by Vicki Hinze
He’d sworn that, though they couldn’t be together, they’d never be apart.
All these long years, he’d kept his word. He hadn’t let her see him because to see each other and to not be able to hold, to touch, would be far too painful for them both. But he had given her signs of him being there with her. She frequently talked to him and he found ways to answer her. And yet she lacked faith in him keeping his word.
He resented that as much as he resented giving John Mystic the creeps. As much as he resented Bess’s fear on realizing he wasn’t the telepath she believed him to be. He’d steer clear of them for a while now, and give them time to accept the truth about him—and from Hattie to let her know he didn’t much appreciate her slight.
John and Bess had reacted normally, of course. In fear. Tony sighed, hating that. When Bess had believed him a telepath, she’d been frisky. He’d thoroughly enjoyed her barbs and demands. Once people learned the truth about what he was, they rarely acted so open. She’d been a breath of fresh air—and far too clever. John had, too. A shame they’d suspected and picked up on the truth so quickly. Tony could have used more preparation time.
Getting these two together had become the biggest challenge he’d faced in a decade. They loved each other; he knew they did. But they were so caught up in what they thought was real about each other that what was real got lost in the shuffle.
Whether or not they stood a chance together was entirely up to them. For now, he’d done all he could think of to do to steer them in the right direction. If they didn’t settle their differences soon, though, he’d have no choice but to get . . . creative.
Dangerous, that. And drastic. But what other choice did he have?
He stared out the widow’s walk window. Hatch hiked over the cliffs in his yellow slicker and black boots. A shame that his wise friend knew the answers to all John’s questions about Dixie Dupree and John didn’t know enough to ask the right questions. Maybe this meeting on the cliffs would provide an opportunity. Then again, John was so confused and centered on his feelings for Bess, it probably wouldn’t. The man loved her, but as long as he felt he was a failure, he’d never make a move toward a reunion.
A real shame he had this to contend with as well as the secret about his parents. Tony turned away from the window. In a pinch, Hattie had expressed a lack of faith in him, too. And, justified or not, a part of him understood exactly what John Mystic felt.
Betrayed.
And angry.
Rain pelted him, as cold as ice. John should be shivering, but the truth was, he was too numb to feel a thing.
Tony. A ghost. A ghost?
Bess had denied the “G” word, of course. But John couldn’t deny it. He rolled the yellow carnation petal that had been in Elise’s hand when she’d died between his forefinger and thumb. It made sense.
Well, it didn’t make sense. But Tony being a ghost had the puzzle pieces fitting into place.
“Fine storm we’re having, ain’t it?”
John looked over the rocky cliffs toward the lighthouse. Trudging gingerly through the patches of chickweed sprouting from the sand-filled crevices, Hatch limped closer, then finally sat down beside John on the craggy rocks. “Yeah, it’s a great storm.”
Hatch reached under his slicker, pulled out his corncob pipe, then perched it in the corner of his mouth. “Ain’t but one thing can drive a man into a fine storm without so much as a slicker. A woman. Actually, trouble with a woman.” He stared down, out past a lone oak’s low-slung branch to the angry waves beating against the narrow strip of a strand below. The wind roared, blowing up the face of the rocks then over them, bending the tall grass and weeds and shivering through the trees. “Yep, women. Ya gotta love ’em.”
John sighed. “I think men must be half-nuts, Hatch.”
He grunted, then leaned back onto his elbows and lifted his weathered face to the rain as if it were warm sunshine. “The ratio’s closer to two-thirds, in my estimation.”
Was the man ridiculing him? John slid him an accessing glare. But, seeing not a hint of scorn or guile in Hatch’s expression or manner, John dropped the glare and sighed again. “Truth is truth, and Bess has me hovering at a hundred percent.”
“She’s a moody woman.” Hatch didn’t open his eyes.
Tony had said the same thing. This time, John wouldn’t assume it an insult. “Takes everything into her heart?”
“Yep, and pretends she don’t feel, when her heart’s cracking from being too full and holding inside all she does feel.” Hatch nodded. “Pull up a blade, son. Ain’t as good as a pipe stem, but gnawing on a tender blade helps a man with his worrying.”
