Upon a Mystic Tide

by Vicki Hinze

  “Oh my. Sounds a lot like Lucy and Fred Baker’s angel discussion.” Miss Hattie sighed. “Spirited, at times.”

  “I’m sorry, darling.” Bess gave John’s hand atop the table a gentle squeeze. “I know we disagree on this, but I swear my position has absolutely nothing to do with questioning your judgment.”

  He frowned. “We said no games, Bess. That was the agreement.” He slid his gaze pointedly to Silk, curled in a ball at Miss Hattie’s feet.

  “I’m not playing games. To me, it’s a logical deduction. Well, a likely deduction. If Dixie was kidnaped, Boudreaux kidnaped her for breaking their engagement. Anyone else would have demanded a ransom. And if Boudreaux kidnaped her, wouldn’t he come back for the money now that Elise is dead?”

  “Unless Dixie refuses to claim it. Or can’t claim it,” John agreed.

  Even thinking that she might not be able to claim it hurt him; Bess could see it in the shadows in his eyes. Hadn’t she thought the same thing? That Dixie could be dead? Why should she think John so shallow that the idea wouldn’t have occurred to him? Lord, but Bess had been arrogant. “If Dixie were alive, I’d think she’d have come home to claim her inheritance. I mean it’s ludicrous to believe a money-grubber like Boudreaux would walk away from all Elise’s money, unless . . .” her voice trailed.

  “Unless?”

  Bess met John’s gaze. “Unless he were dead.”

  “Or Dixie was.” John gazed off into the black hole of the fireplace, looking as if he wished he’d built a fire there anyway. “Logical, and possible—provided Boudreaux and/or Dixie knows Elise is dead.” John sat back and stretched out his legs. “I know all the evidence points to an elopement, Bess, but Elise knew in her heart Dixie was kidnaped. A mother knows these things about her child. And we know Dixie was alive four months after the kidnaping. Samuels made a positive ID on her at Dockside three days afterward and again four months later. He said Dixie and a man fitting Boudreaux’s description had left on Southern Pride heading for Nova Scotia.”

  “Positive ID?” Bess frowned. “Was he absolutely sure? No margin for error?”

  “He described her amulet, honey. We both know there are only two like it in the world.”

  “Amulet?” Miss Hattie put her sewing down.

  Bess nodded. “When Dixie was born, her father had matching ruby amulets made for her and her mother. They always wore them.” Bess turned to Jonathan. “Darling, you did bury Elise with hers, didn’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “Of course you did.” Bess looked back at Miss Hattie. “If this Gregor Samuels described the amulet, then it must have been Dixie. Or a woman matching her description wearing it. Most likely Dixie. I can’t imagine her willingly taking off that amulet.”

  “She wouldn’t,” John agreed. “Neither would Elise.”

  Miss Hattie stilled for a long moment, lifted her gaze ceilingward, and didn’t so much as breathe. Then she refocused, letting her gaze drift between Bess and John. “I don’t want to interfere, my dears, but—”

  “Please, Miss Hattie,” John said, sounding desperate. “If there’s anything you can suggest that will help, I’d love to hear it. I want . . .” He slid his gaze to Bess. “Solving this case is extremely important to me.”

  “Something happened here a long time ago which might or might not be useful.”

  “Miss Hattie, you’re sounding awfully mysterious.” Bess leaned closer to John and rested her hand on his thigh. He cupped her fingertips with his palm and just being close to him eased her apprehension.

  “I’m sorry,” Miss Hattie said. “If they were en route to Nova Scotia, then they had to come by here. May I strongly suggest that you two talk with Hatch about this? He knows more about the sea and the goings on in it than any other man alive.”

  John shrugged. “I’d planned on checking with the Coast Guard to see if they have any records of a Southern Pride—”

  “Bah,” Miss Hattie grunted. “Hatch was born and raised in that lighthouse, Jonathan. The Coast Guard comes to him for information, dear.”

  Seeing that this ranked important to Miss Hattie, Bess squeezed John’s thigh. “We’ll talk to him first thing in the morning, Miss Hattie.”

  “Can we bribe you into making some blueberry muffins to take to him?” John gave her a winning smile. “He’s promised us a tour of the lighthouse, but only if we bring him some of your muffins.”

