Upon a Mystic Tide (12 page)

“No, thank you.” Giving Miss Hattie’s banister spindles a real workout, Bess bumped and grunted her way down the stairs.

Stubborn. To the bone, stubborn. “Your party.” Even fuming inside, he noted that the farther from the Great White Room they walked, the cooler the house felt. All the warm feelings he’d had on entering it had gone. Now, it was downright chilly and he was edgy as hell—and more certain by the minute Miss Hattie hadn’t packed Bess’s bags. But they were the only three people in the house now. If not him or Bess, and not Miss Hattie, then
who?

Good question. One he wanted answered.

By the time John reached the back door leading out to the mud room, he felt like a moving chunk of ice. Bess was walking out on him again. This time, in person. And this time, it hurt every bit as much as it had before.

Outside, they cut across the lawn, rounded the side of the greenhouse, then went on to the little lean-to where guests parked their cars. The sun was shining brightly on her sleek black BMW, but it looked dull, as if the sheen had been stripped from its paint. Curious. When he’d parked beside it earlier, it had gleamed. “Your car could use a good waxing.”

She unlocked the door then tapped a button to pop the lid on the trunk. When it sprang open, she tossed her luggage inside. John frowned. “It’ll rattle like crazy, in there like that.”

He moved over to the trunk and rearranged the cases, snuggling them tightly to the sides of the car and to each other. “That’ll work.”

“Thank you.” The words were stiff enough to walk over to him without benefit of sound waves.

“You’re welcome.” Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn’t they just talk? This whole encounter wasn’t going as planned. And a lot of the responsibility for that was his. He’d stunned her, showing up here without warning, then knocked her for a further loop by throwing the news about jail onto her shoulders.

He slammed the trunk shut, then leaned back against it. “I’m sorry, Bess. We got off on the wrong foot here. Can we start over and discuss this settlement like two rational adults?” That should do it. The doc loved rational discussion.

“There’s nothing to discuss.” She got into her car. “I’m not being testy, Jonathan. I just can’t be flexible on this issue. It’s
 . . .
personal.”

He walked around to her window then leaned down, propping his forearms on the window-frame. Silk watched him intently from the passenger’s seat. Bess had strapped the mop into a safety belt. Cute. “Too personal to discuss with your husband?”

Her eyes darkened to sapphire blue, that same shade they’d deepened to whenever they’d made love. A rivulet of desire trickled down his center to his core. She was the only woman who ever had affected him so intensely. And he was losing her all over again.

No. No, that’s how it felt, but it wasn’t true. A man couldn’t lose what he didn’t have. And he didn’t have Bess. Not anymore.

She looked straight ahead, through the windshield and off into the pines. “There was a time when I’d have given anything to talk to you. But you were too busy then, and now it’s too late.”

That she was right tormented him nearly as much as the husky sadness in her voice. He’d never meant to hurt her. He’d loved her. And he should tell her that. But she looked a breath away from tears, and Bess’s tears would cut him to shreds. “I’m sorry, Doc.” Inadequate, but all he had that he could give.

“Me, too.” She put her key in the ignition. “Me, too.”

There was nothing left to say.

His insides ripping apart, he backed away from the car and again heard her condemning words:
It’s just a piece of paper and doesn’t mean a thing.
But the divorce did mean something. It meant a lot. To him.

Giving him a look laced with regret and hurt, she cranked the engine.

It ground, then died.

She tried again. Then a third time. And then a fourth. When the grind wound down to an intermittent whimper, she accepted the truth and looked at John. “It won’t start.”

The ice encasing John’s heart melted and a bubble of anticipation burst in his chest. A second chance?

A
second chance. Don’t blow it.

That man’s voice again. John looked around, but saw no one—not that by now he expected he would. This voice came from inside his head. Strange as it sounded, or would sound to anyone else, if he had any intention of telling anyone else, which he certainly didn’t. Who the man was didn’t matter—not right now. Right now John had a second chance with Bess. A chance he wanted down to his toenails. Whether because of his deathbed promise to Elise, or for himself, John didn’t know. Cowardly, but he didn’t
want
to know. Not yet. Not until he knew how this chance would pan out.

Not until he knew if it would prove a miracle, or a curse.

Leap upon a mystic tide
 . . .

“Bess?” John opened her car door. The hinges creaked. “What’s wrong?”

Did she dare to get out? Could she stand on her own? Her knees felt like cream cheese. “Um, I’m fine.” Tony? Here? Conversing with her in Seascape Inn’s backyard as if he were standing right there between the Carriage House and the lean-to?

“You don’t look fine.” Worry shimmered through John’s voice.

“I said, I’m fine.” Grace. Think grace. And patience. Lord, but she needed to think a lot about both. Her lip twitching, she’d snapped at John like a world-class shrew. Her parents would have been mortified or worse.