What could it hurt? He’d tried and tried and never had gotten a good look at her hand. It’d seemed almost as if she’d known he’d been attempting to see her ring and she hadn’t wanted him to do it. John pulled up a blade of grass then stuck the end of it between his lips. “You call it moody. I call it her cashmere, eel-skin control.” Just off the shore, a gull dove for a fish. It must be starved to hunt during a storm. Starved, John grunted, or a male with a moody mate. “She’s a tot less reserved than she used to be, but I want to break through all of it.”
“I expect you do. It’s hard on a man’s pride to know his wife’s taken another man.”
“It is!” John nodded enthusiastically. “She’s made me a damn eunuch and doesn’t even think about it, much less see it.”
“Bet when people start riding her about Silk’s custody suit, she’ll be doing some thinking then.”
“How did you know about that?” Rain dripped down from his forehead into his eyes. John swiped a finger across his brow.
“Word travels fast in the village.”
Bess too had said that. “But who told you?”
“When it’s stormy, the phone lines go a little crazy. Anyone can listen in on any conversation. If asked, they’d likely deny doing it, but I figure, what the heck? If it’s my phone and I pick it up and hear somebody else talking, then I can listen to what they’re saying without so much as a twinge of guilt. If they don’t want me to hear what they’re saying, then they ought not be talking on my phone.”
John grinned, betting Bess didn’t know word traveled so fast around here with the help of Ma Bell.
And maybe Tony.
White caps littered the ocean and pounded the shore, lifting an angry sea spray. Rain trickled down John’s cheeks to his chin and stung. “Hatch, have you ever heard Seascape Inn is haunted?”
“Sure. Dozens of times.”
“Really?” John turned from the sea to the old man. There had to be a connection. Tony and Seascape. Had to be more than coincidence.
“’Course. Usually about 3:30 in the afternoon.”
Totally confused, John frowned. “What?”
“Batty Beaulah—er, don’t mention to Miss Hattie I called Beaulah that.”
John bent his knee then wiped his face on his sleeve. “I won’t.”
“Batty Beaulah swears the inn’s haunted. Drives Sheriff Cobb crazy with her sightings—usually down at the Blue Moon Cafe. He drops by there every day about 3:30 for coffee and some of Lucy’s pie.”
Batty Beaulah wasn’t quite as batty as everyone thought. Did Tony talk to her, too?
Hatch flicked at a brown weed that clung to his slicker. “Have you heard about the second time the sheriff tried to dodge Batty Beaulah at the Blue Moon?”
“No, I haven’t.” Nor had he heard about the first.
“Got his ample hide wedged under the bar. The sheriff always has been a slow learner—and as stubborn as the pastor is persistent at nagging Jimmy about taking his girlie calendar off his shop wall.” Hatch grunted. “For a while, it looked as if they’d have to bust the wood to get the sheriff unstuck. That had Fred Baker hostile, and Lucy fretting something fierce.”
Lucy. The redhead at the Blue Moon Cafe the day John had met Bess there. The one who’d reminded him of Elise.
“Collin Freeport had helped F
red’s daddy build that bar, and Fred always admired Collin’s wood-carvings and was right fond of the bar because he’d helped build it. Fred would rather have cut the sheriff than the wood, seeing’s how the sheriff had been fool enough to get himself stuck in the first place.”
By the skin of his teeth, John repressed a grin. “I’ll bet that opinion stirred up a heated debate.”
“Better than some of the Village Council meetings. And they get pretty spirited.”
“Did they bust the bar?”
“Naw. Jimmy Goodson saved the day. Fine boy, that Jimmy.”
The car mechanic. “How?”
“He greased up the sheriff like a pig set for auction with a couple cans of 10W30 motor oil, nondetergent—Pennzoil, if I recollect proper—then slid the sheriff right on out of there.” Hatch scratched at the gray stubble on his chin. “Seems sacrilege that when he finally got free, Batty Beaulah stood there waiting for him. In my estimation, the man had suffered enough, but evidently God felt a mite different on the matter.”
