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Excerpt
With their painful divorce looming on the horizon, radio psychologist Bess Cameron and her soon-to-be-ex-husband John Mystic, meet at Maine's Seascape Inn to finalize the terms of a property settlement. Bess believes John is in love with someone else, and she's determined to move on without him. Their marriage appears doomed until the Inn's matchmaking ghost, Tony, and its irrepressible owner, Miss Hattie, take matters in hand. Sometimes you have to leap upon a mystic tide and have faith the sand will shift and an island will appear...
The second book of bestselling author Vicki Hinze's Seascape Trilogy brings readers back to the gentle magic of a place where love is always stronger than the fragile boundaries of life.
Vicki Hinze is the award-winning author of 24 novels, 4 nonfiction books, and hundreds of articles, published in as many as sixty-three countries. She is recognized by Who's Who in the World as an author and as an educator. Visit her at
http://www.VickiHinze.com.
"…a whimsical engaging tale as the paranormal matchmaker works his magic on the recalcitrant married couple… readers will enjoy their visit to this coastal Maine B&B." --
Klausner’s Bookshelf
"Beautifully written." --
Publisher's Weekly
"After reading the Seascape Romance Series, you'll be ready for a vacation at the Seascape Inn." --
Literary Times
Chapter 1
Body language rarely lies.
That Bess Cameron’s boss, Sal Ragusa,
stood about as stiff as a totem pole set her ragged nerves on an even sharper
edge. While divorce never bares its pointed teeth without pain and suffering to
everyone involved, in her case, it appeared those teeth would be mortally
wounding far more than her marriage.
Resigned to yet another lecture, she
held up a give-me-a-second finger, punched the tape labeled "Commercials” into
the deck, pressed the play button, then rocked back in her squeaky chair. "All
right, Sal. Go on.”
"I’m really worried about you.” He
slumped against the recording booth’s doorjamb, deliberately trying to look
less concerned. Harsh light from the hall spilled across the WLUV 107.3 emblem
on his T-shirt and swiped a slash across his clenched jaw. "This is the only
way I know to protect you, and you refuse. When Millicent hears about your
divorce...”
Bess would feel the bite of the teeth.
She sighed. Why did formally ending a marriage that had died and been mourned
long ago conjure intense hurt that felt so... fresh?
Seeing little productive coming from
exploring that question and certain she’d miss nothing that hadn’t been covered
on countless other occasions, she let her attention drift from Sal’s lengthy
monologue.
The eerie green, red, and white light
emitting from the booth’s controls typically seemed familiar and comforting.
Tonight, it made her uneasy, though she was enough of a pro to admit that the
root of her discomfort really wasn’t the light. It was her, inside—and for a
good, logical reason.
It was late, nearly midnight, and she’d
had so much on her mind lately that she hadn’t been sleeping well. Big
understatement there. And even though she considered self-analysis the fodder
of fools for professional psychologists, Bess risked speculating on her
unprofessional opinion of her current status. Diagnosis? She was physically
tired, emotionally wrung out, spiritually drained, and about as sick as spit—a
term she’d picked up from her friend, Maggie MacGregor—of worrying. Prognosis?
Grim. From all indications, things were doomed to get worse before they got
better. And exactly how much worse remained totally out of Bess’s control.
The first commercial started playing.
She tapped the mute button so it’d be transmitted but not heard in the booth,
then checked her watch. They had three minutes to wrap up this conversation
before she had to get back on the air.
Swiveling in her chair to face her boss,
who unfortunately showed no signs of being winded or of winding down and ending
his lecture, she again thought he’d be ahead of the game if he’d give in
gracefully to his age instead of trying to keep up with the twenty-year-olds
running around the station. To her own thirty-three, Bess figured Sal at
fifty—maybe fifty-five—and fighting each year showing as if it were a thieving
demon. He jogged to fight a tiny paunch, lifted weights three times a week at
his posh French Quarter club to avoid unavoidable muscle sag, and tinted his
hair a god-awful brown to hide persistent gray. His obsession with his
appearance, like his tendency to talk first and think later, was at times
saddening, at times maddening, but always tolerable because the man was fair,
he had a good heart, and he was loyal.
With him, Bess never ranked second.
And now she had to oppose him. She
suffered a flash of regret but, needing to wrap up this session of their "Great
Debate,” she interrupted. "I know you’re trying to help, but I can’t accept thiskind of help. It’s... wrong.”
"And I knew you were going to say that.
You always do.” He propped a sneakered foot against the lime green wall. "But
these are the only possibilities I see of saving your job. I’ve put out some
feelers on this and, as soon as she catches wind of your divorce, Millicent willfire you, Bess.”
A divorce and losing her job?
Surely she couldn’t be expected to endure both simultaneously—at least not with
grace. And staring financial ruin in the face didn’t do much to assist on the
personal philosophy aspiration front. Bess chewed on her inner, lower lip. Why
had she made aspiring to grace part of her annual, personal motto this year
anyway? Foolish. Especially with her knowing the divorce was coming—John
certainly wouldn’t lift a finger to stop it—and with patience still lingering
on the list from last year. She’d finally given in and accepted that
patience—or, more accurately, her lack of it—was destined to be a perpetual
aspiration: a part of every year’s motto. But she was still working on
accepting the divorce and John’s reaction to it. Now she had unwisely put
herself in the position of having to strive to meet both and the threat
of being fired and financially ruined too. All with grace. And all
simultaneously.
Fat chance.
