by Vicki Hinze
As if feeling his gaze, her lashes fluttered. Before she could open her eyes and maybe refuse him, he dipped his chin and kissed her. He tasted her surprise, then her recognition of him and, when she purred and lazily curled her arms around his neck, a warm ray of joy as pure and as good as sunshine spread through his heart. Cherishing it, cherishing her and this moment, he lingered, kissing her lips until she stretched awake and opened her eyes.
“Good morning.”
“Hmmm, it’s looking promising.” She arched a brow and her eyes sparkled through the haze of sleep.
He pecked a kiss to her forehead, then rubbed it with his chin. “I called Bill Butler at Fisherman’s Co-op. In an hour, his son Aaron will meet us down at the dock with a bushel of clams and a burlap bag full of seaweed.”
“What for?” She grunted, shaking off the last of the netherworld fog of sleep.
“I promised my wife we’d bake clams, and Bill says Little Island is the place to do it.” Picturesque. Private. And no Beaulah Favish with her binoculars, spying on them.
“But, Jonathan,” Bess pressed a hand to his thigh, “only villagers can go to Little Island. Miss Millie donated it to the villagers because the coast was getting too touristical and—”
“Touristical?”
“Too many tourists,” Bess explained. “Anyway, only the villagers can go there. We’re from away. We won’t be welcome there.”
“We are. Bill invited us.” John forked his fingers through her hair, pushing it away from her face. “And if you’re interested, we also can get a complete tour of the lighthouse—if we can bribe Miss Hattie into baking Hatch some blueberry muffins. Hatch offered the tour, even though he’s summercating.”
“Summercating?” Bess wrinkled her nose.
“I’m not sure—these Mainers have a language all their own—but I think it’s when you spend an afternoon under a shade tree with a good book, or on the porch swing watching the grass grow.”
“Summercating. I like it.” She smiled. “So we’re going to spend some of our seven days summercating, then.”
“I thought we would—if the idea appeals to you.” He’d go anywhere to be with her, even Death Valley, his least favorite spot on earth.
Bess smiled. “It appeals.”
John let his hand slide along her curves. She appealed. Enormously. “Good.”
She stretched into his stroke, and her voice went needy-soft. “Jonathan, how much time do we have?”
“Why?”
She dropped her gaze to his chest. “When a husband gives his wife a gift, she should show her immediate appreciation. Don’t you agree?”
“A gift?” What gift had he given her? Another of her subtle messages? Maybe. And the same words he’d given her. He’d tease her a little. That’s something they’d done far too little before. Bess wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to repeat past mistakes. “But I haven’t—”
Staring at him, Bess interrupted. “Keeping a promise is the right thing to do, but it’s also a gift, Jonathan. Now ditch the clothes and come here so I can show you how grateful I—hmmm, wait. I’m feeling pretty grateful. How much time do we have before meeting Aaron?”
She wanted him. John’s heart skipped a rugged beat. Not once in all their time together had Bess ever been the aggressor in their lovemaking. Not once. That she was now, that she was openly telling him she wanted to make love with him, inflamed him. Eager to give her what she wanted, all thumbs at her hunger and the emotions in him it stirred, he yanked at the buttons of his shirt. “Enough.”
John glanced down at his watch. Bess would be ready to leave for Little Island in fifteen minutes. They’d be a good forty-five minutes late, but it’d been worth it. An aggressive Bess was worth anything. Everything. He’d called to warn Bill Butler, and he’d tip Aaron extra for the time. Hell, for another hour like the last, John would buy Aaron a new boat. Grinning at the little terracotta boxes, side by side atop the chest, John again felt that tender hitch in his chest. She’d chosen it. And she’d chosen him. Riled, Bess was magnificent. But open and loving, she went beyond magnificent. And she’d taken him with her—straight to heaven.
Six more days. Even if they held only half the promise of this one, they’d be enough. He could handle living with only the memories. He’d miss her. He’d never stop missing her, but he could do it. He could survive.