Envisioning the big, burly sheriff diving under the bar to avoid the tiny, birdlike Beaulah had John smiling. “Women, eh?”
“Yep, women.” Hatch clicked his tongue and winked. “Ya gotta love ’em.”
John shook his head, a grin tugging at his lips. “Hatch, do you know Tony?”
“Sure. We were good friends. The best. Me and him and Vic were the Three Musketeers of Sea Haven Village. Why we—” Hatch paused then squinted and sent John a withering look. “Don’t you be playing games with this old man. I know Hattie Stillman, and ain’t a day goes by she don’t talk about her soldier.”
Tony was Miss Hattie’s fiancé? Her soldier?
Of course. Another piece of the puzzle slid into place. “She does talk about him. I just wondered if you knew him.”
“Everyone around here did—except the Butlers.” Hatch nodded toward Fisherman’s Co-op. “They weren’t living here then, though Bill’s Uncle Mike was. He knew Tony. Used to take us fishing back in the old days before he retired and Tony got himself killed.”
Tony was dead.
A ghost.
And Batty Beaulah was as sane as John and Bess, which could, or could not, be saying a lot.
Hatch sat up and fiddled with his pipe. Rain rolled down his neck then disappeared under his slicker’s collar. “I’m thinking maybe Bess is as confused as you.”
A seal waddled off a rock just offshore and flopped into the water. “Yeah, most likely.” At least he’d confirmed that Tony was a ghost. When John had started to say the “G” word, Bess nearly had fainted. Worse, she’d started wringing her hands again. So he’d hushed and let the word hang in the air between them like an echo. Unspoken, but there. “She’s facing some rough situations.”
“Yep, times are hard—especially for a moody woman.”
John put Elise’s flower petal back into his wallet, then shifted his weight onto his hip and shoved the wallet back into his pocket. “I’m doing my best to help her. Not that she considers me anything more than a hellhound bent on torturing her heels.”
“You ain’t. You love her.”
Surprised, he slid Hatch a how-did-you-know-that look.
The crusty old salt of a man shrugged. “You’re sitting out on the cliffs in the middle of a storm, boy. I ain’t a rocket scientist, but I got the picture clear enough.”
“Yeah.” John sighed. “I love her. I don’t want to, but I do.”
“What you want don’t matter, does it?”
“Doesn’t seem to.” Why didn’t he resent that more? Even two days ago he would have resented it immensely. He had resented it immensely. Why not now?
“I’m thinking sometimes confusion is a good thing. ’Specially in women.”
Gooseflesh prickled at John’s skin. He looked at Hatch. “Why?”
He took his pipe out of his mouth and squinted against the rain pelting at his face, deepening his wrinkles to grooves. “Because when a woman’s confused, she don’t stop to think. She just acts on what she feels.” He shrugged. “Comes in handy.”
With his tongue, John rolled the tender blade from the left corner of his mouth over to the right. “Yeah.” Anticipation filled his stomach and a smile crept to his lips. “Yeah.”
“I’m thinking, if while a woman’s all confused, a man was to go after what he wants most, then he might just get it.”
“Maybe.” John weighed the possibilities. “But he might also reach out a hand and draw back a nub.”
“There is that.” Hatch nodded his agreement, then snorted. “But, hell, boy, what’s life without a few risks?”
“Risks are one thing. Failure’s another.” John looked back out onto the water, not wanting to see censure against him in Hatch’s eyes. “I was one lousy husband, Hatch.”
“I’m told it’s a job a man’s gotta grow into. Shame it don’t come with a training guide, ain’t it?” Hatch spit onto the rocks. “Definitely an oversight, in my estimation.”
“Yeah.” On-the-job training without a Policy and Procedures Manual. John never before had looked at marriage quite like that. It made sense. “You know, you’re onto something here. Bess is always sedate—even when she’s fired up. I want to see what she’s really like, underneath the mask.” Heat crawling up his neck, he lifted a little stone and rubbed it between his forefinger and thumb. The gritty sand clinging to it sprinkled onto his jeans. “I guess that makes me a sorry man.”
