Upon a Mystic Tide (32 page)

Bess stood up and tilted her chin, then leaned back against the lattice-work railing. “I hadn’t planned on spending my time here the way I have.”

Because she didn’t sound as if she regretted the way she had spent it, he smiled. “Me either.”

“I wanted to go out to Little Island and cook clams in the rocks. When you bake clams that way, the seaweed is very important.”

“As soon as I get back, we can go.”

She stared up at him. “Are you coming back?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Good question. “We haven’t settled anything.” A strand of her hair blew over her cheek. He thumbed it away from her eyes. “In fact, a lot less between us is settled now than before we came to Seascape.”

“I’ve been thinking about your proposition—”

“Proposal.” Frogs from down at the pond croaked throatily, and something scurried in an evergreen bush off to the left. Ah, the raccoon.

“Whatever. I’ve thought about it and I’ve decided, okay. You can have your week.”

His heart nearly rocked through his ribs. “What changed your mind?”

She lifted her hands to his chest, let her right one drift up over his clavicle and circle his neck, then tugged, pulling him down to where she could reach his mouth. “You, darling. Only you,” she whispered, then kissed him.

God, the things this woman made him feel. And so gentle, this kiss. So gentle and loving it filled him with a longing that burned soul-deep. He kissed her back, giving her the tenderness he’d too often denied her, letting her know that, while he wanted her, his feelings for her ran deeper than lust and desire and passion. Those feelings were there, but others were too. Ones that were stronger. So much stronger
 . . .
and freer. Untethered and boundless, those feelings were founded in love.

She lifted her head, then pressed her cheek against his chest. Her arms looping his waist, she snuggled to him, then gave his sides a firm squeeze. He held her tighter, his heart so full he feared it’d burst, her
You, darling. Only you
echoing through the chambers of his mind. “Bess, what exactly does that mean?”

Rearing back, she looked at him. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m sick of the world and all its problems and I want to just forget they exist for a while. Maybe I just need
 . . .
”

“Me?” he asked around a lump in his throat.

She laughed. “Arrogant pig.”

He nearly dropped his teeth. “What?”

“Arrogant pig.” She rubbed his nose with the tip of hers and held her smile.

He grunted. An endearment if ever he’d heard one. “And how does it feel to know that you once loved this arrogant pig?”

She pretended to think about it. “I’ll let you know in a week.”

“Fair enough.” He pecked a kiss to her lips, light and teasing. “Just so we understand the terms here. No mention of the divorce, no mudslinging from the past, and no games. We’re a married couple, very much in love, enjoying a summer vacation in a sleepy Maine fishing village.” Why had he added that about love? Why delude himself? The answer came far too easily.
I
 . . .
need.

“Okay, provided you agree to my terms too.”

“Which are?”

“No saying things we really don’t mean, no taboo topics, and, at the end of the week, no custody suit over Silk.”

He let his arms slide down her shoulders then locked them at her back. “That leaves only one issue to be solved.”

“The money settlement.” She swallowed hard. “Jonathan, I know you don’t understand this, and you clearly think I’m being unreasonable about it, but I’m not. I can’t take your money. I just
 . . .
can’t.”

“Even though it’s your money, too?” Why was she so adamant about this?

“Yes.” She looked down at his chest. “Even though it’s my money, too.”

There was some deeper reason than the value alone he’d suspected at work here. Was it tied to her thinking he opposed any dependency? Surely she realized he was every bit as dependent as she was. And theirs were joint assets. He wanted to ask, but she looked fragile, as if she’d wrestled with all she could stand to for a while. He’d find out her reasons soon enough. She’d set the terms—no secrets. So he’d give her a few days, and then he’d just ask. Surely she’d tell him. She’d named the condition, after all, so she hardly could renege on fulfilling it now. “We’ll work it out, Doc.” He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. “Can we change the terms to seven days together rather than a week?”

“Ah, Portland.” That he wanted his full seven days with her made her smile. “I suppose—provided you’ll be reasonable on any request I might have.”

