by Vicki Hinze
“No!”
“No!”
“Very well.” Miss Hattie again lowered herself back to her rocker pad. And again she sent a concerned, questioning look ceilingward.
Everyone fell quiet. John fidgeted. What did he say to an angelic-looking woman who thought he was one of the good guys or to the woman divorcing him who still put knots in his stomach? He didn’t have a clue.
Rocking back and forth, Miss Hattie looked to the end of the fireplace mantel. “Oh, my. I almost forgot.” She stretched and grasped the brown box then passed it to Bess. “While you two were busy with Jimmy and the car, a package from Miguel Santos arrived. I’m sorry, dear. I’d forgotten it.”
“It’s no problem.” Bess took it. “Actually, it’s for Silk. Cookies.” She looked to where Silk lay curled into a ball on the rug at Miss Hattie’s feet. “She certainly doesn’t mind.”
John suffered a twinge of sheer jealousy. Silk didn’t mind. Snoozing there before the fireplace, she didn’t seem to mind at all. At least all was well in somebody’s world.
Bess opened the box. It crackled then split. Smiling, she pulled out a dog biscuit. “Silk. Wanna cookie?”
Another gift Bess would accept from that sorry Spaniard. And still, she’d touch nothing of her husband’s. God, but that rankled, and it made him even more determined. She would relent. He would not bend on this. Not now, not ever.
The puppy perked up and padded over to Bess, tail wagging and eyes alight.
“Sit and say please,” Bess instructed.
The mop dutifully obeyed, sitting and lifting her right paw. John couldn’t repress a grin. Silk took the cookie into her mouth, then promptly ran to John. When he lifted her up, she dumped the cookie into John’s jean-clad lap.
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
Bess smiled. “She wants you to hold it for her.”
His insides quivered. Bess’s smile lit up the room, lit up a life that’d held nothing but dark shadows since Elise’s death. The back of his nose tingled and, misty-eyed, he looked down at the pup. “Saving it for later, huh, squirt?”
Silk barked once, wiggled until John put her down, then returned to the rug. Miss Hattie had left; her rocker still moved but she was no longer in it, nor in the kitchen. He hadn’t seen her go.
“Here, I’ll take it.” Bess held out a hand for Silk’s cookie.
Santos’s cookie she’d take. But nothing from John. Fury coiled tight in his stomach then exploded. He slipped the cookie into his shirt pocket, taking far more pleasure than he should in Bess’s what-are-you-doing expression.
“I’ll be needing some of these.” He laced his hands atop the table. “That’s what I wanted to talk with you about.”
Her brow crinkled. “Do you have a dog?”
“Not yet.” He glanced pointedly at Silk. “But I will soon.”
Bess stood up. “Jonathan Mystic, you can’t mean to try to take my dog!”
Genuine emotion? From Bess? Without seduction or deliberate provocation? Good God, he couldn’t believe it. “Of course not, Bess. You know I’d never take her.” He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m only asking for visitation rights—maybe joint custody.”
“What?” Bess bumped the table. Coffee from her cup sloshed over the rim and splattered onto her robe. She grabbed a dish cloth from the counter and swiped at the spill. “Are you crazy?”
Definitely genuine emotion. Irksome that Santos’s dog aroused it, but at least it was there. If Santos had tapped into it, then there had to be a way for John to tap into it, too. “You’re the doc, darling. You tell me.”
She walked around the table and stared down at him, her eyes glittering. “You are not getting visitation rights or joint custody of my dog, Jonathan. I got Silk after we separated. She’s mine.”
He smiled up at her. She was close to letting that facade crack. So close a good thread jerk would snap it. “I think you’d best check with Francine, darling. You got Silk after you walked out on me, true. But before you filed for legal separation. In the eyes of the law, Silk is ours.”
Bess drew in a sharp breath that had her chest heaving, her breasts straining against her robe. “We’ll see about that.”
“I already have. But,” he waved toward the phone, “call Francine. You’ll feel better getting the facts straight from her.”
Bess fumed. Her face flushed, her eyes seared, then went stone cold. “You are one sorry son of a—”
“Bess!” Miss Hattie gasped. White-faced, she leaned against the mud room door, the bunch of yellow daisies in her arms crushed to her chest.
Bess swallowed the rest of her words, then muttered a tight-lipped, “I’m sorry, Miss Hattie. If you’ll please excuse me.” She stomped out of the kitchen, past the gallery’s grandfather clock, then on toward the stairs.
John stared at her back. If her spine got any stiffer it’d snap in at least three places. Flustered himself, he wasn’t exactly sure what to do. Should he go after her? Let her get used to the idea before hitting her with his proposed settlement? Either way held distinct risks.
“John, dear,” Miss Hattie walked over to the counter and set down her flowers. “I don’t like to intrude, but I can’t stand seeing you two so upset. If I might offer you a bit of advice, please, tell Bess about your loss.”
“I can’t, Miss Hattie. I thought I could, but Bess is just as bitter toward Elise now as she was six years ago. Losing her is bad enough. Bess wouldn’t understand that I feel as if I’ve just buried my mother. She’s never understood.”