“Maybe. We all got our demons, you know.” Hatch shrugged. “But, more likely, I’d say it makes you human.”
John supposed it did. Hoped it did. Miss Hattie had been right about Hatch. He was a wise man.
Hatch drew on his unlit pipe. “Why does she hide her feelings?”
Opening his mouth to answer, John realized he didn’t have the foggiest notion. Hadn’t he asked her that either? They’d been busy buying dishes, climbing career ladders, making love. But surely they’d talked about some of this stuff. They had to have talked about it. He thought back, but couldn’t recall a single discussion. Shame filled his stomach, turned his tongue bitter. And another shovelful of guilt dumped onto the heap. “I don’t know,” he confessed.
“You were married to her.”
“I still am.” Bristling, John grimaced. “I told you I was a lousy husband.”
“Lousy or not,” Hatch hauled himself to his feet, “it’s looking like you might get that chance you’re wanting—provided you move your ass and get to her before she breaks her neck trying to get to you.”
John wheeled around. Bess was slipping and sliding her way across the cliffs. “She’s going to kill herself.” He scrambled to his feet.
Hatch shoved his pipe stem back into his mouth and squinted. “Possible.”
“Damn.” John looked for footholds in the craggy cliffs and, using them and patches of weeds as he’d seen Hatch do, he started making his way toward her. “Bess,” he paused to shout, “don’t move. Just stay where you are until I get there.”
“Women.” Hatch turned back toward the lighthouse. “Yep, ya gotta love ’em.”
John skidded and nearly did a split. His groin muscle pulled tighter than an arrow-nocked bow. “Or kill ’em.”
“There is that, too.” Hatch waved without looking back.
The strong wind and rain had the rocks slicker than if they’d been doused in oil like the sheriff. Bess, thank God, had decided for once to listen and stood still, shivering down to her toes. No jacket, of course. She had no more sense than John. And her jeans were as soaked as his, too. So was her blouse, and it was thinner. Red silk. Drenched red silk that lay plastered to her skin.
He finally reached her. Standing toe to toe and breasts to chest in the pouring rain, he glared down at her. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
“I was worried.” She looked up at him, defiance burning in her eyes. “I woke up and you were gone. Miss Hattie said she thought you’d come down here.”
Mascara streaked do
wn her cheeks, and still she looked beautiful to him. “Didn’t she tell you the cliffs were dangerous?”
“Of course. Why else would I risk coming out here?” She shoved her drenched hair back, spraying him with rain. “I was afraid you’d fallen.”
Right. Bess worried about him? Did she think he was stupid and gullible? She’d hoped he’d fallen, more likely. No, Bess didn’t care; she just wanted him out of her way. And that angered him. With her, and with himself. Why did it matter? Why did she matter? Selena had been wrong about a lot of things, but she’d been right too. Bess had made her feelings for him clear. “Sorry to disappoint you, darling, but we’re still going to have to go for the divorce. I’m not going to fall off the cliffs and kill myself to spare you the trouble—or the embarrassment—of ending our marriage. And I’m not going to let you fall either.”
She flinched. His words clearly stung her. He probably should apologize, but he wasn’t going to do it. He’d called this as he’d seen it.
She looked up at him, blinking fast. “I don’t want you dead, John.”
“Don’t you?” Crazy woman, coming out here, sliding all over on the rocks. She’d already nearly given him heart failure. Definitely scared ten years off him. And she expected him to believe she didn’t want him dead? He grabbed her arm and started leading her sack toward the house. “Is that why you’re telling me these lies about you caring and worrying about me when you don’t and you aren’t, Bess? Because you’re wishing me well? How dare you take chances like this with your life?”
“What’s wrong with you?” She jerked loose from him and stumbled, tearing her jeans and skinning her knee.
The bright red blood had John’s stomach churning. “Be still and let me see.”
“It’s just a scrape.” On her feet again, she stepped more carefully, onto the path then down the stone steps to Main Street.
“I’m sorry.” From the flush in her cheeks he could forget worrying about her being cold. In fact, he should be more worried about seeing her steam. “Did you hear me?”