The fear of failure had the recording
booth seeming small and stuffy and stifling hot. It smelled musty too, and the
temptation to spout off at Sal to release some tension spread like a wildfire
up her throat. She swallowed it back down, where it churned in her stomach.
Well, no one had promised life would be
fair. Good thing, because these days her supporters cantered in few and far
between. Sal was one of her most staunch. Alienating him would be just plain
foolish, and Bess Cameron was not a foolish woman, at least not in most
things—aside from in choosing her spouse and in saddling herself with overly
ambitious annual mottoes she regretted January second and doggedly pursued
until December thirty-first.
Having heard enough of this particular
lecture, she squeezed the padded arms of her chair. Air swooshed out, hissing
between her fingers. "I’ve been counseling callers at this radio station for
more than six years, Sal. I’m a psychologist. I’m not superhuman or ‘Wonder
Woman,’ and I certainly never claimed to be perfect. And I’m not committing
felonious acts in my private life, I’m just getting a divorce.”
"Just getting a divorce?” Sal lifted an arm. "A divorce is more
than pertinent to your professional life, Bess.”
Her temper again flared. And again, she
tamped it, chilled her voice to cool. "Can you, or our esteemed owner,
Millicent Fairgate, make a marriage work alone?”
Sal lowered his gaze to the tile floor. "No.
No one can. But—”
"I see.” Bess crossed her chest with her
arms. "Why then am I expected to be able to do it?”
"Because you earn your living counseling
people on marriage and relationships. We don’t.” He muttered a grunt. "You
know Millicent is going to take the position that if you can’t make your own
marriage work, then—”
"I know how I earn my living.”
Bitterness burned in her stomach. Given half a chance, she could have
made her marriage work. But John hadn’t cooperated. She’d loved him enough to
go the distance, to fight to keep their marriage strong. But he hadn’t loved
her enough to work at it with her. And he’d caused her more grief...
Bess put the skids on those thoughts.
Counterproductive. A waste of time and of good energy. "I’m sorry, Sal, but
neither of your options work for me. I can’t live in this unmarried married
state of suspended animation anymore. Going ahead with the divorce is a
positive step. It’s an outward reflection of inner acceptance. A commitment to
growth and, regardless of how uncomfortable or painful it is, personal growth
is always positive.” Let him take that rationale along as ammunition to fight
Millicent Fairgate. Even she couldn’t deny Bess deserved a life as much as
anyone else. "And I can’t lie—not even to save my job.”
She forced a strength into her voice she
just didn’t feel. "If the truth isn’t good enough for Millicent, then fine. Let
her fire me. But I will not lie to these callers by pretending to be
happily married when I’m divorced.”
"You omit lots of personal details.
Hell, you’ve avoided talking about your personal life for six years. Why does
it have to be an issue now?”
He couldn’t be serious. She studied his
expression and held off a sigh. He was. "I haven’t avoided talking about my
personal life. Callers haven’t been interested. They’ve wanted to discuss their
troubles, not mine. But, as you so aptly put it, I’ll soon be a divorcée
counseling others on love and relationships. The press will be all over me,
making my status an issue. And when they are and they do, I will not lie about
it.”
Sal slid her a look ripe with warning. "Think
this through. If you’re fired, you can’t help anyone. You’ll have no forum. If
you omit publicly disclosing and discussing the divorce, you’ve got a shot at
staying in a position to help others. What’s the difference—”
As if the press wouldn’t disclose it for
her. As if she had a choice. Rationalizing, indulging in selective recall,
talking without first thinking—as usual. Get a grip, Sal. Bess
interrupted. "Even if the press gave me a choice—which they won’t—the
difference, damn it, is that these callers trust me.”
Sal’s jaw fell slack.
Bess pushed her palms against the chair
arms, then squeezed her eyes shut. Had she really just sworn at her
boss? Good grief, she had!
She was losing it. After years of
diligent effort at restraining herself and venting only when alone, she was
losing it. So much for patience. And she could kiss off grace on this
discussion too. What had gotten into her? She just didn’t do this sort of
thing.
Worrying about the divorce; the disputed
property settlement still hanging over her head and keeping her off-balance;
her lawyer, Francine, throwing fits with monotonous regularity because Bess
refused to take anything from John—as if she could and not die of
humiliation—and now threats of being fired by WLUV 107.3’s prude of a
shortsighted and narrow-minded matriarch owner, Millicent Fairgate. What else
could go wrong?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. All bases
stood covered.
Hardly a comforting thought but, on the
upside, Bess was still sane. And when things couldn’t get worse then,
damn it, they had to get better.
The solace in that universal truth enabled
her to level her voice. "I’m sorry, Sal.”
"It’s, um, no problem.” He wasn’t trying
to hide his concern anymore and, if his grim expression proved a reliable
indicator, that concern had doubled.
"Listen, I understand your logic, and
your intent is good. But, to me, that omission would be lying, and I won’t
do it.” She raked a thumbnail over her coffee mug handle. The grating friction
felt good. "I can’t.”
His silence demanded an explanation.
Though she’d rather not discuss her feelings further, she supposed he deserved
to hear her reasons. He would oppose Millicent firing Bess, and
Millicent wouldn’t take his opposition kindly. If history proved telling, she’d
retaliate. For his loyalty and heartburn in defending Bess, Sal would pay
dearly, and be made darn miserable. Yes, she owed him an explanation.
