The Calendar
Home! Maggie Stiles thought with happiness as she unlocked the front door to the old house on Birch Avenue.
Ever since the real estate agent first showed her the weather-beaten saltbox, she had felt drawn to it, as though it were a safe haven on a stormy night. Long before the realtor's presentation was over, Maggie had made up her mind to buy it. Now, as she stood looking at the bare walls and floors, imagining various color pallets and décor styles, she knew she had made the correct decision. With both her mother and father gone, there were too many ghosts of happier days lingering within the walls of the old family home she inherited.
This was a time of many changes for Maggie. Not only was she moving from New York to Massachusetts, but she was also embarking on a new career. Since she was a child, Maggie dreamed of becoming a writer. With her inheritance and the money she made selling the house in New York, she could support herself comfortably until she completed her novel. Of course, there was no guarantee that she would be able to find a publisher for her book, but she was willing to take the gamble. If things didn't work out, she could always go back to teaching, that is, if there were any positions available. If not ....
"No use worrying about the alternatives until the time comes," she said with a sigh. "Right now, I've got a house to organize."
So saying, she took out her tape measure, a pencil and a small notepad and began taking room and window measurements while she waited for the moving van to deliver her belongings.
A week later Maggie had her furniture in place, curtains and drapes on the windows, rugs on the newly waxed hardwood floors and food in the pantry and refrigerator. There was also a good supply of firewood in the hoop near the hearth. Even though the house had a modern, efficient heating system, she felt that a crackling fire provided warmth for the soul as well as for the body.
Now all I need to do is set up my den, and I can begin my long-awaited career as a writer.
Maggie arranged her books in a neat and orderly fashion on the mahogany shelves in the den, all except for her dictionary and thesaurus, which she would keep on her desk within arm's reach. Carefully, she unpacked her computer, monitor and printer, connected all the cables and plugged the power cords into a surge protector. Finally, she filled the desk drawers with blank CDs, pens, pencils, post-its and paperclips. As she prepared her workspace, she was dismayed to see that she had only one spare ink cartridge and not even a full ream of paper. She would need a lot more of both once she got into the routine of writing every day.
Whitewood was a small New England village that didn't have a Walmart or a Sears much less an Office Max or Staples. Instead, there were several mom-and-pop shops, including Angus's General Store, an establishment that reminded Maggie of a Norman Rockwell painting.
When she walked into the store, after brushing the snow from her parka, she was greeted by the elderly man behind the counter, whom she assumed was Angus. The map of Scotland seemed to be tattooed on his features; all he lacked was a kilt and a set of bagpipes.
"Can I help you with something, lass?" the shopkeeper asked.
"I hope so. I need some computer supplies, specifically printer paper and ink cartridges, both black and color."
The man shook his head.
"Sorry, I canna help you then. We dunna carry such items."
"Did I hear someone ask about computers?" a voice called from the back room.
"Aye, Angus, this lass wants to buy some supplies."
So, the man at the counter was not the owner, after all.
"I'd like to stock up on printer paper and ink cartridges just in case we get hit with a bad snowstorm," Maggie called toward the direction of Angus's voice.
"I can help you with the paper. I keep a good supply here for my own use. I'll probably have to order the ink cartridges, though, unless we have the same make and model of printer."
As he spoke, Angus emerged from the back room. Maggie opened her mouth to reply but found she could only stare, for without a doubt, the owner of the general store was the most handsome man she had ever seen. He had thick, wavy black hair, large, piercing blue eyes and a body that looked more like it spent its days in a gym rather than a small-town general store. Emily Brontë might have had such a man in mind when she created Heathcliffe.
Angus, in turn, found himself staring admiringly at Maggie.
"You're not from Whitewood," he finally said.
"I am now. I just moved into the old saltbox on Birch Avenue," she explained.
"Fiona's house," the older man said with apparent surprise.
"Excuse my bad manners. We don't get many new people in town. I'm Angus Forsythe, and this is my father."
"Pleased to meet you," she said, shaking both men's hands. "I'm Maggie Stiles."
