by Vicki Hinze
“Damn it, John. If we go back into court without this being resolved, Judge Branson is going to throw a fit.”
“We all have bad days, buddy. The judge can fend for himself. If Bess wants her divorce; she can have it—on my terms.” He lifted the handle and opened the door. “I’m at home now. I’ll drop by the office in the morning.”
“John, wait!” Bryce sighed deeper. “I wish we could have delayed this until later. I really am sorry about Elise.”
“Yeah, well, we do what we have to do.” The ache in his chest doubled. “Give the kids a hug, and tell Suzie I said she can only have sweet dreams.” He knew firsthand that losing a mother was rough on a kid. But it was especially rough on one so young.
He clicked his phone off, then got out of the car.
The air smelled of rain, heavy and sultry. He looked up, then stilled. Not the apartment but the hospital loomed in front of him, large and stark white against the cloudy sky. He’d automatically driven there, just as he had every day during the long weeks Elise had been a patient. She was dead now.
Dead.
His vision blurring, he looked up at the building. It seemed wrong. So clinical and cold, when Elise had been anything but. Why had she had to die? Why had he had to lose her, too?
Memories of three days ago, when he’d parked in this same spot, flooded back, and his knees went weak. God, but he hadn’t wanted to walk in there. He hadn’t wanted to see her for the last time.
Knowing he’d failed her, he hadn’t wanted to watch her die.
At noon, John met with Bryce at his uptown office and heard the words that would forever alter his life: “Bess won’t budge, and she’s left town.”
Bess had left New Orleans? John paced before Bryce’s gleaming mahogany desk, cursing the sun for flooding in through the window when it should be storming. Sunshine seemed the ultimate insult to endure for someone confronted with ten tons of turmoil. “Where did she go?”
Fiddling with a button on his suit jacket, Bryce avoided John’s eyes. “Sea Haven Village, Maine.”
“Maine?” Pacing the plush carpet, John stopped beside a maroon leather wingback chair. Photographs Meriam had taken hung on the paneled walls. One of T. J. MacGregor’s paintings held a place of honor, behind Bryce’s desk, above a credenza. John glanced at the painting, but it was one of Meriam’s photographs that captured his attention. A seaside ocean view from atop granite cliffs. A huge gray Victorian home. It was just a clapboard house. So why did it captivate him? “Does she know anyone in Maine?”
“I don’t know. But she’s at a bed-and-breakfast called Seascape Inn, the one T. J. and Maggie visit.” Bryce laced his hands atop his desk. “Look, if you want this property dispute settled, then you’re going to have to go to Bess and take care of it personally, one-on-one.”
One-on-one with his wife was the last thing John wanted right now. He was still too shaky over Elise’s death, and he had to get back to the case. Elise had known he’d lied to her on her deathbed about finding Dixie and, until he did find her daughter and see to it that she was all right, neither he nor Elise would know a minute’s peace. “I’d rather not.”
“I don’t think your ‘rathers’ carry much weight on this.” Bryce frowned. “The judge is threatening a hefty fine if this property dispute isn’t settled pronto.”
John shrugged. “Right now, I’d rather pay it.”
“He’s not fining you. He’s fining Bess.” Bryce lifted a hand. “She left town.”
She didn’t have the money to pay a hefty fine. Had she gone into private practice, then she’d have been set financially, but she’d wanted to help others more than assure her own financial security. John had understood that, had admired her for it. But that choice left her personally vulnerable now. And her vulnerability played a big part in him insisting she accept half of their assets. It was the only way he could be certain she’d have the freedom to follow her dreams.
He reached to his inside jacket pocket then pulled out his checkbook and pen. “How much?” She’d be ticked, but so what? She was already ticked. He’d outlasted her lawyer’s lungs before; he could again.
“You can’t cover it—Judge Branson’s order.”
John dropped a fist to the back of the chair. “Why is he doing this?”
“Because he ordered you two to settle this property dispute last go round and it still isn’t done. He’s taking your defiance kind of personal.”
Figured. Only one in a hundred judges would get his bowels into an uproar over this, and theirs just had to be the one.
Bryce leaned back, propped his feet on his desk, then laced his fingers behind his head. “The way I see it, the ball’s in your court, buddy.”
