Upon a Mystic Tide (26 page)

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 down 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?”

“Everyone in the village heard you, Jonathan.” Clench-jawed, she looked toward the lighthouse, then toward the village. Seeing the road was clear, she crossed then started up the sloped drive back to the inn. “Bellows carry over the stones and through the trees.”

Bellow? Had he—? Well, he guessed he had been a little excited and raised his voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”

She gave him a curt nod that would have been cute if he’d not been ticked at her for scaring him. And she was limping. Yet another shovelful of guilt dumped onto his personal heap. At this rate, he’d soon be buried. “Does it hurt?” He nodded toward her knee.

“Immensely.”

On the gravel drive, John finally caught sight of the back of her hand. His heart nearly stopped. Tony had been right. She
did
still wear John’s ring.

His emotions snapped like live wires—surprise, disbelief, confusion, pleasure, and pride—coupled and tumbled with each other, bombarding him. His heart full, he scooped her up into his arms.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She rocked against his chest and glared at him. “Put me—”

He kissed her quiet. And he decided that, if when he was done she refused to stay quiet, then he’d just kiss her again—however many times it took for her to get the message. She wasn’t slow, she’d figure it out. Seeing her sliding on the cliffs had rattled him and he needed time to let the fear settle. Seeing his ring still on her finger gave him something he’d never thought to have again with her: hope. This second chance was real. Real.

She looped her arms around his neck. “I take exception to your high-handedness, Jonathan.” Her words were as stiff as her jostling body.

“Noted.” Maybe giving her an excuse to come unglued would help with the stress. She had been under a lot of pressure lately. Yeah, he’d let her vent
 . . .
for a while. Maybe she’d even spout a little sass. “But you earned it, woman.”

She bent his ear all the way back to the inn.

Inside the house, between the kitchen and the gallery, she grabbed hold of the doorjamb and repeated to Miss Hattie all the slurs slung at him during the hike, pausing intermittently only long enough to insist he put her down.

He endured and ignored, then turned to Miss Hattie, who had the most angelic smile on her face he thought he’d ever seen, and sighed. “I’m taking Bess up to doctor her knee and to see what I can do about her disposition, Miss Hattie. Honestly, I think the odds favor the knee healing long before the attitude improves, but I’ll do what I can. Would you keep an eye on Silk?”

“Certainly. She’s quite comfortable on the rug.”

“Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here, Jonathan.” Bess sent Miss Hattie a he’s-hopeless look. “Ignore him. He’s going through one of his macho phases. I’ll have him over it soon enough, though.”

Her emerald eyes twinkling, Miss Hattie nodded and turned her attention back to her chicken and cheese casserole. “I’m sure you will, dear.”

John guffawed and headed toward the stairs. “Women, ya gotta love ’em.”

“Jonathan, I don’t appreciate your cave man attitude—”

He kissed her lips.

Miss Hattie chuckled under her breath and popped her casserole into the oven. “Men.” She set the temperature knob to three-hundred-fifty degrees then clicked the oven on. “You can’t live with ’em or without ’em.”

The lights went out.

She frowned ceilingward. “If you ruin my casserole, Anthony Freeport, I’m sure to be in a sour mood for a week. Vic’s particularly fond of this dish and he’s down in the back—as you well know.”

She waited, but the lights didn’t come back on. Above stairs, John and Bess had gone quiet. Well, that was a good sign, wasn’t it?

Unless they weren’t speaking to each other again.

The lights flickered on, then went right back out.

Tony was miffed.

Sighing, Hattie reached into the drawer and pulled out a candle and matches. Now what in the world was she going to do with a raw chicken and cheese casserole?