It was all John Mystic’s fault. So much on her mind, being this close to him, thinking at all, much less straight, constituted a major undertaking. Why couldn’t he just have called so she’d only have had to deal with his voice? That would have been challenging enough, but, no, she had to deal with
all
of him.

Outrage kindled a fuse of anger and she glared at him. If he’d had to come, then at least he should’ve gotten slouchy or something—
anything
to tone down his megawatt appeal. But he hadn’t. And so every time she glimpsed him, she saw him naked, aroused, eager, and loving. If that were all she saw, she could probably fight it. But there was a deep sadness in him that shone in his eyes. She didn’t understand it, and that made it, and unfortunately him, all the more attractive. It jerked hard at her heartstrings and created nearly an irresistible urge to hold him.

Irritated at herself, she slid over the sun-warmed seat, brushed aside his offered hand, then stepped out of the car. “I don’t understand this.” Big understatement there. A lot was happening she didn’t understand. “The car ran great two days ago, and now it won’t start.”

“Pop the hood and I’ll take a look.”

Recovering from the shock of hearing Tony’s message again, from the effect of being near John again, she pulled herself together. “No, but thank you.” She couldn’t owe John Mystic one thing more. Not one thing more—especially not for kindness. He’d stunned her, showing up out-of-the-blue, but she’d recouped now. And she knew what she needed to get through this divorce: Anger.

Okay, so she was tossing grace and patience right out the window, and she was rationalizing. But right now she didn’t give a fig. She’d do what she had to do to get through this and then later, when she didn’t see him, didn’t smell him, or hear his deep-timbre voice, then she’d sort it all out.

I take exception to being ignored, Bess.

Good grief. She
couldn’t
be expected to deal with both of them at once.
Go away, Tony—unless you’re going to tell me the meaning of your mystic tide message. That’s the only thing I’m interested in hearing from you right now.

Would if I could, Doc. But there are things you have to discover for yourself.

“Typical male,” she groused.

John frowned at her from the front of the car. “Well, excuse me for trying to be nice.”

Good grief. She’d spoken aloud.
See what you’re getting me into, Tony? More trouble. Would you just go telepath with some other tortured soul? I’m kind of busy losing what’s left of my sanity here and I really don’t need any outside help to see the job done.

He laughed.

“Jerk.” She must have an invisible sign on her forehead only men could see. One that said “Nag Me.”

“What?” John stiffened his spine.

Terrific. A telepathic intruder
and
a soon-to-be-ex-husband ready to nip at her backside. Just terrific. “Not you, John,” she said. “Tony.” Now why had she admitted that? John would think she’d lost her mind. Well, hell. Maybe she had. Talking telepathy. Lusting after the man she was divorcing for breaking her heart. Odds looked darn good she was in deep mental kimchee here.

You could give him the benefit of doubt.

Hah! Easy for you to say. Not me. No way. Been there, done that, didn’t work, don’t intend to do it again. And I thought I asked you to go nag somebody else.

I like nagging you. You’re naggable—and stubborn. Crimney, cut the guy a little slack.

Fat chance.

But he’s going through a rough time.

Aren’t we all?
Her marriage on the skids, her parents peeved to the gills because she was getting a divorce when divorces are so unseemly, her job in mortal jeopardy and, the ultimate insult, her hormones in warp-speed mate-mode, lusting after John Mystic. Oh, yes. Aren’t we all?

This is different.

He broke my heart, damn it. And if I let him, he’ll do it again.
She slammed her car door shut.
Now would you just go away!

John walked around the car then leaned against the back fender. “Who’s Tony?”

“Tony?” Bess feigned ignorance and the out and out lie had her flushing heat. Boy, she could just see herself trying to explain Tony. “Did I say Tony?” Her emotions were churning too close to the surface; John would see her, inside. She turned away. “I meant Jimmy Goodson. I’d better go call him.”

“Okay, then. Who’s Jimmy Goodson?” John’s voice carried to her.

He was following her back to the house. If there were justice, so much as a speck of it, he’d have gotten slouchy, the arrogant pig. Bess couldn’t stand slouchy men—and he knew it. He’d stayed perfect to deliberately torture her, damn him. And he
knew
blue was her favorite color for him to wear. Why couldn’t he have worn neon orange or lime green? She hated both those colors. And why, in the name of God, after all that had passed between them, did she still need a barrier for protection against him? “Jimmy showed you around here, remember?”

“Ah, I’d forgotten his name.”

“He’s also Miss Hattie’s mechanic and can fix whatever broke on the car.”

“Okay.” John sounded hurt.

She glanced back at him and nearly cringed. So much pain in those eyes. What had hurt him so deeply it’d put those haunted shadows there? “I really do appreciate your offer to help, but I have to take care of these things myself now.”

“You always have taken care of everything.”

