It hadn't been her imagination. When Carolyn awoke, the pages of her typed story were stacked neatly, and apparently in order, from what she could tell by a quick browse. How the ghost had managed that, she couldn't say, but she supposed that paranormal beings had their paranormal ways.
"I appreciate you cleaning up," Carolyn spoke out loud to seemingly thin air as she poured her morning coffee.
"I shouldn't have allowed my temper to…I shouldn't have lost my temper." The ghost said and left it at that.
She leaned against the counter and allowed her eyes to drift around the room, wondering if he was somewhere specific or just hung in the air like the aroma of the coffee.
"I understand why your dander was up." She carried her coffee into the sitting room and assumed he would follow along. "The implications of some of those stories–"
"Shameful! I am no coward, have never BEEN a coward! The suggestion…"
She was surprised she didn't feel spit hit her, he was so viciously angry. She wondered why, so very many decades after passing, he was still hanging around. Could it be that he wanted to clear his name? Suicide or not, the circumstances of his death had clearly been complicated.
"And it wasn't murder?" Even though she couldn't see him her eyes moved around the room as if she could sense his restless pacing.
"No, if only…at least that would have been interesting, and honorable."
"So am I going to get your side of the story?"
"It's all so damned stupid. The evening was chilly, but not enough for a fire. I closed the window and sat in my chair to read, then I fell asleep."
After a few seconds of silence, she pressed. "And then?"
"And then my damn foot hit the blasted lever on the gas line."
She was still confused, and somehow he must have sensed it.
"Gas filled the room and with a lack of fresh air–"
Carolyn nodded. Sounded like carbon monoxide poisoning. If the gas wasn't at the right setting and didn't burn with a blue flame, it likely gave off fumes.
"So it wasn't intentional?" She borrowed a word from an article she'd read. None of the original sources had used the term suicide; they had used euphemisms such as "by intent", "unaccidental", and "self-inflicted ruin".
"It was not." He sounded almost defeated. "What's worse is that because I had recently revised my will it was subsequently nullified. They decided that I was not of sound mind when I had written it." Now his tone was bitter.
She wished she could comfort him. It was all so sad, a proud man cut down in the very years when he should have been enjoying his reputation and retirement, and instead, he'd been reduced to a salacious story in the local papers. But he'd had over a century to get over it, or at least to get used to it. It seemed he had done neither.
"I'm sorry." She found herself saying automatically.
He merely made a noise, as if sorry didn't cut it, which she guessed it didn't.
"Maybe we could clear the record." She had heard that ghosts hung around as the result of unfinished business and that one way to end a haunting was to help them come to terms with what had happened so they could go on their way.
"There are programs on television, where they investigate cold cases and solve unsettled crimes and mysteries. Maybe we could set up some kind of investigation and prove that it was an accident." Carolyn wondered how it was that she cared so much for something so old and ethereal.
"And how, pray tell, Madam, do you propose going about that?" She imagined he had drawn himself up ramrod straight and was looking down his nose at her.
"I'm not sure yet. Maybe I can find a copy of the will, and a death report, not the newspaper, but a police report."
He made a noise and the house seemed to shudder slightly as if shaking off the foolishness of the idea.
"A few years ago a girl wrote a report about you. Her paper and research are on file at the library." Carolyn explained. "If a teenager could write a paper and get it filed, surely I could write an article and get it published."
She suddenly felt his voice very close to her ear. "Do you think so? What a smashing idea!" She felt him move away.
She wasn't sure how, exactly, to go about it, but there seemed to be enough interest in the cottage and the local ghost. She felt certain she could get it published in the Schooner Bay Chronicle, and maybe a regional periodical as well. She believed she could get enough coverage to clear his name with the people that mattered to him. She doubted he truly understood just how large the world had become in his absence.
Carolyn sipped her coffee and brainstormed. She only had only a few days left. She was fairly certain that she wasn't going to find anything about Captain Gregg in any library or research facility outside the local area, and when she returned to Philidelphia she would be busy with the children and finding a job. She wouldn't be able to indulge the temper tantrums of a long-dead sea captain.
