by Vicki Hinze
Bracing herself, she hiked her chin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“A divorced shrink counseling callers on love and relationships isn’t apt to sit any better with listeners than with Millicent. New Orleans is predominantly Catholic, and that’s worth remembering.”
A muscle spasmed, knotting in her neck. She kneaded at it. “I could lose some listeners, true. But if I lie, I lose a lot more.”
“What more? We’re a radio station. Listeners are everything.”
“I lose them,” she lowered her gaze to his chest, “and me.”
Sal stared at the ceiling, mumbled something she couldn’t make out, then glanced back at her. “I hate to say it, Bess, but one of us has to be less idealistic and more realistic here, and it doesn’t appear it’s going to be you.”
Considering her position realistic and reasonable, she opened her mouth to object.
He held up a hand to stay her. “Look, I admire your principles—really, I do. And far be it from me to say self-respect doesn’t hold value. But it doesn’t pay the rent. The public isn’t exactly known for being forgiving. It won’t let this divorce slide by unnoticed. You’re right. You will take heat in the press—and worse.”
Sympathy shone in his eyes. As if knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it, he let his gaze slip away, back to the ceiling. “It kills me to have to say it, but now might be a good time for you to look into setting up a private practice.”
Bess held off a frown. From the start, she’d resisted private practice, and the financial security it could bring, because the people who most needed her were those least likely to seek out counseling. She’d found her niche, her forum—the radio—and she intended to keep it. “You firing me?”
“Not yet.” His expression turned grim. “Just preparing you.”
Underneath all the bluster, he was a good man. A really good man. “Thanks.” She nodded to let him know she meant it. “Now it’s only fair that I prepare you.” She leaned forward, squared her shoulders, and looked him right in the eye. “We both know John Mystic and I have been separated six years. The piece of paper coming July tenth doesn’t change anything. Not my job performance, my credentials, or even my name. Only my legal status changes.” Risky, but she had to be totally frank. “I’ve lost all I intend to lose willingly, Sal. If Millicent wants me out of 107.3, then she’s going to have to fire me, and she’s going to have to make it stick.” Bess dipped her chin and looked up at him, forced her voice and her gaze firm and steady. “I’ll fight it every step of the way.”
Sal rubbed his stomach, as if his ulcer were acting up again. “Maybe if you fought that hard for John—”
Bess spun on him. “Don’t you dare!” Thoughtless comments were just Sal’s way. He didn’t mean them. But this time he’d hit too close to home, pegging some of her own unreasonable, irrational fears. Ones she couldn’t afford to give any value to if she expected to come out of this divorce with a fair sense of self-worth.
Sal stopped midsentence, then slid her a repentant look. “Look, I’m sorry. That was out of line.” He swallowed hard, bobbing his Adam’s apple. “I just don’t want to lose you. If you stayed married to the bastard, then I wouldn’t.”
Those kinds of remarks were expected to entice her? Bess swallowed a response so searing it set her temples to pounding. “I don’t want to be lost either, but don’t say things like that about John and me. You don’t know how things were with us, and it’s unfair of you to judge him or me.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Sal shrugged and his face turned red. “I guess I just want this whole sordid mess to . . . to go away.”
So did she. “That isn’t going to happen.” Once she’d thought it might, that John would ask her to come home, but she’d accepted the truth a long time ago. He had no intention of trying to save their marriage. He didn’t love her, and that was the sorry truth.
A painful ache shimmied through her chest. She clenched her muscles against it. Some dreams die so darn hard.
She checked her watch—ten seconds—grabbed the mike, then put a manicured fingertip on the tape player’s eject button. “I’m out of time and I’ve got four lines lit up. If you’ll excuse me, duty calls.”
Looking pensive, dejected, and truly sorry, Sal lumbered out of the booth.
When he closed the door behind him, Bess started shaking, rattled from the bone out. Would she ever stop shaking again? Would her life ever be right again?
Never let ’em see you sweat, kid. Her father’s voice sounded in her head.
