Upon a Mystic Tide (15 page)

“Saw Hatch headed that way not more than an hour ago. He stopped by Landry’s Landing and got some of Miss Millie’s favorite tea.”

“That should do it, then.” Miss Millie loved her tea. Jimmy looked out through the left, big bay door. It was open. The right one remained closed. The BMW gleamed in the weak sun. He rubbed at his chin. The light stubble of his beard grated against his hand. Maybe Lydia was right this time. Bess had been dying to leave Seascape and, if her car had started, she
would’ve
left. But, out at Seascape, nothing Jimmy had worked on had gotten the BMW fixed, and yet he comes back to the shop with it and, without him so much as putting a wrench to it, the car cranks right up and runs sweeter than honey.

That was proof enough for him. “Put me down for twenty, Lucy—
for
them getting back together.” If this worked out, Miss Hattie would be tickled with her yellow tea rose bush. He smiled at that. Even when his own mother had been alive, she hadn’t been half the mother to him Miss Hattie had been. He’d never figured out why Miss Hattie had taken to him, but because she had, he loved her more than anybody else on earth.

“That’s pretty steep. You sure, sugar?” Lucy sounded worried.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” The glimmer on the car grew to a gleam that darn near blinded him. When he’d brought John’s bags upstairs and given him the tour, and he’d seen that Miss Hattie had put John in the Cove Room, just across the hall from Bess in the Great White Room, Jimmy had been suspicious. That, the car not starting up with its dull paint all glossy again now, and those jelly-bellied looks between them
 . . .

Inspiration struck. He’d keep the car out of commission for a spell, just to help things along. A little insurance never hurts, Miss Hattie says. So long as he didn’t lie to Bess, things should work out fine. “In fact, make it twenty-five.”

Jimmy grinned. Shoot, with her stuck here, how could he lose?

John sat at the kitchen table. Hatch, a bent and little, crusty salt of a man with leathery skin, a stubbly chin, and eyes as wise as the ages sat on the opposite chair, finishing the last of a cup of coffee that still steamed. A yellow bandana tied at his throat, he tucked its ends under the collar of his white shirt.

“I think Miss Millie’s all right. We had a little tea and a long chat.” Hatch looked over to Miss Hattie, near the fireplace. Her old rocking chair squeaked and, on her forward rocks, a string from the worn red-and-white-check cushion dragged low, touching the floor.

“I’m so glad you dropped by to see her.” Miss Hattie looked at John. “Millie gets a little sad this time of year. She’s a widow now and it’s close to what would have been her wedding anniversary.”

“That can be rough.” John let his gaze drift from her to the empty fireplace grate. He’d learned that first through Elise and then, after Bess had left him, firsthand. He’d suffered through anniversaries, birthdays, and Christmas celebrations alone for six years. But Elise had been a widow for a long time. She’d withstood all he had a lot longer—and because John had failed to find Dixie—without her daughter there to offer her comfort. A wave of regret grew to a gale in his stomach and wrenched his heart. Did Miss Millie have children?

He refrained from asking. If she didn’t, then she still had suffered as had Elise and, if Miss Millie did, he didn’t want to know it right this second. He was depressed enough.

Hatch set down his cup. “Dropping the mail off for Vic today gave me a good excuse to stop by.”

“Danced too much at the Grange last night again, didn’t he?” Miss Hattie’s emerald eyes sparkled. “My, but that man is hard on his feet.”

John smiled. She was a special woman; an innate sense of goodness and caring emanated from her.

“Yep, he sure did.” Hatch grinned. “We took Millie over, to get her out of the house. And he dipped her one time too many. Ain’t his feet hurting him this time. He threw his back out of whack. Probably be down a couple days.”

“Oh, dear. I’ll have to take over some—”

“Now don’t start your fretting, Miss Hattie. Since you have guests, Lucy’s seeing to him.” Hatch stood up, hiked his pants, then tossed Vic’s worn mailbag onto his shoulder. “I’d best be getting on over to Beaulah’s before she makes her afternoon run down to the Blue Moon to test the sheriff’s good nature.”

“Hatch, don’t be unkind. Beaulah is just a little
 . . .
persistent.”