"Do you have a gravestone?" If she was going to do the work so that he could indeed rest in peace, it seemed important that he had someplace to rest.
She heard a sound like the hiss of a snake, and, ironically, like the sound of gas escaping a pipe. She took that as a no.
"People who take the coward's way out are not allowed burial in consecrated ground." He had that stiff sound once again. "My body was interred in an unmarked location. Shortly after my death, members of my former crew gave me a proper burial at sea." He sounded both touched and mortified that he had in any way been part of such an unseemly situation.
"I suppose they could have gotten into trouble for that."
"Honor is more important than the petty judgment of small-minded men!" He sounded imperious once again. "None of them was caught or charged, and the disturbance of the grave was blamed on local dogs."
"You must have been quite a captain for your men to have had such confidence and love for you." Carolyn meant it from the bottom of her heart. She suspected the men had been taking serious chances, and that stealing the body and then giving it a respectful burial was considered both a civil and moral crime.
"They respected me, and they knew that the mere idea that I had taken my own life was utter balderdash!" He seemed displeased with her assertion that his men loved him.
"And your family?" Carolyn checked.
"I didn't have a lot of family in the area, and that which I did…well, I'm sorry for any shame that was brought to them as a result of the accident. Sadly there was little I could do to restore respectability in the face of such spurious lies."
Carolyn swore, for a half-second that she had seen a flicker of a form in the area where his voice seemed to be emanating from. Gooseflesh rose on her arms.
"What family I did have, in spite of what the rumors did to our good name, chose to believe the lies because they sought to gain from the dissolution of my will."
Carolyn tried to follow that. "Why would they want your will dissolved?" She chose to use his word.
"Because I had changed my will to state that Gull Cottage, upon my death, was to become a home for retired sea captains rather than go to the family. I had no parents, spouse or children and I saw no purpose in leaving it to my sister or cousins who had homes of their own. What I did see was a need for a place of beauty and respite for the men who, like myself, chose the sea over having a family. There was a need, and I saw a way to fill it. Sadly, my relatives thought otherwise.
"If they played along with the outlandish notion that I was not of sound mind, they could convince the court to overturn my will and the property would therefore go to them. There was nothing I could do to stop that, oh, but I could make sure that they would find not a moment's peace and tranquility as long as they defied my wishes and tried to make a home or a living from this house."
And there it was, it all made sense! He wasn't here because he died an untimely or accidental death. He wasn't even here in an effort to clear his reputation or to get his body moved to consecrated ground. He was here to keep his money-grubbing relations, no matter how distant, from defying his will and trying to make money from Gull Cottage. That was why he bore no ill will against her. She was merely staying there for a short time, she wasn't changing it, or making money from it.
"Well, it looks like you've done a bang-up job of it! They haven't been able to live here OR sell it." Carolyn congratulated him. "But–" she stopped.
"But?" He pressed her.
She twisted in her seat as if trying to catch another glimpse of him. "But, are you happy here? I mean, after your men buried you at sea, and after some time when your immediate family had passed." She hardly had language for concepts she didn't understand. "Why stay?"
He chuckled. "Do you mean why not rest in peace once I had the chance?"
"Yes, exactly? What's keeping you here now?" She appreciated his company, but what was in it for him, year in and year out, alone in his deteriorating house?
"I do love this place." His voice sounded gentler than she recalled ever hearing it. "And I can hardly leave Claymore Gregg in charge!"
Carolyn nodded, she could hardly blame him for that. But surely all the Greggs who had come before couldn't have been as tedious and silly as Claymore.
"Your plans for Gull Cottage were noble, to be sure, but nowadays there are retirement homes and pensions and I don't think sea captains need this place anymore. It's terrible that your family cheated them out of such a lovely place to retire, but–"
"But you think my job is done and I should just hurry along?" He sounded just a wee bit contemptuous.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I don't understand death. I've heard theories about ghosts, and why they stay, and how we can help them move on but–" Tears came to her eyes.
