Upon a Mystic Tide (41 page)

“Then.
You loved me,
then.”

He hesitated, and sorrow filled his eyes. “Yes, I loved you then.”

She clasped his head, urged him down, then kissed the soft skin beneath his eyes, hoping to take away the sorrow. “I believe you, Jonathan. And I’m sorry I failed you, too.”

A soft keening erupted from his throat and he clasped her hand, laced his fingers with hers, pressed their palms, then placed light kisses to each of her fingertips. “I want to show you, Bess.”

Tender, touched, needing to know that he felt the healing between them, too, she rubbed her nose against his neck.

Spreading his fingers on her jaw, he tilted her face and looked deeply into her eyes. “I want to show you all the things you make me feel. There are things you should know first, but I need to show you, Bess. I
 . . .
need.”

Her breath caught, her chin quivering, she reached for him. “Hurry.”

But Jonathan didn’t hurry, he lingered, lavishly loving her. Lusty, yes, a man like Jonathan couldn’t deny his lust any more than he could deny drawing breath. But this wasn’t a lustful coupling, it was more gentle and tender and caring. Less physically demanding, but more emotionally powerful. Giving, not taking. Sharing, fearless of vulnerability. Pleasing, without concern or thought for being pleased. It was loving. A loving communion of bodies, of souls, and of hearts.

The power of his selfless ministrations set off a series of shudders that rippled through her body. Bess gasped her enchantment, clutched a fistful of sheet, wadding it against her hip, and gave over to the love flowing between them. “Jonathan, hurry.”

He turned and settled himself between her thighs. “Feel what I feel, Bess. Know all I feel for you. Know
 . . .
it,” he grated out on a rasp of breath then sank into her fluidly, melding their bodies.

Breasts to chest, thighs to thighs, their bodies aligned as perfectly as their hearts, they shared luxurious kisses, secret lovers’ smiles. They murmured words of longing and needing they’d too seldom spoken, too seldom heard. They hungrily supped, feeding body, and spirit, and soul. They loved. And when Bess came, the shattering rocked her soul-deep, flooded her with a wonder so rich and resonant she’d never imagined its realm, nor dreamed its depth. And when John joined her, when his spasms pulsed deep in her body, she saw all she felt reflected in his eyes.

So poignant the moment, the recognition and acceptance of the precious gift they’d shared, a new tenderness flowed between them, and tears blurred Bess’s eyes. She smiled at her husband and wept openly. For the first time in her life, she’d overcome her fear of censure and held no part of herself back. She’d given freely and completely, all she’d had to give, determined that in this Jonathan would not feel like an outsider, not feel married yet alone. And now, she reaped her reward.

Her giant of a husband, so strong and formidable and insistent on closing topics that dared to touch him emotionally, looked down at her, a single tear trickling from the corner of his eye.

And never in her life had she felt so blessed.

John awakened alone. Slowly coming out of the dregs of sleep, he heard a knock. But it wasn’t at the door. It was inside his mind.

He opened his eyes. “Tony?”

It’s me.

“Why the knock?”

I considered rapping your skull, but I thought I might scramble what’s left of your brains.

John sat up. “Obviously you’re ticked. Any particular reason, or is this a general all-purpose kind of ticked?”

No, it’s specific. You leaped and fell flat.

“Ah, the station.” Finally Jonathan understood.

Yes, the station. You’re lying to her, Jonathan. After what you shared last night
—

“Are you playing voyeur, Tony? Watching Bess and I—”

Don’t be ridiculous or insulting. Bess and I had a chat on the stairs. Only an idiot wouldn’t know—I resent that voyeur bit, John. More even than you calling me weird.

“Well, excuse me for the offense. I’ve never had a ghost looking over my shoulder before, so I didn’t know just how much looking a ghost did.”

Good grief.

“You sound like Bess.”

So did you.
Tony laughed.
Sorry for the fit of temper. Guess that’s a lot like her, too.

“Not really.” John ruffled his hair and rubbed a kink out of his neck. “But maybe one day. She’s definitely moving in new directions.”

I meant inside. She’s very moody inside.

“Why?”

Ask her. I’m here to do some serious encouraging.

“Here it comes.”

