Upon a Mystic Tide (20 page)

“He feels he failed her.” Bess stared at a limb on the nearest fir, her heart aching. “Miss Hattie knows, doesn’t she? That’s what was behind her treat-each-other-kindly lecture earlier.”

Hattie knows, but that isn’t what’s important.

So John had told Miss Hattie, but not his wife. Second
 . . .
again. But, in an odd way, it made sense. Miss Hattie invited confidences and exuded motherly nurturing. And she wasn’t divorcing him. “What is your point, Tony?”

My point is that John needs you. Elise meant a lot to him. He’s hurting, Bess.

No one had to tell her how much Elise meant to John. Bess had lived with it. “Of course, he’s hurting.” And Elise’s death, and not their divorce, had put the sadness in his eyes. “She came first with him.” Bitterness crept into Bess’s voice.

Have you ever asked him why?

“That would be absurd. I’d look like an idiot.”

Well, maybe you should risk it, Doc.

Tony, sarcastic? Yet she suffered the shudder that had become all too familiar lately. A significant message had just passed between them. “Maybe I will.”

Now would be a good time.

“God, but you’re pushy.”

If that’s what it takes.

She frowned. “Until I do, you’re going to nag at me, aren’t you?”

I have to say that I resent your nag word, Doc. I don’t nag. I merely
 . . .
encourage.

He nagged. “Well, if you’re going to
encourage
me until I ask him, I might as well do it now and get it over with. Then will you go away?”

For a time.

She stood then lifted a potpourri-filled seashell from the desk. For some reason, the feel and scent of it soothed her. “I’m really not all that comfortable with this telepathy stuff.” She hoped he wouldn’t take offense, but likely he would. Seems everyone did these days.

Trust me. You prefer it.

“Prefer it to what?”

No answer.

“Tony?”

Still, no answer.

No sense pushing. He’d just drop his bomb and depart and, before he did, she wanted to know something else. Bess let her teeth sink into her lower lip. “Did Elise suffer?”

Yes, she did.
Sadness tinged his tone.
Intensely. John stayed with her, and that helped her a lot but it was
 . . .
difficult for both of them. She died in his arms, Bess.

And he had been devastated because she had.

Yes. Devastated. Nearly destroyed. And swamped with guilt that wasn’t just. His failure haunts him, Doc. He needs comforting and compassion or he might never heal.

“And you want me to give it to him.”

You are his wife.

“Until July tenth, yes, I am.” Back at the window, the little shell cupped in her hand, she stared at a raccoon traipsing across the lawn. It didn’t have enough sense to get out of the storm either. “If I give him those two weeks, when they’re over, who’s going to heal me?”

When it costs you nothing, it’s easy to reach out to someone else and give, but it’s when you pay the steepest price, you reap the most precious rewards.

“My reward will be a broken heart.” A lump of emotion squared in her throat. She swallowed it down, already envisioning the pain that would come at the end of those two weeks—if she were foolish enough to give them to John.

Or perhaps a healed heart. Who knows? Maybe in giving to each other, both of you can forgive. Think about it, Doc.

She groaned. “I still haven’t solved your last think-about-it puzzle and you’re already laying another one on me. Just hearing you say that god-awful phrase sends cold chills up and down my spine.”

Leap, Doc. Leap.

“No way.” My feet are staying firmly on the ground.

Regrettable.

The temperature in the room dropped a solid twenty degrees. An icy chill feathered across her arms and an unusual pressure at the soft spot under her collarbone had her feeling light-headed and winded. “Tony, something’s wrong with me.”

I’m sorry, Bess. I’m trying to make a point without having to just come right out and say it.

“You’re scaring me.”

The pressure ceased. The room warmed. She blinked and blinked again. One by one, the lights started going out. First the lamp on the desk. Then the one to the left of the bed. And then the little tulip lamp on the right. “Tony?” Her voice was shaking. “What’s happening here? Do you know?”

Yes, I do.

“Would you explain it to me?” Her heart rate sped to a canter. Only the overhead light kept the room from being plunged into darkness. And Tony sounded so strange. Sad, but resigned. Why? “It’s
 . . .
spooky.”

You’ll understand soon enough.

Bess sighed. “I’m about sick of people telling me how I’m supposed to feel and react, Tony. In fact, I’m more than sick of it. I’ve just determined to listen to myself, to do what I think I should do, and here you come along telling me I’ll get what you mean soon enough. True, you helped me see the light where my parents were concerned, but stop protecting me. And stop confusing the heck out of me with cryptic messages. If something you have to say is important—”

Oh, it’s important, Doc. Vital.

“Then drop the puzzles and spit it out. All this cryptic stuff does is confuse me and make me crazy. If you know that and you persist, then why should I listen to you?”

I’d rather not explain my reasons, but I can solve the mystery.

“Then do it!”

All right. But remember you asked for this.