A hornets’ nest of guilt stirred in her stomach. I’m trying, Dad. I’m really trying. But it hurts and it’s hard. I loved him so much. She pulled in a deep breath, counted to three, then answered the first caller.
The next four calls were tame; normal problems she’d faced before, countless times. Taking a sip of coffee so strong and bitter it had to have been steeping since dusk, she grimaced, then answered the fifth. “Love 107.3. This is Bess.”
“Dr. Mystic?”
Her married name? Bess frowned. She’d never used her married name on the air. “Dr. Cameron,” she told the caller. “But I prefer Bess.”
“My name is Tony.”
Something in his voice unnerved her. Not the tone—nothing so mundane as that, though it was gravelly and odd. It was something . . . inexplicable. And it created the strangest sensations in her. As if he could see inside her, and he knew all her secrets . . . and more.
The little hairs on her neck stood on edge. She put her cup down on the desk. Shaking even harder, she laced her fingers, rested her hands in her lap, then chided herself for being ridiculous. No one could literally see inside anyone else. They could perceive, interpret, intuit, but not see. “What can I do for you, Tony?”
“I’ve heard a rumor.”
Warning flags flashed before her eyes. Warning flags gained by developing strong instincts that came with phone-counseling for over half a decade. Warnings she’d come to respect. Sight and physical observation, two very important tools to every psychologist, radio-counseling denied her. She’d had to compensate and her instincts, bless them, had done so for her, honing with experience to acutely perceptive. And, right now, those acutely perceptive instincts screamed that this wasn’t a harmless, or a typical, call. That it carried serious repercussions and consequences—to Bess. And, worse, that no matter how depleted she felt right now, she couldn’t retreat and regroup or run from them.
Her mouth drier than dust, she mustered her most professional voice. “Rumors are dangerous. Usually destructive.” She paused to let that sink in. “Are you destructive, Tony, or does this rumor personally affect you?”
“No, I’m not destructive, and this affects me only in the broadest sense.” He sounded uncomfortable. “But it is extremely important—enough to warrant this call.”
“I see.” Dread dragged at her belly. “Well, if the rumor is ‘extremely important to you,’ then you should attempt to verify it. Try to be open-minded. Strive equally hard to prove, and to disprove, the rumor. To come out of something like this with a clean conscience, it’s imperative you be fair—and, if possible, you find out the truth without inflicting harm on anyone else.” She automatically lifted her cup, but shook too badly to hold it. Hot coffee sloshed over the rim and scalded her hand. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, and ordered herself to get her nerves under control.
“I don’t want anyone hurt. That’s why I’m calling you.”
This time, his tone was a dead giveaway. He wasn’t being honest, and yet she innately knew he wasn’t lying. The truth rested at some obscure place in between. “I see.” She rubbed at her temple, not seeing at all. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe he just needed a place to vent. She definitely needed to calm down. “I suppose then we’d better talk about this.”
“Only if you’re sure. This rumor affects you, Dr. Mystic.”
A sense of doom blanketed the dread, and Bess dragged in a deep breath. How could a rumor a
bout her be extremely important to him? She didn’t even know him. Should she disconnect him?
Though sorely tempted, her instincts warned her against it. Warned her that this call was inevitable.
The pounding at her temples grew to a sickening throb. No, as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t play ostrich and bury her head in the sand. Whatever was coming had to be faced. Hadn’t she advised that very action to caller after caller? “If it’s important, then go ahead, Tony.”
“You’re getting a divorce.”
Bess swallowed a gasp, then a groan. Good grief. Not a question, a statement.
Sal shoved open the booth door. Wild-eyed, he swiped his hand back and forth across his neck, mouthing, “Don’t answer! Cut him off! Cut him off!”
Blinking hard and fast, Bess broke into a cold sweat. It had been just a matter of time until word got out, but she should have had three more weeks and now, because of this Tony, she’d been cheated out of them. She resented that. Boy, did she resent it. Wasn’t the divorce itself hard enough?
Sal grabbed her shoulder. “Cut him off!”