“Looks that way.” John plopped down in the wingback chair, exhausted from the mountain of things he’d had to do since Elise had passed away. Now this with Bess. Nothing with that woman had ever come easily. Why should the divorce be any different?
“So what’s it gonna be?” Bryce asked. “Are you heading up to Seascape to work this out with Bess, or are you going to watch your wife go to jail for contempt of court?”
Chapter 3
“Bess, dear, I’m so glad you’re here. I was starting to worry. T. J. said to expect you just after noon.”
Bess set down her bags in front of the Seascape Inn registration desk, then looked at the innkeeper, Miss Hattie. She did look like Norman Rockwell’s grandma model, just as Maggie had said. Soft, round face, crinkled into a welcoming smile, imprints alongside her nose—obviously from reading glasses, which were absent from her face now—a peach floral dress and, in her left hand, the infamous white lacy hankie. A bubble of sheer pleasure trickled through Bess at finally meeting the much-adored woman. “I’m sorry. I should have called. I got lost coming out of Bangor.”
“Happens all the time. Missed the sign for Sea Haven Highway, didn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did.” Bess glanced around the entryway and through the gallery. To her right, beyond a stately, brass-trimmed grandfather clock, she saw the parlor and the living room. A winding staircase partially blocked her view to the left, giving her but a glimpse of a dining room decorated with wainscoting and splashes of pink florals on navy blue. The gallery dead-ended in a cheerful looking kitchen done in white lace and washed oak. Charming. But it felt like a home. “I thought this was an inn, Miss Hattie?”
From the opposite side of the L-shaped registration desk, Miss Hattie smiled. “Actually, it’s a bed-and-breakfast, dear.”
“The name confused me.”
Fingering through a little ceramic box with a lighthouse painted on its lid, Miss Hattie fretted, clearly distracted and looking for . . . something—ah, a key.
She passed it to Bess. “It’s simple, really. Collin and Cecelia Freeport built Seascape as their private residence—remind me to tell you the legend. Lovely story. Just lovely.”
Maggie had told Bess the story, but not wanting to rob Miss Hattie of the pleasure, Bess didn’t say so, only nodded.
“Their son, the eldest child, was killed in the war, so their beloved daughter, Mary Elizabeth, inherited the place. When she became a widow, God rest her soul, she converted the house into an inn. The Carriage House, too. It has a suite and extra rooms.”
And a new roof. When driving around back to park her car, Bess had noted the Carriage House roof wasn’t yet weathered like that on the inn itself. “Are all the Freeports gone now, then?”
“Oh my, no. Mary Elizabeth’s son, Judge Nelson—he lives in Atlanta now—inherited the place. He opted for a bed-and-breakfast—no doubt due to my advancing years, treasure that he is—but neither of us saw any need to change the name. Seascape has been Seascape Inn for years and the locals would continue to call it that anyway.”
A ceiling fan’s spinning blades thumped overhead and smells of lemon oil and vanilla potpourri filled Bess’s nose. The paneling gleamed as if freshly oiled and a little sachet of burgundy tulle and white lace lay on t
he desk near a green banker’s lamp. She glanced over her right shoulder at the grandfather clock, oddly reassured by its steady ticks, and a sense of peace and calm similar to that she’d felt on looking at the painting of the inn at Lakeview Gallery washed through her. A smile curled her lips. “It’s charming, Miss Hattie.”
“It’s home.” Miss Hattie turned the registration book toward Bess, lifted then passed a pen from a wooden holder near the lamp. “I’ve lived here most of my life, dear. Can’t imagine thinking of Seascape as anything more than home.”
“You’re as special as T. J. and Maggie claim.” Angelic, through and through. Bess signed the register then returned the pen to its holder.
“Bah.” Miss Hattie smiled. “But I’ve heard some wonderful things about you.” She came around the desk and patted Bess’s arm. “I don’t care for feeling like a guest, so I never have them here. Think of Seascape as your home.”
“Thank you.” Bess cringed at what Miss Hattie would think at knowing how awful home had been.