The overhead light clicked off.

Boo.

The Cove Room was dark.

It didn’t matter; John could see its forest green and brown decor, the cherry wood furniture placement, the antique washstand in the far right corner near the three south windows—even the little terracotta trinket box with blueberries and vines on its top that Miss Hattie had put up atop the armoire today. A thank-you gift from Bess, Miss Hattie had told him. One she’d thought John might like in his room.

He hated that damn box.

Bess had bought it. She’d chosen it. And every time he saw it, or even thought of it, he imagined her long, slender fingertips smoothing the berries and touching the leaves, outlining its oval shape then lifting it into her hands, her looking at it, and smiling. And every time he imagined those images, he was sorely reminded that, in the terracotta box, she’d found value. In it, she’d acknowledged worth.

Two gifts she never had awarded him.

And he was sorely reminded that the fault for that was his.

Leaning against the window casing, gazing out through the rain and onto the cove, he glimpsed the village, then let his focus drift to the pond and the gazebo. There were still lights burning over at Beaulah Favish’s house. He guessed she was having a restless night, too. Releasing the green drapes, the white sheers behind them, he turned then forked an impatient hand through his hair. Bess. He’d failed her.

The room temperature dropped from chilly to cold. He went back to bed, pulled up the quilts, then stared at the shadows on the cathedral ceiling. He’d failed Bess and Elise. The two most important people in his life. When growing up, Selena and Max had been a team; John the outsider. It’d had to be that way. With parental ties to a cult, what kid could hold on to innocence? He’d no choice but to back away from Selena, to keep the secret. At least in him doing so, she could hold on to innocence. Then had come Bess, and then Elise. Elise was gone now and, no matter what his heart wanted him to do, he couldn’t crawl back to Bess a failure.

It wasn’t a question of his pride, but a matter of hers. When he’d wanted to risk going solo and open Mystic Investigations, she’d been supportive. When the crème de la crème of New Orleans wouldn’t let him into their ranks, she had steadfastly insisted that he’d find his way. He had. Thanks to Elise. And it was then that Bess’s support had ceased. She’d accused him of becoming obsessed with finding Dixie. In truth, he probably had been. With Elise’s social standing—none ranked higher, and only Millicent Fairgate came in at a close second—solving the case would have set him up for life. It hadn’t been the money. It’d never been the money. It had been, and was, a sense of worth. Bess never had understood that. And the more doubts she’d expressed in his judgment, the more hell-bent he’d become on proving her wrong.

The oak outside his bedroom window cast shadows on the sloped ceiling. He stared at them. No, he couldn’t go back to her, or ask her to come back to him permanently. Not now. Though his inquiries in Portland, where he’d originally lost Dixie’s trail, looked more promising now than ever before, he still hadn’t found Dixie. And he couldn’t stand to have Bess look at him and for the pride she’d once felt in being his wife to be absent from her eyes.

Hell, he rolled over and jerked at the quilt, stared forlornly at the boxes of case files stacked near the desk and along the wall. Even
if he found Dixie now, it would still be too late for him and Bess. She’d had no faith in him. He’d have to be a chump to want a woman who’d had no faith in him.

His damn pillow had lumps. He gave it a punch with the heel of his hand. God, but he hated lumps. In his pillow, and in his pride.

He didn’t want just sex with Bess, though honesty forced him to admit that he did want sex with her. What man in his right mind wouldn’t?

Grunting, he smiled up at the dancing ceiling shadows. That wasn’t likely to happen soon, however. She’d really been ticked about Silk—a solid eight on the scale—and even more so about his proposition. Definitely a ten, that. He’d talk her around, though—eventually. She wouldn’t do it for him, of course, and he wasn’t going to fall into that chump game of pretending she was. She’d do it for her dog—or so she’d tell him. Bess held tightly to her pride. And knowing that, he’d given her what she’d needed to accept him back into her life: a valid reason that wouldn’t wound her feminine spirit.

Pretty clever that it would also give him the ammunition to encourage her into a property settlement palatable to him. Her depending on another man financially was out of the question. They couldn’t have forever, but they could have two weeks. He’d use them wisely. He’d forget anything and everything but Bess. And he’d store enough memories of them together during those weeks to last him the rest of his life.

Unless she stuck to her raised-hackles position and kept turning him and his proposal down flat. Proposal. God, what a laugh.

And if she did that—continued to refuse—what would he do? What could he do to further entice her?

His nose pressed to the clean pillowslip that smelled of sunshine and the sea, he mulled the matter over. He’d have no choice but to get more creative and, if necessary to save her from herself, downright nasty. He wouldn’t like it, but he’d do it. And he’d stop his conscience’s traitorous thoughts about wanting her to really want him. If she did—and her kiss earlier tonight indicated that she did—then, great. But if not, then he’d be content without her wanting him. To get through a life without her, he needed those two weeks.