“The sound of that makes me a little nervous.”

“A week of marriage to you again makes me nervous, too.”

“All right. I agree.” She couldn’t think he
wasn’t
nervous about this. He wouldn’t be human.

“Good.” She ran her fingers over the front of his royal blue shirt, waist to collar. “While I was thinking, something else occurred to me.”

“Oh?” Now
that
really made him nervous.

She nodded. “I was thinking that I’m miserable with you and without you. So I might as well be miserable with you.”

“Geez, Bess. I’m not sure my ego can take a week with you.”

“Seven days,” she corrected.

“Seven days.” And he’d fill each of them with enough memories to last him a lifetime. “But I’ll risk it.”

“I’m glad.”

“We’re agreed then?”

“We’re agreed.”

“Okay.” He started breathing again. “From here on out, not a word about the divorce or us not being together.”

“Fantasy time.”

“Right.”

“Okay:” She raised her chin offering him her mouth. “Then let’s start this fantasy out right.”

He growled from deep in his throat and tugged her closer. “Woman, I do like the way you think.”

Her kiss was lusty, carnal, meant to incite and enrage his every sense. And it did that
 . . .
and more. Their lips meshed, their tongues swirled and rubbed, and their hands explored, growing familiar again with a renewed awareness that this gift was one neither of them had expected, couldn’t have anticipated, and yet relished.

When she broke the kiss, her breathing erupted as ragged as his. He grunted in total male satisfaction.

“Jonathan?” She nuzzled his neck.

“Yes?” His knees were shaking.

“We’re not having sex together tonight.”

Disappointment stabbed him. “Oh?”

“No.” She drew in a breath that had her breasts brushing against his ribs. “We’re going to go over Dixie’s files. Together.”

“Honey, you don’t have to do that. I know how upset—”

Bess pressed a fingertip to his lips. “Shh. I want to, Jonathan. Maybe if we’d taken more interest in each other’s work before, we wouldn’t have stumbled around hurting each other. Maybe we would’ve understood the significance of some things we didn’t grasp. Our professional lives were a large part of who we were. We needed each other, and yet we kept our professional lives separate. It was a mistake I don’t want to make again.”

She made sense. But was her reasoning for not making love because she’d had second thoughts about Miguel, because it would complicate the divorce, or because she just didn’t want John? Her kiss told him she wanted him, but could that be his wishful thinking? Did he dare to trust his instincts?

New agreement and new terms. No secrets. “When will we be together again?’

She looked up at him, solemn-eyed and serious. “When it’s right.”

He didn’t understand. But she hadn’t denied they would be together, only clarified the timing, more or less. “Right? Could you be a little more specific, darling?”

She lifted a gentle hand to his face then let her fingertips slide along the curve of his jaw. “When it’s making love, Jonathan. You were right. I’ve never had sex with you. Never. And I don’t want to start now. When it’s right, we’ll know it. Then we’ll make love.”

The back of his eyes burned. His body rebelled against the wait, but his heart took flight in it. Tony once had said to give her time. That there was hope. John hadn’t believed him then but, if this lead panned out, if John solved the case, then maybe there
was
hope for him and Bess—long-term. Maybe during their seven days together he
could
love her enough to make her forget how lousy a husband he had been. Maybe he
could
love her enough that she’d forgive him. And then maybe he could forgive himself.

Never in his entire professional life had so much ridden on a single lead. What if it went sour? Fell flat? What if it proved to be just another false shot in the dark? What more could he do?

Fighting panic, he darted his gaze back to Seascape Inn.
Tony. Tony, I can’t lose her again. I can’t!

A phantom wind whipped up. Swirling leaves and sand, it carried an ominous message:

Have faith that an island will appear.

Part of Tony’s leap message to Bess. Leap. Leap? Did John dare? After all the pain and suffering and loneliness—God, the gut-wrenching loneliness—did he dare to have faith and leap? Faith in what? In himself? In Bess?

John had no idea.

