoughtfully. "Only problem is that he keeps his checktbook in front of it."
"Yes, so I've noticed."
As they approached the cottage Mr. Peevey took an unexpected left turn and his truck bounced over dry weeds and grass that had grown up between the stripes of gravel of a small service road that pulled up behind the house. Carolyn hadn't realized it was there things had gotten so grown over. Mr. Peevey was able to park quite near the back door.
He began to whistle as he unloaded his equipment, but it wasn't the happy sort of whistle of a man enjoying his work, it sounded thin and nervous.
"Do you enjoy music, Mr. Peevey?" she asked as she carried her own things into the house.
"Ma'am?" he cocked his head, puzzled.
"You were whistling," she pointed out.
"Suppose I was." He seemed slightly surprised and a bit sheepish.
"I don't mind. " She assured him, regretting that she had made him feel self-conscious.
"It's just something about–" He looked around the kitchen. "Well, you've got some of the cobwebs out anyway."
"Yes, it had a bit too much of a haunted mansion vibe when I arrived." She winked.
The man's eyebrows jumped and his eyes widened. "Did you say haunted?"
Carolyn smiled. "Oh yes...the rumors. The only company I've had since I got here have been a few spiders and the gulls on the beach. Can I make you a cup of tea?" She went on brightly, making it clear that she thought nothing of the tales of the cottage being haunted.
"That'd be fine." Peevey nodded, rubbing at his chin as he inspected the stove.
Carolyn busied herself heating water in the electric kettle and rinsing out two cups from the cabinet.
Mr. Peevey was trying, unsuccessfully to light the stove, repeating the same motions Carolyn herself had; turning on the gas, holding the lighter to the flame, and then the gas going off with a sighing hiss.
"Sounds like there's a blockage." Peevey came to the same conclusion.
He lugged the air compressor in and he and Carolyn tried the few electric outlets to find one that would run it. She finished making the tea, so he could use that socket, as the others seemed on the fritz.
The machine made a terrible racket, and Carolyn fled the room, leaving Mr. Peevey kneeling on an old chair cushion surrounded by wrenches and the hissing clattering compressor.
She escaped up to her room, where she changed into jeans and an old shirt in case her handyman should need any help. She went into the bathroom to brush her hair and put it up with a scarf. The gas line that ran to the bathroom boiler was vibrating wildly, then it broke free from the clamp holding it to the wall and began to clang about.
"Mr. Peevey. Mr. Peevey!" Carolyn called from the stairs, but she couldn't be heard over the noise coming from the kitchen. She hurried down. "Mr. Peevey, maybe we should stop! The pipes upstairs–"
She could see he was having a similar problem in the kitchen. He was trying to hang onto a metal tube that was behaving more like a snake than a gas line.
She pulled the plug free of the wall and the noise and vibration stopped.
"Don't make any sense," Peevey said. "When I blow in it…" he demonstrated. "Passes right through. When I attach the compressor." He shrugged at her. He didn't have to demonstrate, she'd seen it herself.
"Yes, the line in the bathroom was the same way. It came loose from the wall."
"Maybe if I start on that end," he said thoughtfully.
"And work backwards?" She caught his line of thinking. "Well, it's worth a try."
Together they hauled the equipment up the stairs, and Mr. Peevey tried blowing out the line first from the bathroom and then from the wall heater in the main bedroom.
When he blew the bathroom line, the air seemed to pass through, but the moment he removed the compressor black soot shot out of the end and into his face.
When he attached the compressor to the line in the bedroom, the line seemed to melt away, as if it had been heated. Peevey swore he'd never seen anything like it.
"I think what we have here is a situation." He looked at her side-eyed.
Carolyn nodded. They certainly had a situation on their hands.
Mr. Peevey looked over his shoulder at the painting on the wall. "Truth is Mrs. Muir, Gull Cottage has had...problems with its gas line before."
"Maybe it's just too far out to the end of the line," she said with a sigh.
"Maybe. Or Maybe–" Peevey's voice dropped to a whisper. "Someone doesn't really want anyone living here."