Trembling, she set down her mug then
grabbed a pen from the desk to have something less risky to do with her hands. "The
people who call here believe in me. They feel comfortable talking with me
because they know I’ll be honest with them. If I lie to them, then what have I
got left?”
He groaned. "Bess, you’re taking this
much too person—”
"I’d have nothing, Sal.” That pitiful
truth had the back of her nose tingling, her eyes stinging. Her heart aching. "Nothing.”
Statue-still, his hands fisted in his
jeans pockets, he stared at her a long minute, then blew out a sigh that reeked
of frustration. "Okay.” The lines etching his face shadowed in the dim control
lights, tinting his skin with a ghoulish green glow. "Okay. There’s a
ninety-nine percent chance you’ll end up canned and out on your keister, but I
admire your principles. I always have.” He sighed again, deeper. It lifted his
chest and shoulders. "I’ll do what I can to tame the shrew and to keep her hand
off the ax.”
"I appreciate it.” Bess tried but couldn’t
muster a smile. Afraid her relief would show in her eyes, and she’d insult Sal
by doubting his loyalty, she glanced down at her watch and checked the time.
Less than a minute before she had to be back on the air.
He rolled away from the doorjamb. "How
long until the divorce is final?”
"July tenth.” Her heart slid up into her
throat. Never would she have dreamed this really could happen to her and John.
To anyone else, yes. But not to them. She dropped her gaze. Her wedding band
winked in the control’s lights, mocking her. She’d been so...
sure.
"Three weeks.” Sal rubbed his jaw. "More
or less.”
"More or less.” She knew the exact
number of weeks, of days, of hours. The minutes ticked away in her mind like a
bomb set to explode. But admitting that to herself, much less to Sal, proved
far too revealing for her comfort and, suffering plenty enough discomfort
without heaping on more, she shoved those thoughts away.
He raked a hand through his
close-cropped hair. The gray-root spikes with tinted brown tips sprang out from
his head. "I have to be honest here.”
Bracing herself, she hiked her chin. "Wouldn’t
have it any other way.”
"A divorced shrink counseling callers on
love and relationships isn’t apt to sit any better with listeners than with
Millicent. New Orleans is predominantly Catholic, and that’s worth remembering.”
A muscle spasmed, knotting in her neck.
She kneaded at it. "I could lose some listeners, true. But if I lie, I lose a
lot more.”
"What more? We’re a radio
station. Listeners are everything.”
"I lose them,” she lowered her gaze to
his chest, "and me.”
Sal stared at the ceiling, mumbled
something she couldn’t make out, then glanced back at her. "I hate to say it,
Bess, but one of us has to be less idealistic and more realistic here, and it
doesn’t appear it’s going to be you.”
Considering her position realistic and
reasonable, she opened her mouth to object.
He held up a hand to stay her. "Look, I
admire your principles—really, I do. And far be it from me to say self-respect
doesn’t hold value. But it doesn’t pay the rent. The public isn’t exactly known
for being forgiving. It won’t let this divorce slide by unnoticed. You’re
right. You will take heat in the press—and worse.”
Sympathy shone in his eyes. As if
knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it, he let his gaze slip away, back to the
ceiling. "It kills me to have to say it, but now might be a good time for you
to look into setting up a private practice.”
Bess held off a frown. From the start,
she’d resisted private practice, and the financial security it could bring,
because the people who most needed her were those least likely to seek out
counseling. She’d found her niche, her forum—the radio—and she intended to keep
it. "You firing me?”
"Not yet.” His expression turned grim. "Just
preparing you.”
Underneath all the bluster, he was a
good man. A really good man. "Thanks.” She nodded to let him know she meant it.
"Now it’s only fair that I prepare you.” She leaned forward, squared her
shoulders, and looked him right in the eye. "We both know John Mystic and I
have been separated six years. The piece of paper coming July tenth doesn’t
change anything. Not my job performance, my credentials, or even my name. Only
my legal status changes.” Risky, but she had to be totally frank. "I’ve lost
all I intend to lose willingly, Sal. If Millicent wants me out of 107.3, then
she’s going to have to fire me, and she’s going to have to make it stick.” Bess
dipped her chin and looked up at him, forced her voice and her gaze firm and
steady. "I’ll fight it every step of the way.”
Sal rubbed his stomach, as if his ulcer
were acting up again. "Maybe if you fought that hard for John—”
Bess spun on him. "Don’t you dare!”
Thoughtless comments were just Sal’s way. He didn’t mean them. But this time he’d
hit too close to home, pegging some of her own unreasonable, irrational fears.
Ones she couldn’t afford to give any value to if she expected to come out of
this divorce with a fair sense of self-worth.
Sal stopped midsentence, then slid her a
repentant look. "Look, I’m sorry. That was out of line.” He swallowed hard,
bobbing his Adam’s apple. "I just don’t want to lose you. If you stayed married
to the bastard, then I wouldn’t.”
Those kinds of remarks were expected to
entice her? Bess swallowed a response so searing it set her temples to
pounding. "I don’t want to be lost either, but don’t say things like that about
John and me. You don’t know how things were with us, and it’s unfair of you to
judge him or me.”
"Yeah, you’re right.” Sal shrugged and
his face turned red. "I guess I just want this whole sordid mess to...
to go away.”
So did she. "That isn’t going to happen.”
Once she’d thought it might, that John would ask her to come home, but she’d
accepted the truth a long time ago. He had no intention of trying to save their
marriage. He didn’t love her, and that was the sorry truth.