"I've got a pot of water on the stove if you'd like some hot tea or coffee," Angus offered.
"I'd love some, thank you. I'm not used to this New England weather yet."
"It's only the beginning of January. Wait another six weeks; you'll be used to it by then."
"Who's Fiona?" Maggie asked as she and Angus sat at a table in the back room, sipping coffee.
Angus's face clouded over, and his dazzling smile briefly faded.
"Fiona Albright was a local artist who painted mostly seascapes and lighthouses. She was quite good and even had several paintings on exhibit in Boston and New York. You've probably seen some of her work."
"I'm afraid I don't get to visit many art galleries," Maggie confessed.
"Fiona made her living as a commercial artist. Sweet Sentiments used many of her drawings and paintings on their greeting cards, stationery and calendars. In fact, I think I still have a few of this year's daily calendars out on the shelf."
"I'd like to see one if you do."
"Let me go check."
Angus went out to the sales floor and returned several minutes later with a boxed calendar wrapped in shrink-wrap.
"Here," he said, handing it to Maggie. "Consider it a housewarming present."
"That's very kind of you," she said, and then read the writing on the box, "New England's Majestic Coast, 365 days of seascapes and words of inspiration."
"The artwork is Fiona's, but the inspiration is provided by Thoreau, Whitman, Frost and other writers," Angus explained.
"Thank you again, Mr. Forsythe."
"Call me Angus, please."
"Thank you, Angus. I'll keep it on my desk right next to my computer."
"Speaking of which, let me see what I can do about getting your ink cartridges."
Maggie returned home with the ream of paper Angus had given her from his own supply. She had only accepted it on the condition that he take a ream out of the case she ordered from him, along with a dozen ink cartridges. Angus assured her that the order would come in before the end of the week. Until then, she had enough paper and ink to get started on her book.
Sitting at her desk later that day, Maggie took the wrapping off the calendar and opened the box. On January 1 there was a drawing of the Pemaquid Point lighthouse at Bristol, Maine. Beneath the picture was a quote by Henry David Thoreau: "I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude." She tore off that page, and on the second was a drawing of Nantucket Island. The quote beneath was by Aesop: "No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted."
A blush came to Maggie's cheeks as she thought of the acts of kindness shown her today by Angus Forsythe: the cup of coffee, the free calendar and the printer paper. She cautioned herself not to read anything into his kindness.
He's probably married anyway, she thought pessimistically as she continued to tear off pages of the calendar until she reached January 5.
Maggie then worked on an outline of her novel until the growling of her stomach called attention to the fact that she hadn't eaten all day—except for the coffee she had with Angus at the general store. It was now nearly six o'clock. She made herself a sandwich and ate it in front of the fireplace.
The sun had set over an hour earlier, and light snow was still falling but with little accumulation. Outside the wind picked up, rattling the windows as it blew. Inside, the blazing fire made it warm and cozy. Maggie read for a while and then drifted off to sleep as her mind conjured up an image of Angus's blue eyes and captivating smile.
* * *
Two days later, Maggie was busy writing when she heard a knock on the front door.
"I've got your paper and ink," Angus said with a warm smile as he effortlessly carried the boxes into her house.
"Do you always make deliveries?" Maggie asked with amazement.
"Usually, no, but ...."
Angus stopped speaking, embarrassed.
"Okay," he continued, "when you left the store the other day, I called the real estate office. Your agent told me you were living here alone, so I assumed you were single."
"Good guess. What about you?"
"Aye, lass," he said in a mock accent, "that I am. So, when a beautiful, young, unattached female moves into our town, I make it a point to deliver her goods in person."
"I'm flattered. I don't suppose you could spare the time from your busy schedule to have a cup of coffee and some fresh-baked cranberry scones?"
"Scones? My dear lady, I'd miss my own funeral for homemade scones. Besides, Dad is minding the store."
By the time Angus wiped up the crumbs of his fourth scone, he and Maggie had each gotten a condensed version of the other's life story. Finally, the subject of her book came up.
"Do you write fiction or nonfiction?" he asked.
"I'm working on a novel."