"You think Claymore is behind this?" That hardly made sense, Mr. Gregg had clearly been thrilled that Gull Cottage was going to bring in some cash.
"Not Claymore." Mr. Peevey jerked his head slightly toward the wall behind him. "Some people don't care for company."
She wasn't going to entertain even the idea of a ghost–at least not with anyone other than the ghost himself."So, do we have a plan B?" she asked instead.
"There's a nice bed and breakfast in town Mrs. Muir. Miss Laura puts down quite a spread in the mornings–eggs, ham, marmalade...two flavors."
Right now a proper hot breakfast did sound enticing, but Carolyn was not about to give up on the solitude and the beach at Gull Cottage. Nor was she going to let the people in town think she'd' been scared off–or frozen out–by some old ghost!
"Know what I think Mrs. Muir?" Peevey began.
"Please tell me." She barely managed to keep the sarcasm out of her tone.
"I think this place isn't fit for habitation. Not sure that it ever was. Have you ever known a corner where every business that sets up fails?" His head was cocked to one side, eyeing the gas line that had "melted" to nothing along side the hearth.
Carolyn nodded. She guessed that every town had one site or building that seemed to have the stamp of doom on it.
"Well, Gull Cottage is like that." He gave his head a curt nod as if to mark the end of that sentence. "Sometimes the best beginnings still come to a bad end."
She wiped her hands on the thighs of her jeans, just noticing that they felt damp. The idea was absurd. Gull Cottage wasn't a business, it was a house and a rather nice one.
"So no one has ever really lived here?"
Peevey shook his head slowly. "Many have tried, all have failed," he said rather gravely. "If you don't mind my saying Mrs. Muir. I think you should pack up and I'll drive you back to town."
Carolyn felt a chill across the back of her neck and suddenly her scalp felt rather itchy. She hadn't had a shower for days.
"I'll take you up on that Mr. Peevey, but I'm not giving up. I can use a hot meal and a shower, but I'm coming back to Gull Cottage, so you had better tell Claymore Gregg to put in an electric water heater and space heater, and do something about that stove!"
She went to her suitcase, which she hadn't fully unpacked, and pulled out what she would need for one night at the bed and breakfast.
Peevey just keep shaking his head as he gathered his tools and clomped down the wooden staircase.
Now Carolyn's entire back prickled and she spun around and saw the window slowly swinging on its hinges. She stomped over to close it and swore she heard a man clearing his throat. She turned to the door expecting to see Mr. Peevey, but no one was there.
"Ghost!" She shut the window with a bang and fastened the latch.
"Ghost!" she heard her own words echoed back to her, but in a man's voice.
As she finished her packing, she heard a low hiss coming from the gas line, it grew louder and the line began to quiver again. She guessed Mr. Peevey was giving it one last try after all.
A puff of black soot erupted from the end then the thin pipe settled back down on the hearth with a clang.
She picked up her bag and went to the door, but before closing it she felt compelled to speak aloud. "I'll be back," she said.
Mr. Peevey was less talkative on the way back to town as if he had a lot on his mind. Carolyn tried to keep a conversation going with a stream of questions about the bed and breakfast, about how long it might take for a water heater to be installed, about what was the best item on the menu at Norrie's Lobster House.
Peevey answered politely, but in as few words as possible. Finally, he interrupted her questioning by asking "Why are you so set on Gull Cottage?"
Carolyn blinked at him. "Well...I...I mean...it's…" and she wasn't sure what to say next. She hadn't been fixated on it at first, it had simply sounded and looked like a nice place to rent from what she'd read and seen. And Claymore Gregg had really put the hard sell on the place when she'd spoken to him, singing its praises. But she didn't really have an explanation for why, after seeing how outdated and cobwebby the place was, she still felt compelled to stay there. She did very much like the beach and the view, but no one could describe the place as comfortable.
"It has character!" she said, honestly, because if nothing else the cottage was brimming with character.
"I'll say." Peevey's eyebrows raised.
"And I'm not a quitter!" she added, wondering how and why this had begun to feel so personal. What did it matter if she spent the rest of her stay in Schooner Bay at the bed and breakfast, or one of the rentals closer to town? Why not make things easier on herself?
