Upon a Mystic Tide (5 page)

“Shut up, darling.”

“Maggie.” He leveled her with a warning look.

She snorted, not at all intimidated. “All right, MacGregor. So maybe I should have told Bess about Tony.” She rubbed her nose against the side of his neck and whispered close to the shell of his ear. “But you’ve got to admit, we had some—”

“We had lots of,” he agreed, then kissed her hard. When he lifted his head, he looked dreamy-eyed. “But you’re forgetting a couple of minor details.”

Maggie lowered her hands from his broad shoulders to his waist, then looped her arms around him and scooted closer, until they stood belly to thigh. “Like what?”

“For one, John and Bess are divorcing. As in, they don’t want to be married to each other anymore. And, for another, they’re not divorced yet. Bess isn’t going to get involved with another man while she’s still married to John.”

“She’s been involved with that yachter.”

“Miguel Santos?” MacGregor grunted. “Come on, Maggie. Don’t fall for gossip. They’re just friends.”

Maggie shrugged, then shot a worried look at the painting. “Bess
is
still crazy about John. She doesn’t say it—she never has. But when I asked if she wanted the divorce, she said it was inevitable. Not that she wanted it. They belong together, MacGregor. I feel it down to my bones. Maybe that’s what Tony’s doing—stopping the divorce.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s not supposed to stop. Maybe Tony’s helping them get through the divorce so they can move on with their lives.”

It
could
be they were supposed to divorce. Not everyone who visited Seascape Inn discovered, or rediscovered, love. “Maybe,” she agreed. “But I sure hope not.”

“Bess has been under a lot of stress. I think you should have warned her about Tony.”

“I couldn’t.” Maggie backed away then turned from the window.

“Why not?”

She sighed her impatience. “Geez, think about it, MacGregor. Bess hasn’t made the connection between Tony and Seascape Inn yet. She believes Tony is telepathic, which doesn’t scare her witless. But she
will
make the connection. And when she does—aside from trying to convince you I need a long vacation at a quiet sanatorium—how do you figure she’ll react to me advising her to trust a ghost?”

John Mystic had experienced only three gut-wrenching wants in his whole life: to marry Bess Cameron and build a home where they’d both be content and happy; to find Elise Dupree’s missing daughter, Dixie; and to keep the truth about his parents a secret he took with him to his grave.

He’d married Bess and built a home. Unfortunately, he’d never once thought it necessary to mention his wants, including keeping her and staying in it. He’d done everything humanly possible, but he hadn’t found Dixie—yet. The painstaking search continued. And he’d kept the secret about his parents, though doing so had demanded he distance himself from his sister, Selena, who had a knack for making people talk. Otherwise, sooner or later, she’d have wheedled it out of him.

John also had learned a hard lesson. Sometimes, no matter what a man does, no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t win. And too often when he loses, others also pay the price.

Knowing the secret had cost him his sister. The distance between them had hurt her. It’d hurt him and their uncle, Maximilian Piermont, too. Dixie’s case had cost him his wife. And he, Bess, Elise, and Dixie, all had paid the price, in spades.

It shouldn’t have happened that way, though John didn’t know how the hell he could have avoided it. He and Bess hadn’t been married long when, with her blessing, he’d struck out on his own to open Mystic Investigations. Maybe if they’d been married longer, she’d have felt more secure. Maybe if he’d known what a closed society New Orleans was, he would have been better prepared for closed doors and not needed society matriarch Elise Dupree’s case. But he hadn’t known, and he had needed it. And so when tragedy struck Elise and she’d come to John with the story of her daughter Dixie’s kidnapping—an elopement, according to the FBI—John saw solving the case as his big break. If he found the girl, kidnapped
or
eloped, his business would be set for success. Bess would be proud of him. And he’d have proven to her his worth.

He hadn’t planned on getting emotionally involved with Elise. Bess didn’t know it, but Elise had become the closest thing to a mother he’d had since he was three years old. He hadn’t planned on Bess getting riled over the relationship, or on her forming the opinion that he was obsessing on the case, either. And he certainly never had planned on losing her over it. Events had snowballed and it all had just
 . . .
happened.