"Let me guess. You're writing a great historical romance in the tradition of Gone With the Wind."
"Wrong, I'll leave the belles and beaus to Margaret Mitchell."
"Something naughty about rich and famous people, in the vein of Jackie Collins?"
"Wrong again. Why do men assume all women can write about is love, romance and sex?"
"Mystery, then. Are you going to be the Agatha Christie of the new millennium?"
"You're getting warmer, but no cigar."
"Courtroom drama?"
"No. Horror."
"Horror? Ah! So, you're an aspiring Ann Rice, hoping to write tales of vampires and witches?"
"Ann Rice is great, but I set my sights on being the next Stephen King."
"I confess I've read every book he's written, but," he said in mock solemnity, "I don't think he's nearly as cute as you are."
"Why, Angus Forsythe, you old charmer, you! Tell me. How is it that a handsome, well-read man like you is still single?"
"Maybe I've been waiting for you, lass."
* * *
"Have you decided on a date yet?" Angus asked Maggie one evening after they finished dinner.
"As a matter of fact, I have. I was looking through the calendar for a weekend in June, and on June 3, I saw a quote by Walt Whitman that read, 'Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity, when I give I give myself.' I usually don't believe in omens, but if I did, I'd say that was a good one."
"June 3 is okay with me," Angus laughed, relieved that Maggie hadn't tried to postpone or delay getting married. "Are you sure you don't want a big wedding?"
"A small one will do just fine. I have no family left, and most of my friends are now scattered across the country. What about you?"
"My father and I are all that's left of this branch of the Forsythe clan."
Suddenly it seemed odd to Maggie that Angus had no friends except for the elderly people who came into his store to buy dry goods, linens, gardening tools and fishing tackle.
"How come there are so few young adults in Whitewood?" she asked.
"The town doesn't have much to offer in the way of career opportunities. Most young people, after they graduate from high school, go off to college, join the military or move to Boston where there are better-paying jobs. Oh, there are a few who stay here, get married young, start a family right away and remain here until they die, but those that leave rarely ever come back."
"Why did you come back after college then? With your education, you could have gone anywhere."
"I discovered there was nothing for me out there."
The sad look on Angus's face made Maggie wish she could take the question back. Sure, she was curious about his youth, but the past was the past, and if Angus had any painful memories, perhaps it would be better if they remained dormant.
* * *
The honeymoon in Scotland was exciting and romantic and over way too soon. Back at her desk in Whitewood, the newlywed Mrs. Forsythe removed pages from her calendar until she reached June 29. Beneath the drawing of the lighthouse on Martha's Vineyard, was a line by Percy Bysshe Shelley, "Familiar acts are beautiful through love."
Maggie closed her eyes and thought of Angus. Had it really been only six months ago that she'd first seen his dark curls and blue eyes? How could someone, in so short a time, become the center of her world?
"I'd better stop daydreaming or I'll never finish my book. Okay, Maggie: think horror."
It took a while, but soon she was writing again, concentrating on terror and death rather than love and romance. At noon she heard Angus's car pull into the driveway, and she ran down the stairs to the door to meet him.
"Couldn't stay away, huh?" she laughed as she ran into his arms.
"I missed you so much," he told her between kisses. "There's an arts and crafts fair on the Common today. Why don't we take a ride over there and see what they have? We can stop at the Whitewood Inn for lunch afterward."
"I'd love to. Maybe I can finally find some artwork to hang on these bare walls."
"At least until the baby pictures start filling up the spaces," Angus said, only half in jest.
It was a warm, sunny day, and after a delicious lunch, Angus and Maggie strolled among the vendors at the craft fair. Angus—who was by no means a pauper—freely spent money on his bride and their little "love nest," as he jokingly referred to the old saltbox.
"I'll take these bags back to the car," he offered, "and catch up with you in a minute."
It was his second such trip, and he was glad they'd taken his Outback wagon rather than Maggie's little Miata. When Angus returned, he found his wife searching through a stack of framed oil paintings.
"Are you looking for something in particular?" he asked.