A frown creased Miss Hattie’s soft brow. She folded a pleat into the skirt of her flowered dress, fidgeting with her fingers, and mulling over the matter. Then she sighed. “I see.”
“Don’t say that. Bess always says that and she doesn’t see a thing.” He stood up, looked at her, and let her see his regret in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to take this out on you. I just—”
“You hurt, dear. I know. No apology is needed.”
“Thank you.” He turned and stopped, then looked over the slope of his shoulder back at her. “Miss Hattie, did you pack Bess’s bags?”
Her face went pink and she averted her gaze.
“Miss Hattie?” Now what about that question induced discomfort?
“No, Jonathan, I didn’t.”
“Any idea who did?”
“I don’t like to speculate, dear. So often guesses are inaccurate.”
She knew. And he should push her. But Bess and he already had given the elderly woman more than enough shocks and startles and grief for one day, so he let it go. Another time would come, one when she wasn’t looking so vulnerable. “True,” he agreed, then strode out of the kitchen.
Miss Hattie watched him turn onto the stairs, then blew out a shuddery sigh and stared up at the ceiling. “I hope you know what you’re doing here, Tony, because I’ve certainly got my doubts about these two.”
The lights flickered once, then again.
Miss Hattie frowned. “All right. You don’t have to get persnickety. I wasn’t questioning your judgment, darling, only theirs. It seems to me that too much hurt has passed between them for things to ever again be right. If the man won’t turn to her even in grief and she won’t turn to him even when facing serious challenges, when will they turn to each other? My guess is that they won’t. Not at all.”
The lights snuffed out and stayed out.
Miss Hattie calmly reached into the kitchen drawer near her left hip, pulled out a candle and matches, then lit the wick. When the flame lit up the kitchen, she grunted. “Maggie MacGregor was right about you, Tony Freeport. You do have an attitude.”
The temperature dropped and a cool breeze fanned past her shoulder. The candle’s flame went out.
Resigned, Miss Hattie began arranging the flowers in the dark, hoping John and Bess wouldn’t prove to be one of the intended couples here who failed to meet their destinies.
Though she hated to admit
it, that did happen at times. Those two clearly loved each other, but a lot of obstacles stood in their way. Maybe too many obstacles.
The candle flamed to life.
Then again, Miss Hattie smiled, maybe not.
The sound of raised voices carried down from overhead.
“Oh, dear.” Cringing, Miss Hattie bit down on her lower lip then hummed to drown out their actual words and busied herself arranging her yellow daisies. “Well, a little darkness does create a safe haven for a little spirited discussion.” It could help.
Or it could complicate matters and make them worse.
She was not sick. She was eating. And she had not lost weight.
Did John think she should lose a few pounds?
“Idiot! What difference does what he thinks make?” Because it did matter and she didn’t want it to, Bess tossed her coffee-splattered robe onto the bed and stared at her stunned reflection in the dresser mirror. The scraps of lace she called bra and panties looked stark against her pale skin and the soft-hue blues and greens in the room.
She gave the antique white and brass phone on the desk a longing look. It worked only when it wanted, but she willed it to ring, willed Francine to call her again and tell Bess the legal opinion given earlier had been a mistake.
But the phone didn’t ring.
Francine didn’t call again.
And there’d been no mistake.
John Mystic, determined to have his way, really had demanded legal visitation rights with Silk.
Bess had to accept it. Acceptance was always positive growth. But wouldn’t the press just have a field day with this lawsuit? Bess could just see the headlines: RADIO HOST TO THE LOVELORN SUES FOR DIVORCE. HUSBAND GLADLY DITCHES WIFE BUT FIGHTS FOR CUSTODY OF DOG.
She could pitch a fit. A foot stomping, yelling at the top of her voice, raging fit. And Millicent Fairgate, whose call Bess had expected and had dreaded the entire day, surely would come no later than nine A.M. tomorrow. She’d likely as not fire Sal, too, because he hadn’t fired Bess over Tony’s call. Muttering, Bess paced a furious path between the braided rug beside the four-poster bed and the adjoining turret room window.
The curtain was open. A chilly breeze blew in, smelling of the sea and—God help her—of rain. Shivering straight down to her bones, she plodded back toward the bed. “Perfect. Just perfect.”
Never let them see you sweat, kid.
Her father’s teaching replayed in her mind and suddenly she was angry. So very angry at him. “I’ve listened to you my whole life, Dad. Maybe if I’d stomped my feet a few times and yelled once or twice, I wouldn’t be in this fix. Tony was right. What’s wrong with being ridiculous now and then? And what’s wrong with being angry and showing it? Oh, I know the drill by rote. A lack of self-discipline is so unseemly. Well, I’ve tried being seemly and it sucks dead canaries. Burying my emotions, never letting anyone see me sweat—I’m a psychologist, for God’s sake. I know what you demanded from me was unhealthy, and yet I did it anyway—to please you and Mother. But neither of you were pleased. You never will be and you’ll never approve of me. So okay, I accept it. Positive growth. Now I want my approval. Listening to you two cost me everything. Starting now, I listen to me.”