By the time he’d realized their marriage was in trouble, it was too late for an easy fix. Things had gotten complex and, he admitted it, his pride stepped in. He couldn’t find Dixie, couldn’t stop looking for her. Couldn’t tell Elise he’d failed her when she’d needed him most. And he couldn’t,
wouldn’t,
crawl back to his doubting-his-worth-already wife a failure.

Instead, determined to turn things around, he’d dug in his heels and formulated a plan. A simple plan. Find Dixie for Elise, paying her back for caring about him and trusting him with her daughter’s life, for opening society’s doors for him—and for her sound investment advice—and when all that had been settled, as a successful man Bess would be proud of, he’d reclaim his wife and his home.

It would’ve worked. Except Bess filed for a divorce. And he still hadn’t found Dixie. And, God help him, three days ago, Elise had died.

Elise’s funeral this morning had been sheer hell. Bryce Richards, Maggie and T. J. MacGregor, Selena, and Uncle Max all attended to support John. Bess hadn’t.

He thought he just might hate her for that.

Sometimes, no matter what a man does, no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t win.

And so he’d come here. Back to where he always came when he needed support. Needed to feel close to her again. Needed to relive the good times and glimpse again elusive peace
 . . .

Through the car radio, Bess’s familiar, silky-voiced sign-off snagged John’s attention. “Rest easy, New Orleans. See you at twilight.”

Innately alerted, he punched the knob, squelching the radio. Silence filled the car, and then subtle sounds of crickets and frogs carried in on the sultry night air. Parked in the driveway, his stomach tense and in knots, he again stared through the windshield into the dark windows of the empty house he and Bess once had shared. She was in trouble; he felt it.

During her radio program, not a hint of anything being wrong had been heard in her voice. Bess was far too private, too cool and controlled, to let anyone know an imperfect ripple she couldn’t smooth out by herself had trespassed into her world. They might have spent more of their seven-year marriage separated than together, but he knew her the way only a husband knows his wife, and something had Bess in a tailspin and doing some serious reeling. Question was, What?

Maybe she’d had a fight with her sorry Spaniard, Miguel Santos. Unlikely. She’d been seen all over the French Quarter with him lately, and seemingly everyone in New Orleans—eager to impart their backdoor censure of John’s treatment of her, yet not bold enough to just do it—had made a point of telling him how happy she’d looked. No, not the Spaniard. Had to be something else. What, precisely, John hadn’t a clue, but he certainly knew what
wasn’t
the reason for her upset: their relationship and imminent divorce. Bess
didn’t give a damn about either, or about him.

An empty ache had him slumping, fighting a longing pang for the old days. They’d been happy once. Here. In this house. He squeezed the steering wheel. She’d loved this house. Why hadn’t she stayed in it and demanded he leave? Too many memories? Too many shattered dreams haunting every room?

Those had been his reasons for moving out and leaving the house empty. As for her reasons, only she knew. He still couldn’t believe she’d actually suggested they rent it. John grunted. He’d flatly refused, of course. The idea of another couple living in their home, sharing meals in their kitchen, making love in their bedroom
 . . .
well, it got to him. Obviously, it hadn’t bothered her. And that had gotten to him, too.

He let his gaze drift up the white brick to the second-floor veranda. How many nights had they come out of their bedroom door, tossed a blanket down on the veranda floor and, wrapped in each other’s arms, dreamed into the stars?

Plenty.

But not enough.

And there never would be more.

Regret swam in his stomach. A future of silence engulfed him, dark and oppressive and yawning. He gripped the wheel tighter, making knobs of his knuckles, and frowned down at the front door. A spray of amber light from the streetlamp swept over the sleek landing and he imaged her standing there in it, greeting him as she had so often, open-armed and smiling. God, but he missed her. Sometimes he missed her so much.

Why had she done it? Why had she left him with no more than a phone call? Why had she waited years before filing for the legal separation, knowing it’d take over a year from then for the divorce to be final? Why had she left him at all? They’d been happy. She’d loved him, damn it. He knew she’d loved him.