Her eyes stung and she suddenly felt like she wanted to cry. She hated that this was getting the better of her, and she hated that Claymore Gregg had sold her a bad bill of goods. She felt vulnerable, as if she was just a widow without the protection of a husband and was now at the mercy of hucksters and con men. She hated the idea that she had fallen for some scam and was now being shunted to another property–one that likely Claymore Gregg had his hand in one way or another. He'd probably say she couldn't break the lease and now he'd get more money from her by having her move to the bed and breakfast.
"You'll feel better after a hot meal and a good night's sleep. Don't you worry Mrs. Muir." Peevey must have recognized her little sniff as the start of tears.
She sniffed again, trying to gather herself. She didn't want his sympathy. She didn't want his understanding. She just wanted to feel safe and settled.
She watched the town grow larger as they descended the incline. A month ago or a week ago she would have said she wanted Robert back, and the home they had together, and the future they had been planning, and Martha in the kitchen and the children doing their school work, and her friends and family back in Pennsylvania, but she didn't know anymore.
That had all been blown apart by Robert's death, and dismantled in the months following as bills came due, and family stepped in, and she had tried to imagine a different sort of life for herself.
After what she'd been through, the loss, fear, and anger she wasn't the same Carolyn. If she woke up tomorrow and Robert was there in the bed beside her things wouldn't be the same. She could never simply plug back into her old life.
She wasn't certain where she fit in anymore, but somehow Gull Cottage had felt like a place she could fit. Her mind had seemed to slow down in the last few months. For the first two months after Robert's death her thoughts had galloped like a racehorse as she attended to the business of the funeral, and the paperwork, and the multitude of decisions that she'd been forced to make.
Then it had begun to slow down, realizing that she couldn't see very far into the future. She couldn't begin to imagine what her life would be like in ten years, five years, or even one year. At first, her mind had whirled with a thousand ideas of how she would fill the next sixty years of her life without Robert. Join the circus, write a book, marry a rich old widower, sail around the world, become a teacher, learn to knit, start a fashion magazine, curl up on a ball and disappear…
At some point, she recognized that none of those things were feasible, and the void yawned wide before her. Gull Cottage was a response to that. It was her making one small important decision for herself and her future. Only for four weeks, but it had been a start, and now it looked like it had been a miserable failure.
"Yes, Mr. Peevey, I think you are right. Thank you for your help today." She appreciated him trying.
"Claymore has other properties," he went on. She knew that of course. "If you'd like a house."
She just nodded vigorously, since she had no way of explaining why it seemed to matter so much that she stay in Gull Cottage.
"Things'll look better in the morning." He had the decency not to look over at her while she tried to pull herself together.
XXX
First thing the next morning–well, first thing after a lovely breakfast and a second shower, just because she could–Carolyn marched into Claymore's office. He was wearing a green accountant's visor, seated at his large desk, and punching numbers into an old adding machine, humming to himself.
"Oh, Mr. Gregg–" She began.
"Not now, office hours begin at 10 AM. Read the sign on the door. He held up a hand, never meeting her eye.
"Mr. Gregg, I'm sure Mr. Peevey told you–"
"10 AM. Mrs. Muir, 10 AM and not a minute sooner."
Carolyn's eye followed the cord of the machine to where it was plugged in. She stepped over and yanked the cord from the wall.
"Mrs. Muir! Now I'll have to begin all over again!" He behaved as if she'd slapped him in the face.
"Yes, you will, since Mr. Peevey couldn't fix the gas line; you'll have to install an electric water heater, and a space heater and do something about the range so I–I mean my housekeeper–can cook a decent meal."
"Really, Mrs. Muir? Really?" He shook his head sadly.
"Yes, really or I'll...sue you for breach of contract!" She pounded a fist on the desk.
Claymore Gregg sat up straight and took a swallow that made his adam's apple rise and fall in the most comical way. "There's no need to get the law involved." He cleared his throat and pulled a large handkerchief from a pocket to mop his brow.
"And you'll be paying for my room at the bed and breakfast until Gull Cottage is habitable," she went on, now that she had him on the run.