“She’s nuttier than Lydia Johnson’s fruitcake and that’s the truth, Miss Hattie.”

She didn’t dispute him, but she didn’t agree with him either. John thought her the soul of diplomacy—and that Hatch must be right.

He headed toward the back door. “John, bring your wife over to the lighthouse and I’ll give you the tour. I can’t be lighting the lamp. The Coast Guard would pitch a fit. I’m summercating, but I’ll tell you the history of it—if you bring me a couple of Miss Hattie’s blueberry muffins.” He grinned from under the brim of his hat. “I’m partial to ’em.”

“Thanks.” John smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.” The muffins would be far easier to bribe than Bess’s agreement to go anywhere with him.

Hatch gave them a gap-tooth grin, then left through the mud room. Whistling a jaunty tune, he limped past the kitchen window, a youthful spring in his step.

John watched him round the edge of the house. “He’s a good man.”

“Yes, he is. Very wise, too. People are often deceived by his rustic looks. Some foolish souls even have called him ‘Popeye’.”

With his weathered, wrinkled skin and virtuous ways, John could see that, though Miss Hattie’s lip curling told him that neither reason had solicited the nickname. “Why ‘Popeye’?”

“He loves the sea and smokes a corncob pipe.” She paused, tilted her head, then grunted. “I have to say, though, it’s been a good ten years since I’ve seen it lit.”

“My great-grandmother used to smoke one of those. Mortified my Uncle Max. She died when I was really young, and I haven’t thought of that in years.” He couldn’t honestly say he’d thought of her much either. It’d just been too long. And too much pain had clocked in between losing her and losing Elise.

“May I say something, Jonathan?”

Jonathan.
His senses went on alert. Now where had she heard him called Jonathan? “Yes, ma’am.”

“One of the challenges in aging is that we watch the numbers of those we love—and of those who love us—dwindle. That’s a hard thing about life, and going on.”

“Yes, ma’am, it is.” His grandparents, his parents, Elise. All he had left now was Selena and his Uncle Max and, busy with their own lives, they had little time for him. Honestly, because of the secret, he had to admit, he hadn’t made much time for them either. Or for Bess
 . . .
and getting him to see that had been Miss Hattie’s intent.

Subtle, but effective. A special woman. Noble. Her chin dipped to her sewing, he stared at her white-bunned crown. “May I ask you a question, Miss Hattie?”

“Certainly, dear.” She smiled up at him.

“Why didn’t you ever marry?”

She stopped rocking. Her eyes glazed over and, in her mind, she’d left her Seascape Inn kitchen for a journey into her past; John knew it as well as he knew he sat in her kitchen.

Her eyes went sad and her voice took on a faraway tone. “I was engaged to a wonderful man.” She brought her gaze to John, and he sensed her reluctance to leave the memories of her fiancé behind her. “He was a soldier.”

And a good man. Her cadence reeked of pride. “Why didn’t you marry him?” She obviously loved him.

“He died saving the life of another man.”

“All those years ago, and yet you still love him.” What did a man have to do, what could he do, to make any woman love him that much?

Bess’s words again haunted him.
It’s just a piece of paper and doesn’t change a thing.

The skin beneath Miss Hattie’s eyes crinkled. “I love him with all my heart.” Her conviction burned strongly in her voice, in the gentle upthrust of her chin.

War was hell on the men and women who fought it, and on those left behind. Because of that war, Miss Hattie had been cheated out of a lifetime of loving, of marrying, and having a family. She’d have made a wonderful wife and mother. Saddened by her loss and touched by her devotion to her soldier, John softened his voice. “I’m sorry he didn’t make it home.”

She raised her brows. “But he did, Jonathan. A part of him never left home. With my every breath, he lives on in me.”

Cecelia and Collin’s rare kind of love. Elise and Clayton’s kind of love. An empty ache gnawed at John’s stomach. He and Bess never had known that kind of love. At least he hadn’t, and he didn’t think Bess had, either. And he feared he’d die without ever knowing it.