A painful ache shimmied through her
chest. She clenched her muscles against it. Some dreams die so darn hard.
She checked her watch—ten seconds—grabbed
the mike, then put a manicured fingertip on the tape player’s eject button. "I’m
out of time and I’ve got four lines lit up. If you’ll excuse me, duty calls.”
Looking pensive, dejected, and truly
sorry, Sal lumbered out of the booth.
When he closed the door behind him, Bess
started shaking, rattled from the bone out. Would she ever stop shaking again?
Would her life ever be right again?
Never let ’em see you sweat, kid. Her father’s voice sounded in her head.
A hornets’ nest of guilt stirred in her
stomach. I’m trying, Dad. I’m really trying. But it hurts and it’s hard. I
loved him so much. She pulled in a deep breath, counted to three, then
answered the first caller.
The next four calls were tame; normal
problems she’d faced before, countless times. Taking a sip of coffee so strong
and bitter it had to have been steeping since dusk, she grimaced, then answered
the fifth. "Love 107.3. This is Bess.”
"Dr. Mystic?”
Her married name? Bess frowned. She’d never used her
married name on the air. "Dr. Cameron,” she told the caller. "But I prefer
Bess.”
"My name is Tony.”
Something in his voice unnerved her. Not
the tone—nothing so mundane as that, though it was gravelly and odd. It was
something... inexplicable. And it created the strangest
sensations in her. As if he could see inside her, and he knew all her secrets...
and more.
The little hairs on her neck stood on
edge. She put her cup down on the desk. Shaking even harder, she laced her
fingers, rested her hands in her lap, then chided herself for being ridiculous.
No one could literally see inside anyone else. They could perceive, interpret,
intuit, but not see. "What can I do for you, Tony?”
"I’ve heard a rumor.”
Warning flags flashed before her eyes.
Warning flags gained by developing strong instincts that came with
phone-counseling for over half a decade. Warnings she’d come to respect. Sight
and physical observation, two very important tools to every psychologist,
radio-counseling denied her. She’d had to compensate and her instincts, bless
them, had done so for her, honing with experience to acutely perceptive. And,
right now, those acutely perceptive instincts screamed that this wasn’t a
harmless, or a typical, call. That it carried serious repercussions and
consequences—to Bess. And, worse, that no matter how depleted she felt
right now, she couldn’t retreat and regroup or run from them.
Her mouth drier than dust, she mustered
her most professional voice. "Rumors are dangerous. Usually destructive.” She
paused to let that sink in. "Are you destructive, Tony, or does this rumor
personally affect you?”
"No, I’m not destructive, and this
affects me only in the broadest sense.” He sounded uncomfortable. "But it is
extremely important—enough to warrant this call.”
"I see.” Dread dragged at her belly. "Well,
if the rumor is ‘extremely important to you,’ then you should attempt to verify
it. Try to be open-minded. Strive equally hard to prove, and to disprove, the
rumor. To come out of something like this with a clean conscience, it’s
imperative you be fair—and, if possible, you find out the truth without
inflicting harm on anyone else.” She automatically lifted her cup, but shook
too badly to hold it. Hot coffee sloshed over the rim and scalded her hand. She
bit her lip to keep from crying out, and ordered herself to get her nerves
under control.
"I don’t want anyone hurt. That’s why I’m
calling you.”
This time, his tone was a dead giveaway.
He wasn’t being honest, and yet she innately knew he wasn’t lying. The truth
rested at some obscure place in between. "I see.” She rubbed at her temple, not
seeing at all. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe he just needed a place to
vent. She definitely needed to calm down. "I suppose then we’d better talk
about this.”
"Only if you’re sure. This rumor affects
you, Dr. Mystic.”
A sense of doom blanketed the dread, and
Bess dragged in a deep breath. How could a rumor about her be extremely
important to him? She didn’t even know him. Should she disconnect him?
Though sorely tempted, her instincts
warned her against it. Warned her that this call was inevitable.
The pounding at her temples grew to a
sickening throb. No, as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t play ostrich and
bury her head in the sand. Whatever was coming had to be faced. Hadn’t she
advised that very action to caller after caller? "If it’s important, then go
ahead, Tony.”
"You’re getting a divorce.”
Bess swallowed a gasp, then a groan.
Good grief. Not a question, a statement.
Sal shoved open the booth door.
Wild-eyed, he swiped his hand back and forth across his neck, mouthing, "Don’t
answer! Cut him off! Cut him off!”
Blinking hard and fast, Bess broke into
a cold sweat. It had been just a matter of time until word got out, but she
should have had three more weeks and now, because of this Tony, she’d been
cheated out of them. She resented that. Boy, did she resent it. Wasn’t the
divorce itself hard enough?
Sal grabbed her shoulder. "Cut him off!”
Bess reached over to the phone and
touched a fingertip to the button. She tried, but she couldn’t press it down.
She just couldn’t do it. Sliding Sal an apologetic look, she spoke into the
mike. "This rumor is true, Tony. I am getting a divorce.”
Sal muttered a curse, stomped out into
the hallway, then slammed the door shut.
Oh God.
"I’m sensing your resentment and a
little hostility, Dr. Mystic. There’s no need for it, or for fear. I didn’t
call to give you a hard time.”
He sensed it? Mystic. Not
Cameron. Again. He hadn’t forgotten, but deliberately had used John’s name.
Why? Bess frowned. Was John behind this? That would be atypical, true. She’d
left him for neglect. It seemed highly unlikely he’d remember he had a wife
now. And besides, this Tony seemed... sincere. Oddly
pervasive, extremely perceptive, unwelcomely intrusive, but sincere.