"Well, Mrs. Muir, that's hardly fair...it's not my fault…"
"And I've got the deluxe suite!" she informed him. She could see the panic in his eyes.
"Mrs. Muir!" He stood up suddenly, looming over her like an awkward bird. "Be reasonable. When you rent a quaint historic building like Gull Cottage, you have to assume it's going to have some...character."
"It has plenty of character, apparently in the form of a ghost. I think that's as much character as it needs." She stared up at him, determined not to allow him to intimidate her.
Claymore breathed out a huff, and picked up the receiver of an old-fashioned phone. He muttered to himself as he dialed. "Peevey? Drop everything. I need you to make another trip to Gull Cottage. Yes. No. I'm not sure." Then he turned aside and spoke into the phone in a stage whisper. "She's VERY insistent."
Carolyn crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. She felt just a tiny bit sorry for Claymore. She could actually see his point, and why he didn't care to invest in expensive repairs on a house that rarely rented, but it had become important to her not to let him win–not to back down and be told what she could and could not have.
Claymore put the phone back with a bang. "The cottage will be ready in 24 hours. Good Day Mrs. Muir!" He pressed his lips together in a tight line.
"Thank you, Mr. Gregg." She gave a curt bob of her head. Now, how to kill 24 hours in the little town that had apparently begun its long winter's nap in the first week of September.
She ended up at the tiny, but modern library next to the school. There she was able to read up on Schooner Bay history, look at old historic photos and read both current and ancient newspapers.
She allowed her mind to drift when she read about a certain L. Muir who had been arrested on a drunk and disorderly charge and wondered if he, or she, had been kin to her Robert.
She found an article about the misadventures of a voyage of D. Gregg's, which had ended up with him and his crew rescuing a handful of shipwrecked sailors, three dogs, and a woman with three children.
D. Gregg. She ran her finger over the name, imagining his bushy eyebrows lowering with distaste at the chaos aboard his ship after picking up that motley crew. She wasn't sure why, but she felt that Daniel Gregg had run a tight ship, and she knew many old sailors considered a woman on board to be bad luck, and three dogs!
She missed lunchtime, lost in her research, and was reminded of the time when a group of school children entered the library when their classes were over.
Seeing the children made her lonely for Candy and Jonathan, who were probably just about to get off the bus in front of her mother's house. Suddenly her feud with Claymore seemed silly, and she had no explanation for her adamance about staying at Gull Cottage. She longed to hug her babies and hear them excitedly share about their day. She longed to tuck them into bed and hear them chatting to one another as she closed the door, but left it open a crack to let some light in.
At that moment she couldn't imagine why she had thought she needed time alone, or why she wanted to stay in that drafty old house anyway. She wished she had one of Claymore's generous-sized hankies to wipe away her tears.
That evening Carolyn allowed herself to wallow just a little. She ate an extra buttered roll, with her already sumptuous meal of lobster and scallops. She drank a glass and a half of red wine, not caring that it wasn't meant to be drunk with seafood. She took one of the bodice ripper novels from the case in the bed and breakfast's downstairs hallway and skimmed for the exciting parts as she drank a mug of cocoa and ate three snickerdoodles. One for her, and one for each of the children.
It was nice and cozy here, and the bed had a featherbed on top of the mattress. The room was pretty and smelled like spices and flowers from a bowl of potpourri on the bureau top. There was plenty of hot water, and wonderful things kept coming from the kitchen, and she was convenient to everything in town. She was almost sorry she'd given Claymore such a hard time when she probably could have gotten away with him paying for at least a portion of her bill here.
Maybe she'd acted hastily. Maybe winning wasn't the most important thing. Maybe cocoa and snickerdoodles were more healing than a wide deserted beach and a sneezing ghost.
Carolyn didn't like the feelings or behavior that her encounters with Claymore Gregg had led to. He brought out the worst in her. She decided to let the situation percolate for a day or two and made herself at home at the B&B for the time being. She spent some time in the library, and out on the porch reading. She went on a boat ride with the fishermen who supplied the Lobster house, borrowing a slicker, hat, and boots from them. The next day she found herself pouring her heart out and not bothering to hold back the tears, to Mrs. Sizemore, the purveyor of the B&B while she rolled out piecrust for the next morning's quiche.