Sitting at the desk, he tapped the end of his pen to the file open before him. He’d rather have her. To do that, he had to solve the case. And Tony’s mystic tide message. That message was a map; John was convinced of it. But to what? To where? For what? And for whom?
The phone rang.
Still deep in thought, John answered it. “Mystic.”
“John, it’s me—Bryce.”
“Hey, buddy.” John leaned back and put his thoughts on hold.
“How are things coming on the divorce settlement with Bess? You two reach a compromise?”
Oh, boy. “Several, but not yet on the money.”
“Progress is progress. Dare I ask on what?”
“Not just yet.” John looked down to the mop curled into a ball, resting her head on the toe of his shoe. “For now, let’s leave it at there probably won’t be a custody suit on Silk.”
“Wonderful.” Bryce let out a sigh, obviously relieved. “Hang tight on the money end. Millicent Fairgate has been spewing insults all over town about Bess’s keeping the divorce under wraps and making the station look bad. She’s furious.”
“Expected she would be.” John grimaced and folded an arm over his chest. “Any of these insults slanderous or libelous?”
“Just short of it.”
“Watch her. If she steps over the line, sue her. Bess has enough to contend with without that vulture circling her.”
“Will do, but I think the problem of Millicent Fairgate is about to dissipate.” Bryce paused and static filled the phone wires. “I would’ve waited until you got back to New Orleans to go over this, but considering the circumstances, I figured I’d best call.”
“Okay.”
“I just got today’s mail, John. There’s something in it from Elise. It was addressed to me, so I opened it.”
John swallowed hard. “And?”
“It’s a codicil to her will, duly executed and notarized—by Judge Branson, no less.”
Judge Branson? Now why would Elise have him notarize a codicil rather than her attorney? John frowned. Sooner or later Bryce would get around to explaining.
“She’s directed her executor—you—to buy WLUV 107.3 from Millicent Fairgate for fair market value.”
“What for?” Odd twist, and totally unexpected.
“She doesn’t say. Only instructs you to buy it.”
John dragged a hand through his hair. “Hell, Bryce. How am I supposed to do that? Millicent isn’t going to sell the station. It’s her legacy.”
“She won’t have any choice,” Bryce said, deadpan serious. “In fact, the only way she can save face is to pretend to sell it.”
Pretend to sell it? “What the hell are you talking about?”
“There are documents along with the codicil, John. Elise already owns the station. She bought it from Millicent’s husband—right after Bess filed for the legal separation.”
“Now why would Elise do that?” And why would Millicent pretend she still owned it? She was still running the station. This didn’t make a lick of sense.
“I don’t know. But in the letter, Elise says to publicly buy the station from Millicent. To disclose the fact Elise already owns it only if Millicent won’t play ball.”
Odd. No, weird. John cocked his head. Another puzzle he couldn’t figure out. “Well, I guess you’d best buy it then. Offer her fair market value today.”
“If you insist.” Bryce huffed his displeasure. “John, you knew Elise better than anyone else alive. Why would she go through the motions of buying a station she already owns? She’s even stipulated which account the money is to be drawn fro
m to pay Millicent.”
Turning in his chair, John stared out the window, down over the copse of trees to the sleepy Sea Haven Village. Fog rolled in off the ocean and only hints of the rooftops were visible. It wouldn’t ruin their outing to Little Island. In five minutes, the sun would be shining again. Maine weather was nothing if not changeable. “I don’t know why she would, but I suspect she’s giving someone—possibly Millicent’s husband—a day of grace.”
“A chance to save face, you mean.”
John shrugged. “Same thing, isn’t it?”
“I guess so. But don’t you want to find out before we proceed? This isn’t small change we’re talking about.”
“No, I don’t. If Elise wanted to disclose her reasons, she’d have done so. Since she didn’t give them, she didn’t want us to know them. We have to respect that.”
“But Elise could get burned. Well, her estate could. You know what I mean.”