The box-hedge outside the passenger door rustled. His neighbor, Peggy, spying on him again. He sighed. She’d report to Selena and, before sundown, he’d get another when-are-you-going-to-stop-going-
over-there-and-get-on-with-your-life call. Didn’t he wish he knew?

His gaze drifted back to the house. Maybe Bess had waited to file for the divorce because she’d feared losing her job. Millicent Fairgate was a real hard-ass who’d do anything to protect her legacy—the station. John never had liked her, and didn’t know anyone who did besides Elise. A whiff of scandal and, in a finger snap, the social-minded airhead would fire Bess.

But, no, not the job. Slumping back in his seat, he rested his shoulder against the door, his hand on the gearshift. Bess could hold her own with Millicent and she wouldn’t put up with that. Santos had to be the reason. Maybe Bess was ready to marry the guy.

Bess? Married to another man?

John’s stomach soured, his muscles all clenched at once. Torn between denial, anger, and guilt—resenting all those feelings and more—he stiffened in his seat. Why had she done it? Why had she done anything that she’d done? And what difference did it make now? In three weeks, they’d be history. The divorce would be final, and their marriage would be over. It’d be too late.

It was already too late. Elise was dead.

The empty ache inside him deepened to a gaping hole. In finding Dixie, he’d taken too long.

The cell phone rang.

Ignoring it, he stared sightlessly at the house, feeling as lost and alone as he had in the early years, when he and Selena first had moved in with their Uncle Max. God, John had hated those feelings then. He still hated them—as much as he hated himself for coming here.

Yet he continued to do it. He looked down at the yellow carnation petal in his hand. Elise had died holding it. Where had it come from? He’d probably never know. Odd, but it comforted him. And after the funeral today, he needed comforting. He just hadn’t been able to face that empty apartment alone.

The phone rang for the third time. He frowned at it, certain if he didn’t answer it, the damn thing would ring forever. When it rang a fourth time, resigned, he lifted the receiver. “Mystic.”

“John, it’s me, Bryce.”

His lawyer calling him now? But they were friends, too, and considering the hour—a shade shy of dawn—this had to be personal. Since Bryce’s wife Meriam’s death, Bryce’d had his hands full with his three children, his practice, and his grief, but the predawn SOS calls had ceased months ago. Until now.

Couldn’t anyone just be happy anymore? “The kids okay?”

“Suzie’s still having nightmares. Her therapist says she needs more time to get used to losing her mom. Selena’s talking with her, too, trying to help her get and keep both oars in the water.”

“That sounds like Selena.” She never had beaten around the bush.

“Yeah, I’d be nuts without her help on this.” His indrawn breath crackled through the phone. “Hey, I didn’t call to complain. You doing okay, buddy?”

He’d never been less okay. “I’m fine.”

“I tried calling you at home
 . . .
”

John looked up at the house. This was home. Not the apartment he lived in and avoided as much as possible. For six years home had stood empty. Now Elise was gone, too. Pain crushed him in a wrenching vise.

“I called on the cell a while ago but got no answer.”

John sort of remembered the phone ringing earlier, when Bess had been talking to that guy, Tony. Weird message. Weird man. Maybe he and/or his message was what had Bess rattled. They’d surely given John the creeps. “Must have stepped out.”

“Where are you?”

John sucked in a sharp breath. “Working on a case.”

Bryce let out a ragged sigh, proving he knew exactly where John was at the moment, and it worried him. “I’m sorry, buddy. I know how close you and Elise were.”

Close?
She’d trusted him with her daughter’s life. She’d called him dear heart. Close?
Close?
“She
 . . .
mattered,” he choked out. “Look, I’ve got to go. Thanks for the call.”

“John, wait. As soon as you can, drop by the office. I know the timing is lousy, but we need to talk about this property settlement dispute. We’re out of time.”

The divorce was the
last
thing he wanted to talk about right now. “What dispute? I told you to give Bess whatever she wants.”

“That’s the dispute. She doesn’t want anything.”

Not anything?
“What do you mean, she doesn’t want
anything?”
John cranked the engine, turned on the headlights, then backed out of the driveway, swearing he’d come here for the last time. He’d listened to Bess on the radio for the last time too. If she knew he did either, she’d have a field day analyzing him.