  “No bribery is needed. I’d be delighted to make the muffins.” She tilted her head. “Vic probably would enjoy some, too.”

  “Is he any better?” Bess asked, rubbing John’s thumb with her forefinger.

  “A few more days of bed rest and he should be fine. If he misses the Scottish festival and gets cheated out of doing the Highland Fling with the MacInnes twins, he’s going to be challenging to live with for the next year.”

  Miss Hattie stood up, then rinsed her coffee cup at the sink. “It’s time to turn in. I’ll see you children in the morning.”

  “Good night, Miss Hattie.”

  “’Nite,” Bess said.

  The phone rang, and Miss Hattie waved. “It’s for you, Bess.”

  Bess hiked her brows at John.

  “Don’t ask me. She just knows.” He shrugged, then stood up. “And don’t forget our agreement. We sleep—”

  “I won’t,” Bess interrupted him, then lifted the phone. “Seascape Inn.”

  “Bess, my angel.”

  “Hello, Miguel.” Bess’s gaze locked with John’s.

  “I’ll see you upstairs,” he said stiffly.

  Bess nodded, and he left the kitchen, looking so angry a black cloud might as well have been riding shotgun over his head. Silk, the little traitor, dogged his heels.

  “You sound upset, Angel. What’s wrong?”

  “I got fired a while ago.” She twisted the phone cord around her index finger. John had looked pretty upset. For a day that had been beautiful until twilight, it’d sure gone to hell in a handbasket since.

  “I’m afraid it’s just as well,” Miguel said. “That’s why I’m calling.”

  Bess frowned. What had she missed? “Why?”

  “To tell you that the station has been sold.”

  “Sold! Damn it, Miguel, I asked you not to do it. I even said please. Why did you—? Oh, never mind. I don’t even want to know.” She slammed the phone onto the hook, then snapped off the lights.

  By the time she got to the stairs, her muttering had turned to mumbling and the frustrated tears burning her eyes had started to fall. How could he do this to her? After she’d asked him not to? After she’d explained how humiliated she’d feel if he did? Some friend.

  Like a homing pigeon, she headed straight for John’s room and shoved open the door without so much as a cursory knock. It was dark, and he evidently was already asleep. In the old days, she’d have miserably slunk off to her room and cried her heart out alone. But these weren’t the old days. For six more days, she had a husband with strong arms and big shoulders, and, damn it, he was going to wake up and let her use them.

  “Jonathan? Wake up.”

  “I’m not sleeping, Bess. I’m fuming.”

  “Great. Terrific.” She stubbed her toe on a box, cursed it, then, at the side of the bed, crawled over John. Snuggling down beside him, she sniffled.

  “You’re crying?” He reached for the lamp.

  She grabbed his arm. “Don’t. Please.”

  “Bess, honey, what’s wrong?”

  “What isn’t?” she wailed. “Oh, I thought I wanted to talk about this, Jonathan, but I don’t. I just want you to hold me while I have a good cry.”

  “What did that bastard do to you?”

  “I might kill him,” she muttered. “No, I’m going to kill him. I just have to decide how. Slowly. Definitely slowly.”

  “You don’t go around killing men, darling.” John wrapped his arms around his wife. Whatever Santos had done had knocked her to her knees. John might just kill the bastard for th
at himself. “If you did, I’d have been dead a long time ago.”

  “Well, I should.” She curled her fingers against his chest, letting their tips drift through his hair. “He humiliated me, Jonathan. After I begged him not to—” She let out a deep sob, then shuddered.

  She’d begged? Bess? Impossible. Asked, maybe. But not begged. No way. “What did he do?”

  No answer. Just another sob.

  And another.

  And still another.

  John gritted his teeth. The man was definitely going to die. Never in all their years had John seen Bess so upset. He turned on the lamp. “I asked you, what the hell did he do?”

  “Don’t you yell at me, Jonathan Mystic.”

  “Then answer me and I’ll shut up. How did Santos humiliate you?” She had to love the man. Had to. Otherwise she’d never be this hurt.

  “He bought the station!”