Well, crimney, Jonathan. You’re lying to her. You’ve got to tell her the truth about the station.

“I know it’s wrong, Tony. But—well, before last night, it didn’t seem half as wrong as it does right now.”

You don’t want to lose her.

The truth sounded so selfish. So damn selfish. “No, I don’t want to lose her.”

I want you to think about this. You and Bess share something beautiful and magical together. It’s a special gift. But lying to her, well, that kind of makes what you have a mirage. Isn’t all you feel for each other too special and too beautiful to be denigrated to a mirage? Don’t spoil it, Jonathan. Tell Bess the truth.

“Damn it, Tony, don’t you see? If I tell her, I will lose her!”

But if you don’t tell her, Jonathan, then have you ever really had her?

“Don’t drop those muffins,
Jonathan. Hatch won’t give us the guided tour.”

Walking down the gravel drive between Seascape and Beaulah Favish’s green clapboard house, John gripped the bag of blueberry muffins tighter. “I won’t drop them.”

“Hmmm.” Bess laced their hands. “Penny for your thoughts.”

He forced himself to lighten up. He’d weighed the pros and cons of telling her the truth, and the cons won. For now, he
couldn’t
tell
her. They veered left at Main Street, then walked past the freshly painted Fisherman’s Co-op. Two black men sat at a wire-reel table on the slab-slate porch playing checkers. Bill Butler and his uncle, Mike. They were laughing, and the sound made John realize just how serious he and Bess had become. Only yesterday, they’d laughed and splashed in the surf. And he wished he could go back to that time, and feel that happy again. “I was thinking that you smell good. And that I love your dress.”

“Liar.” She laughed. “But I’ll take both your compliments.”

“You do smell good, and I’ve always loved you in red.” After passing the pier, they left the street and took to the sloping path that led to Land’s End, the wooded headland jutting out into the ocean where the lighthouse rose like a stone sentry. “It makes your hair look like spun gold.”

Her cheeks tinted pink. “I meant that those weren’t your thoughts.” She stiffened and stopped suddenly. “Jonathan. There’s someone—”

“Shh, it’s all right. It’s Batty Beaulah pulling her binocular patrol.”

“Ghost-hunting.”

He nodded. “Everyone in the village thinks she’s got a loose screw, except you and me.”

“Hmmm, and Miss Hattie.” Bess continued on up the sand-swept path. “She told me once when we were having lunch at the Blue Moon Cafe, that Beaulah had suffered some challenges that trouble her. I didn’t understand then, but now I think that challenge was coming face to face with Tony.”

Near a giant clump of bunch berry vines, Beaulah stepped out from the evergreens in front of them. “Have you seen him yet?”

“Who?” John asked.

“Don’t you be playing games with me, boy. I was teaching kids nearly your age before you were a gleam in your daddy’s eye. And I saw what he did to that paint on your car, little lady. Took the shine right out of it.” Beaulah moved the binoculars from her eyes and let them swing from the black band around her thin neck. “It’s over at Jimmy’s, and it sure is shining now.”

John had noticed that, too. He’d passed Jimmy’s on the way to the store for Miss Hattie yesterday, and the car
had
been as glossy as if it had been freshly painted. “No,” he answered her original question, finding it easier to answer. “I haven’t seen him yet.”

“He’s real.” She said, taking off down the path, back toward the village. She stomped through a clump of chickweed and swiped at a lacy-edge fern encroaching onto the path. “If they tell you he ain’t, don’t you believe ’em. He’s as real as you and me. I saw him myself the day his mama died. Twice. Once, I saw his face in that attic room window. And then I saw him on the widow’s walk, not a half-hour later.”

Bess’s hand went clammy cold in John’s. “I believe you, Miss Favish.”

“Of course you do. You ain’t a fool, and I ain’t lying. Why wouldn’t you believe me?”

Terns squawking overhead, Jonathan looked at Bess. Something in her tone triggered a suspicion. Had she seen Tony?

A twig snapped. Miss Hattie came up near Beaulah from a fork in the path. “Ah, there you are, Beaulah. I was getting worried that you’d be late to church for quilting. We’ve got twelve more to make before Christmas.”

“I’ll get there, Hattie. But first you tell these two the truth. He’s real, I say. As real as you and me.”

