Upon a Mystic Tide (3 page)

“My situation is hopeless. But yours isn’t. Just don’t lose hope, Doc. As long as there’s life, there’s hope.”

As sincere as a summer sky. Concern. Empathy. Approval. All those feelings flooded through the phone from Tony to her. The back of her nose stung and tears burned her eyes. She swallowed a knot of raw emotion. “I appreciate your concern, Tony, but my purpose here is to give help, not to rec—”

“You’re hearing, but you’re not listening. You’ve used your training and skills to help a lot of people. Now, you have to help you.” He paused, then went on. “I know you sense what I’m telling you is more than just words, Doc, but sensing alone isn’t enough. You’ve got to really feel it. To do something.”

Bess
did
sense it, just as she sensed there was something unique about his voice, and that frightened her into denying she felt anything at all. Seeing Sal standing outside the booth’s window in the hallway, she shrugged, feigning ignorance. His frown deepened.

She looked down at the mike, puzzled. What did Tony mean?
Really feel it. Do something?
About what? Exactly what was he up to—and why was he up to anything regarding her?
Who
was he? And what convinced her he wasn’t a nut case? She’d had her fair share of them around here. Yet she’d bet her life Tony wasn’t one of them.

As well as she knew she sat in the New Orleans booth, she knew he
could
feel all she felt,
could
hear all she heard. He
knew
all
she knew—and
she
knew he still approved of her.

Bizarre. Intimidating. And violating. He had no right to invade her this way. Again she considered disconnecting him and ending the call.

Don’t do it, Doc. Please. I want to help you.

Bess sat straight up. Tony’s voice. Tony’s “Doc.” But not over the phone
—mentally!
What in the world was happening here?

Trust me.

She stared at the phone, stunned.

Please.

She darted a look back over her shoulder at Sal. His frown hadn’t altered a bit; he clearly hadn’t heard anything. Tony had conversed with Bess telepathically? But they were strangers. They couldn’t be that closely linked mentally. Telepathy cases—

The sensation of something mystical happening sluiced through her. Bess’s stomach flip-flopped. Pressing a hand against it, she denied the possibility, and fought the urge to protect herself by ducking into a dark corner. Her instincts had gone haywire. Besides, she couldn’t run or hide. When something occurs inside your mind, where can you go?

She took a deep breath and then answered him. “Okay, Tony. I’m trying to really feel what you’re telling me.” She meant it and, if her voice lacked an ounce of courage, at least it carried the weight of her conviction.

Thank you.

You’re welcome.
She thought by rote, then gasped, surprised. They
were
communicating telepathically!

“Sometimes hope alone isn’t enough.” He dropped his voice to just above a whisper. “Sometimes you have to leap upon a mystic tide and have faith the sand will shift and an island will appear.”

His words slammed into Bess. An odd tingle started at the base of her spine then slithered up her back.
A
mystic tide. Shifting sands, an island
 . . .

A metallic taste filled her mouth and a surge of anticipation she hadn’t felt since before she and John had separated suffused her.

Mental communications, verbal puzzles. What was this man, some kind of psychic? “Tony?” Her voice cracked. She swallowed then tried again. “What do you mean?”

“Think about my message, Doc. Just think about it.”

The line went dead.

Bess stared at the unlit button, wishing she could bring Tony back, wishing she could force him to explain. She tried silently asking him to return. But if he heard her, he chose not to respond. Instead, his message echoed through her mind, again and again, always ending with
think about it.

For the remainder of her shift, Bess thought about it. During commercials, she studied on it, intrigued by Tony, and more by the message itself. But by the end of her program, Bess wasn’t intrigued anymore. She couldn’t
not
think about Tony’s message. And it no longer intrigued. Now, it haunted.

And, for some reason that escaped her entirely, she had the strongest urge to—of all things—call John.

Ridiculous. Since she had filed for the legal separation two years ago, they’d only talked through their respective attorneys. John
would
believe her, but that was beside the point. The point was that Tony’s call and message were driving her nuts. Fuel on the turmoil fire in what had become her complicated life.

How had this happened to her? She’d been so careful. So darn careful.

Too much was happening too quickly that couldn’t be rationally or logically explained. And, as hard as it was for her to admit it, to get through it, she needed someone.

Oh, she could come up with her own solutions, but it sure would be nice to have a friendly sounding board. She obviously couldn’t talk with John, or with her Yorkie, Silk. Her friend, Miguel, was out. He’d react to her telling him about the telepathy experience with Tony about as if she’d announced aliens were invading the White House. Who could she trust? Who
wouldn’t
think she’d lost her mind?

A friend.

Or friends.

Of course.

Knowing the perfect listeners, Bess snatched up her purse from the bottom desk drawer, then headed down 107.3’s long hallway, toward the exit sign and outside door. She’d talk to T. J. and Maggie MacGregor.

“Shut up, darling.”

Sassy, sparkling, very pregnant, dressed in forest green, and clutching a box of saltine crackers, Maggie MacGregor sidled up to her giant of a world-class artist husband, T. J., then pecked a chaste kiss to his chin.

“Maggie.” His warning tone echoed through the cavernous riverfront art gallery they’d bought right after they’d married.

She wrinkled her nose at him, then turned toward Bess. “Ignore him. The man loves earning redemption points to stay in my good graces.” Maggie shrugged, but her eyes danced with mischief, then went serious. “Okay, I agree. The job being threatened makes the divorce pill even more bitter to swallow.”