She dabbed at her temple with the delicate white hankie. “Now, let’s get you settled into the Great White Room. First light hits there, so lower the shades at night, and take advantage of the sitting room in the adjoining turret, mmm? T. J. says you’re under a lot of pressure right now and we’re to see to it you relax.” She lifted a blue-veined hand and brushed back a lock of hair from Bess’s face, her gentle green eyes concerned and comforting. “Gaze upon the ocean and dream a little, dear. Very soothing, dreaming. Brings peace to a troubled soul.”
Peace to a troubled soul. All a home should do. Bess nearly cried. Home. Exactly what she needed to lick her wounds. How Miss Hattie had known that remained a mystery—and a blessing. Maggie often had said the innkeeper seemed aged and ageless, touched by magic. Maybe it was true. Bess gave Miss Hattie a watery smile. “I think T. J. and Maggie were right about you.”
“Don’t you worry, dear.” Empathy and then certainty rang in Miss Hattie’s tone. “Everything is going to be just fine. That’s why you’re here.”
An odd feeling shimmied through Bess’s chest. Miss Hattie knew the reason Bess had felt compelled to come here? “Why?”
The old woman smiled. “To heal.”
Bess didn’t want to dispute the woman, but she didn’t think for a second Seascape could cure her troubles. True, she did feel . . . comforted. And oddly at peace. Miracles, truly, considering her circumstances. But for a full-fledged healing, she’d need a fistful of miracles. And that would be asking for too much, even for Seascape.
A heavy summer shower had the Blue Moon Cafe bustling and its friendly owners, Fred and Lucy Baker, jumping to get everyone seated at the long wooden bar and at the red-checked, clothed tables fed and watered and comfortable.
Because Bess was from away, as Miss Hattie put it, the angelic old innkeeper filled Bess in on the identity of the rain-soaked people coming in to dry off: Horace Johnson, the baseball-capped mayor who owned The Store across the street from the cafe; Jimmy Goodson, the lanky, young, and shy mechanic who had been orphaned long ago, and who Bess already had met at Seascape. Miss Hattie clearly was very fond of Jimmy. The incredibly handsome Pastor Brown, whose single marital status Miss Hattie had pointed out twice, so far; and Sheriff Leroy Cobb, the bear of a man who sat at the bar and, along with his coffee, indulged in a slice of Lucy’s blueberry pie that, in Bess’s book, qualified as a slab. Sheriff Cobb, Miss Hattie explained, had grown up there and was now the county sheriff. But wherever his duties took him, he made it his business to drop by the Blue Moon Cafe every afternoon for pie, coffee, and lively conversation.
Trying to keep everyone’s identity straight had Bess’s head swimming. Finally, she gave up. Hearty and generous-natured, the villagers would tolerate any mistakes an outsider might make.
Even without Miss Hattie’s insight, Bess would have recognized the postage stamp-size cafe as the village hub. It was small, but alive with conversation, laughter, and music. Garth Brooks, via the old jukebox on the far wall, belted out a song about thunder rolling. Its vibrations rocked together the seashells and starfish inside fishnets, hanging from the walls. A partition made of boat oars blocked the view of the kitchen, but someone in there—sounded like a teenage girl—sang along. Lucy Baker, a jean-clad, thirtyish redhead wearing a T-shirt with “I’m Not Old, I Just Need Repotting” emblazoned across the front, snapped her gum and buzzed table to table, refilling mugs of hot coffee from a carafe in one hand, and glasses of iced tea from a pitcher held in the other. The succulent smell of lobster drifted up from Bess’s plate. It had been divine, as Lucy had assured her it would be. Must be true about the deeper, colder water making Maine’s lobster the best.
“Isn’t it wonderful, about Tyler and Maggie and the baby? I can hardly wait for November.” Miss Hattie sipped from her cup of steaming hot tea, her eyes shining her delight.
“Yes, it is.” Secretly, Bess hoped she’d be asked to be the baby’s godmother. With her and John divorcing, godmother likely would be as close as she’d ever come to having a child of her own. A little ripple of sadness slid through her chest. Well, at least T. J. and Maggie were happy. And Miss Hattie clearly took their well-being into her heart. That had Bess smiling at the dear soul. Since Bess’s arrival, Miss Hattie, with her kind and gentle ways, her forever-mussed apron and floral dresses and her soft white, bunned hair, had hovered over, nurtured and pampered and spoiled Bess rotten, acting as if it were her personal responsibility to make Bess welcome and happy.
