Upon a Mystic Tide (37 page)

John slid his gaze down the face of the rocky slope to the narrow strip of a pebbled beach, and nodded. “I’ll bet it is. We’ll have to come back one day and see.”

Bess smiled, feeling a little melancholy. If they did come back, it’d have to be within six days. After then
 . . .
no. No, she wasn’t going to think of them now. She was going to take all she could get from these six days. Live each of them to the fullest.

“So,” John stretched out, grabbed a rock, and anchored the edge of the quilt against the steady breeze, “what did Miss Hattie send?”

Bess peered inside the basket, then grinned. “Miss Millie’s infamous chocolate chip cookies!”

“Really? T. J. raves about those.” John reached for the green-covered container.

Bess pulled it back. “Not so fast, Jonathan. Those are for dessert.”

He came up on his knees, the devil dancing in his eyes, captured her in his arms, then leaned forward, forcing her down on the quilt, onto her back. “I had different plans for dessert,” he breathed against her mouth, then captured her lips in a spellbinding kiss that left them both breathless. “But if my wife wants cookies, then she’ll have them.”

Bess darted her slumberous gaze from him to the container, then back to him. She dropped the container onto the quilt and smiled. “Your wife wants cookies. Later.”

He grunted, let his hand drift down her side, ribs to hip. “What does she want now?”

Her smile faded. She eased her hand between them, cupped him, then gently squeezed. The twinkling in her eyes darkened her irises to the blue of the ocean. “You,” she whispered, urging him back to her. “She wants you.”

“God, I do love a woman who knows what she wants.” John grunted, rolled away, then stood up. He did a sexy stripper’s dance, removing his clothes, whirling them in the air like lassos, then slinging them onto the grass and rocks. His left sock snagged on a branch, high up in the oak. “A winter haven for the gulls,” he said, as if his aim had been intentional.

Bess laughed out loud, watched his shenanigans with youthful delight, then joined him with her own rendition of bawdy and brass. She was lousy at it, but he didn’t seem to notice. A seductive temptress was out of her realm, yet the way his eyes heated to that heart-stopping cobalt blue, Jonathan didn’t know that either, and she sure as hell had no intention of telling him. They’d never laughed like this, teased, and taunted, and acted totally ridiculous when making love.

And only now did she notice, or wonder why.

It was enticing, exciting—fun.

As naked as he, she stood on the quilt in the stark sunlight. They faced each other openly, all flaws exposed. The hunger burning in his eyes matched that in her soul, and catching a glimpse of white pickets behind him, feeling ultra-mischievous, she darted around him to the little fence.

He ran after her, then stopped. “Two graves? Out here?”

There were no names on the headstones, only slate crosses marking the burial sites and red impatiens blooming at their bases. Bess reached for Jonathan’s hand, laced their fingers and squeezed tightly. When he looked at her, she blinked hard and gazed up at him. “I hope they were as happy here as I’ve been here today with you.”

Jonathan swallowed a knot in his throat. “I’m sure they were. I’m sure they stood on the shore and watched the sun set, and held each other, and were content.”

“Sometimes I love the way you think, Jonathan.” She smiled up at him. “I want to come back here and watch the sun set with you.”

“I’d like that.”

Her eyes went solemn. “Promise me.”

He’d kept his promise to come back. To come here and bake clams. She wanted him to keep this one, too. “I promise.” He hugged her, again wondering if life would ever again be this good. “I never knew you were a nudist, Bess.”

“I never have been.” She nipped at his shoulder. “I’ve decided I like it.”

“Me, too.” He growled deep in his throat.

She laughed and swatted his buttock. “You’re bad, Jonathan Mystic.”

“To the bone, darling. Bad and mad,” he looked into her eyes, “about you.”

“Oh, Jonathan. Why didn’t you get slouchy on me?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Wanna go for a swim?”

She cocked a brow at him. “First?”

He gave her a ghost of a smile. “Or last.”

“First. And then we’ll bake clams, gorge ourselves on Miss Millie’s cookies, and drink Moxie—”

“Moxie?”

“It’s a local soft drink. Lucy Baker loves it.”

“Can’t wait.”

“You’re going to have to.” She pulled out of his arms then darted down to the water.

Jonathan followed. And hours later, when, naked as the day they’d been born, they had played like children in the surf, had made slow, sweet love on the quilt under the shade of the old craggy oak, had skipped stones across the water’s surface, and had stuffed themselves on the absolute best clams cooked in rocks and seaweed John ever in his life had eaten, they dressed and then made their way back toward the old pier.