The woman had herself been widowed, though she'd remarried several years back, and she didn't think less of Carolyn for her story or her tears, in spite of the Mainers reputation for stiff upper lips, and calmly weathering any storm life threw at them.
"'T's a funny place to take yourself to heal a broken heart." Laura Sizemore wiped the tip of her nose with the back of a floury hand. "Why not someplace warm...or someplace with lots of shopping?" Her own eyes looked a little dreamy at the thought of it. "Schooner Bay is a funny place to heal a heartache."
"I like it here." Carolyn sniffed then gave up and blew her nose loudly into a tissue. "I don't want to be pampered. I wanted to be left alone." She realized how silly that sounded, as she sat here with a big warm mug of milky tea and warm banana bread, baring her soul to a near stranger.
"You'll have plenty of alone time my dear," Laura said in a kind manner. "Be careful what you wish for."
"I don't mean alone alone. Just alone with my feelings, with no one trying to fix me."
The older woman nodded as she transferred the pastry to the pie dish. "It hasn't been that long ago, in these parts, a widow was a common thing, with so many men making their living on the sea. At least half the families were blended, second and third marriages. It's why we're so clannish. One way or another, we're nearly all family."
"I stick out like a sore thumb back in Pittsburg," Carolyn said glumly. "There are widows, but most of them are twice my age."
"Age is just a number, people are people. There are wise young'ns and old fools." She nodded as she crimped the edge of the pastry with practiced hands. "I suppose you'll have to find a way to make a living."
Carolyn's lips pressed into a thin pale line. Yes, she would, or alternately, she could follow her sister-in-law's suggestion of leaving the kids with family and dropping her widow's weeds and get busy looking for a husband while she was still young and had her looks. She'd been lucky enough to "keep her figure" even after giving birth to two seven and a half pound babies. With the proper support garments, no one would ever suspect…
"I don't know if I want to remarry," she admitted.
"Well, it's all according to who you meet. I wasn't in any hurry myself."
"I've been thinking of writing." Carolyn had found the idea drifting around in her head more and more the past few days. She'd been doing more reading than she had since college, when she had been a contributing editor for the campus paper and had had two short stories published in magazines.
She had felt very smart then, seeing her byline and depositing the checks for $1500. But she'd never been overly serious about it. She enjoyed writing, but it hadn't defined her the way it had some of her colleagues on the newspaper or friends in her writing and literature classes. For some of them, writing was all they talked about. They seemed to live on coffee and cigarettes and hang out in the coffee houses in the evening while Carolyn was attending parties.
She'd always felt they were a bit extreme and they were clearly not impressed with her devil may care attitude, and only sniffed in slight disdain when they found out the magazine that purchased her stories was a "Women's Rag" as they put it.
As far as that crowd had gone, the more obscure the publication and the less they paid the more "valid" your writing was. They wouldn't even submit their work to any of the popular magazines or periodicals. The closest they got was writing angsty letters to the editor from time to time.
She'd never considered writing as a career because she didn't think she could stomach being part of that crowd once she'd gotten past the age of 23, and of course, she hadn't needed a career. Robert had taken care of them. She'd been on course to be a professional volunteer and charity board member in the Pittsburg professional scene. Leave the jobs to the women who really needed them–poor things. She'd heard that said many times among the wives of members of Robert's firm. Now she was one of those women. She guessed she earned the right to feel at least a little sorry for herself.
Laura shook her floury pastry cloth into the rubbish bin, and checked on the chowder she was cooking for dinner. She pulled out a strainer for the broth, and Carolyn guiltily stood up. She-or rather–Claymore, was only paying for her to have breakfast and her complimentary mug of bedtime cocoa, but today she'd spent a good bit of the day hanging around the kitchen, and had enjoyed a cold chicken sandwich for lunch and several mugs of tea and sweets. She didn't dare take advantage of Laura's generosity and wait around for a dinner invitation as well.
"I wonder what the special is tonight at Norrie's," she said, rising to her feet.