John leaned against his car and looked down at Bess, who stared at the ground. Why did he feel he was deserting her rather than simply checking out a lead on the case? Why did he feel guilty? “Honey, I have to do this.”

“I know.” She sighed up at him. “It’s okay.”

Dark smudges shadowed the skin beneath her eyes. She hadn’t slept well. Neither had he, though he suspected their reasons different. She’d worried about Tony, dreaded Millicent Fairgate’s you’re-fired call which, according to Miss Hattie, Bess expected today. John had thought of nothing but her, across the hall and one room away. “You’re not resting.”

“No.”

“Me either. When I get back, we’re sleeping in the same bed. We don’t have to make love, but we will sleep together.” That seemed the only way either of them would get any rest.

“Sounds good to me.” She gave him a smile that told him she’d known exactly what he’d meant.

He smiled back at her, immensely relieved and more than a little surprised. He’d been primed with a half-dozen logical reasons—the doc loved logic—to convince her, and missing out on the debate left him feeling a little cheated, and a lot happy. She’d known that his desire for her was there, but this went deeper than desire of the flesh. It went to the core: contentment of the soul.

He clasped her hand then rubbed the length of her forefinger with his thumb. Soft and smooth. Creamy skin. “Would it upset you if I said I’d miss you?”

She shrugged. “Will you?”

No lies. They’d promised. “Yes, I will.”

“Then, no. It wouldn’t upset me.” She stepped closer, leaning against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “In fact, I kind of like knowing it.”

She’d changed so much. What had happened to her cool facade? To that slick cashmere, eel-skin control? He didn’t miss it. He liked this open and honest Bess. Even if he didn’t know what to expect from her. She was real. Touchable. “Do I dare to ask if you’ll miss me?”

“I won’t.”

No lies, they’d said. But he had to work at it to keep disappointment out of his voice. Why had he asked? Set himself up?
Chump.
The breeze caught a leaf and it floated on the wind toward the gazebo and pond. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, oh.”

“Were you hoping I would?”

No secrets. He forced himself to meet her eyes. “Yeah, I was.”

She smiled. “I would miss you, but I’m going to be too busy.”

“Doing what?” He smoothed back a strand of hair from her face. Light flickered in a clump of firs, near the gazebo. He squinted to focus. Someone was
 . . .
watching them. Who would—? Ah, the binoculars again caught the sunlight. Batty Beaulah Favish. Doing her spying patrol. Though harmless, Miss Hattie must get tired of this “bird-watching” business.

Bess claimed his attention. “I’ll be catching up on the case by reading the files.”

He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose. “Honey, when I get back, we’re going to have to have a long and serious talk about priorities. Missing me should come first.”

“Fat chance.”

She hadn’t mentioned the divorce, but she didn’t need to. His day seemed a little less bright for the reminder. He kissed her quickly, afraid of showing her too much, then opened the door and slid inside the car.

Bess tapped on the window.

John cranked the engine then pressed the button to lower the glass.

“Be careful, Jonathan.” Her eyes went soft. “And just so you know, even though I intend to be very busy, I’ll probably miss you
 . . .
just a little.”

His heart beating a wild tattoo, he cupped her chin with his hand and kissed her hard. “I’ll take just a little.”

“You’ll take everything
 . . .
for a week.”

“Seven days,” he corrected her. Was she complaining, or holding him to a promise? He couldn’t tell from her tone but either way, the threat sounded darn good. “Bess, why did you agree to this proposal? Was it because of the bad press?” He’d wondered half of the night, and he didn’t want to spend all day today again wondering. Hard to admit it, even to himself, but he prayed it wasn’t her pride or her fear of humiliation.

She looked down at the rocky dirt, dragged the toe of her sneaker across a smooth rock, then met his gaze. “I need peace, Jonathan. I don’t have it without you. And I’m not content. With the way things have been between us, I don’t have peace or contentment with you either. But I feel closer to having both with you than without you.”

He nodded. “I see.”