She had no idea what happened after death. But if Captain Gregg had chosen to stay, to keep an eye on his beloved Gull Cottage, where was Robert? Why hadn't he stayed, or at least whispered in her ear, letting her know he was watching over them?
She heard floorboards creak and soft but sure steps traverse the room. "I'm afraid I don't understand it either." His voice was calmer now. "My dear, my situation was unusual. I didn't choose this…life–but I've made peace with it."
Carolyn bit her lip, but only for a moment. "Pardon my saying it, Captain, but you hardly seem peaceful."
She felt the floor jostle slightly beneath her, then a chuckle seemed to emanate from the fireplace, and grow in the hollow space, low and deep, gaining strength, until it was a full-out belly laugh, shaking the room gently, sending the ceiling fixtures swaying.
Carolyn joined in, and it felt good. She hadn't laughed this way for so very long, not since before Robert–damn him for not sticking around even if in ghost form–had passed. Tears began to pool in her eyes, but happy tears, she wiped at them, but it was useless; they began to pour down her cheeks. She doubled over, unsure of what was so funny, but letting the feelings bubble up inside of her and burst free.
It took them both a good few minutes to settle down; Carolyn sucking in ragged breaths and searching for a tissue, and the Captain apparently catching a candelabra that had begun to tip from the shaking in the room.
"Oh dear," She clutched at the stitch in her side. "I don't even know what's so funny," she admitted. She noticed a handkerchief in one of her hands, with no earthly idea of how it had gotten there.
"I suppose I am a cantankerous old soul," the Captain admitted.
She nodded, wiping her eyes, and blowing her nose. "I suppose that's what happens when one isn't allowed a proper burial with a stone and all the services." Those things had felt both comforting and hollow when she was burying Robert. She was glad there was a ritual to follow, but at the same time it felt pointless–it didn't bring him back. But, if it had somehow ushered him peacefully to the afterlife, then it wasn't pointless after all. While she wouldn't mind a little sign from him now and again, she certainly would never want him trapped in the limbo between life and death, unable to move in either direction.
"Madam, I doubt you'll be able to prove that my death was accidental, or change the generations of stories that have been built up about Gull Cottage and myself, but I would appreciate your help in telling my version of the story just the same."
"We only have a few days, but I'll be glad to help. I appreciate you allowing me to stay in your home. It's done me a world of good." And it had gotten her writing again!
"Well, if our time is short we had better get cracking!" He was all business and order once again. "I haven't shared this information with anyone, but there are some papers here that might help my case. The desk has a hidden compartment."
"This does have the makings of a good story." She drank the last of her now tepid coffee.
There was a sharp rapping at the front door.
"Are you expecting visitors?" The Captain was clearly unhappy with the interruption.
"No, who would come by? I didn't order anything. I was just in town yesterday," Carolyn said, as she walked out into the foyer.
The rapping was joined by a voice. "Mrs. Muir! Mrs. Muir? Are you in there? Hello. Mrs. Muir?"
It was the unmistakable voice of Claymore Gregg. She rolled her eyes and opened the door.
"Why Mr. Gregg, what a surprise." She forced a smile. Her mind was all about a hidden chamber in the desk, not about dealing with whatever new nonsense Claymore had come up with.
He peered past her into the house. "Are you alone? I thought I heard voices…and laughter." He said the last word behind a cupped hand. "In fact, the house seemed to be shaking with it." His eyes rolled back and forth as if he was afraid something might reach out and smack him.
"No, it's just me. I was having my morning coffee. Would you like some?"
"Well, if it's already made and no trouble." He stepped into the house. "Has your housekeeper arrived?" Claymore followed her to the kitchen, obviously taking stock of the house as went; still looking as if he half expected something to reach for him.
"No, I'm afraid something came up and she wasn't able to make it. We were both terribly disappointed, but perhaps we can plan for a family holiday sometime soon." She took out a thick crockery mug and poured him coffee.
"A holiday you say? So you'd be interested in coming back!"
She topped off her own coffee. "Why yes, I've found this place quite inspiring. I've been working on a story, and the children would just love the beach." She kept her tone light and cheerful.