“She was a smart woman with a good heart. She’s not doing anything she didn’t want done. Don’t dig, Bryce, just get the ball rolling and close the deal.”
“Will do, buddy. But it strikes me odd and I’m really curious.”
“Forget it, okay?” A light tap sounded at his door. “Got to go. Bess and I are going to bake some clams.”
“Bake clams? John, this isn’t a vacation with your loving wife. You’re supposed to be working on a property settlement for your divorce. Judge Branson—”
“Can get his own damn clams, and his own woman.”
“I’ll pass that tidbit along when he tosses both you and Bess into the slammer.”
“Get us one cell, mmm?”
“Do I smell a reconciliation in the air here?”
John’s heart wrenched. “Only for six more days.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Is Suzie sleeping better?”
“Not really. But we’re working on it. Her therapist says it just takes time.”
“Give her a hug from me.”
“I’ll do that. She’ll be all right—the doctor assures me of that. Getting used to the idea of losing her mother really has body-slammed her. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was worried, John. It’s going on too long.”
“Time’s a funny thing, you know? For her, it’s going a lot slower without a mother there to soften the day-to-day blows. Give her some time, like the doc says, and let her know how much you love her. Lots of hugs.” Hugs John hadn’t gotten, and had needed so desperately. “And let her know how much you need her, and how special she is to you.” Elise had given him that. She’d called him dear heart. Suzie needed to know she was dear to someone. Desperately needed to know she mattered. “And get her a mother,” John added before thinking better of it.
“Yeah, I’ll just phone Macy’s and order a mom.” Bryce sucked in a breath. “In the meantime, you forget baking clams and get that property settlement resolved.”
“Working on it.” John hung up the phone then opened the door, eager to see Bess. The woman didn’t know it, but if Elise owned the station, then Bess’s job was no longer in jeopardy. But he thought he’d wait a while to tell her. Bringing up their lives away from Seascape might bring reality crashing down around their ears and, right now, he was happy for the first time in six years. He didn’t want reality. He wanted his wife. And, at Seascape, he had her.
For six more days.
Little Island was one of the most gorgeous places on earth. No electricity. No phones. No bridges. The only way to it was by boat and, once there, the lush foliage and graceful trees wove a magical spell around those fortunate enough to visit it.
Aaron dropped Bess and John off at the end of a rickety wooden pier near a little sign that read: Leave only footprints. Take only photographs. And nearer to the rocky shore, nailed to the pier’s last post, was another sign. It was older, faded, and the sun glared brightly on it. Bess couldn’t make out the words.
They walked on and, under the shade of a craggy old oak, she and John spread out a patchwork quilt. The day had started out cool but had warmed to a very pleasant upper seventy degrees—a welcome respite from the sweltering nineties pegging the mercury at home. And now sitting knee to knee with John, Bess inhaled the fresh, salt-tinged air deeply and gazed out beyond the orange tiger lilies some thoughtful soul had planted, onto the ocean. “I’ll bet this place is breathtaking at sunset.”
John slid his gaze down the face of the rocky slope to the narrow strip of a pebbled beach, and nodded. “I’ll bet it is. We’ll have to come back one day and see.”
Bess smiled, feeling a little melancholy. If they did come back, it’d have to be within six days. After then . . . no. No, she wasn’t going to think of them now. She was going to take all she could get from these six days. Live each of them to the fullest.
“So,” John stretched out, grabbed a rock, and anchored the edge of the quilt against the steady breeze, “what did Miss Hattie send?”
Bess peered inside the basket, then grinned. “Miss Millie’s infamous chocolate chip cookies!”
“Really? T. J. raves about those.” John reached for the green-covered container.
Bess pulled it back. “Not so fast, Jonathan. Those are for dessert.”
He came up on his knees, the devil dancing in his eyes, captured her in his arms, then leaned forward, forcing her down on the quilt, onto her back. “I had different plans for dessert,” he breathed against her mouth, then captured her lips in a spellbinding kiss that left them both breathless. “But if my wife wants cookies, then she’ll have them.”