Miss Hattie turned on the big, antique radio behind her. Big band era music drifted through the kitchen, and she softly hummed along with it. Her head bowed, she studied the embroidery in her lap. She was sewing the Seascape Inn logo onto a new batch of crisp, white napkins. Yellow thread.

She had a fondness for yellow; nearly every flower in the house was some shade of it. Some soft buttercup, some bright and sunny. Those on the kitchen table, upstairs in his bedroom. There’d been yellow flowers in a crystal vase in Bess’s room, too.

And in Elise’s hand.

A cold chill raced up his spine. When she’d died, Elise had held a single flower petal. According to the florist John had consulted for accuracy, one from a yellow carnation. And yet, of all the flowers in her hospital room, there hadn’t been a single carnation
 . . .
or a single yellow flower.

Was the color significant to women of that age? Miss Hattie and Elise had been relatively close to the same age. Well, not really. But there had to be an explanation to that flower petal and an answer to the mystery of how Elise had gotten it. During her entire hospital stay, he had been the only visitor permitted to see her.

“Miss Hattie, why are all the flowers around here yellow?” Maybe she could at least shed some insight.

“They hold a special place in my heart, dear. My soldier adored yellow flowers.”

Personal, not a custom of the time or any reason he could apply to Elise. “I see.” And all these years later—several decades—Miss Hattie still held them dear.

What did Bess hold dear and special in her heart?

John pushed aside an empty plate, and pressed his finger to a crumb of pie crust that had fallen onto the table. At one time, he’d thought he could answer that. Now, he knew he didn’t have an inkling. He’d never asked her. Not easy to admit, but true. Maybe on this second chance, he could try a little harder. And maybe the information he’d learned from his phone call with Bryce earlier would help him to do just that.

“Jonathan.” Miss Hattie looked up at him again and stopped rocking. “I wouldn’t presume to intrude, dear, but I think you should know something about Bess.”

He frowned. “Oh?”

“She’s
 . . .
concerned about you.”

Bess? Concerned about him? Right. If it wasn’t so sad, the idea would be funny. If she were concerned, which she wasn’t, she certainly wouldn’t be concerned after their next round of discussions on the settlement. She’d be furious. Maybe even let him see a little more of that sass. Inwardly, he smiled. He could hardly wait. “Oh?”

Miss Hattie nodded, her bun jiggling. The lights set her soft white hair to sheening. “She senses your grief and doesn’t understand it. Haven’t you told her about losing Elise, dear?”

“No, I haven’t.” He couldn’t hold Miss Hattie’s worried gaze, and let his fall to the needlework in her lap. “She and Elise
 . . .
” He frowned. “They didn’t get along.”

“I understand.” Miss Hattie lowered her tone just enough to prove she really did understand. “Far be it from me to suggest I know your wife better than you do, but she is worried, Jonathan. It would ease her mind to know the reason you’re grieving.”

He sighed. “I can’t tell her. I thought about it, but I can’t. Elise was
 . . .
special.”

“I know, dear, and you aren’t certain Bess’s reaction will be kind or compassionate.” Miss Hattie stuffed her sewing into a little black bag with yellow flowers on it, then set the bag onto the floor beside her rocker. “But Bess
is
kind and compassionate. She’s special too, and she feels your discord with her is what has you sad. She feels responsible.”

Some part of John took satisfaction in that. It wasn’t a part of himself he took pride in or one he wanted to emulate, but it was real and there. “She’s only concerned because of the settlement. It’s the last obstacle between us and her freedom.”

“It is?”

He nodded. “Bess is in love with another man, Miss Hattie.” God, but those words hurt coming out of his throat. They left his tongue bitter, and his heart hollow. He grimaced.
Chump.

“She is?”

Again he nodded. “I think she filed for the divorce because she’s decided she wants to marry the man—though that’s just speculation.”

“Is this true?” Wide-eyed, Miss Hattie looked puzzled.

“I think so.” The divorce would cost Bess her job. If not to remarry, then why do it? She loves her job.

“Well, haven’t you asked her, dear?”

He shrugged. “Only a thousand times—about why she’s divorcing me, that is. Not about the other.” There was no way he could say that twice about her marrying another man without being sick all over Miss Hattie’s kitchen. “She won’t discuss the matter with me.”