Upon a Mystic Tide (39 page)

“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.

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?”

Bess’s head whirled. When she talked with Francine, it always did. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” She let out a heartfelt sigh and forked her fingers through her hair. “Let me think about it.”

“What’s there to think about? Madam ‘Indisposed’ Fairgate blew it. You’ve performed well for over six years—all of which time you’ve been separated from John. Your work record is clean—excellent, in fact—and that’s straight from Sal Ragusa’s mouth. Millicent is firing you because you’re divorcing, straight-out, open and shut case, and
that,
darling, is discrimination.” Francine harrumphed. “I’ll have her backside for breakfast.”

“I don’t know that I want you to.” Bess shifted her weight, foot to foot. So she’d sue and win. And be locked into a job with resentful bosses. Well, a resentful owner. Sal would be fine about it—until he got sick of Millicent being on his back. He’d be miserable. Bess would be miserable. In cases such as
these, could there really be a winner? Bess worried her lip with her teeth, then again spoke to Francine. “Let me talk it over with John.”

“What?”

Bess jerked. “Good grief, Francine. My ears will ring for a week.”

“This is a joke, right?”

“No.” Bess bristled and tapped the phone with a nail.

“No, of course it isn’t. You don’t joke about John or your job.”

Bess frowned at the receiver, then put it back to her ear. Not a very pretty picture of herself, and she would be miffed, but she couldn’t honestly pull it off. She
didn’t
joke about John or her job. Both mattered to her.

“Bess, sit down a minute and just listen to me. You know I think you’re the greatest, but that thin air up there must have your blood too thin and your brain suffering serious oxygen deprivation. You’re divorcing John, right? When a woman is divorcing a man, she doesn’t ask him for advice. Alimony? Yes. Advice? Never. It’s simply not done.”

Bess grimaced. “It is done if she’s me and she’s asked for his advice before and it’s proven sound. Excellent, in fact. And John’s has.”

Francine’s sigh rattled static through the phone. “I’ve been asking this for years, and I’m going to ask it again. By all that’s holy, woman, why are you divorcing this man? You’re crazy about him.”

Maybe she was just plain crazy. “He doesn’t love me.” She’d be even crazier to not divorce a man who didn’t love her. Staying married to him under those conditions would be absurd. Ridiculous.

“Look, I’m your lawyer but I’m your friend, too. The friend in me says you’re out of your mind for staying at Seascape while he’s up there. You’re vulnerable and confused. He’ll steal your heart and cut it to ribbons. Don’t give him the chance. Get out of Dodge—before it’s too late.”

“I tried that.” God, how Bess feared Francine was right. “My car’s broken and I can’t leave until it’s repaired.”

“Leave it.”

Running would be so easy. So easy. But, like Tony’s message, her feelings for John ran deep in her heart. She couldn’t run. And if she did, her heart would stay with him.

She couldn’t. She stared at the bowl of fruit on the counter’s edge, at the slope of a banana. Should she tell Francine about the Happy Marriage Agreement? Bess probably should, but Francine already thought Bess had lost her mind. She didn’t want to prove it, and disclosing that surely would. “You’ve told me your opinion as a friend. What does my lawyer advise?”

Francine didn’t hesitate so much as a second. “Forget the divorce—at least for now—and reexamine how you feel about this man. I’ve seen a lot of divorcing couples and you, darling, just don’t fit the mold.”

“But
he
does.” And he’d not once asked her to come back—aside from for the seven days, which tied to his ego, not to their marriage. He didn’t seem to mind her being gone so much as he minded her walking out on him. Why was that? “We’ve been separated six years.”

“Physically. But what about in your heart?”

Bess opened her mouth to answer, then realized she couldn’t. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think he’s always been in my heart. Sometimes I swear he hasn’t, and won’t ever be again.” Bess rubbed at her forehead. “I’m so confused, Francine.”

“Exactly. And until you’re not confused anymore, I don’t think we should proceed any further on the divorce.”

The only thing left to do on the divorce was the property settlement. She couldn’t tell Francine yet that there wouldn’t be a custody suit over Silk, because then she’d have to disclose the terms of the agreement or to lie and she’d rather not do either. Francine was a friend, but also an officer of the court. Sleeping with Jonathan legally zapped the separation. In the eyes of the law, by making love, they’d reunited. The entire process would have to be repeated. And, while Bess didn’t give two figs about that, Jonathan might.

She sighed. Never had she heard of him being interested in another woman. But Jonathan was a private investigator, a darn good one from all accounts, and weren’t they notoriously discreet? She couldn’t stand the thought of him with another woman. The suggestion alone had the green-eyed monster in her rearing its nasty head. But she’d have to accept it. Like Fred Baker had said, some woman would snatch John up in a heartbeat. Her stomach sank. And wasn’t it absurd that she would have to do her best to accept this too with grace?

Starting next January, she vowed to herself, there would be
no
annual mottoes.

“Bess?”

“I’m sorry. I drifted, Francine. It’s been a long day and I’m just too weary to think. Don’t do anything for now. I’ll weigh it all out and then let you know what I want to do.”

“On the divorce or on suing the snobbery out of Millicent Fairgate?”

“Both.” Weary, Bess leaned a shoulder against the wall.

“I have to admit, I’d get a lot more satisfaction out of suing Madam Millicent.”

So would Bess. She yawned and finished her Moxie. Maybe she’d sue Miguel, too. For being a lousy friend. No, she wouldn’t. She’d just blister his ears and make him miserable. He’d had good intentions. Then she’d find herself another job, because even if she did sue, and she won, she’d still lose. “It really doesn’t matter what I decide on the divorce, Francine.”