"Not really. I'm waiting for that one painting that will reach out and grab my attention."
"Well, you've got a lot to choose from," Angus said as he, too, started looking through the stacked canvasses.
"I don't believe it!" Maggie exclaimed suddenly. "Angus, look, it's a painting of Whitewood. And here's our house."
Maggie looked for the artist's name and was not surprised to see Fiona Albright's signature in the lower right corner of the painting.
"This is perfect for the living room," she declared. "What a coincidence that we should find a painting of our house by the woman who used to live in it."
On the drive back home, Maggie chattered away like a schoolgirl, but Angus remained silent. As soon as they got home, Maggie got the hammer and nails out of the garage and proceeded to hang the painting over the couch in the living room. Angus meanwhile brought the other items out of the car and started putting them away.
Later that evening, Maggie joined her husband on the cushioned window seat beneath the bedroom's bay window.
"You've been quiet most of the afternoon. Is something wrong?" she inquired.
"No," he said after a brief hesitation. Maggie knew he wasn't being completely honest with her but decided not to press the issue. Instead, she changed the subject.
"Do you know what's strange?" she asked.
"What?"
"I'm living in Fiona Albright's house and have her painting on my living room wall. I even look at her artwork every day on my calendar, and yet I know absolutely nothing about her. This is a small town; you must have met her. What was she like? Why did she leave here?"
Angus was clearly agitated.
"Why all this interest in Fiona? She's gone; just forget about her."
For the remainder of the evening, it was Maggie's turn to retreat into silence. Finally, Angus couldn't take it anymore.
"I think it's time we talk about Fiona. Yes, I knew her. We dated throughout high school, and then I announced my plans to go to college. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life being a fisherman like my father. Fiona, however, wanted to stay here. She said she couldn't imagine not living by the ocean. We wrote to each other, and I spent the summers here with her. When I was in my third year of college, Fiona moved out of her folks' house and bought this place. Then she began traveling up and down the New England coast, painting lighthouses and seaports. Sometimes she'd be gone for weeks at a time. I was chauvinistic enough back in my younger days to think she would give that all up and marry me once I graduated."
"But she chose her career over marriage?"
"The truth is I never proposed. When I came home after graduation, I realized she was no longer the sweet, innocent girl I'd known and loved. She'd grown hard and cynical, and there were other men in her life."
"Angus, if it hurts you to talk about her, then don't."
"It doesn't hurt anymore; it hasn't for some time. You see, Fiona wasn't the only one who changed. I did, too. I realized what I once felt for her was nothing more than an adolescent infatuation. It wasn't the breakup with Fiona that upset me; it was the feeling that my life lacked a purpose. I no longer knew what I wanted to do or where I wanted to go."
"So, you stayed here in Whitewood for lack of a better idea?"
"Not exactly. My father was sick at the time. The doctor told me that if he didn't give up the hard life of a fisherman, he wouldn't live much longer, so I bought the store and made a new life for Dad and myself. We were quite a twosome: an old widower and his bachelor son, one lived with memories, the other with impossible dreams. Then one day a certain Stephen King-wannabe walked into the store looking for computer supplies, and I knew my bachelor days were numbered."
They laughed and kissed. Although not normally a jealous person, Maggie couldn't help feeling relieved that Angus was not harboring any unrequited love for his high school girlfriend.
"What happened to Fiona then?" she asked.
Once again, a melancholy look appeared on her husband's handsome features.
"I honestly don't know," he admitted. "She disappeared."
"You mean she just packed up and left without a word to anyone?"
"I mean she vanished without a trace. Eventually, the bank foreclosed on the house, and her parents claimed all of her belongings."
"Isn't there any clue as to where she might be or what might have happened to her?"
"She was last seen in Bar Harbor, Maine, about three years ago. Where she went from there, no one knows."
Maggie shivered but whether it was from the sudden chill in the room or a sense of foreboding, she wasn't sure.
* * *
Although her future no longer depended on its success, Maggie continued to work on her novel. Angus made more than enough money to support them in relative comfort, but Maggie was not the type of person to leave things undone. What she started she invariably finished.