"Why, that would be wonderful! Of course, I don't know that I could offer you the same discounted price." She could almost see dollar signs flashing in his eyes.
She frowned. "Oh well then…perhaps not. You know I was recently widowed." She wasn't just playing the widow card for sympathy, the reality was that money was tight, but she guessed she could afford a week next summer for the children's sake.
The floor shook with an ominous rumble, sending the dishes in the cabinets rattling.
"Did you feel that?" He grasped his hat in both hands and looked around goggle-eyed.
"Yes, I've noticed that happens from time to time. Must be a shift in the bedrock." She smiled at him innocently and handed him his coffee.
He set his hat down and took the cup, sniffed it then took a sip. "As I was saying, you must understand, during the busy season demand for the cottages goes up–" The floor rumbled again, sloshing the coffee over the top of the mug and onto Claymore's hands.
"Oh dear, Mr. Gregg!" Carolyn set her coffee down and handed him a towel.
He dabbed at the front of his suit. "But I'm sure we can come up with a fair and amicable agreement, seeing as you'll be a return customer." He looked back and forth then put his hands out as if to steady himself. Nothing happened.
"Mr. Gregg, do you happen to know anything about the circumstances of the death of Daniel Gregg?" She asked blithely. "I was at the library yesterday and I read a story…" She let the sentence peter out.
He set his coffee on the counter, glanced around the room, then whispered behind his hand. "I'm afraid that's a rather sad story, Mrs. Muir. The former occupant met an untimely end." He added in a whisper. "By his own hand." and he drew a finger across his throat in a slicing motion.
"Yes, I gathered as much. But don't you think it's odd? I mean a man who sailed around the world, especially in that day and age. Why he must have faced all kinds of dangers and hardships, it hardly seems likely to have taken his own life. Don't you think?"
"Over time, I've come to believe that the Captain is, I mean was, a very complicated man. A troubled soul. It's hard to say why people make the decisions they do. I've heard that it might have had something to do with a long-lost love. I suppose there's no pain so devastating as the loss of a love." He patted his heart.
Carolyn could only nod, he had that right.
"I'm sorry Mrs. Muir, I didn't mean to bring up a tender subject. There are any number of stories as to WHY the captain did what he did, but there is little doubt that he indeed did….what he did."
"I'm not convinced. Seems to me that it was likely an accident. Back then there weren't all the safety features we've grown used to. And I've experienced myself how touchy the old pipes here can be. I wouldn't be surprised if it was all a misunderstanding."
"Well, yes. That could be, but goodness, that was how many years ago? Let's let bygones be bygones and leave the dead to rest in peace." He peered anxiously around once again. "In the old days they judged things rather harshly, but now we know better. Sometimes people just aren't at their best and make questionable decisions. If the Captain were around today, well there's medication and therapy and things might have gone very differently indeed."
She was surprised and pleased by Claymore's generous and open-minded outlook on the subject. The Captain seemed less so. He clearly didn't find the idea that he might not have been of sound mind, any better than he took to the idea that he had purposely ended his own life. Before Claymore could pick up his coffee, the mug simply exploded, sending shards and hot liquid in every direction.
"Oh, dear!" Carolyn's lips drew together into a tight line, she felt that the Captain was taking things a bit too far. After all, Claymore was a man of his time, and considering the way the Captain treated him, it was little wonder that he believed the long-held story that the man was tempestuous and occasionally unhinged. Her eyes darted around the room, trying to determine exactly where the Captain stood–or floated. Damn, she wished she understood how ghosts and phantoms operated.
"I'm sorry Mrs. Muir, I don't know how…" Claymore seemed genuinely embarrassed and puzzled.
"It's ok, don't worry about the mess. You aren't burned are you?" she checked.
"Burned, Mrs. Muir, no, but I am burned out. I'm afraid that somedays it seems no matter what I do…" His shoulders fell with a sigh. "I'm glad you've enjoyed your stay. Everyone in town is quite taken with you. I want you to know you'd be welcomed back at any time."
