Free Beyond the Misty Shore by Vicki Hinze Page B

propped against the wall with a little mound of dirt hidden behind it. She caught a whiff of fried chicken. If she weren’t so troubled, she would’ve stopped in and had some. But she was troubled so, heavy-footed, she kept walking, silently damning MacGregor. Even here, she couldn’t get the man off her mind.
    Near Fisherman’s Co-Op, she saw a knot of men sitting on its slab slate porch, rocking and laughing around a wire-spool table. Behind it, around the cove on a little point, she saw a lighthouse. The mild wind carried the men’s voices, and she heard snatches of stories they were swapping about fishing in the good old days. From the newspaper accounts she’d read, those days were ones preceding the fishing industry being thrust into crisis because of large government-funded boats and hi-tech electronic equipment. The big commercial fishermen had about fished out the Atlantic. Most of the fish caught here flirted with being listed as endangered species. Some already had been dubbed “commercially extinct.”
    Maggie hurt for the little guy. Many of them third- and fourth-generation fishermen who now were in dire straits, in danger of losing everything they owned.
    At the foot of the inn’s gravel driveway, she stepped between the rows of firs lining it and headed toward the house. MacGregor was a little guy, too. Not in stature but, like the little fisherman, he stood alone.
    She stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets and blew out a heartfelt sigh that made fog of her breath. What if she forgot about Carolyn temporarily and tried to help MacGregor? What could she actually do for him? She didn’t even know what was happening out there on the rocks. Or where those strange whispers to her were coming from, though she strongly suspected they were no more than her conscience. What she did know was that watching him disturbed her, hurt her in ways she didn’t understand, and that robbed her of the peace and serenity she’d needed and found here.
    The last thing she needed in her life was more turmoil. And MacGregor pounded out vibes of having a truckload of it. Well, she had her fair share, too. That’s how life worked, wasn’t it?
    He had his problems, and she had hers. She couldn’t afford to be sidetracked by him and lose sight of her reason for being here—he might be a very large part of that reason. She still suspected him of being involved with Carolyn’s death, though she had to be honest, with a lot less certainty than when she’d first arrived here. MacGregor clearly was worried. She didn’t see his hopelessness growing stronger, but when she watched him attempt and fail to cross that line, she sure felt it. That worried her. And it made her feel even more guilty. Still, her first loyalty was to Carolyn. Guilty or innocent of manipulation, Carolyn was family.
    No, Maggie promised herself, on Monday she would not watch MacGregor’s attempt. She wasn’t being hard or cold or indifferent—she’d even warned him—she simply had no sympathy to spare.
    First light streamed in through Maggie’s windows. She opened her eyes, stretched, slid out from under the warm quilts, then padded over to the window seat and looked outside.
    Dawn had come, but the sky remained a dull, weak gray, as if it struggled under November and prayed hard for an early spring. She’d left the window shade up to catch first light. Sounds carried in the quiet house, and she hadn’t wanted to risk awakening MacGregor by setting an alarm.
    It was Monday. She’d made a vow and she intended to keep it. She would not watch him. She’d be dressed and down in the village long before MacGregor turned over in his bed much less before he pulled his nasty morning ritual of rapping on the bathroom door and rushing her out.
    Ten minutes later, she sneaked down the stairs like a thief, feeling as guilty as she had when at six years old she’d stolen that piece of bubble gum from 7-Eleven. She passed Cecelia’s portrait and deliberately