And that bothered him? No, surely she’d misread his remark. John Mystic would never admire a helpless, shrinking violet who couldn’t handle her challenges without running to him to fix everything all the time. He’d be fed up in a week.

He opened the back door, walked inside, shrugged out of his trench coat, then snagged it on a wall peg. Wearing a pale blue shirt and hip-hugging jeans that did wonderful things for his body, and wicked things to her libido, he crossed the mud room, then stepped into the cheerful kitchen.

Ah, I see you still have a thing for him in jeans, too.

I do not.
What did Tony mean—
too
? Good grief, he couldn’t see what she saw in her mind’s eye. Not with the images of John that had been floating through there. Tony couldn’t!

Calm down, Bess, and quit lying to me.
Tony laughed.
I’m tapped into your thoughts and you’re trying to deceive me? I expected better from you.

Stuff it. Go away. Would you please just go away?
She’d never again be able to meet her eyes in the mirror. Never.

Honesty is the very least I’d think your conscience would accept. The man is your husband. Why can’t you admit you find his body attractive and you’d like to—

“Tony!” Good God, was the man trying to give her a heart attack by embarrassing her to death?
Quit intruding. Lord, isn’t anything sacred around you?

“Tony?” John stilled.

“Slip of tongue.” Bess shrugged, feeling like a fool.

Oh-oh, he remembers me.

You know John? How do you know John? Is he behind this?
She pulled in a sharp breath.
Did that slug-lover con you into nagging me to death?

Nagging you to death?
Tony sounded surprised, then sad.
No, Bess. I’m trying to nag you into life. So far, you’re flunking at living it on a grand scale. Why are you hiding from yourself and from John?

Tony’s surprise she could tolerate. But this grief and disappointment in his voice pricked at her pride.
Who asked for your opinion?

“Wait!” John frowned at Bess. “Are you talking about that weird caller Tony who let the cat out of the bag about our divorce?”

Oh boy. So he’d heard the call, too.
See what you’ve gotten me into now?
“Yes, John. That Tony.”

Isn’t it interesting?

What?
Bess grunted.
Would you go away? I’m getting dizzy, trying to keep up with both of you.

That he listened to your program. Isn’t that interesting?

It was. Bess’s heart flipped over in her chest. Why had John listened to her program?
Maybe he didn’t listen to it. Maybe Bryce told him because of the divorce being mentioned.

Bryce has three small children. I seriously doubt he was awake.

Bess scrambled for an explanation. The idea of John listening to her show unnerved her.
Maggie. Maggie might have told him. Or T. J. They were listening.

Did you hear that? Your husband just called me weird. Can you believe it? I take serious exception to being called weird, Bess.

From his disgruntled tone, Tony did indeed take serious exception to the slight. Though not feeling particularly kindly toward John, her sense of fair play insisted she disclose her honest opinion on the matter.
Talking to someone without benefit of speech in two different states does bend a little low to the weird side, Tony. And for the record, I’m living my life just fine. Though I thank you for your interest, I don’t need you meddling.

Bess reached for the wall phone, hoping to forestall any more discomforting remarks from or about Tony. “I really need to call Jimmy before he closes,” she said to John to fill the silence and tapped in the number for the garage from Miss Hattie’s list. “He’s shutting down early to drive Vic to the Grange dance tonight.”

Chicken. You can’t run from him or avoid him, Bess. You’re going to have to talk this out sooner or later—before the divorce can go through. You might as well do it and get it over with now.

Go away!

All right. I think I will. I’m sure not much appreciated around here. But before I do, I want to ask you one question. Have you been thinking? I asked you to think about my message. You really need to do that.

Good grief. A pouting telepath and a ticked-off ex. And she’d thought she’d hit bottom before. Ha!
I’ve thought about it. Too much. And it still doesn’t make a bit of sense.

Think some more, and lighten up on Jonathan. He’s grieving.

Grieving?
Haunted eyes. Air of sadness. He
was
grieving.
What’s he lost?

Tony didn’t answer.

Bess called him, asking again, but had no luck.
Now you go. Typical male. Drop a bomb, then depart. You guys are really aces at that.

“Who’s Vic?” John reached into the cabinet for a glass and then filled it with ice at the refrigerator door. Cubes plopped into his glass. One fell onto the floor. Silk scarfed it up and crunched down on it.

“Vic Sampson. The postman.” Bess frowned at the dog. Ice wouldn’t hurt her, but why was she following John’s every step?
Little traitor.

Silk sniffed and yapped for another cube of ice.

John fished one from his glass and gave it to her, then filled the glass with tea from a ceramic pitcher on the white-tile countertop. “You sure learned a lot about everyone here quickly.”

Bess shrugged and listened to the phone ring for the third time. Had Jimmy already gone? “Village life is like that.” Silk yapped, this time wanting lemon. If John gave her a wedge, Bess swore she’d sock him in the nose.