She’d half-succeeded. Never, including during her childhood, had Bess felt so welcome or comfortable anywhere as she did at Seascape Inn. The house itself seemed to open its arms and cradle her. Strange to imagine until she’d experienced it firsthand, but it felt as a home should feel, though none in Bess’s experience ever had.
She let her gaze drift to the front door. A birdlike woman rushed in from the storm and tilted back her chin to look around. “Leroy Cobb,” she said, her voice high-pitched and tinny, her eyes narrowing. “I knew I’d find you here.”
Clad in a wet yellow slicker and floppy hat, she stomped from the door to the bar, dripping a trail of her path onto the wood-plank floor. Standing beside the sheriff’s stool, she shook her finger at his reddened face. “You ought to have more respect for your elders than to make them run after you in this kind of weather, young man. I told your mama back when you were a boy that she needed to—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Favish,” he interrupted, looking as if he wished he could crawl under the bar to get away from her.
Bess cocked her head. Amusing, considering he was thrice the size of the older woman.
“Pay her no mind, dear,” Miss Hattie whispered over the table. “That’s my next-door neighbor, Beaulah Favish. She’s a good woman, but she’s had some challenges that have troubled her more than a wee bit.”
Ah, Batty Beaulah. Maggie had told Bess about her too. “I see.” Challenges. Boy, could Bess empathize with that. If she didn’t watch herself, when all her challenges settled out, people would be calling her Batty Bess.
“I’m telling you, Leroy Cobb,” Beaulah slapped at her slicker, spraying those seated at the bar, “I saw lights on up in that attic room at two in the morning. Now we both know darn well it wasn’t Hattie up there. Something strange is going on at that inn and I expect you to handle it—better than you handled T. J. busting the cliffs with his hard head.”
Most people would worry about the human head, not the granite cliffs. Bess lifted her brows, and whispered to Miss Hattie. “Our T. J.?”
“Mmm, I’m afraid so, dear.” Miss Hattie’s soft sigh coupled with her concerned look. “Beaulah is a dear woman, but she’s a tad—”
“Eccentric?” Bess suggested, sensing Miss Hattie’s unease, and that her generous spirit wouldn’t permit her to say anything unkind about anyone.
The door opened and Miss Hattie’s friend, Vic Sampson, the mailman Bess had met at the inn yesterday, came inside, hauling his lea
ther bag. Worn and wet, it splotched dark, but he’d fastened the clasps to protect the mail. A moment later, he waved and grinned at her from the stool beside the poor sheriff. Understanding his silent message, Bess smiled back at the spry man who was in his seventies, like Miss Hattie. He was clearly amused—and right. Beaulah certainly did have a strong set of lungs; she barely paused for breath.
Lucy stepped between Bess and her view of the conflict. “More tea, sugar?” She snapped her gum.
“Yes, please.” Bess smiled and moved the red plastic glass closer, so Lucy wouldn’t have to stretch. “You sound Mississippian.”
“I was, but I converted. Now, I’m a hard-core Mainiac, and wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Maggie didn’t mention that, though she did tell me how all the villagers started calling Miss Hattie ‘Miss Hattie’ to keep you out of trouble with your mother.”
“They sure did. Mama’s a true southern belle and a stickler on manners. Back when I was growing up, I was a tad forgetful, which meant without everyone’s help, Mama always would’ve been crawling my backside.”
The villagers had adopted the traditional southern “Miss” to help Lucy remember. The caring in the gesture warmed Bess’s heart, and convinced her Lucy Baker must be special or the villagers wouldn’t have felt so protective of her. It also created a pang of envy. No one considered Bess that special. Not anymore.
Squelching thoughts of John, of the divorce, she watched Lucy pour the tea, then looked at Miss Hattie.
“I’ve been getting a lot of requests for your blueberry muffins lately.” Lucy gave the edge of the table a swipe with a cloth. “I don’t suppose you’d share the recipe.”
Looking pleased, Miss Hattie dabbed at a droplet of tea on the table with her napkin. “I’ll bring it by on my way to Millie’s for the Historical Society meeting tomorrow—provided you don’t draw Bess into your debate with Fred about angels being dead people or spiritual beings.”
