Upon a Mystic Tide (13 page)

John scooped Silk up, tucked her into the bend of his arm, then reached for the white petal bowl holding the lemon.

“She’s a dog.” Bess jerked the bowl out of reach. “She can’t eat lemon rind.”

“I wasn’t going to let her eat it.”

Bess propped her hand on her hip. “Are you going to tell me you weren’t reaching for a lemon wedge, Jonathan?”

“No. But I wasn’t going to let her eat it. Just lick it.”

Bess held off a frown by the skin of her teeth. He’d sure never responded so quickly when she’d wanted attention. A flash of jealousy zipped through her and, behind the phone receiver, she grimaced. Wouldn’t he just love it? Knowing he’d reduced her to being jealous of a dog. Lord, but this was ridiculous. Absurd nonsense she had to nip in the bud.

“Blue Moon Cafe.”

“Lucy?” What was Lucy doing answering the phone at Jimmy’s garage?

“Yeah. Who is this? It sounds like Bess Mystic.”

“It is Bess Mystic.”
Mystic?
Had she said that? Her face went hot. And, darn him, John noticed. His eyes gleamed and the corner of his mouth curved up in an I-knew-it smile. Well, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of stammering, or of correcting herself. “I meant to call Jimmy’s shop.”

Silk licked at the moisture on the underside of John’s chilled glass. He put her down and showed her where Miss Hattie, the thoughtful sweetheart, had put matching blue water and food dishes for Silk in a niche by the fireplace beside the big, antique radio.

“You did call Jimmy’s,” Lucy said. “He’s already headed over to the dance, so I’m taking his calls.”

“I see.” Bess toed the floor where it met the wall. Well, hell, now what did she do? “Would you ask him to come to Seascape as soon as he can? My car won’t start.”

“Sure will. But it’ll be morning before he checks in.”

Someone talked to Lucy in the background. The man’s voice came through the phone garbled and Bess couldn’t make out his words.

“Wait a second and I’ll ask,” Lucy said. “Bess?”

“Yes?” John was just standing there, lean hip against the cabinet near the sink, staring at her. Lord, but the man still looked too gorgeous for his own good and for her peace of mind. She had to get out of here. Fast.

“Fred wants to know if you’re really going to divorce John. I tried to tell him you were, but he wants to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. Not that Fred thinks you’re a horse, or anything. Dang, you know what I mean.”

Bess should be peeved, but who could be peeved at Lucy Baker? “It’s all right, Lucy.”

“Oh, good. See, Fred, I told you she’d understand. Fred says thanks.”

“He’s welcome.”

“So are you going to divorce John?”

Bess’s heart slid up into her throat. “Yes, Lucy, I am.”

“She is, Fred.”

“Too bad.” This time, Fred’s voice came through loud and clear. “Some woman’ll snatch him up in a heartbeat.”

Bess wished it had been muffled. “Probably will.” Maybe she’d have better luck than Bess at keeping him snatched up. “Thanks for passing my message on to Jimmy, Lucy. Bye.”

“Sure thing, sugar. And I’m sorry about Fred’s, er, indiscretion.”

Certain Lucy was leveling Fred with another killer glare and maybe even with another swat with the table-wiping rag, Bess cradled the receiver. “Too late,” she told John. “It’ll be tomorrow.”

He sat down at the round, light-oak table, then fingered a yellow daffodil in the porcelain bisque centerpiece. “So you’re stuck here.”

“It appears so.” Why did he look pleased about that? Lacy white curtains fluttered at the window behind him. The light breeze carried the scent of honeysuckle and the sea. More importantly, why was she pleased about the delay?

“I’ll be right back.” John stood up, then headed for the mud room door.

Furious with herself, Bess watched him go. Okay, so he was every bit as gorgeous as ever. He’d gained muscle at thirty-two he’d lacked at twenty-seven. But did just looking at him have to stir memories of them making love? Mentally, only once since he’d joined her at the Blue Moon had she actually seen the man in his clothes. Where it concerned John, imagination was a terrible thing. Memory was worse.

And the real thing was most awful of all. His black hair was longer now on his nape and at his ears. Gleaming and sexy. God, how she’d loved the feel of it between her fingers, against her shoulder and bare breasts. And his eyes. Cobalt blue and every bit as mesmerizing as T. J.’s painting of the inn. Maybe more. That new sadness in their depths only made him more appealing. What had put it there, she didn’t know, but it burned soul-deep. And, far too much for her liking, it had her aching to just hold him until the sadness disappeared. He was grieving, Tony had said. But what had John lost?

Likely not solving Dixie’s case yet for Elise. So far as Bess knew, the case was the only thing capable of arousing that kind of emotion in the man.

And, if she had a lick of sense, that sorry truth would convince her to stop wanting to heal him. She couldn’t hold him
that
long. She’d tried. And she’d failed.

Watching the curtains blow in the breeze, Bess pulled herself stiff. What was wrong with her? All this notice of him physically. Emotionally. And calling herself Bess Mystic. Absurd. Ridiculous. Before today, she’d
never once
called herself Bess Mystic. And wasn’t it just her luck to have this atypical slip of tongue when the man stood within earshot?