Still, her instincts were good, not
perfect. Was he sincere? Or was he setting her up for a fall? "If not to give
me a hard time, why then are you calling?”
"To dispel the rumor.”
A setup. "Well, now you have.” Bess
lifted a finger to disconnect the line.
"Wait! Don’t hang up!”
Bess jerked back, stared at the phone as
if it were possessed. How had he known she’d been about to disconnect him?
Could he sense and see her? She darted a glance around the booth,
uneasy. No one around. Nothing amiss. So why didn’t the impression subside? Why
did she feel watched, observed—almost invaded? Absurd. If this hadn’t happened
so soon after the confrontation with Sal, if she’d had a few minutes to recoup
and regain her balance, it wouldn’t be happening.
"I called to tell you something too, Dr.
Mystic.”
Totally unraveled and fighting it, Bess
chastised herself for letting her imagination run crazy. There was nothing
unusual at work here, or about this call. There couldn’t be. Tony likely worked
at the courthouse and saw her divorce proceedings on the docket schedule, or
something equally mundane and ordinary. There had to be a simple, logical
reason prompting his call. Had to be. "I’m listening.”
"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 itfrom 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.
The temperature plummeted.
An icy veil of a chill shivered up her
spine.
And all the tension and pressure and
strain she’d been feeling inside shattered.
Warm heat, energy as pure and
tranquilizing as summer sun, seeped-into her pores, and liquid, flowing
sensations of peace and comfort and contentment spread through her, limb to
limb, until she felt calm and at ease.
"How... odd,” she
mumbled. Absurd. Ridiculous. Impossible.
Wonderful.
Awed, Bess sucked in a wisp of a gasp.
She’d never felt so empowered, so satisfied, such sheer joy in just being alive.
T. J. gave Maggie’s arm a gentle
squeeze. "That was it, honey. She had to admit she needed help.”
Maggie pressed a fingertip over her
lips. "Shh!”
He lowered his voice to a barely
discernible whisper and eased toward the back room. "I’ll call the airline and
Miss Hattie.”
Why did T. J. need to phone their friend
from Maine and the airline now? How could he bear to miss experiencing this?
Bess wanted to ask him, but the lure of the painting... She
couldn’t look away. Why hadn’t she noted before its raw power, its soothing
majesty? How could she ever have looked at this and felt it anything but
magnificent?
Gingerly, as if being careful not to
obstruct her view, Maggie stepped to Bess’s side. "You don’t want this divorce,
do you, Bess?”
Captivated, she mumbled the truth. "It’s
inevitable.”
"But is it what you want?”
"Does it matter? It’s going to happen.
Acceptance is positive growth.” Bess’s focus remained fixed on the canvas. "You
know, Maggie, I look at this, and all my problems, even the divorce, seem
insignificant. It’s almost as if it’s touched by... magic.”
"You feel healed.”
Bess smiled, spared Maggie a glance. "That’s
it exactly.”
A look of empathy, of understanding,
and—unless Bess mistook it—of relief flashed through Maggie’s eyes. Relief
seemed rather peculiar.
"You need a vacation,” Maggie murmured. "Time
away to just let go and to get things into perspective.”
That sounded like heaven. And, looking
at this house, possible. "Yes.” The magnetism proved stronger than her will and
Bess again mentally drifted into T. J.’s masterpiece. When her gaze lit on the
turret room, certainty rippled through her heart. "More than anything else, I
want to go there.” It had been so long since she’d felt at peace. Six long
years...
"Marvelous.” Maggie sighed contentedly,
stepped between Bess and the painting, then rested her arms on her distended
belly.
Bess blinked, feeling almost as if she’d
been under a spell and it’d been broken. That healed feeling disappeared, and
she wanted it back. Desperately. "It is a real place, isn’t it?” An anxious
fear that it might not be gripped her.
"Oh, yes.” Maggie nodded. "It’s real. It’s
the bed-and-breakfast T. J. and I visit in Sea Haven Village, Maine. Seascape
Inn.”
"Your friend, Miss Hattie?”
Maggie nodded. "She’s the innkeeper.”
Bess’s mouth felt stone dry. She licked
at her lips. "I can’t explain this, Maggie. I know it’s going to sound crazy,
but I have to go there. Now. Today.”
"You don’t have to explain—not to me.”
Maggie smiled. "T. J.’s making arrangements for you right now.”
Bess vaguely remembered T. J. saying
something about him calling Miss Hattie. How had he known?
Maggie cocked her head. A frown creased
the smooth skin between her brows and she glanced off into space as if she were
listening to something only she could hear. Seconds passed, and the strangest
expression formed on her face. Worried, Bess clasped Maggie’s arm. "Are you
okay? Is it the baby?”
"No, no. We’re fine.” She patted her
stomach, a fleeting smile touching her lips.
Despite her assurance, something concerned
Maggie; it shone in her eyes. "I’m getting the strongest feeling that you’re
protecting me. I don’t need that from you. Now, be honest. Are you two okay?”
"We’re fine. I promise. It’s, um, about
Seascape Inn.” Maggie brushed her gleaming red hair back from her face, clearly
avoiding Bess’s eyes. "When you get there, you might, um, see a man in an old
Army uniform—one with a yellow carnation here in his lapel.” She touched a
fingertip to her dress, just above her left breast.
A shudder rippled up Bess’s backbone.