“Do you?”

Who could miss that plea for understanding in her eyes? A stone would have to understand. “Yeah, I do. You’re miserable either way, but misery loves company.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

He stroked her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. Were it her left hand, the one bearing his ring, he’d have kissed it. “We’re a sorry pair, aren’t we?”

“We are.” She took in a breath that stretched the beige fabric of her blouse taut over her breasts. “Hurry back, okay? Sorry singles don’t hack it on our seven-day stint, and I’ve told Bill Butler over at Fisherman’s Co-op we need some clams.”

“I’ll do my best.” John put his hand on the gearshift and thrust the car into drive. “Take care of you, Doc.”

“You, too.” Bess stepped back from the car and again watched him leave her. But this time, she had a better grip on what ranking second meant. True, he no longer loved her. But if he did, she now understood that he would be ranking her second only in his urgent priorities. Not in his heart.

So why did seeing him go now still hurt as much as seeing him leave then? Why didn’t she trust him to come back?

And why did she wish that, if only for one shining moment, he loved her again?

The afternoon came and went.

Miss Hattie had gone to visit with Vic, whose back was still giving him fits, and Bess had eaten a sandwich for dinner at the old desk in John’s room. She’d gotten through an amazing number of files.

The back of her neck cramped and a dull ache throbbed between her shoulders. Time for a break. She straightened up and looked at the file folders littering the room. Though neatly stacked, hardly a floorboard or a snippet of the rug was uncovered. John certainly had worked hard; Bess had to give him that.

She stood up, stretched a kink from between her shoulder blades, then walked down the hall toward her own room. The house was quiet. The storm had run its course and a cool breeze filled the hall. The hair on her neck lifted. She stopped in her tracks. The breeze blew chilly, almost cold, and steady. Where was it coming from?

The inn wasn’t air-conditioned—no need for it—and had no visible vents. Wary, she looked back over her shoulder, down the long hallway at the line of closed doors to the dead-end at the Shell Room. No doors open. And no open windows
 . . .

A draft? The inn
had
been built a long time ago, and older buildings always have drafts. Yes. Of course. A draft. That’s all there was to this seemingly sourceless breeze. Besides, Tony was here. If anything strange went on, he’d nip it. He’d definitely protect the inn and everyone in it.

A ghost being in residence was bringing her a sense of security, not inciting fear? That stunned her into smiling. But Tony could hardly be a typical ghost. He certainly ranked atypical to any she’d ever heard of, and it didn’t seem likely other ghosts could be as wonderful as him. If there were other ghosts. An uneasy shiver traipsed up her backbone. Could there be others?

She wrapped her arms over her chest. No. Not here. Tony wouldn’t tolerate other ghosts being here. Not around Miss Hattie. Dear Miss Hattie
 . . .

With her nurturing ways and golden heart, how had she borne it? Loving and losing Tony, still loving him all these long years after he’d died? Amazing. A miracle, really. Denied a lifetime with her Tony, she hadn’t become bitter at what she didn’t have, but seemed genuinely heartened by what she did. There was a lesson there; Bess knew it. Probably several.

In so many ways, Tony, Miss Hattie, Seascape Inn itself—with its rich heritage of love and healing dating all the way back to Collin and Cecelia—taught such unassuming, earthy, and gentle lessons about life and love. Wonderful, powerful lessons. Healing lessons.

Healing. What was happening between Bess and Jonathan proved that, and so much more. And even if things didn’t work out with them being together long-term, Bess would never forget the things she’d discovered about him, or about herself, here.

Yes, Millicent Fairgate would still fire Bess. No, she still couldn’t accept John’s money. Yes, she still loved the man to distraction and didn’t have a clue if he loved her back, though he obviously wasn’t indifferent toward her. But she felt a great deal more comfortable with herself now, with her feelings. And that was nothing short of a miracle. One she owed to Seascape and Tony and Miss Hattie—and, Bess strongly suspected—to Jimmy Goodson for all but highjacking her car.