"There is no special. Norrie's isn't open on Thursday night. It's poker night." Laura informed her. "Have dinner with Ed and me. He'll be leaving for poker right after we eat, and there's a good movie on the set tonight."
Carolyn smiled and nodded, because she could tell that the invitation wasn't being offered merely out of kindness, but also out of friendship, and most importantly, she sensed no pity whatsoever in Laura's tone or invite.
After a good night's sleep and a delicious breakfast of quiche and fruit, Carolyn felt empowered and motivated to confront Claymore once more, but she didn't have to. There was a note waiting for her in the front hall from Mr. C. Gregg informing her that the requested work had been completed on Gull Cottage and she would receive a complimentary trip back to her residence at her earliest convenience via Gregg's Big Yellow Taxi service.
"I guess I'm going home," Carolyn spoke aloud as she reread the note.
"To Pittsburg?" Laura had followed her into the hall.
"No, to Gull Cottage." She was pleasantly surprised by the happy note in her own tone. Sometimes she felt like she couldn't accurately gauge her emotions by relying on internal signals. The blanket of heavy sadness and dread dulled her feelings on the inside, and she had come to rate her mood by her tone of voice and how much she accomplished in a day.
She handed the note to Laura to read for herself.
"Well, isn't that something? Claymore must like you." Laura gave a knowing look.
"It's nothing like that!" Carolyn scolded her. "It was my threat of litigation if it was anything." She silently added, or fear of Captain Gregg.
Laura nodded. "Yes, that would do it, still, hard to believe he put any money into that old house without serious motivation." She was about to retufn the note, but stayed her hand. "You know you're always welcome here, not just as a guest. Come by and see me."
Carolyn felt a tear sting her eye and she nodded vigorously. "Yes, I will. Thank you. I've enjoyed my stay here." She took the note, and slipped it into her pocket. She probably needed it to show the taxi driver because no one would believe Claymore had offered anyone anything for free.
Carolyn felt almost a pang of guilt for leaving when Laura and Ed had been such gracious hosts, and she'd enjoyed the extra meals she'd shared with them. But she found herself feeling excited as well to get back to the cottage, and the beach and the niggling idea that maybe she could write something–even if it was just in a journal, or the tale of her time here and the characters she'd met.
She stopped and picked up a few groceries before calling for the taxi. She wanted to give solitude a chance to work its magic on her, which meant she couldn't be running into town every single day. She needed to string together some alone time and see what feelings and ideas surfaced, and she should probably write to her mother.
Her mother wasn't overly old school, but she had brought Carolyn up with the habit of writing postcards, and sending actual handwritten thank you notes rather than a simple e-mail or phone call. She knew her mother didn't consider it a burden to keep the kids for a few weeks, but this time was more than that, it was a gift, allowing Carolyn to sort herself out a bit without hovering over her or offering a lot of advice.
Even though her kids were small, Carolyn was beginning to appreciate how difficult it could be to let her children find their own way, and not to step in and make suggestions all the time.
"Have you seen the ghost?" Was the first thing the taxi driver said to Carolyn when he pulled up in front of the B&B. He looked like he should be on a high school basketball court rather than driving a taxi off-season.
"Nice to meet you too." Carolyn quirked an eyebrow at him.
His face immediately reddened and he put down her suitcase and offered her a damp hand. "Ken Clark...ma'am."
"Carolyn Muir." She took the hand he offered and gave it a firm shape, and simply couldn't refrain from adding. "Shouldn't you be in school?"
"Ma'am, yes ma'am, it's my lunch break, and sometimes I do odd jobs for Mr. Claymore." He arranged her suitcase and groceries in the ample trunk.
"Oh, I see." She wondered if she should ask to see his driver's license, or if he had any experience on the steep gravelly incline that led to Gull Cottage. "No, I haven't seen any ghosts." She didn't add that it was possible that she'd heard one.
"Darn," Ken muttered, opening a door for her to get into the passenger seat. "I hear there are strange things that happen up at Gull Cottage." He told her once they were on their way.
"Lots of strange things happen in a house that sits empty too long." She offered her explanation. "Wind opens and closes doors, animals get in, teenagers find a new hangout." She let the sentence hang there.