Why did this disclosure strike her as significant as Tony’s message? "Okay.”
"Trust him,” Maggie said. "He’s trying
to help you.”
"This has something to do with the
painting.” Certainty flooded Bess. "That’s why you had me look at it before.
You were hoping then—” Bess drew in a sharp breath. "This man—he’s the reason
this strange stuff is happening now, isn’t he?”
Maggie nodded.
Her wariness alerted Bess. "Is there
something... different about him?”
Looking as guilty as sin, Maggie
shrugged, stepped back to the tall column behind her, then sat down on the
padded bench circling it. "To some. But I—I don’t think I’m supposed to say
anything more, Bess. Just trust him, okay?”
"You’re sounding as weird as Tony.”
"I know.” Maggie grimaced, rubbed at her
stomach, and rotated her swollen ankles. "Can you just trust me, too?”
For a long minute, Bess stared at her
friend, not sure what to make of all this. But considering every aspect of her
life lay in shambles already, what did she have to lose? "Why not? I always
have.”
Maggie swallowed and stilled, again as
if listening. "Bess,” she said, "I know this is stretching the bounds of
friendship, but you might...” Her voice trailed.
"Might what?” Lord, but she hated to see
Maggie distressed—
especially in her condition. The baby was due in November, just five months
away.
She turned away. "You might hear the man
without actually seeing him.”
A bolt of fear rocketed through Bess.
Tingling head to heel, she stiffened her shoulders and stared hard at Maggie’s
narrow back. "Is he telepathic?” Tony was telepathic. Was there a connection?
"Sort of.” Maggie looked back over her
shoulder at Bess. "You’ve nothing to fear from him, though. Honest. If I
thought for a second you did, I’d tell you.”
Nervous. Evasive. Cryptic. So unlike
Maggie MacGregor. "What aren’t you telling me?”
She looked back in front of her, toward
the white-carpeted floor. "It’s... complicated.”
Complicated. Well, that was comforting. "This
man,” Bess gave her instincts free rein. "He’s not like us, is he?” Speaking
her feelings aloud had her skin prickling.
Maggie twisted her lips and shifted on
her feet, clearly uneasy. "If I say no, will you change your mind about going
to Seascape?”
"No,” Bess insisted with absolute certainty.
The pull for those good feelings tugged more mightily than anything she could
imagine. Nothing would keep her from going to Seascape Inn. "There’s something
special there, luring me. I have to see what it is.” She couldn’t explain her
feelings fully; she didn’t understand them herself. But the sense of mystery,
of urgency, of irresistible allure was there, and so strong. It oddly promised
that at Seascape Inn she could do what she hadn’t been able to do here: sort
through the remnants of her life and plan her future—a future without John.
"No, then,” Maggie said softly. "He’s
not like us.”
Bess had known it. But knowing and
hearing it confirmed were two different things. Gooseflesh raised on her arms
and she had the hardest time catching her breath. "Does this man have a name?”
"Yes, of course. But—”
T. J. breezed into the show room. "You’re
all set, Bess. Miss Hattie’s expecting you.”
"Great.” Bess glanced at Maggie and,
seeing the lines of tension creasing her brow, backed off. Mystical events occurring
or not, extra stress during pregnancy was bad for Maggie and the baby. If she
said that this—whatever this proved to be—was all right, then certainly
it would prove exactly that. "You can relax, Prego. No more questions. I said I’d
trust you, and I will.”
Maggie slumped against T. J. in obvious
relief. "Thanks.”
Bess smiled, kissed Maggie on the cheek,
then stretched up to place a peck on T. J.’s jaw. When she drew back, she
stared at him, long and hard. "For you, I have one question. How did you know
I’d be going to Seascape before I knew I’d be going to Seascape?”
His mouth dropped open, but no sound
came out. He gave Maggie an inquisitive glance then, clearly not liking her
nonverbal response, he returned a worried gaze to Bess. "Just a guess.”
"Hmmm.” Something told her not to push.
And she decided to go with it. T. J. too had earned her respect and trust. "As
it turned out, a darn good one.”
"Appears so.” Conspicuously happy to be
off the hot seat, he grinned. "Your tickets are at the airport reception desk.
American. Three o’clock flight.”
"I’d better hurry, then.” She moved
toward the gallery’s entrance door.
"Bess,” Maggie raised her voice to be
heard, "Don’t forget to phone Francine. She said you’ve been ducking her calls,
and she needs to talk with you. It’s urgent.”
"With Francine, it’s always urgent.”
Bess paused at the glass front door. "Thanks,” her gratitude stuck in her
throat, "for everything.”
"Be careful, okay?” Maggie had that
worried gleam in her eye again.
It warned Bess what she didn’t know couldhurt her. Still, on looking at the painting, those good feelings had been
so strong. Once she got to Seascape, things would settle out okay; she just
knew it. She waved, then left Lakeview Gallery.
The bell on the door still tinkling in
the back rooms, Maggie watched Bess disappear beyond the tinted-glass windows
at the end of the riverfront walkway.
T. J. joined her. Looking out through
the glass onto the busy street, he grimaced. "Think she’ll call Francine?”
"Nope.” Maggie looked up at her husband,
her eyes shining. "But finally Tony’s interceding.”
T. J. rubbed their noses. "Did you tell
her about him?”
Maggie ran her fingertips up and down
the soft placket of his plaid shirt, between the second and third buttons. "Not
exactly.”
"Honey, you should have told her.