“Of course he is, and I’ve never said otherwise.” Miss Hattie gave John and Bess an indulging smile. “Bess, I talked with Jimmy a few minutes ago. Your car is repaired and he’s bringing it home.”

“Thanks, Miss Hattie.”

John nearly panicked at that news, until he looked at Bess and saw no signs in her expression or manner that warned him she meant to get into that car and leave.

Looping their arms, Miss Hattie urged Beaulah back toward the village. “Pastor Brown has some slides of his trip to California to share with us today.”

“Humph!” Beaulah snorted, then stomped down the path, holding her hat on her head against a stiff breeze. “A Pastor ought not be going to California to surf, Hattie. He ought to be doing holy things
—
like going to Jerusalem, or something.”

“Even spiritual men need a rest every now and then to rejuvenate, don’t you think?” She waved John and Bess on down the path. “You children enjoy your tour.”

Amen to that. Crimney, of course spiritual men need breaks, too. Even progressive ones like Pastor Brown.

Tony! Good grief. Would you please give me some warning that you’re going to jump into my mind?

Sorry, Bess.

Me, too.
Jonathan sighed.
She smashed the muffins. Hatch is going to be ticked to the gills.

Oh, Lord, you hear him, too?

Jonathan nodded.

Hatch won’t be ticked. I’ve known him more years than I care to recall. He won’t mind their condition so long as they’re Hattie’s blueberry muffins. Shape won’t change the taste. I think she uses orange in them. Hmm, or maybe it’s lemon.

The upward slope of the path leveled. Bess stopped under the shade of a lone oak. The underbrush had been cleared away, and someone had mixed peat moss and dirt into the rocky soil and planted a small bed of orange tiger lilies.

I don’t mean to be nasty-tempered here, Tony, but whenever you come around, bombs start falling—usually on my head—and if that’s the case, could you—

Tell her, Tony. She’s shaking like a leaf again.

I am not.

You are, darling.

Okay, I am. But, good grief, who wouldn’t be?

Point taken. Actually, Bess, I came to talk with Jonathan, so I’ll go solo with him and you can relax.

Shoot. He gets the bomb, and I miss it.

Thanks, darling. I adore you, too.

She grinned.
Welcome.

Can she still hear us?

No, Jonathan.

I know what this is about, and I’ve already decided you were right. I have to tell her the truth. But on the way back—after we talk with Hatch. She’s looking forward to the tour, and I don’t want to spoil it for her.

Enough said. Leap, Jonathan. Follow the map then leap.

John stared at Bess and frowned. Tony’s message. It really
was
a map. But to what specifically? And what could Little Island have to do with him and Bess?

“Jonathan,” Bess said, sidestepping a sharp stone on the pebbly path. “Francine called me last night.”

Oh God. “I should have told you sooner, Bess. I didn’t want to wreck the tour.” He didn’t want her to walk out on him, is what he didn’t want. “I made a bad decision to wait and I’m sorry.”

Bess stopped, squinted against the sun, up at him. “Should have told me what?”

God. Oh, God. John swallowed hard. “What did Francine say?” Why hadn’t he asked that first? Stupid question. Guilty conscience.

Bess folded her arms over her chest. “You should have told me what?” she asked again.

There was no way around it. Done was done. “That Miguel didn’t buy the station.”

Her pupils widened, then narrowed to points. “He didn’t?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

John stared at her tense face for a long moment. Reached for her hand, but she kept her arms folded tightly against her chest. Whether to keep from reaching back to him, or to hold in the hurt, he didn’t know. But he felt guilty as hell for rousing either. “Me.”

Her eyes went hard, accusing, and her trembling chin hardened to granite. “Why?”

At least she’d asked. She hadn’t just walked out, like before. Unfortunately, his explanation wouldn’t help him. It’d only hurt her more. “Elise directed me to, Bess, in a codicil.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” Hope laced his voice even as he warned it away.

“Yes, I do.” She turned and started walking toward the lighthouse, her shoes slipping on the pebbly path. “Ego. Money. Yours. Just like I said the day you came here. You wanted even my dog, and now you’ve got my job—not that I want it, but it sure irks me to have you take it.”