She was genuinely touched, at his words and the truth behind them, but also by his defeated look. She knew he was a penny pincher, and often full of misplaced self-importance, but somewhere inside there was a man with feelings and ambitions of his own. She couldn't imagine what taxes and upkeep were on a place like Gull Cottage, but it had to be quite a drain on his budget if the Captain was so intolerant of it being rented out.
She didn't know Claymore's situation, but she tried to imagine what she would do if she was caught holding the bag on a haunted property, unable to live there, sell it or have it earn its keep.
"Well, I have enjoyed my time here and the people," Carolyn assured him.
"Just give me a call when you need a ride on Friday. If I can't come by, I'll send Deke or Mr. Peevey." Claymore dabbed hopelessly at his shirtfront before handing the towel back to Mrs. Muir.
"Captain! That wasn't very nice of you," she hissed after seeing Claymore out. "And he came here on a peace mission."
"He came here seeing if he could find a way to fleece you on a return visit!" The Captain pointed out.
"Oh, that's just Claymore being Claymore!" She dismissed the issue. "Now look at this mess! The more time I have to spend cleaning the less time I have to work on our story."
It seemed the house settled around her with a sigh of resignation. "I'll meet you upstairs presently." He said stiffly, and was gone, no footsteps, creaking boards or breezes.
"He really needs to learn to control his temper," she muttered surveying the mess and trying to decide whether a broom or a mop would be the best way to go about cleaning it up. The mixture of broken ceramic and coffee didn't lend itself well to either method. "He should be the one cleaning this." If he could send her stack of writing flying and then put it back in order, it seemed he should be able to do something about this mess.
She sighed, turned on the ancient radio sitting on the kitchen windowsill and started sweeping with a whisk broom and dustpan. She had grown used to hearing not only the local weather and news, but the timing of the tides, and fishing information. It was amazing how quickly the life and rhythms of Schooner Bay had become second nature to her. By the time she made it back upstairs, her mood had improved, and she hoped the Captain's had as well.
She wondered if it was Claymore that upset him so, or something else, and Claymore was simply an easy target. And what was that about a secret compartment?
"Are we still friends?" A quiet voice asked after she had come in and sat at the desk.
"Yes, but–I mean, I suppose it can't be easy spending so much time alone and not having a body…"
"But that doesn't excuse me from my acts of temper," he finished for her.
"Well, yes, something like that. I know that Claymore isn't half the man you are. But have you ever considered that he might be doing the best that he can, and maybe it would be easier to get him to do things your way if instead of scaring him out of his wits, you took him under your wing?" Even as she spoke the words, she felt ridiculous, trying to reason with a ghost.
"You might have a point, but I've never been one to suffer fools, and I see no good reason to begin now." She swore she heard him "hmph"
"You know what they say about catching more flies with honey."
"And you, Madam, I'm quite sure, are aware that there is something that will attract even more flies than that!"
"Touche'" she allowed. "Now, what was this about a secret compartment?"
"Hmmmm…" She heard creaking as he walked the perimeter of the room. "Hmmm…"
"What?" She wondered if he was genuinely stymied or if he was toying with her.
"I was just considering, if you really are leaving in three days–"
"I am," she confirmed.
"I've kept my secrets all these years. It doesn't seem prudent to expose myself after all this time. And for what? No one much cares anymore whether a long-dead sea captain died from an accident or a fit of pique. And what will happen once Claymore–I mean, do you think he'll ever have children to pass Gull Cottage on to?" The Captain sounded quite sad.
"And what would happen to you, I mean if Gull Cottage falls to ruin? Are you tied to this place?" She felt like she'd heard that somewhere, that a ghost was doomed to haunt one place, over and over, unable to move on or move out.
"More or less. I can walk the beach–thank goodness, and back in the day there was my ship." There was a definite catch in his tone.