One day, as she sat at her desk creating an imaginary world of nightmarish creatures, the telephone rang.
"Maggie, is that you?" a familiar voice asked.
"Jeanine? What a surprise! How are you?"
"I'm great. How about you? How's married life?"
"It couldn't be better!"
"That's good to know because I'm planning on joining the club myself. Chuck and I are getting married in November, and I'm calling to invite you and your husband to the wedding."
As she listened to her friend's wedding plans, Maggie reached for her calendar. She opened it to a point about halfway through the remainder of the year and discovered a blank sheet of paper. She thumbed through the pages from the last forward and discovered that all of December, November and part of October were blank.
"Damn it," she cursed.
"Maggie, is something wrong?" Jeanine asked.
"No, I just wanted to write the date of your wedding on my calendar, but I discovered that all the pages from the middle of October on are blank. That's quality control for you," she joked as she scribbled the date on a post-it.
When Angus came home that night Maggie told him about the invitation to the wedding and shared with him her memories of growing up with Jeanine in New York. She told him about the Christmas shows at Radio City Music Hall, Macy's Thanksgiving Day parades, Madison Square Garden, Yankee Stadium, the Statue of Liberty, Lincoln Center and the Museum of Natural History.
"You can never run out of things to do in New York," she concluded.
"And what's a sophisticated city gal like you doing here in this one-horse town?" Angus asked in a bad imitation of John Wayne. Then, before she could answer, he switched to Humphrey Bogart, and added, "Of all the gin joints and general stores in the world, you had to walk into mine."
"James Cagney, right?" Maggie teased.
"Seriously, though," Angus continued, "after living in New York, don't you find Whitewood just a tad dull?"
"Not yet. In fact, I'm enjoying the slow pace while it lasts. I imagine it won't be too long before I'm changing diapers, driving in carpools and organizing bake sales for the PTA."
"Well, I'll help you clear up the kitchen, and then we can enjoy a nice, quiet evening together."
"Just what I had in mind. Oh, by the way, do you have any more desk calendars at the store?"
"No, I got rid of the few that were left back in May. Why?"
"The one I have must have been a factory reject. I'm missing about two and a half months' worth of 'New England's majestic coast and words of inspiration.' But that's all right. I'll just take a marker and number the remaining pages myself so that I'll at least know what day it is."
* * *
Summer ended, and September led to October. On the second Monday of the month, Angus had to meet with a supplier in New Jersey concerning the possibility of adding a coffee bar in the general store. He woke early and quickly finished his breakfast, anxious to be on his way.
"Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?" Maggie asked.
"No, you stay here and write. I'll fly to New Jersey, meet with the supplier's representative and be back here in time for dinner. I promise."
Maggie went to her desk and tore the previous day's page off her calendar. The new page was the last one featuring Fiona's artwork. The subsequent pages were blank, except for handwritten dates. As she booted up her computer, she wondered again what had happened to Fiona. When the Windows logo faded and the desktop appeared, Maggie reached for her mouse. Suddenly the screen went black.
Oh, great! she thought. Where will I find a computer technician in this area?
Then across the screen, one letter at a time came a message: STOP HIM. Maggie tried to reboot the computer, but nothing happened. The message continued: SAVE ANGUS. Maggie's heart caught in her throat. What was going on? And what did it have to do with Angus?
"Who are you?" she asked, not really expecting a reply.
But the answer appeared on the screen: FIONA.
"What's all this about? What do I have to save Angus from?"
The computer screen flickered briefly, and then Fiona's message continued: PLANE WILL CRASH. Maggie didn't waste time questioning the source or authenticity of the message. She accepted it as a sign, a warning from the world beyond. She dialed her husband's cell number, but the phone was turned off. Maggie had only one chance to save the man she loved: she had to get to the airport before Angus boarded the plane.
Clad only in her pajamas, bathrobe and slippers, Maggie grabbed her keys and ran to the car. Although normally a safe driver, she threw caution to the wind and raced along the narrow country roads. Her only thought was of Angus. A quarter of a mile from the airport she spotted his car on the road ahead of her. She had to get his attention. While one hand was sounding the horn, she began flashing her headlights with the other.