Desolate, he turned over and stared at the little crystal clock beside the bed. Served him right for falling in love with a woman content to be self-contained. Well, she might not need him, but she damn sure wanted him. Though it warred hard on his male ego, he found solace in that.

The little clock’s ticks grew loud, then louder, drowning out the patter of the rain against the window and the creaking floorboards from across the hall, where Bess paced in the Great White Room, agitated as all get out. She hated storms.

Some men rushed home when the ice-maker broke. When the car got a flat. When a sock got stuck in the washer’s drain hose, and the laundry room flooded. Not John. Bess had handled all those things alone. He’d rushed home when it’d stormed.

“God, what I’d give for a sign that she doesn’t hate me.” Passion and lust were important, but not all-important.

She wears your ring.

John sat straight up, searched the shadows for the speaker. As a courtesy to his logic, which insisted this wasn’t happening, that he wasn’t hearing another man’s voice again inside his own head, he clicked on the lamp. The room was empty.

Logic accepted the inevitable and John frowned, then turned the light back off, not much caring for the feeling of his flesh crawling. “Who are you?”

A
friend.

He wasn’t an enemy; he’d tried to help John.

Either you’re very clever or I’m slipping.

“Excuse me?”

It usually takes a lot longer for men to realize I’m not their consciences talking to them. It’s more challenging with women, of course. In the early days, I’d try to disguise my voice, but that was hideous, not to mention ineffective.

The man—whatever he was—was rambling. Ah, John figured out the reason. To give John time to adjust. “I already knew you weren’t my conscience. But I also knew you were trying to help me.”

Terrific. It’s amazing how many people flip out on recognizing the truth.

The man wasn’t going to tell John his name so he saved his breath and asked another question. “Are you an angel?”

He laughed. Deep and lusty.

“I take it that’s a ‘no.’”

It is.

“Then how are you doing this?”

Getting into your head, you mean?

John shuddered at that description. “Yeah.”

It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you asked for a sign that Bess doesn’t hate you and you’ve been given one.

“I have?” John frowned at the darkness. When? What had he missed?

Didn’t you hear me tell you that she still wears your ring?

“That didn’t sound like you.”

I was a little, er, emotional. It was me.

“Bess still wears her wedding band?” Surprise raised John’s voice an octave. Why hadn’t he noticed that?

You were a little busy noticing
 . . .
other things
 . . .
about her.

John frowned. “Watch it.”

The man chuckled.
Still jealous, I see.

“Protective. Until July tenth, she’s my wife.”

You’ve nothing to fear from me.

“Why is she still wearing her wedding band?”

The lingering traces of teasing and laughter left the man’s voice. Reverence replaced it.
She made you a promise. On your wedding day. Remember?

John did. She’d promised never to take her wedding band off.

A goofy grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. Odds of him getting his two weeks without a lot of grief were looking pretty good.

He’d been given a sign.

And you’re missing the point of it.

“What is your name?” He recognized the man’s voice. Who it belonged to, exactly, still eluded John, but he’d figure it out sooner or later. The tone sounded distinctive. He’d heard it before—somewhere.

Does it matter?

“Yeah, it does.” Did it? He wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t in the mood to be accommodating. “I’d like to know who I’m telling to get out of my head.”

The man laughed.
You don’t lack for courage, I have to give you that. It’ll come in handy in dealing with the doc. The woman does have her moods.

Courage? No, it wasn’t courage, but simple deduction. If the man meant to do any kind of harm or was capable of harm, he’d had more than ample opportunity already. He was trying to help. Weird as this was, it wasn’t frightening; only frustrating because John knew the man’s identity. He’d just forgotten from where. But his remarks about Bess rankled, and he meant to let the man know it. John cooled his voice. “Of course, Bess has her moods. Don’t we all?”

Sure we do. Relax, Jonathan. I wasn’t finding fault with your wife. I meant it
as a compliment.

“Damn
well didn’t sound like one from here.”

Everyone knows moody women love most passionately. Everything they feel—good, bad, or indifferent—they take into their hearts. They’re lusty on life.

John laughed. “Bryce sure could have used you on that PMS case he tried a couple months ago.”

Bryce?

“My divorce lawyer.”

Ah, yes. Bryce Richards, Meriam’s husband.

“Used to be. Meriam is dead now.”

I know.
The man sighed.
How are their children?

“Suzie, the oldest, is having wicked nightmares.” John couldn’t believe this. He was sitting in bed, stark naked, having a conversation with a man he couldn’t see, could only hear in his thoughts, who knew not only his every desire and dark thought, but knew Bryce and Meriam, and that they had kids. Who knew—

A shiver raced through his back and hopscotched up his spine. “You’re Tony.”

I
am?

“Yes. The Tony who called Bess. That’s where I heard your voice—on the radio.”

I gave you the creeps.