Bess darted her slumberous gaze from him to the container, then back to him. She dropped the container onto the quilt and smiled. “Your wife wants cookies. Later.”
He grunted, let his hand drift down her side, ribs to hip. “What does she want now?”
Her smile faded. She eased her hand between them, cupped him, then gently squeezed. The twinkling in her eyes darkened her irises to the blue of the ocean. “You,” she whispered, urging him back to her. “She wants you.”
“God, I do love a woman who knows what she wants.” John grunted, rolled away, then stood up. He did a sexy stripper’s dance, removing his clothes, whirling them in the air like lassos, then slinging them onto the grass and rocks. His left sock snagged on a branch, high up in the oak. “A winter haven for the gulls,” he said, as if his aim had been intentional.
Bess laughed out loud, watched his shenanigans with youthful delight, then joined him with her own rendition of bawdy and brass. She was lousy at it, but he didn’t seem to notice. A seductive temptress was out of her realm, yet the way his eyes heated to that heart-stopping cobalt blue, Jonathan didn’t know that either, and she sure as hell had no intention of telling him. They’d never laughed like this, teased, and taunted, and acted totally ridiculous when making love.
And only now did she notice, or wonder why.
It was enticing, exciting—fun.
As naked as he, she stood on the quilt in the stark sunlight. They faced each other openly, all flaws exposed. The hunger burning in his eyes matched that in her soul, and catching a glimpse of white pickets behind him, feeling ultra-mischievous, she darted around him to the little fence.
He ran after her, then stopped. “Two graves? Out here?”
There were no names on the headstones, only slate crosses marking the burial sites and red impatiens blooming at their bases. Bess reached for Jonathan’s hand, laced their fingers and squeezed tightly. When he looked at her, she blinked hard and gazed up at him. “I hope they were as happy here as I’ve been here today with you.”
Jonathan swallowed a knot in his throat. “I’m sure they were. I’m sure they stood on the shore and watched the sun set, and held each other, and were content.”
“Sometimes I love the way you think, Jonathan.” She smiled up at him. “I want to come back here and watch the sun set with you.”
“I’d like that.”
Her eyes went solemn. “Promise me.”
“I never have been.” She nipped at his shoulder. “I’ve decided I like it.”
“Me, too.” He growled deep in his throat.
She laughed and swatted his buttock. “You’re bad, Jonathan Mystic.”
“To the bone, darling. Bad and mad,” he looked into her eyes, “about you.”
“Oh, Jonathan. Why didn’t you get slouchy on me?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Wanna go for a swim?”
She cocked a brow at him. “First?”
He gave her a ghost of a smile. “Or last.”
“First. And then we’ll bake clams, gorge ourselves on Miss Millie’s cookies, and drink Moxie—”
“Moxie?”
“It’s a local soft drink. Lucy Baker loves it.”
“Can’t wait.”
“You’re going to have to.” She pulled out of his arms then darted down to the water.
Jonathan followed. And hours later, when, naked as the day they’d been born, they had played like children in the surf, had made slow, sweet love on the quilt under the shade of the old craggy oak, had skipped stones across the water’s surface, and had stuffed themselves on the absolute best clams cooked in rocks and seaweed John ever in his life had eaten, they dressed and then made their way back toward the old pier.
On the way, they stopped at the little graveyard. Their hands clasped, their heads bowed, Bess wished those who had passed on peace, and John thanked them for sharing their island with him and his wife. Then John and Bess walked on, hand in hand and content, back to the rickety pier.
Gripping the basket handle more firmly, John stepped onto the wooden planks. Today had been the best day of their marriage. Before, they’d both been too busy wanting to make their career marks to enjoy the things most important in life. Now, it might be too late for them, but at least they’d had today. And John regretted all the days they’d lost, because now he knew what he’d been missing.