Bess reached over to the phone and touched a fingertip to the button. She tried, but she couldn’t press it down. She just couldn’t do it. Sliding Sal an apologetic look, she spoke into the mike. “This rumor is true, Tony. I am getting a divorce.”
Sal muttered a curse, stomped out into the hallway, then slammed the door shut.
Oh God.
“I’m sensing your resentment and a little hostility, Dr. Mystic. There’s no need for it, or for fear. I didn’t call to give you a hard time.”
He sensed it? Mystic. Not Cameron. Again. He hadn’t forgotten, but deliberately had used John’s name. Why? Bess frowned. Was John behind this? That would be atypical, true. She’d left him for neglect. It seemed highly unlikely he’d remember he had a wife now. And besides, this Tony seemed . . . sincere. Oddly pervasive, extremely perceptive, unwelcomely intrusive, but sincere.
Still, her instincts were good, not perfect. Was he sincere? Or was he setting her up for a fall? “If not to give me a hard time, why then are you calling?”
“To dispel the rumor.”
A setup. “Well, now you have.” Bess lifted a finger to disconnect the line.
“Wait! Don’t hang up!”
Bess jerked back, stared at the phone as if it were possessed. How had he known she’d been about to disconnect him? Could he sense and see her? She darted a glance around the booth, uneasy. No one around. Nothing amiss. So why didn’t the impression subside? Why did she feel watched, observed—almost invaded? Absurd. If this hadn’t happened so soon after the confrontation with Sal, if she’d had a few minutes to recoup and regain her balance, it wouldn’t be happening.
“I called to tell you something too, Dr. Mystic.”
Totally unraveled and fighting it, Bess chastised herself for letting her imagination run crazy. There was nothing unusual at work here, or about this call. There couldn’t be. Tony likely worked at the courthouse and saw her divorce proceedings on the docket schedule, or something equally mundane and ordinary. There had to be a simple, logical reason prompting his call. Had to be. “I’m listening.”
“My situation is hopeless. But yours isn’t. Just don’t lose hope, Doc. As long as there’s life, there’s hope.”
As sincere as a summer sky. Concern. Empathy. Approval. All those feelings flooded through the phone from Tony to her. The back of her nose stung and tears burned her eyes. She swallowed a knot of raw emotion. “I appreciate your concern, Tony, but my purpose here is to give help, not to rec—”
“You’re hearing, but you’re not listening. You’ve used your training and skills to help a lot of people. Now, you have to help you.” He paused, then went on. “I know you sense what I’m telling you is more than just words, Doc, but sensing alone isn’t enough. You’ve got to really feel it. To do something.”
Bess did sense it, just as she sensed there was something unique about his voice, and that frightened her into denying she felt anything at all. Seeing Sal standing outside the booth’s window in the hallway, she shrugged, feigning ignorance. His frown deepened.
She looked down at the mike, puzzled. What did Tony mean? Really feel it. Do something? About what? Exactly what was he up to—and why was he up to anything regarding her? Who was he? And what convinced her he wasn’t a nut case? She’d had her fair share of them around here. Yet she’d bet her life Tony wasn’t one of them.
As well as she knew she sat in the New Orleans booth, she knew he could feel all she felt, could hear all she heard. He knew all she knew—and she knew he still approved of her.
Bizarre. Intimidating. And violating. He had no right to invade her this way. Again she considered disconnecting him and ending the call.
Don’t do it, Doc. Please. I want to help you.
Bess sat straight up. Tony’s voice. Tony’s “Doc.” But not over the phone—mentally! What in the world was happening here?
Trust me.
She stared at the phone, stunned.
Please.
She darted a look back over her shoulder at Sal. His frown hadn’t altered a bit; he clearly hadn’t heard anything. Tony had conversed with Bess telepathically? But they were strangers. They couldn’t be that closely linked mentally. Telepathy cases—
The sensation of something mystical happening sluiced through her. Bess’s stomach flip-flopped. Pressing a hand against it, she denied the possibility, and fought the urge to protect herself by ducking into a dark corner. Her instincts had gone haywire. Besides, she couldn’t run or hide. When something occurs inside your mind, where can you go?