On the way, they stopped at the little graveyard. Their hands clasped, their heads bowed, Bess wished those who had passed on peace, and John thanked them for sharing their island with him and his wife. Then John and Bess walked on, hand in hand and content, back to the rickety pier.

Gripping the basket handle more firmly, John stepped onto the wooden planks. Today had been the best day of their marriage. Before, they’d both been too busy wanting to make their career marks to enjoy the things most important in life. Now, it might be too late for them, but at least they’d had today. And John regretted all the days they’d lost, because now he knew what he’d been missing.

Bess stopped at the first pier post and shoved aside some kind of berry vine that half-blocked an old, faded sign. He hadn’t noticed it when they’d arrived.

The empty burlap bag in her hand puddled on the planks. “Darling, what does this say? Can you make it out?”

He set down the picnic basket and the bushel basket of cooked clams, then stepped around her and squinted, focusing on the faded gray letters. “Beware
 . . .
of
 . . .
shifting
 . . .
sand.”

“Shifting sand?” Bess straightened up and stared at him, her eyes wide. “Tony’s message had shifting sand in it.”

It had. A road map. John stared at the little sign. Definitely a road map.

And an island will appear.

This island? Was that it? The message was a road map to this island? But why?

The sounds of a boat motor grew louder and louder.

“Darling, Aaron’s here.”

Something flashed yellow on the planks. John bent down and pushed back the vine for a better look.

And there against the weathered wood lay a single flower petal from a yellow carnation.

Tony. Definitely a message. Definitely a road map to this island. But whatever for?

John pulled out his wallet, put the yellow petal inside the clear photo-holder next to the one holding Elise’s petal, then returned his wallet to his pocket.

Unfortunately, that was a question John couldn’t answer
 . . .
yet.

“They’re positively the best, aren’t they, Miss Hattie?”

Miss Hattie slowly chewed a clam, clearly savoring it, then delicately removed a clump of seaweed from her mouth with her lacy-edge hankie. “Wonderful. My, but I’ve haven’t had clams cooked on the rocks in years. What a delightful surprise.”

Bess smiled. “There are plenty enough for dinner. Jonathan bought an entire bushel.”

At the sink and rinsing her hands, Miss Hattie elbowed the dishcloth to wipe at a water spill on the countertop. She grunted. “He must have been hungry.”

“I’ll bet Vic would enjoy some.”

“He’d love them. I’ll take some over tomorrow for lunch. He’s still down, bless his heart, and fighting it tooth and nail. The man has always been hard on his feet. Now, he’s added his back to the list.” She rubbed her hands dry with the dishcloth. “I try to tell him we’re not fifty anymore, but will he listen?”

“No.” Bess grinned. “He’s a man, Miss Hattie. Men don’t listen.”

Miss Hattie giggled.

The lights went off.

“Oh, my.” Miss Hattie sighed. “I suppose they do listen, on occasion.”

The lights flickered, then came back on.

“What’s that all about?” Bess looked at the overhead fixture. “Do you think there’s an electrical short in the wiring?”

“There’s a short, all right,” Miss Hattie emphatically nodded, “but not in the wiring.”

Bess sent the woman a puzzled look.

She frowned at the clams for tempting her, ate another one with a resigned sigh, then returned to the sink to again rinse her hands. “It’s nothing, dear.”

The phone rang. Miss Hattie looked down at the water dripping from her hands. “Goodness.”

“I’ll get it.” Bess sprang up from her chair, her heart lighter than it’d been since her wedding day. This had been positively, absolutely, unequivocally the best day of her life. Perfect, from the moment she’d opened her eyes and seen John looking at her with love. Oh, she wasn’t under any illusions. It was temporary lust—well, lust with a megakick. Might as well call a spade a spade—but it was better than the sad-eyed despair she’d been seeing in them. If only in a small way, she was helping him to focus on living, rather than on his grief at losing Elise.

Hoping the next six days would be as fulfilling as this one, Bess reached for the phone. That was asking a lot, but if you’re going to dream, why dream brass and not gold? She lifted the receiver, and placed it to her ear. “Hello, Seascape Inn.”

“Bess?”

Sal Ragusa. And he sounded surprised.

Bess laughed. “It’s me. Miss Hattie’s devouring clams so I answered the phone for her.”
Sal! Oh-oh.
Her stomach quivered.
This had to be bad news.
“How are things at the station?”

“Not so good, Bess.” An undertaker couldn’t sound more sober.

This was
the
dreaded call. And Millicent Fairgate hadn’t had the courage to make it herself. Bess forced a smile into her voice. “It’s okay, Sal. I know what’s coming.”