"Captain, excuse me for speaking so frankly, but it seems that you might be running out of time. From what I hear, the people of Schooner Bay aren't overly fond of you, other than high schoolers, for whom you still make a good story. I'd like to think that you feel you've found a friend in me. Maybe this would be your best opportunity to take care of unfinished business. I know I'm only here for a few more days, but I'm glad to help in any way I can, and if you have secrets, as you call them, that might clear up misunderstandings, or add to the history of Gull Cottage or Schooner Bay, or just to your family, maybe now is the time." She spoke gently, but she believed what she said.
Surely there were people in Schooner Bay whose history was connected with the Captain's own. And even beyond Schooner Bay, he'd sailed the world, his story could potentially reach millions and help them understand a long-lost past.
"Mrs. Muir, if only we had more time," he said sadly.
"Yes, if only." She was thinking not only of Robert, but of the whole sad lot of humanity. She supposed everyone died with secrets, untold stories, and unfinished business.
"If you go to the fireplace, there's a loose brick. Behind it, you'll find a key."
She looked down at her yellow shirt and light blue slacks. "Is the brick in the fireplace?"
"Allow me." As she watched a brick in the hearth began to wiggle, then lift. Under it was a flat piece of metal, like a small ruler with notches cut into it. It wasn't like any key she'd seen.
She bent and picked it up.
"It fits into a slot in the desk, you'll have to move the typewriter."
Carolyn followed instructions and wasn't surprised that no one had discovered the key or the compartment and its contents. Even without the Captain's unwelcoming and sometimes terrifying displays of anger, there were no signs of any such compartments in the desk other than the usual drawers which opened with a standard key.
She had to lift a board on the side of the desk's surface, then slip a hairpin into a notch that loosened another board, which when lifted allowed her to slip the flat metal strip into a slot.
"I think I've got it!" She wasn't sure, once she opened the compartment, how to get the materials out. "Captain! How in the world did you access this? Surely your hands are larger than mine!"
"Where there's a will, Madam." He sounded both wistful and stern at the same time.
She gave the key a push, heard a creak of wood and the sound of something dropping. She wriggled her hand free and peered into the back of the top drawer to see if the contents had ended up there. "A little help?"
She sensed a light pressure on her middle and she backed away from the desk, slowly the contents of the compartment slid to the front of the drawer. There was an old-fashioned but recognizable metal key, a folded, sealed letter, what appeared to be a postcard, something she guessed was paper money from some far-off land, and an intricately carved bit of ivory that was either a letter opener or a bookmark. It was flat, thin, and very beautiful.
She removed the items from the drawer and placed them on the desktop, not presuming that her help in retrieving the items equated to permission to examine them.
"I'd like you to have that." He said. Her eyes were on the ivory, so she assumed that was what he referred to.
"Thank you, it's lovely." Her finger moved over the delicate scrollwork. "Can you tell me where it's from?"
"China. I meant it as a gift for my mother…"
She felt a lump in her throat as if she intuitively understood the rest. She supposed that he gained much from his travels around the world, but then he also missed much. Being gone for years at a time and very little reliable way to get or send information from home.
"It's..I'll treasure it." As she held it she supposed that it would be illegal now that there were international bans on the trade of ivory.
"I had hoped she would use it to open the letters I sent her from my travels, but–"
"Life has a way of surprising us." Carolyn was thinking of the birthday gift she had hidden away for Robert, a beautiful silk tie and gold clip; he wore it only once–in his casket.
"The key?" Carolyn asked, guessing that likely had a less personal and perhaps more business-related purpose.
He gave a dry laugh. "It opened two locks. One at a bank in Boston. I'm sure it no longer stands and its contents was long ago distributed to my family…if they were able to make the connection."
"And the second?"
"There's a box, hidden in a wall."
"Here? At Gull Cottage?" she asked hopefully.
"Yes, but perhaps that's a job for another day."
She didn't bother to remind him that there were very few days left. He sounded tired, emotionally tired. She recognized the thin quality in his tone.
She flattened out the monetary note and inspected the postcard which bore an engraving of a ship.
"That is the ship that made me dream of the sea." His voice was strong once again. "A real beauty. We'd made a terrible crossing to America when I was a lad. I was sick as a poisoned dog the entire way. I swore I'd never set foot on a boat again as long as I lived. Then she sailed into harbor and it was love at first sight. The first 12 years I sailed, I spent searching for her.