"Oh no Mrs. Muir. We go down to the beach sometimes, but no one messes with Gull Cottage. The Captain wouldn't like it."
"Captain?"
"Captain Gregg. He was a crazy old coot. My Grandmother said no one messed with him when he was alive and she can't see any reason they should mess with him now."
"Yes. Well from the painting of him I would guess he could be rather...commanding."
"And that painting–I hear that its eyes follow you. That's why it's always kept covered. If you take the cover off, the eyes can see right into your soul. Nanna says there's no keeping any secrets from Captain Gregg. It's why the kids don't ever go in there. We sneak into Windy Ridge and Greenhull sometimes. Windy Ridge has a great big old fireplace. We never hurt anything," he added.
"Well, that's thoughtful of you." She was surprised how easily the young man admitted to what would be considered breaking and entering back in the city.
"We take care of the place. It's important to know when you have a good thing going and not to screw it up."
"Wise words." Carolyn agreed.
"There's a fireplace at Gull Cottage, right? Reason I'm asking is that I can bring you a load of wood. I can bring a whole trunkful for $20."
An aspiring young businessman! She admired his pluck. "Yes, I think that would be nice, could you carry it into the house? I'm using an upstairs bedroom and I'd rather not have to carry it up all those stairs.
"Sure thing, I mean, it'll only cost $5 more."
She nodded in agreement; clearly, this boy was learning all he could from Claymore Gregg, but she guessed $25 was well worth it to have a comforting fire in the evenings.
He carried her things to the porch and apologized that he couldn't bring the wood until later but that he had an algebra exam he had to get back for and Mr. Tweezle was a real sorehead about them missing exams.
"That's fine, I'll be here when you get around to it." She smiled, gave him a five-dollar tip and waved him away calling "Good luck with the algebra!"
She sighed as she entered the house, not at all confident that Claymore had really addressed her concerns and expecting fully to find a jerry-rigged
mess of a job. Maybe he had put an old space heater into the servant's bedroom off the kitchen, with a bed that wasn't but ¾ the size of a standard twin mattress.
Even though it was daylight, the bulbs were burning in the light fixture in the entryway. She walked straight to the kitchen and turned a knob on the range and heard a click, click then a hiss and odor of gas. There was a brand new long-necked lighter there and the burner lit with a whoosh and stayed burning.
She smiled, happy that the groceries wouldn't go to waste.
She turned the spigot at the deep sink and after a minute or two she felt warm, then hot water.
She put away the groceries and then practically danced up the steps to the bathroom on the second floor where there was a newish-looking water heater, awkwardly placed, but fully functional next to the bathtub. Here it only took a few seconds for the water to run hot.
"Excellent!" She smiled and went to her bedroom, where indeed there was a space heater, but that, along with the promise of a fire, would do for the time she was here. She couldn't really expect him to rewire and pipe the entire house for the three weeks she had remaining on her rental.
She noticed the curtains fluttering at the window and smiled. She turned towards the painting. "I'm back Captain!" She saluted him, not sure at all if he had been a Navy Captain, a merchant Captain, or merely had charge of a boat. But she was feeling benevolent and after all, she was in his space.
She caught sight of something moving behind her and turned to find the telescope slowly spinning. She frowned, it didn't seem possible that the slight breeze was enough to cause the entire brass telescope to turn. She went and rested a hand on it and it stopped. She released it and it stayed in place.
She turned back to the painting again and looked at the sheet that had once covered it that was now thrown over the back of a settee. She had half a mind to cover it, but that was silly. It was a nice old painting, and it was company of a sort. After all, she had once written short stories and had a fertile imagination.
Maybe she could write a story about old Captain Gregg here and the haunted cottage. She felt suddenly cold and goose flesh raised on her arms. That was odd, it was a warm, lovely day–a perfect day to go walk on the beach and collect some rocks or make a sandcastle and watch the waves wash it away. She was free now, settled in with all the amenities she needed, and time stretching before her.
She went to the kitchen and heated some soup for lunch, thrilled with the power she felt when the old range came to life. As she sat and ate, reading one of the cheap novels she filched from the B&B with Laura's permission, she heard a banging upstairs.