  Oh, hell. John clicked off the light. What did he do? What did he say? She thought Santos bought the station. Should he tell—no. No. He couldn’t. Not yet.

  John swallowed hard, praying he was handling this right. “I’m sorry, honey.” He tugged her into his arms and held her tightly. All this because she believed Santos bought the station? Santos. The man did know what buttons to push when it came to Bess, John had to give him that. Even if this button wasn’t actually his.

  John held her while she cried, murmuring gentle reassurances, feeling guilty as hell, and worrying the entire time. When her sobs lessened to sniffles, then to an occasional sigh, he still worried, and his guilt heap had doubled in size. “How did him buying the station humiliate you?”

  “Because it’s absurd. Ridiculous.”

  “It’s a lucrative business, Bess.”

  “It’s a billboard to the entire city of New Orleans, is what it is, Jonathan. He might as well take out an ad in The Times-Picayune telling everyone at once that I can’t keep my job without him running interference for me. God, I’ll be a laughingstock. But that’s not the worst part of it.”

  He should tell her the truth. Santos hadn’t bought the station. Obviously, before the man could tell her that, she’d gotten fired-up and hung up on him. “You won’t be a laughingstock.”

  “I will.”

  “What’s the worst of it?”

  “He was supposed to be my friend. He was supposed to believe in me. He was supposed to show the others that he knew I could do my job alone because I’m good at it. Instead, he shows them the exact opposite.”

  Oh God. And that’s exactly how she’d feel on learning John had bought the station for Elise. It wouldn’t matter to Bess that he’d done it under explicit codicil instructions. From Bess’s vantage point, the bottom line would be that once again he’d put Elise and her desires first.

  And the kicker of it was, to a point, Bess would be right. What a colossal mess. Even though Bess had told him that she’d envied Elise, he’d never, not once, considered how Bess might feel about working for Elise’s estate. He’d been caught up in thinking that with Sal running the station, Bess’s job would be safe. She’d have some financial security. John hadn’t thought beyond that. Still, even now, after loving, and losing, and falling in love with the woman again, he hadn’t learned a damn thing from before.

  John grimaced and rubbed at his jaw. And how in hell was he supposed to tell her that Santos hadn’t done the dirty deed? Seeing her reaction to believing Santos had bought the station, knowing she didn’t love the man or she’d never have made love with John and yet she’d still come unglued, how could John tell her that her loving husband had been the bastard who’d humiliated her?

  God help him, she’d kill him dead.

  No. No, worse. She’d slip back behind that cool cashmere, eel-skin facade.

  She dried her face on the edge of the quilt, then snuggled back to him. Her Ritz filling his senses, he closed his arms around her. A boulder of fear of losing her again stuck squarely in his throat. How could he handle this honestly without alienating her?

  He had to tell her the truth, of course. If he had an ounce of decency, he’d tell her now. But if he did, then their agreement would be shot. She’d be furious with him, stomp back to her room, and not speak to him. He’d not see her laughing in the surf. She’d take his ring off and sling it in his face. Get her car from Jimmy’s Quick Service Garage and leave Seascape Inn. They’d never go back to Little Island and share that sunset.

  He’d promised.

  Yes, he’d promised. And she’d promised him six more days. Six days in which he could build enough memories with her to last him a lifetime. Could he face a life without them and her?

  He had to tell her. It was the right thing to do. No secrets, they’d said. No games or lies. He had to tell her. And he would.

  In six more days.

  It wasn’t right or fair or honest. But after those six days, then he’d already have lost all he had to lose.

  Chapter 13

  Bess stumbled past the grandfather clock. It chimed eleven times. She’d awakened in John’s arms feeling as if a cactus had taken root and sprouted in her throat.

  Walking on into the kitchen, she saw Miss Hattie, hanging up the telephone.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Miss Hattie looked adorable in a white cotton bathrobe with lace edging the collar and cuffs. “Shall I warm you some milk?”

  “No, thanks.” Bess opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Moxie. “I need something a little more thirst-quenching.” She popped off the top of the brown bottle and took a long drink. It felt ice-cold going down her throat.

  “I didn’t realize you were still awake.” Miss Hattie poured herself a glass of milk and sat down at the table. “Your attorney phoned a moment ago.”