"It took that long before we crossed paths. I had worked my way up to bosun by then, and I begged her captain to take me on, but he'd have none of it. Said I was Scottish scum."
He seemed oddly untroubled by the memory of the insult.
"And?" She knew there had to be more. She studied the engraving. In script at the bottom it read "Isabella Cornelia" It was a beautiful boat? Ship?
"I bided my time. Kept rising in rank," he said proudly.
Her eyes moved to his portrait, wishing she could see the expression in his eyes, as he spoke of his years at sea.
"Her fool captain nearly lost her in a storm on the North Sea. I applied to take charge of her on her next voyage and was turned down. Then she was beset by pirates. I had foiled just such an attack on the vessel I helmed her owners sought me out."
She was certain his eyes were gleaming.
"At that time I was still under contract and wasn't able to take charge. It was a game of cat and mouse is seemed would go on forever." She was certain she heard him smack a fist into a palm. " Then, I returned from a voyage with a ship in need of repair and I was approached to helm a ship that had just been purchased and repurposed. I was told the vessel's name was The Loreli, but the minute I saw her I knew it was my Isabella Cornelia."
"So you did get to sail her!"
"I did Madam, but beauty and good sense don't always merry meet."
"Meaning?"
"She sailed about as well as a leaky barrel full of bilge rats. The first chance I got I surrendered my post and I put my money into a Portuguese-built freighter. She was short on looks but sailed like a dream. In time I intended to buy the remaining shares, but alas…"
"Time wasn't on your side?"
"Life is rarely what we expect, but that's what makes it so interesting."
"Sometimes the joy is in the chase," she agreed. "And looks aren't everything."
"But beauty and functionality do sometimes dwell together…" his voice was low and gentle.
"Are you flirting with me?" She turned in her seat, as if she might see him.
"The letter Madam. I would like you to take it with you." He sounded all business once again.
"I can't read it now?"
"I'd prefer you did not."
She wondered why he had bothered to have her open the compartment at all, but then the card with the Isabella Cornelia on it rose into the air and floated across the room where it was tucked into the frame of his portrait. "I owe a great deal to that ship. Were it not for her I would have lived a very different life. A small life, maybe keeping a shop, selling fish or tobacco."
"But you fell in love and in chasing your dream found your calling." She understood now. The ship itself may have been a disappointment, but his life had not been. "We make plans and God laughs." She shared an aphorism.
"Quite."
The telescope began to spin slowly. "Oh, the days when I could look out to sea and watch the sails come into view!"
"I suppose modern steamers don't have the same panache," Carolyn allowed.
"I wouldn't know where to begin. How does one command and sail a soulless hulk of steel?" He sounded truly puzzled.
"There are all manner of instruments, and satellites, sonar…" she stopped.
She supposed it was the difference between making love to a woman or a robot. Sailing a tall ship of wood and canvas, using a sextant and the stars would have been an incomparable experience to chugging along on one of the huge modern freighters. Once the Captain had sailed into exotic ports and encountered a symphony of exotic voices, scents, and wares. Now everything from every corner of the world could be had in mere days by tapping on one's phone or computer.
Her idea of a sea captain, before she had met Daniel Gregg, was the Captain of the Love Boat, who was more concerned with who sat at his dinner table than traversing the tempestuous sea.
And now the Captain was tied to this house and at the mercy of Claymore Gregg. No wonder he had a temper.
"I'm going to go into town and make copies of the files at the library." She explained, putting the typewriter back onto the desktop. "I'll be able to finish my story when I get back to Philadelphia. The kids are in school, so I'll have time. I should be able to finish it quite soon."
"And that will be the end," he said sadly.
"Well, hopefully, it will clear your name, but it will hardly tell the whole story. And we have the other one we're working on, with the sea serpent."
"You may take the book about serpents, Madam." She imagined he was bowing to her.
"Won't Claymore miss it?" Certainly, he must have the contents of the cottage inventoried. He could hardly rent the place out and take the chance of people walking off with pieces of history.