"Oh dear, please don't let that be the hot water, I haven't even had a chance to shower yet." The banging grew louder, then stopped.
"Must have been the window, and now it's blown shut," she mused, finishing her glass of milk and carrying the dishes to the sink.
The banging began once again.
"OK, alright, I'm coming," she said, though she didn't know to whom. The house she supposed; it certainly did have a sense of personality. Her first thought was to check her room and the window and telescope, but as she climbed the steps she could tell the sound wasn't coming from there. When she walked towards the bathroom she could tell it wasn't from there either, it seemed to be coming from above. She hadn't yet climbed the narrow staircase that led to the highest level, but she did now, wondering what she'd find upstairs.
"Squirrels most likely." She thought aloud. They could make a frightening amount of racket when they get into a house. She and Robert had had to call an exterminator for them a few years back.
As she climbed higher the banging transitioned into a scraping noise, and then a mere scratching. At the top of the stairs were three doors. "Door #1, door #2, or door #3." She pointed to each in turn. The scratching was coming from door #3 to her right. There was a large keyhole, but she didn't have the house keys so she hoped it wasn't locked.
The knob turned with a rusty squeak, and the door opened slowly, hanging heavy on its hinges. It was an old storage space, a number of items covered with sheets or canvas, and other things covered in dust. The air was stale, so the sound couldn't have been the wind, and there were no prints in the thick dust on the floor, so it probably wasn't squirrels or rate. She peered through the dim, and conveniently one of the shutters over a window swung open to let Sunlight in.
"Well, that's handy." Maybe a bit TOO handy. If the house was haunted, the spirit seemed to be benevolent. "Must have been the shutter I heard." She said with a shrug. Nothing seemed amiss in the room that her mind was now calling "the hold".
She thought again how odd it was that Claymore Gregg left all these interesting, and probably valuable items like this in the empty house. Surely he could sell them to a dealer. She picked up a brass candlestick and the weight of it confirmed its authenticity as the real deal. Claymore was sitting on a fortune. And it seemed impossible that no curious beachcomber had found this stash and helped themselves to the booty.
Once again she heard scratching, but it wasn't coming from the shutter. It seemed to originate in the near corner in a tall wooden shipping box. Cautiously she opened the box and in one of the cubbies was an old typewriter, with a sheet of yellowed paper still in it, the paper fluttered slightly, scratching against the top of the cubby.
"Ah, so that's it, all this for a haunted typewriter." She let out a chuckle. The carriage slowly moved sideways and the typewriter dinged. She felt like a contestant on a very odd game show. First, she had to choose the right door and then she found the prize and a bell was rung.
"This must be my sign from the Universe," Carolyn said as she lifted the machine from its storage place. It was surprisingly heavy, but she maneuvered herself sideways back towards the door and then down the narrow steps to the second floor where she brought the typewriter to her room and set it on the big desk.
"Hmmm…." She could have sworn the roll-top of the desk had been down before, she was certain she'd closed it so things wouldn't blow away, seeing as the window kept swinging open.
"Now all I need is paper and a typewriter ribbon." Something to look for at the charity shop in town perhaps. She doubted the hardware store carried old typewriter ribbons. Then one of the little drawers on the desk caught her eye. Certainly, it hadn't been open before, she pulled it out and there were two round tins marked typewriter ribbon.
"This has got to be more than a coincidence." She looked accusingly at the painting. "Captain Gregg?" But the head didn't nod and the eyes didn't sparkle, they just stared blankly towards the bay window.
It's not that strange, she thought to herself, that she had been thinking about writing and thought to check the attic in case there might be a typewriter around. Many old houses had one. And she had probably seen the tins of ribbon a few days ago when she'd been poking through the desk out of boredom and curiosity, and they had registered in her subconscious. Of course, a house with a typewriter would have typewriter ribbon in the desk. It would have been stranger had there not been any.
"If I sit down and my fingers move on their own, then I'll definitely believe this place is haunted," she decided. But before that, she was going to go down to the beach and then have a nice hot shower.
XXX