Upon a Mystic Tide (25 page)

He wasn’t used to Maine’s climate. Jacketless and rain-soaked to the skin. Even in summer, especially during a storm, he should have on something to protect him from getting a chill. Miss Hattie tisked, fretting. “And no boots either.” The granite cliffs were treacherously slick when dry, much less wet. She wanted him to come back inside and get warm—the dear man had to be as cold as ice—but, if he tried, with one misstep, he could tumble to his death. And, being from away, he likely didn’t even realize his danger.

Panic surged through her. She had to do something besides worry. But what?
Oh, Tony, where are you when I need you?

Back in his room, something fell. She frowned, shut the little door, then searched to see what it had been. The silver-framed photo of him and Hatch lay face down on his dresser.

Understanding the Message, she smiled. “Yes, dear. I’ll phone him straightaway.”

She left the attic in a rush for the stairs.

Tony watched her go. Leaning against the doorjamb at the top of the stairs, he craned his neck until she turned at the landing near his parents’ portraits. In truth, he was more than a little miffed at his beloved.
Where are you when I need you?

That stung. Hadn’t he promised her when he’d left to go to war he’d return to her? Hadn’t he vowed his undying love and steadfast support? In all the decades since his death, hadn’t he proven to her time and again that he’d meant the vow he’d made when mortally wounded on the battlefield?

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 Fred’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.