"I am quite prepared to deal with Claymore, and no Madam, I am in command of my own belongings. No one dares to steal from Gull Cottage. If they try once." The room shook with a clap of thunder. "They never try again."
"Well, it's very generous of you Captain, letting me have the book. Even so, when I'm finished, I'll see that it's returned."
"As you wish."
She gazed around the room at the many books she hadn't had the time to even crack open, and there were more books in other rooms. The attic was full of items in crates or under sheets. She'd been here over three weeks and was only now appreciating what she'd had at her disposal.
She felt suddenly frustrated and angry. It was Robert all over again, gone before she'd had the time and opportunity to get all the good from him. She might return with the children in summer, but it wouldn't be the same. She would be busy chaperoning them at the beach, she wouldn't have hours to read, and dream and chat with a long-dead sea Captain. Who knew, if the children were about he might not speak to her at all.
Or–and she did allow that this was entirely possible–she might be imagining this whole thing, perhaps as a reason to write again or as a way of having the courage to stay here alone, and face all that lay ahead of her.
Once she left Gull Cottage she expected the dream would dissolve. She wondered if she'd be able to hold onto enough of the sense of the place, and the man, to finish her sea story. When she did finish her story on Capt. Danial Gregg and his untimely demise, would it be published in the paper or a magazine, or would it just be another report the local librarian tucked into a file until a decade or two passed and another curious and lonely soul came looking for information?
She spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach with only the gulls for company. The wind blew but the October Sun had a clarity that belied the cold temperatures of the wind and sand. Carolyn approached a bunch of seaweed washed on the shore and wondered if she could dry some, and retain the scent of the bay even after returning home. Home. Was that the house she'd owned with Robert? Or her parents' house where the kids were? Was it Pittsburg, with familiar places and faces, or Philadelphia where she'd been raised? None of those places felt like a place where she belonged. They were fit for a different life, perhaps a previous version of her, but not the woman who kicked at the sand, and pretended the tears in her eyes were a result of the cold salt air.
Gull Cottage felt like home, like the place that suited who she was now, hurting but hopeful, and somewhat unpredictable. Both the Captain and the sea were moody yet extremely endearing. Time was running out, she had always hated the last days of a vacation when the looming thoughts of all that waited to be addressed when one returned home stole the fun that should be had.
Still, she had this moment and the sense of being herself again, whole even without Robert, with purpose and thoughts of her own. She felt a little disloyal–making friends with a ghost had helped her let go of her husband, but maybe it had to be this way. She had to find her feet and somehow this place had allowed her to do that. She stayed on the beach until she could see the lights of boats out on the ocean and her teeth were chattering from the cold.
The Captain was strangely quiet that evening. She made herself a sandwich and took it up to their room. She didn't feel like typing, so she read in front of the fire until she began to doze. She thought she felt a hand jostle her shoulder but when she spoke "Captain?" there was no answer. Well, she supposed he had a right to his quiet time and privacy too. After all, she had invaded his space, and even though they'd made friends, he was likely looking forward to having it back.
She knew she had stirred up old issues and feelings in him, and perhaps he was ready to let them settle so he could rest once again. She got up, made her toilette, and sank into bed. As she was drifting to sleep she heard the familiar sound of the window opening. She smiled and laughed to herself, she supposed he thought fresh sea air was healthy for her, then she recalled the manner of his death. Had the window been open he might have lived another few decades, might have married and settled down, might have opened a home for retired sea captains…if only the window had been open.
She realized that was why, every night, he made sure she had ventilation. It wasn't stubbornness, but a kind of caring protectiveness. And the gas lines that Mr. Peevey hadn't been able to fix, surely the Captain was behind that as well, hoping to spare her the fate that had taken him. She had thought he was just being difficult and overbearing, wanting the old cottage to stay pristine and primitive, but it was more than that.
Just as she was beginning to understand him, it was time to say goodbye. She heard the familiar squeak of the telescope slowly turning. "G'night Captain."
"Madam."
XXX