  Bess sat down across the table from Miss Hattie. “I’m sorry. She must have forgotten about the time change. Francine’s a terrific attorney, but she’s kind of unconscious about everything else.”

  “She said it was urgent, Bess, but she didn’t want me to awaken you.”

  “With Francine it’s always urgent.” Bess sipped from the bottle. The Moxie was quite different from a cola, but very good. She licked at her lips.

  “No, Bess. You need to call her right away.” Miss Hattie lowered her gaze to her glass. “I don’t want to intrude, dear, but may I say something?”

  The tilt of her head, the tone of her voice, set Bess’s nerves on edge. Battle-worn and grateful for the temporary reprieve of momentarily postponing the return call to Francine, Bess nodded.

  “I’m delighted to see you and Jonathan truly together, dear.”

  “It’s still only temporary, Miss Hattie. We made a deal and essentially, unfortunately, nothing’s changed.”

  “Oh my, this doesn’t sound at all encouraging. But don’t give up hope, dear. It’s early in your week and there’s plenty of time for him to see the light.”

  Embarrassed, wishing she’d kept her business to herself, Bess sighed. But the damage was done. She only hoped Miss Hattie didn’t think her a bigger fool than she already did. “This whole Happy Marriage Agreement isn’t reasonable, or logical, or anything else that’s wise.”

  “Ah, the magic’s working hard, I see.” Miss Hattie propped an elbow on the table then sipped from her glass, a wistful look in her eye.

  Her lack of condemnation had Bess relaxing, mimicking the angelic innkeeper’s pose, then propping her chin on her hand. “It’s getting worse, Miss Hattie. It was lust with a kick. Now it’s lust with a megakick, and growing stronger every time I see the man. Absurd, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. There’s a lot to be said for the magic.” Miss Hattie gazed off into space. “It’s really a matter of pride, isn’t it? Yours and his.”

  That was part of it. Bess shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “I wouldn’t presume to speak for either of you, dear, but I’ll tell you this. Were it my pride, I’d toss it to the wind forever for a second more of magic.”

  “You would?” Miss
Hattie, the practical, the thoughtful, the loveable, would opt against pride? Or was she just saying so? Hard to imagine Miss Hattie ever speaking an untruth, but she was a gentle, if an iron-willed, soul. Not sure which she’d done, Bess frowned.

  “In a village minute.” Miss Hattie nodded to add weight to her claim.

  She really would! “I’m surprised.”

  “Why on earth would that surprise you?”

  “Because you’re a Mainer.” Bess flushed at that undiplomatic remark. “What I mean is, Mainers are frank people, and very proud.”

  “Of course.” Miss Hattie lifted a hand, palm up. “But we’re also very intelligent, dear.”

  “I’m afraid I’m lost.”

  “We have a lot of cold nights up here. And pride can’t hold you and keep you warm, dear. A special man, one who makes you feel the magic, well . . .” Miss Hattie’s cheeks tinged pink and she scrunched her delicate hankie in her hand. “Pride comes in a poor second to the magic, and that’s that. Don’t you agree?”

  By the time Bess figured out the question had been a rhetorical one, Miss Hattie had risen, rinsed her glass at the sink, and was walking out of the kitchen. “Do call Francine right away. She sounded . . . nervous.”

  Francine? Nervous? The shark who made excellent attorneys shake in their shoes at coming up against her in court? The attorney who’d sent more than one judge to hitting the books to keep up with her in court? Francine didn’t do nervous, she inspired it.

  Bess took a double swig of Moxie for fortification, then walked straight to the phone. She dialed, praying another bomb wasn’t about to blow up on her head.

  Francine answered on the first ring, and immediately started spouting. “I spent a solid hour on the phone with Miguel—he’s extremely upset at your hanging up on him, Bess—then I called Millicent Fairgate to chew on her ass and inform her of just how many laws she’d broken in firing you, but she wimped out and refused to talk with me. Her husband, that lily-livered, sorry excuse for a man, said she was ‘indisposed’ with a migraine.” Francine grunted. “She’s going to have a lot more of them before I’m through with her on this, I promise you that. Do you want me to file suit tomorrow, or wait until you come back?”