She took a deep breath and then answered him. “Okay, Tony. I’m trying to really feel what you’re telling me.” She meant it and, if her voice lacked an ounce of courage, at least it carried the weight of her conviction.
Thank you.
You’re welcome. She thought by rote, then gasped, surprised. They were communicating telepathically!
“Sometimes hope alone isn’t enough.” He dropped his voice to just above a whisper. “Sometimes you have to leap upon a mystic tide and have faith the sand will shift and an island will appear.”
His words slammed into Bess. An odd tingle started at the base of her spine then slithered up her back. A mystic tide. Shifting sands, an island . . .
A metallic taste filled her mouth and a surge of anticipation she hadn’t felt since before she and John had separated suffused her.
Mental communications, verbal puzzles. What was this man, some kind of psychic? “Tony?” Her voice cracked. She swallowed then tried again. “What do you mean?”
“Think about my message, Doc. Just think about it.”
The line went dead.
Bess stared at the unlit button, wishing she could bring Tony back, wishing she could force him to explain. She tried silently asking him to return. But if he heard her, he chose not to respond. Instead, his message echoed through her mind, again and again, always ending with think about it.
For the remainder of her shift, Bess thought about it. During commercials, she studied on it, intrigued by Tony, and more by the message itself. But by the end of her program, Bess wasn’t intrigued anymore. She couldn’t not think about Tony’s message. And it no longer intrigued. Now, it haunted.
And, for some reason that escaped her entirely, she had the strongest urge to—of all things—call John.
Ridiculous. Since she had filed for the legal separation two years ago, they’d only talked through their respective attorneys. John would believe her, but that was beside the point. The point was that Tony’s call and message were driving her nuts. Fuel on the turmoil fire in what had become her complicated life.
How had this happened to her? She’d been so careful. So darn careful.
Too much was happening too quickly that couldn’t be rationally or logically explained. And, as hard as it was for her to admit it, to get through it, she needed someone.
Oh, she co
uld come up with her own solutions, but it sure would be nice to have a friendly sounding board. She obviously couldn’t talk with John, or with her Yorkie, Silk. Her friend, Miguel, was out. He’d react to her telling him about the telepathy experience with Tony about as if she’d announced aliens were invading the White House. Who could she trust? Who wouldn’t think she’d lost her mind?
A friend.
Or friends.
Of course.
Knowing the perfect listeners, Bess snatched up her purse from the bottom desk drawer, then headed down 107.3’s long hallway, toward the exit sign and outside door. She’d talk to T. J. and Maggie MacGregor.
“Shut up, darling.”
Sassy, sparkling, very pregnant, dressed in forest green, and clutching a box of saltine crackers, Maggie MacGregor sidled up to her giant of a world-class artist husband, T. J., then pecked a chaste kiss to his chin.
“Maggie.” His warning tone echoed through the cavernous riverfront art gallery they’d bought right after they’d married.
She wrinkled her nose at him, then turned toward Bess. “Ignore him. The man loves earning redemption points to stay in my good graces.” Maggie shrugged, but her eyes danced with mischief, then went serious. “Okay, I agree. The job being threatened makes the divorce pill even more bitter to swallow.”
“Darn right it does.” Bess grunted and snatched a cracker. The cellophane wrapper crackled.
Maggie shifted the box of saltines then squeezed Bess’s arm. “I know this doesn’t make a bit of sense, but will you please just humor me and look at the painting?”
Standing toward the rear of the remodeled warehouse, Bess barely resisted an urge to roll her gaze up Lakeview Gallery’s long, white columns to its equally white high ceiling. “Maggie, you know I adore you, but I’ve just humored you twice before today by staring at that seascape, and all I’ve gotten for my trouble is crossed eyes.” Bess slid an apologetic glance toward T. J., who’d painted it. “Nothing personal.”