“I’m sorry, Bess. I did what I could—”

“I know you did.” What was she going to do? No job. Little money. Big fine.

“She made the firing effective as of noon today.”

“High noon. Typical Millicent.” Bess dragged a hand through her hair. “I appreciate you calling. When I get back, I’ll clean out my office.”

“It’s already done,” he mumbled. “I did it for you and took the stuff to Maggie MacGregor. I figured it’d be kind of hard for you and
 . . .
well, hell, Bess, I didn’t think I could stand seeing you do it.”

Her smile turned genuine. “Thank you. It would have been hard and I really appreciate your
 . . .
” the word ‘help’ stuck in her throat, “thoughtfulness.” She’d tried. She still couldn’t say it, but at least she’d tried. Honest effort was a kind of positive growth. Not the best, but better than burrowing into the sand and ignoring a challenge.

“Yeah, well. You’re special. It really ticks me off that Millicent did this.”

“I know. But it’s okay.” How she prayed that proved true. “If it weren’t for you, I’d head straight to the competition.” Bess laughed. “Now wouldn’t that frost Millicent’s cookies?”

Sal laughed. “She’d have a fit.”

“Yeah.”

Static filled the line. Neither of them knew what to say. The dreaded news had come and been imparted, and all that was left was good-bye. “Sal, I want to thank you for all you taught me. I’ve learned a great deal working with you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ve learned from you, too. And I’ll miss you.”

The old Bess would never admit it. The new Bess might not yet be able to say that god-awful “H” word, but she could tell the truth. “I’ll miss you, too. Bye, Sal.”

Bess hung up the phone, fighting the urge to fly up the stairs to John and cry her eyes out. But she wouldn’t. This wasn’t the end of the world. Only the end of a job. Six days from now. That’s when she’d need him to hold her while she mourned.

Only then, he wouldn’t be there. And she’d be mourning him leaving her.

Miss Hattie looked at her through worried eyes. “Bad news, dear?”

“None that wasn’t expected.” She gave Miss Hattie a watery smile. “So how do you like those clams?”

It was nearly dark. Twilight.
That moment of time during each day when nothing is exactly as it appears. When the haze of deception makes magic seem ordinary, desire as natural and attainable as drawing breath. That miraculous instant when dreams don’t seem nebulous, but real and reachable and concrete.

And John’s dreams were of the future, one for him with Bess.

Standing out on the headland cliffs, he watched the sun drop down past the horizon. Twilight had come and gone. Had his chance for dreams come and gone with it?

Within minutes, a wall of fog rolled in with the roaring surf, crashing onto the shore. The fog rolled up the cliffs then over his skin, its cold mist chilling him to the bone. He stuffed his hands into his windbreaker pockets and swore that as long as he lived he’d never forget this day. The sights and sounds of Bess laughing, doing her rendition of the strip tease, her naked and splashing in the surf, and the tenderness. God, the tenderness
 . . .
When they’d stood side by side before those two unmarked graves and she’d bowed her head and prayed for two people she’d never met, wishing them peace, he’d felt more tenderness in that moment than in his entire life.

She was perfect. Today had been perfect. And, though he’d had no right—no right—to do it, God help him, he’d fallen in love with her all over again.

When they’d returned from the island, she’d gone off to shower. Miss Hattie had told him then about Bryce’s call. “The deal is closed,” she’d said, passing along Bryce’s message.

The station was bought. Elise’s estate now owned it. Well, it had owned the station for years, but now the estate publicly owned the station. Using John’s power of attorney, Bryce had signed the documents. Bess’s job was safe.

The fog swept in, cloaking him with misty tendrils and swirls. John closed his eyes and whispered a prayer.
Thank you. For letting me see how good love can be. For finding a way to ease my mind on Bess being taken care of after this divorce. Thank you for letting me dream and pretend for a little while that she loves me again. I know she doesn’t, and I can’t blame her. If only things had been then as they were today. But they weren’t. And done is done. I hurt her. I didn’t know how much until we came here. I know I should tell her about my parents
 . . .
but I can’t. I
 . . .
can’t.

How do you tell a woman you want to respect and admire you—a woman you’ve hurt and are trying so hard to make things right with—that you’re such an awful person even your own parents couldn’t love you?

Selena could learn the truth. He couldn’t risk that. Couldn’t put her through what he’d been through because of the secret about the cult. The shame. The feelings of worthlessness. The guilt and not knowing what he’d done wrong, why his parents had rather live in it than with their own children. No. No, he couldn’t put her through that. No one deserved that kind of pain. No one—especially not Selena. He couldn’t tell Bess to put her mind at ease about his parents and why he refused to discuss them. She’d act differently. Selena would pick up on it. She’d wheedle it out of him and then she’d be devastated. No, the costs of truth were just too high.

