himself die? No, he didn’t dare to believe. He’d lost too many of those he’d loved and far too much of himself already.
Still, Miss Hattie looked so worried. She needed the lie, and he couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing her. “I’ll believe it,” he told her then quickly looked at Bill. She was too intuitive, and she’d told him a hundred times that his eyes mirrored his soul. Even if she couldn’t see the truth, looking into her eyes and deliberately lying to her rankled—regardless that he’d done it for her own peace of mind.
Bill locked gazes with T.J. and gave him an encouraging nod. His gentle umber eyes shone support and approval. He knew the truth. He knew T.J. didn’t dare to believe the painting would work. And his friend’s silent message was that he understood and believed enough for both of them.
Swallowing hard, praying that friendship with him didn’t somehow kill Bill, too, T.J. nodded back and stepped up to the invisible boundary line. Sweat trickled down his temples, rolled over his ribs. He dragged his foot through the coarse sand, drawing the line, then closed his eyes and focused hard, concentrating all of his energy on the healing he’d once received at Seascape Inn. The healing that had restored his ability to create the painting he now held in his hands. The painting Bill and Miss Hattie—and half the time he—hoped would act as a conduit to his subconscious to free him from Seascape.
Images flashed through his mind. Images of him arriving here, all those years ago. Images of him feeling that senseof peace and calm and serenity that Maggie Wright had been feeling, and T.J. had been envying, last night at dinner.
She’d been right, too. Seascape Inn was special. Very special.
Another image flashed. He saw himself crossing the line, walking into the village and waving to Jimmy, whose long, brown hair needed a trim. Though in a squat, changing a flat tire on Horace Johnson’s dusty blue ‘53 GMC pick-up truck, Jimmy paused to wave back. His brown eyes never missed a thing—by necessity, T.J. supposed. Jimmy had always had to look out for himself. T.J. walked on, then paused again at Miss Millie’s Antique Shoppe’s big window. Sitting in her rocker, she sipped at a cup of steaming tea, enjoying the warmth from her Franklin stove. He smelled the wood burning, heard its friendly popping. Next door, Fred Baker was sweeping the porch of the Blue Moon Cafe, hiding the dirt behind a huge anchor propped against the wall, his gold nugget ring catching the sunlight and, across the street, the stuffy, social-climbing Lydia Johnson, who’d renamed herself Lily years ago because it sounded more regal to her, stood near the gas pumps at The Store, overdressed and all excited, telling the pastor about her and Horace’s new Slurpee drink machine. “It’s the height of modernization,” she said, preening. T.J. shunned the urge to shake some sense into her. The woman wanted it all and was so busy running after it all that she didn’t realize she already had everything worth having: her family’s love.
Pulling the sights and sounds and smells of small-town life into his heart and holding them close, T.J. issued himself his standard pre-attempt reminder, then stepped across the line.
For a long moment, he stood there feeling as if he were dangling at the edge of some invisible, mystical precipice. Hope flared in his heart. The wind burned his eyes, but he was afraid to blink. If he moved, would he break the magical spell and fall?
His instincts screamed at him to run, but he couldn’t move. Seemingly suspended in this mysterious place that was neither there nor here, he felt torn, at war with himself. Did he risk taking another step? Did he risk losing what could prove to be his only opportunity to run for his life?
He had to run!
As quickly as the thought properly formed, the temperature plummeted.
That veil of icy mist blanketed him.
Those hated fingers of cold
Still, Miss Hattie looked so worried. She needed the lie, and he couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing her. “I’ll believe it,” he told her then quickly looked at Bill. She was too intuitive, and she’d told him a hundred times that his eyes mirrored his soul. Even if she couldn’t see the truth, looking into her eyes and deliberately lying to her rankled—regardless that he’d done it for her own peace of mind.
Bill locked gazes with T.J. and gave him an encouraging nod. His gentle umber eyes shone support and approval. He knew the truth. He knew T.J. didn’t dare to believe the painting would work. And his friend’s silent message was that he understood and believed enough for both of them.
Swallowing hard, praying that friendship with him didn’t somehow kill Bill, too, T.J. nodded back and stepped up to the invisible boundary line. Sweat trickled down his temples, rolled over his ribs. He dragged his foot through the coarse sand, drawing the line, then closed his eyes and focused hard, concentrating all of his energy on the healing he’d once received at Seascape Inn. The healing that had restored his ability to create the painting he now held in his hands. The painting Bill and Miss Hattie—and half the time he—hoped would act as a conduit to his subconscious to free him from Seascape.
Images flashed through his mind. Images of him arriving here, all those years ago. Images of him feeling that senseof peace and calm and serenity that Maggie Wright had been feeling, and T.J. had been envying, last night at dinner.
She’d been right, too. Seascape Inn was special. Very special.
Another image flashed. He saw himself crossing the line, walking into the village and waving to Jimmy, whose long, brown hair needed a trim. Though in a squat, changing a flat tire on Horace Johnson’s dusty blue ‘53 GMC pick-up truck, Jimmy paused to wave back. His brown eyes never missed a thing—by necessity, T.J. supposed. Jimmy had always had to look out for himself. T.J. walked on, then paused again at Miss Millie’s Antique Shoppe’s big window. Sitting in her rocker, she sipped at a cup of steaming tea, enjoying the warmth from her Franklin stove. He smelled the wood burning, heard its friendly popping. Next door, Fred Baker was sweeping the porch of the Blue Moon Cafe, hiding the dirt behind a huge anchor propped against the wall, his gold nugget ring catching the sunlight and, across the street, the stuffy, social-climbing Lydia Johnson, who’d renamed herself Lily years ago because it sounded more regal to her, stood near the gas pumps at The Store, overdressed and all excited, telling the pastor about her and Horace’s new Slurpee drink machine. “It’s the height of modernization,” she said, preening. T.J. shunned the urge to shake some sense into her. The woman wanted it all and was so busy running after it all that she didn’t realize she already had everything worth having: her family’s love.
Pulling the sights and sounds and smells of small-town life into his heart and holding them close, T.J. issued himself his standard pre-attempt reminder, then stepped across the line.
For a long moment, he stood there feeling as if he were dangling at the edge of some invisible, mystical precipice. Hope flared in his heart. The wind burned his eyes, but he was afraid to blink. If he moved, would he break the magical spell and fall?
His instincts screamed at him to run, but he couldn’t move. Seemingly suspended in this mysterious place that was neither there nor here, he felt torn, at war with himself. Did he risk taking another step? Did he risk losing what could prove to be his only opportunity to run for his life?
He had to run!
As quickly as the thought properly formed, the temperature plummeted.
That veil of icy mist blanketed him.
Those hated fingers of cold
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