“Darn right it does.” Bess grunted and snatched a cracker. The cellophane wrapper crackled.

Maggie shifted the box of saltines then squeezed Bess’s arm. “I know this doesn’t make a bit of sense, but will you please just humor me and look at the painting?”

Standing toward the rear of the remodeled warehouse, Bess barely resisted an urge to roll her gaze up Lakeview Gallery’s long, white columns to its equally white high ceiling. “Maggie, you know I adore you, but I’ve just humored you twice before today by staring at that seascape, and all I’ve gotten for my trouble is crossed eyes.” Bess slid an apologetic glance toward T. J., who’d painted it. “Nothing personal.”

He nodded, looking a little amused.

She scanned the sculptures, the paintings lining the walls, then looked back at Maggie. “I’m a little worried about all this stuff I’ve been telling you—seriously, you have to agree that my life’s a cesspool right now—and, frankly, I’m not in much of a humoring mood.”

“I’m sympathetic, Bess. Honest. But would you just trust me and do it?”

Bess lifted a hand toward the painting on the wall—T. J.’s masterpiece, according to Maggie—but held her gaze on her friend. “Frankly, I don’t see why you’re so enamored with it.” Bess inwardly groaned at that less than diplomatic remark, then cast T. J. another apologetic look. “No offense, T. J., but in my opinion some of your other works are much more powerful.”

“None taken.” He looped a strong arm around Maggie’s shoulders. “But you might as well give in, or my darling wife will resort to blackmail next.”

“Maggie?” Bess guffawed. “She wouldn’t.”

“She would.” Digging into the box, Maggie pulled out a cracker, lifted her chin, then crunched down on it. “I’ve already lost five dollars on this ordeal of yours. We heard Tony’s call and I bet MacGregor here,” she lifted her elbow to brush against T. J.’s ribs, “you’d come over to talk about this right away. He bet you’d fight it alone and come after work.”

“So you lost a bet. That’s not my fault.” Bess smoothed her rumpled beige crepe skirt, then flicked at a cracker crumb on her lemon silk sleeve.

“The heck it isn’t. If you were a tad less stubborn, friend, he’d owe me the five.” Grunting, Maggie swiped her hands together, ridding them of cracker crumbs. “No options can be ignored in a bet with MacGregor—not even a little friendly blackmail.” She pointed to the painting. “Now quit stalling—remember my delicate condition—and just look at it.”

“All right, all right.” Bess frowned. “But I have to say that you using this pregnancy as an excuse for being contrary is wearing thin.”

“Amen to that.” T. J. crossed his arms over his chest, rumpling his red-plaid shirt.

Maggie slid him a killer glare, then grunted. “You adore me, MacGregor, and if you don’t start helping me out here, I’m going to have to get drastic. Maybe even cry.

“Oh, hell.” He turned to Bess. “If our friendship ever meant anything to you,
please,
look at the painting. When Madam Prego gets wound up—”

“Would you two quit teasing here?” Bess propped her hands on her hips. “I’m telling you that this Tony guy was weird. What he said was weird. And what he knew went beyond weird and launched straight into spooky. It wasn’t normal.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, cursed the tremor in her voice, then looked back at her friends. “Ordinarily, I love your banter, but I’m dying here. Between the divorce, Millicent threatening to fire me, and this weird stuff with Tony haunting me every waking minute, I’ve maxed out.” The words she’d been trained from the cradle never to utter, never to admit even to herself, poured out of her mouth. “I need
 . . .
help.”

The teasing light faded from Maggie’s eyes, left them riddled with worry and with something else
 . . .
hope? Yes. But hope for what? And, why was Bess’s looking at the Seascape Inn painting so important to Maggie? It
was
important—Bess’s intuition hummed it.

“Just look at it, Bess,” Maggie said. “Please. Just do it.”

Bess gave in and looked at the canvas. It was just a house. A huge gray Victorian with stark white shutters, sitting atop an oceanside cliff. A common turret and widow’s walk, a typical front porch that stretched end to end across the bottom floor. Pretty, but just a house.

“There.” Bess looked back at Maggie. “I did it. Satisfied?”

“No,” Maggie said sharply. “Really look at it.”

Really feel it,
Tony had said. Now,
really look at it
from a desperate-sounding Maggie. Apprehensive with the similarity, Bess wheeled her gaze to T. J. Stone-faced, he nodded and, no less apprehensive but certain now that something weird was occurring, Bess stifled a shudder and forced her focus back to the painting.

Sometimes hope alone isn’t enough. Sometimes you have to leap upon a mystic tide and have faith the sand will shift and an island will appear.

Her heart hammered, thudding against her ribs, and she whispered on a brush of breath, “Tony?”

The painting seemed to come to life. The scent of its pines wafted over her and the cool sea spray crashing against its cliffs gathered on her heated skin. The gull flying through the fog in its misty sky cawed in sync with its ocean’s rhythmic roar. Bess scanned the horizon. Her stomach rocking with the white-capped waves, she cruised with them to the shore, then up the steep and craggy granite cliffs. She let her gaze linger on the house itself, on its graceful turret, and on the narrow widow’s walk that aroused such intense emotion in her, tears stung her eyes. She then looked on, to the attic room just under the eaves, and the cryptic sensation grew stronger.