Maybe it’s your conscience trying to tell you something.

Tony. Good grief. Bess closed her eyes, counted to ten, then spoke aloud. “You again?”

Afraid so.

“Did you make me do that—call myself Mystic?”

Now how could I make you do anything, Doc?

He had a point. “What’s John grieving?”

The back door snapped open.

Startled by the sound, Bess jumped, then saw John coming in, hauling her luggage. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” He walked through the kitchen to the gallery, then started up the stairs.

“John?” The grandfather clock ticked loudly, certain and steady.

The third step creaked. He paused and looked back down at her.

If he’d asked, she’d have refused his help. So he hadn’t asked—or so she suspected. Yet suddenly it seemed very important not to suspect, but to know. “Why?”

“I wanted to.” He started to say something more, but instead turned, then continued on up the stairs.

When he reached the landing, she leaned against the railing and looked up at Cecelia’s picture. A flash of warmth sizzled along Bess’s skin.

An unselfish act—for you, Bess. Just for you. To feel needed. You wouldn’t let him feel needed with the car. Don’t you know everyone needs to be needed?

Bess frowned. Tony, answering the question John wouldn’t. But he was way off base on this being needed thing. “Thanks, Jonathan.”

“You’re welcome, Bess.” He looked surprised and sounded wounded. And then he looked wounded, too.

What had she done to offend him?

Maybe you didn’t offend him.

What do you mean, Tony?

Maybe the sincerity in your simple thank you touched the man.

Absurd. This is Jonathan, Tony. He doesn’t get touched—at least, not by me. And he doesn’t need to be needed by me, either. John appreciates independence.

Are you sure about all this?

Was she? Why did she want to think she had touched John? Tony was definitely wrong on the needed front, but could she have touched John? Why was she fighting the urge to run up the stairs and to apologize to him? And why was her silly heart chugging like a steam engine pushed to the max?

She swung her gaze to Cecelia’s portrait. She’d been a healer. And the villagers had loved her so much that they’d held a candlelight vigil on the front lawn the night she’d died. When told the legend of Collin and Cecelia’s love, Bess had gotten chills. If she died, would there be even one person willing to stand on her lawn?

John had talked about magic between them, but what Cecelia and Collin had,
that
was magic. At one time, though, Bess had thought she and John’d had love. She sighed. But they hadn’t.

Or maybe they had
 . . .
and they lost it.

Squinting against the light from the chandelier high overhead, feeling its heat radiate and blanket her skin, she looked up at Cecelia’s portrait. “How did you hold on to it? I tried and couldn’t do it. I wanted to—Lord, how I wanted to—but I just
 . . .
couldn’t do it.”

Warm feelings of comfort and love filled Bess. The sense of peace she’d first felt at Lakeview Gallery and on first entering Seascape shimmered through her again now. In the entryway behind her, the grandfather clock ticked softly, luring her attention. The ticking sound grew louder and louder until it filled her ears, until her blood picked up its rhythm and tapped it at her temples. An odd tingling started in her toes, spread up her legs, through her torso, then up her neck, and into her head. Woozy, adrift, she heard only the clock, ticking in sync with the beats of her heart.

The temperature plummeted.

An ice-cold chill swept across her skin.

And a phrase echoed through her mind in an unearthly, pulsing whisper:

The
 . . .
magic
 . . .
lives
 . . .
The
 . . .
magic
 . . .
lives
 . . .
The
 . . .
magic
 . . .
lives
 . . .

“Tony, is that you?” It
could
be him. It
had
to be him; he was the only telepath around. But it didn’t sound like him. Well, it did sound odd and gravelly like him, but this voice sounded different too. Softer. More elusive. Less
 . . .
solid.

It’s me, Bess. Inside. Sorry, I got a little overemotional.

Thank God. You scared me. I was beginning to think the place was haunted.

He laughed out loud, deeply and from the heart.
Now wouldn’t that be absurd?

Yes, it would.
That he could so easily admit to becoming overemotional surprised her. She’d never be able to do that.

Never say never, Bess.

Excuse me?

You’ll eat your words every time.

Are you going to intrude on my every thought? I don’t like that, Tony.

Physician, heal thyself

Because I don’t like your intrusions, I need healing?

You need healing because you hide your feelings. Think about it, Doc.

Don’t you start that think-about-it business again.

Middle age weight gain.

What? You’re making me crazy, trying to keep up with what you’re talking about.

That’s what comes from saying never—middle age weight gain.

Tony, you’re not making a lick of sense.

I’m making perfect sense.

Not to me.

Really, Bess. Middle age weight gain is a direct result of eating your words—all those I’ll-never-do-this-or-that vows you make during your youth that you end up breaking as an adult.
He sighed.
Words really put the pounds on a body, Doc.

She laughed out loud.
You’re ridiculous.

So what’s wrong with being a little ridiculous once in a while?

Another important message. Bess stilled and went solemn.
Enough to earn you the silent treatment for a month or longer.

You’re not a child anymore, Bess.

No, but some lessons learned as one stick with you.

Especially lessons frequently reinforced.

I don’t want to talk about this anymore.

Okay. But let me ask you one question. Just because something happens often, does that mean it’s right? Or that the lesson holds value?