It was a cozy kitchen.

Bess and John and Miss Hattie had dinner there, rather than in the more formal pink and navy blue decorated dining room. Bess loved the feel of the kitchen, the warmth it radiated. With white, lacy curtains at the windows, the basket of yellow porcelain bisque daffodils in the center of the light oak table, the old antique radio softly playing big band era music from its nook beside the fireplace, and the pretty ceramic canisters lined up like soldiers-at-the-ready on the white-tile countertop, the kitchen welcomed people into it, invited them to linger, and to chat. And when the low hum of the fridge clicked off, the gallery’s grandfather clock’s sure and steady ticks sounded like a heart beating. The heartbeat of the house. Yes. A gentle smile tugged at Bess’s lips, and she made a mental note that the first item on her Things-To-Do list was to buy a grandfather clock, just as soon as she and John got home and—

Bess and John wouldn’t be going home.

Reality crashed down around her ears, and Bess stiffened in her chair. Their home stood empty now. They lived in different homes, led different lives separate from each other. And they would be separate forevermore.

Blinking hard, she looked across the table at him. Smiling at Miss Hattie, he looked so gorgeous. His thick black hair gleaming in the light from the lamp above the table. And Bess’s heart ached. Six more days of pretending, and then she’d have only her memories of him. Six more days, and they’d be divorced.

She didn’t want to do it.

She wanted more days like today. Years of more days like today.

She wanted him.

“More cobbler, Bess?” Miss Hattie stood at her side, cobbler and serving spoon in hand, a splash of a blueberry stain soiling her white apron.

“No, thank you.” Her voice didn’t want to work. She coerced herself into snapping to, into forgetting about mourning until she was forced to remember it.

“I’d love some more,” John said.

Smiling, Miss Hattie obliged him, spooning another serving of the cobbler into his white petal bowl. “I do love men who aren’t afraid to eat. It’s very disheartening to cook and to not have an appreciative man around to—Bess? Are you all right, dear?”

John looked at her and worry filled his eyes. “Bess, what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.” Heat surged up her neck. “I think I ate too much. Miss Hattie, you’re a wonderful cook.”

“Thank you, dear.” She smiled, but the concern didn’t leave her eyes.

John finished his cobbler, but he too clearly still worried. Bess smiled more than she wanted as a way of reassuring them she was okay. “John and I will do the dishes, Miss Hattie. We insist.”

“Well, if you insist, then let’s do them together,” Miss Hattie said, then filled her tone with a conspiratorial edge of mischief. “More free time for all of us.”

John washed. His hands buried in hot, soapy water at the sink, he cocked his head. “I thought you had a cook to help you.”

Miss Hattie carried her bowl and cup over to him. “I do. But I only bother Cora to help when the inn is busy. I prefer to do things myself as much as I can.” She nodded toward the coffeemaker. “Bess, dear, why not put on another pot of coffee? It’s chilly tonight.”

John dried his hands on a dishcloth. “Would you like for me to build a fire?”

“I’m afraid it’s too warm for that, dear. It’s in between right now. Too warm for a fire, and too cool without one.”

“Like twilight.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing, Miss Hattie.”

What had he meant by that? Bess studied him, but couldn’t imagine.

They finished the dishes. He folded the cloth, draped it over the little pull-out rack in the cabinet under the sink, then sat down at the table. After Bess had the coffee brewing, she joined him.

Miss Hattie eased down into her rocker, reached to the fireplace’s stone ledge for her reading glasses, decided against wearing them, then picked up her sewing bag and returned to embroidering her new napkins.

“Are you ready to tell me yet?” Bess asked John.

“Tell you what, sweetheart?”

Her heart beat a little faster.
Sweetheart.
Not the sarcasm-laced
darling.
True, they’d made an agreement, and he’d called her darling many times since without the sarcasm, but that first time he’d said it still made the word sting. “How things went in Portland.” She laced her fingers atop the table. “I’ve been wondering all day but every time I ask, you say ‘later.’ Is it later yet?”

John grinned. “It went well, as a matter of fact. I met Gregor Samuels at Dockside, and he said he personally had seen Dixie aboard
Southern Pride
three days after the kidnaping.”

“I knew it!” Bess rapped the table with the heel of her hand. “I knew it. I knew it. I knew it!”

“What did you know, dear?” Miss Hattie asked, looking lost in a mental fog.