Remember how you reacted to Tony? He scared the bejesus out of you.”
He had. He’d gotten MacGregor’s
attention too. Cranky because he failed to mention that fact, she lifted her
chin. "I hinted.”
He looked at her with too-seeing eyes. "Okay,
’fess up. Why didn’t you tell her?”
Maggie snuggled against him. "Worrying
about Tony drew us together. I figured—”
"Matchmaking.” T. J. grunted and clasped
her shoulders. "I should have known. You’re as bad as Miss Hattie.”
"Miss Hattie’s an angel, and you know
it.”
"Did I say she wasn’t?”
"No, but you sure implied it. You
sounded perfectly snotty, MacGregor, and you know I like snotty about as much
as I like nagging.”
"Facts are facts, honey. Have you
forgotten those seventeen possibles she tried pairing me up with?”
"Not hardly. But she didn’t know then
you were there waiting for me.”
"Point is, she still tried.”
"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?”
Chapter 2
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.
Maybe she’d have better luck than he’d
had. Why did he come here? Why did he listen to her program every
night? Knowing she had become involved with another man, why did he
still hunger for the sound of her voice?
Maybe he still loved her.
Impossible. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.John Mystic was no woman’s chump.
So why did he keep putting himself
through this?
It didn’t matter. He’d done both for the
last time. And how many times he had made and broken those promises to himself
before didn’t matter either. This time, he damn well meant them.
"I meant exactly what I said,” Bryce
told him. "Bess refuses to touch any of the assets you two acquired. Francine’s
having a virtual stroke, but Bess won’t budge.”
Bess’s lawyer having a virtual stroke
ranked as her problem, but Bess’s refusal—that was another matter. An
infuriating one. Was she sending John another of her infamous messages?
Probably. Probably her way of telling
him she wanted nothing of his, of theirs, because it held no value to her. Heheld no value to her.
Yeah, Bess never had screamed her intent
or opinions, or anything else, for that matter. Cashmere, eel-skin women like
her opted for far more subtle means of torture. Always sending confusing
signals and silent messages a man had to try to decode. Always analyzing their
men too. But his cashmere, eel-skin woman wasn’t going to get away with
it anymore.
He should have stopped this a long time
ago and hadn’t. But, by God, he’d stop it now. She would not blow them
off as if their marriage had meant nothing. He wouldn’t let her do that to
either of them. "She’ll take half, and that’s my bottom line.”
"She’s refused, John,” Bryce said. "She’ll
accept nothing.”
John frowned at the street. Between
streetlamps and glaring neon signs, dark shadows muddied the pavement. "Why?”
"Francine doesn’t have a clue.”
"Do you?” They were friends too, and had
been for years. Bryce, his now-deceased wife, Meriam; T. J. MacGregor and, more
recently, T. J.’s wife, Maggie. John and Bess had been, or were, friends with
them all.
"No,” Bryce said. "She hasn’t said a
word about it to me. Whenever I try to bring up the case, she ducks the topic
or gives me one of her this-conversation-is-unethical looks.”
Oh, her settlement refusal was a
message, all right. "Unacceptable.” John hit the blinker and changed lanes to
pass a battered green pickup with two German Shepherds loose in the truck bed.
It seriously needed a new muffler, and the right-rear fender had rusted out.
"Francine says Bess isn’t negotiable on
this.”
"She damn well better be, because I’m
not agreeing to her nothing business.”
"Why not? Clearly, this is the way she
wants it.”
"I said, unacceptable.” He braked hard.
Was he going to hit every red light in the city between Pontchartrain Drive and
the apartment?
"John, as your lawyer, I have to point
out how many divorcing spouses would love to be in your position on this.
Especially those with your kind of assets.”
"I’m not one of them, okay?”
"That’s apparent. My question is, why?”
"I’m just not. Let’s leave it at that.” Isn’t
this stupid light ever going to change?
"Can’t do it, buddy. Francine’s going to
want a reason. And if you expect Bess to go along with what you want, you’d
better make it a good one.”
John sped to the corner, then stopped at
yet another red light. On the crossroad, cars whizzed through the beams of his
headlights. Bryce was right. Bess wouldn’t rant or rave, she’d just quietly
refuse to budge an inch. "You want a reason? Okay, here it is. Bess is running
on emotion, not logic. After that guy Tony’s call, if Millicent Fairgate hasn’t
already, she’s bound to fire Bess. She’s going to need—”
"I’ll be damned.”
Puzzled, John frowned at the phone
receiver, then put it back to his ear. "What?”
"You want her back.” Bryce sounded
incredulous.
John’s stomach lurched. It was too late
for that. He’d run out of time. Elise was dead, and Dixie was still missing.
And only a chump would want back a woman who’d walked out on him.
The light turned green and he punched
down on the accelerator. "I want to make sure she has the resources to take
care of herself until she decides what to do with the rest of her life. You
know how proud she is, Bryce. The woman’s so stubborn she’d die before asking
anyone for anything—especially me.”
"I hear she’s changing, though I can’t
say I know it for fact. But Santos did give her Silk, and she accepted it.”
"Silk?” Three more blocks. Just three
more blocks and he’d be there. "What does Bess need with fabric? She can’t sew
a stitch.” When they’d gotten a little frisky and she’d caught the heel of her
pump in her hem, he’d had to mend the slinky, hip-hugging sexy slip she called
a skirt. God, her legs went on forever in that thing.
"Silk is a Yorkie.”