Suddenly the Miata swerved on a pile of wet leaves. Maggie tried to grab the steering wheel, but she was driving much too fast to regain control. The car left the road and crashed into the guardrail along the shoulder. She held on to consciousness long enough to see the small airplane flying overhead on its way to New Jersey.
* * *
Maggie was awakened by the hushed whispers of two nurses outside her hospital room door.
"Do you think she's strong enough to handle the news?" asked the younger nurse.
"Well, it'll be a shock; that's for sure," replied the older one.
"I heard the body was unrecognizable. It had to be taken to the lab for proper identification."
Hot tears made their way down Maggie's cheeks to fall silently on her pillow. Angus—young, handsome, virile Angus—was gone forever. His death, especially coming at a time when he had everything to live for, held more horror than any monster ever penned by the great writers of macabre fiction.
Maggie turned her head to the wall, shutting out the words of the two nurses, and sought the solace of sleep. Mercifully, with the help of modern medicine, she slept through the night.
When she reluctantly opened her eyes the following morning, the first thing she saw was Angus's handsome face. Maggie's befuddled brain didn't know if it should feel fright or joy. Was this merely an apparition created by an overactive imagination, or was this Angus's spirit come to bid her farewell?
"You're awake," he said, leaning forward to take her hand.
The voice was her husband's, just as the smile and the warm hand that held hers were his.
"Angus, is it really you?"
"Of course, it's me. Who were you expecting, Sean Connery?"
"But the plane crash ...," she said, uncertain of what had happened after her accident.
"How did you know about that? This is the first you've been fully conscious."
"Fiona told me it was going to happen."
Maggie explained about the message she'd received on her computer and her desperate attempt to stop him from boarding the plane. She wondered if Angus would laugh it off or, worse, doubt her sanity. Surprisingly, he believed her.
"The plane did crash, and the five people aboard it were all killed. I would have been among them if I hadn't seen your car go off the road in my rearview mirror."
Maggie then told Angus about the nurses' conversation she'd overheard.
"I was sure you were dead, but I guess I imagined the whole incident. I was half asleep at the time," she concluded.
"No, you didn't imagine it. A body washed up on shore yesterday at almost the exact moment the plane took off. It was badly decomposed, but the dental records proved the remains were those of Fiona Albright. The medical examiner and the police think she drowned further north and that her body slowly drifted south, eventually washing ashore right here in Whitewood."
"In her own hometown? Isn't that a bit too much of a coincidence?"
"For me, yeah. Especially after hearing about that message on your computer."
"Don't forget about the calendar," Maggie added. "Her body turned up on the last day her pictures appeared on its pages."
Maggie and Angus fell silent for several minutes, both pondering the incredible events of the previous day.
Finally, Maggie asked, "Should we tell the police about the calendar and the message Fiona sent me?"
"No, neither of them is directly related to her death. Besides, the police are skeptical of anything that even hints at the supernatural."
"I think Fiona must have really loved you," Maggie said quietly. "She saved your life."
"You both did," Angus responded. "And I'm eternally grateful to the two of you."
* * *
Angus and Maggie walked along the beach, holding hands. In his left arm, Angus carried their eighteen-month-old son, Shawn. If either Angus or Maggie was thinking about the body that had washed up on that beach seven years earlier, neither of them mentioned it. They had long since accepted the entire episode for what it was: a miracle.
As the happy couple stared out to sea, their six-year-old daughter ran up to them, clutching her crayons and sketchpad.
"Look what I drew. It's the lighthouse."
"Another picture of the lighthouse?" Maggie asked with a laugh. "Don't you ever get tired of drawing it?"
"No. When I grow up, I want to draw every lighthouse from Connecticut to Maine. And I'm gonna draw the islands and the ports and the big boats, too."
"Then what will you do?" her mother asked.
"Then I'll come home."
Angus looked lovingly at his daughter and said, "That's right. Don't ever forget to come home, Fiona."
These days anyone can be on a calendar!