Centered inside the small vaulted alcove at the end of the hall, beside the bank of mullioned windows, she reached to the left of the hand-carved bookshelves that flanked the thickly cushioned window seat, then let her fingertips drift over the spines of the orderly books. And she owed Maggie and T. J. MacGregor, too. Without them, Bess wouldn’t be here. She’d be at home in New Orleans, falling apart at the seams.

She turned from the hall into her bedroom, then grabbed her robe. Remembering how adorable her huge husband had looked wearing it had her smiling. Lord, but he was gorgeous.

The robe in hand, she left her room, heading down the white Berber rug, then into the hall bath. Automatically, she reached past the antique brass soap dish for the little
Occupied
sign on the tan marble counter near the sink. Though alone at the inn—well, except for Tony—she slipped it onto the nail on the outer door, and wondered. Could Tony leave Seascape?

Having no idea, and not wanting to upset Miss Hattie by mentioning him and reminding her of her loss, Bess took the step up at the inner door into the bath, then debated between a long soak in the scrumptious-looking garden tub and a hot shower. The tub would relax her, but she had a good deal more work to do tonight, so instead she opted for the shower.

She stripped, tossing her jeans, blouse, and underwear into a heap just off the edge of the white, half-moon rug. After adjusting the water, she opened the glass door, stepped inside, then let the massager showerhead pound hot water on the cramped muscles between her shoulder blades. Her thoughts again drifted to John. In his search for Dixie, he certainly had turned over every rock. Amazing determination. A sliver of wistfulness laced with envy slipped through her heart. If only either of them had been that determined to save their marriage
 . . .

Minutes later, dried, robed, refreshed, and rejuvenated, she headed back to John’s room to work further on the files.

She’d been back at the desk for only a few minutes when Miss Hattie called out from the Cove Room’s door.

“My goodness!” Her eyes stretched wide, Miss Hattie scanned the stacks of unboxed files that were piled, wedged, and stuffed into every corner and crevice created by the king-size bed and cherry wood furniture. “Bess, dear, you’re up to your ears in paperwork!”

“Literally.” Bess smiled. “How is Vic feeling this evening?”

“Better, now that he’s had some of my chicken and cheese casserole. It’s his favorite.” She frowned. “I’m afraid, though, that I’m in for a challenge at trying to keep him down until he’s healed enough not to do himself further damage.” She wrinkled her nose. “A Mainiac through and through, you know.” She let out a little sigh. “I do so wish he had married. Vic is such a loving soul. He’d have made some lucky woman a fine husband.”

Didn’t Miss Hattie realize that the man was in love with her? Bess had seen signs of it the first day she’d met him. Hat in hand at the mud room door, he’d seemed flustered. And when Miss Hattie had invited him in for coffee, he’d looked as pleased as if he’d been the blue ribbon winner at the county fair.

“I brought you a cup of warm milk.” Miss Hattie raised a burgundy marble mug. “Thought maybe it’d help you sleep better, since Jonathan hasn’t yet returned from Portland.”

Stepping gingerly, she wound through the maze of files and passed Bess the mug, a smile creasing her gentle, round face. “I hope you won’t feel I’m intruding, dear, but I have to say how very pleased I am that you and John have reconciled.”

Heat rushed up her neck to her face. Bess focused on the stubby brass vase near her mug that held a single yellow daisy. “It’s only temporary, Miss. Hattie.”

“Oh, my. I’m afraid I misunderstood.” She let her gaze slide to the floor.

“I know we’ve spent a lot of time behind closed doors lately. We’ve been discussing the terms of the divorce.”

“I see.”

“Would you believe the demented man propositioned me?”

“Propositioned?” Miss Hattie sat down on the foot of the bed. “Propositioned? Jonathan? My goodness.”

Bess nodded and sipped from her mug of milk. “I was just irked enough to accept—though I made him sweat for a while, just to keep him honest.”

“Ah, you said proposition but you’re meaning his Happy Marriage Proposal.”