A dog? A flash of anger raced through
John’s chest. Jealousy ran fast on its heels. "She accepts a dog from Santos,
but won’t touch a thing she acquired with her husband? That proves my point. It’s
not as if we didn’t both work. She can’t even use that excuse.” Definitely
sending him a message. Definitely. "I’m telling you, Bryce, she’s not running
on all cylinders.”
Bryce softened his tone. "John, you and
Bess are divorcing. Whether or not she’s running on a single cylinder isn’t any
of your business. What I mean is, her job and future aren’t your problems
anymore.”
Seething, John swiped at his blinker. "Until
July tenth, she’s my wife. That makes her problems my problems.” He whipped
into the parking lot, then cut the engine and the lights. "Now you call her
shark of a lawyer and tell her Bess takes half, or no divorce.”
"Damn it, John. If we go back into court
without this being resolved, Judge Branson is going to throw a fit.”
"We all have bad days, buddy. The judge
can fend for himself. If Bess wants her divorce; she can have it—on my terms.”
He lifted the handle and opened the door. "I’m at home now. I’ll drop by the
office in the morning.”
"John, wait!” Bryce sighed deeper. "I
wish we could have delayed this until later. I really am sorry about Elise.”
"Yeah, well, we do what we have to do.”
The ache in his chest doubled. "Give the kids a hug, and tell Suzie I said she
can only have sweet dreams.” He knew firsthand that losing a mother was rough
on a kid. But it was especially rough on one so young.
He clicked his phone off, then got out of the
car.
The air smelled of rain, heavy and
sultry. He looked up, then stilled. Not the apartment but the hospital loomed
in front of him, large and stark white against the cloudy sky. He’d
automatically driven there, just as he had every day during the long weeks
Elise had been a patient. She was dead now.
Dead.
His vision blurring, he looked up at the
building. It seemed wrong. So clinical and cold, when Elise had been anything
but. Why had she had to die? Why had he had to lose her, too?
Memories of three days ago, when he’d
parked in this same spot, flooded back, and his knees went weak. God, but he
hadn’t wanted to walk in there. He hadn’t wanted to see her for the last time.
Knowing he’d failed her, he hadn’t
wanted to watch her die.
At
noon, John met with Bryceat his uptown office and heard the words that would forever alter his life:
"Bess won’t budge, and she’s left town.”
Bess had left New Orleans? John paced
before Bryce’s gleaming mahogany desk, cursing the sun for flooding in through
the window when it should be storming. Sunshine seemed the ultimate insult to
endure for someone confronted with ten tons of turmoil. "Where did she go?”
Fiddling with a button on his suit
jacket, Bryce avoided John’s eyes. "Sea Haven Village, Maine.”
"Maine?” Pacing the plush carpet, John
stopped beside a maroon leather wingback chair. Photographs Meriam had taken
hung on the paneled walls. One of T. J. MacGregor’s paintings held a place of
honor, behind Bryce’s desk, above a credenza. John glanced at the painting, but
it was one of Meriam’s photographs that captured his attention. A seaside ocean
view from atop granite cliffs. A huge gray Victorian home. It was just a
clapboard house. So why did it captivate him? "Does she know anyone in Maine?”
"I don’t know. But she’s at a
bed-and-breakfast called Seascape Inn, the one T. J. and Maggie visit.” Bryce
laced his hands atop his desk. "Look, if you want this property dispute
settled, then you’re going to have to go to Bess and take care of it
personally, one-on-one.”
One-on-one with his wife was the lastthing John wanted right now. He was still too shaky over Elise’s death, and
he had to get back to the case. Elise had known he’d lied to her on her
deathbed about finding Dixie and, until he did find her daughter and see to it
that she was all right, neither he nor Elise would know a minute’s peace. "I’d
rather not.”
"I don’t think your ‘rathers’ carry much
weight on this.” Bryce frowned. "The judge is threatening a hefty fine if this
property dispute isn’t settled pronto.”
John shrugged. "Right now, I’d rather
pay it.”
"He’s not fining you. He’s fining Bess.”
Bryce lifted a hand. "She left town.”
She didn’t have the money to pay a hefty
fine. Had she gone into private practice, then she’d have been set financially,
but she’d wanted to help others more than assure her own financial security.
John had understood that, had admired her for it. But that choice left her
personally vulnerable now. And her vulnerability played a big part in him
insisting she accept half of their assets. It was the only way he could be
certain she’d have the freedom to follow her dreams.
He reached to his inside jacket pocket
then pulled out his checkbook and pen. "How much?” She’d be ticked, but so
what? She was already ticked. He’d outlasted her lawyer’s lungs before; he
could again.
"You can’t cover it—Judge Branson’s
order.”
John dropped a fist to the back of the
chair. "Why is he doing this?”
"Because he ordered you two to settle
this property dispute last go round and it still isn’t done. He’s taking your
defiance kind of personal.”
Figured. Only one in a hundred judges
would get his bowels into an uproar over this, and theirs just had to be the
one.
Bryce leaned back, propped his feet on
his desk, then laced his fingers behind his head. "The way I see it, the ball’s
in your court, buddy.”
"Looks that way.” John plopped down in
the wingback chair, exhausted from the mountain of things he’d had to do since
Elise had passed away. Now this with Bess. Nothing with that woman had ever
come easily. Why should the divorce be any different?
"So what’s it gonna be?” Bryce asked. "Are
you heading up to Seascape to work this out with Bess, or are you going to
watch your wife go to jail for contempt of court?”