Feeling better at having come to a decision on this worry, Bess stopped pacing at the turret room windows. The strong wind now had the filmy curtains billowing nearly straight out. Not just rain coming. A storm.
Figured. Positively, absolutely figured.
She stomped her foot. It felt pretty good, so she stomped it again. Then she returned to pacing, putting her heart into it. When it failed to rid her of steam, she added deep-breathing exercises. The moon clung on the horizon, beneath the swirl of angry, gray clouds and their eerie, misty tentacles. A brilliant flash of lightning split the night sky. A horrendous clash of thunder followed. The windows rattled and the lights flickered, then flickered again.
Bess stopped dead in her tracks. Not just a storm. A wicked thunderstorm. The lights dimmed, then went out.
A thin, silvery streak of moonlight slanted across the floorboards and the braided rug. Odd. With the storm there should be no moonlight, and yet there was. How could that be?
Please, not this, too. Not a storm, too. Not now. A blink from tears, she moved toward the bed, determined to plop herself into it, jerk the covers up over her head, and not come out until the world again got civilized. She’d had all she could stand of her starring role in “The Perils of Pauline.”
Her foot tangled in the edge of the rug. She stumbled, fell face first down to the hardwood floor, breaking her fall with her elbows. Pain shafted up her arms and she bit back a wail.
Well, if this just wasn’t the last straw. Stinging tears flooded her eyes then spilled down her cheeks. She should stop them, now, before she lost complete control. But a good cry could be therapeutic, could clear some of the frustration from her system. Hadn’t she often prescribed a marathon crying jag on occasion for just that purpose?
Someone touched her arm.
She gasped.
“It’s me.” John sat down on the floor beside her. “Are you hurt? I heard you fall.”
“Only my dignity.” Her voice caught, ragged. He hadn’t heard her fall. The rug had muffled it. He’d remembered how much she hated the dark and storms. And now he knew she was crying. Lord, was there no end to the humiliation?
“Come here.” He pulled her into his arms.
Yet another act of unselfish kindness. Cecelia would like that. Bess shouldn’t like it but, damn it, she needed holding, and she was so tired of fighting everything—including him—alone. Swearing she wouldn’t, she snuggled closer. When he closed his arms around her, she shivered. Feeling safe and secure, and unafraid. She should be terrified. If she had half an ounce of sense, she’d be scared witless.
He cupped her bottom and pulled her into the wedge between his bent knees, his feet flat on the floor, his shirt soft against her skin, his jeans rough against her side.
“Aren’t you going to ask me a bunch of stupid questions?” She curled her hands to her chest to keep from winding them around him. He smelled so good, like John, and he still wore the same cologne. Obsession. How he’d laugh at her if he knew she’d bought a bottle and sprayed her spare pillow to help her get through stormy and lonely nights.
“No. No questions.” His heart raced, thudding hard against the side of her face. He brushed at her wet cheek with a gentle stroke of his thumb. “These tell me plenty. You’ve talked with Francine.”
“Why are you doing this?” She looked up but the darkness shadowed his face and she couldn’t see his expression. Grateful for that, for knowing he couldn’t see hers either, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Do you hate me that much?”
He lifted her chin with an upward nudge then smoothed her hair back from her face. “I don’t hate you, Bess.”
The moonlight slanted over his face and, though the look in his eyes contrasted with his words and an unspeakable sadness tainted his tone, relief fluttered through her. She was rationalizing but weak right now, she needed the crutch. Being held in the warmth of his arms couldn’t be good for either of them. They were both vulnerable. And with them, vulnerability equated to danger. The magnetism between them always had been too strong. Yet she didn’t move away. “Why, then? Why Silk? Jonathan, I’ll look like a fool and so will you.”
“Let’s talk about it later. Right now, just let me hold you. You’re shivering.”
And she would be as long as she was in his arms. She hated it that he could still do this to her—but not enough to want him to stop. The storm was nearing; she smelled the rain, and wished she’d closed the window. “I think we’ve got a classic case of—”
“Please don’t start spouting jargon, Bess.”
He pleaded for far more than that; though for what exactly, she didn’t know. “A classic case of all or nothing,” she amended, using laymen’s terms. “You don’t want me, but you don’t want to let me go for
fear someone else will want me. You want to just hold on to me.” His arms gripped her tighter. “Am I right about this?”
“At the moment, Doc, I am holding you.” He clearly meant to sound flip, and he would have, to anyone but Bess. She heard that telltale tremor in his voice, the husky one that betrayed him. John was not calm, but highly emotional—and hungry.
John? Hungry for her? Hot desire rippled through her body. Memories of other times, of other storms, flooded her, swamping her with vivid recollections of times of tenderness and lovers’ secrets shared: situations and feelings best forgotten.
She tried to pull away.
He held her tighter. Let his hand drop to her bare back, graze her cool skin in the gap between the band of her bra and her panties. “You used to sleep naked.” His voice went huskier, sexier.
“I’ve changed.” She had, but not in that respect. “Are you going to tell me why you’re doing this with Silk? You don’t really want visitation rights with her, John.”
He skimmed Bess’s side, hip to thigh. “Maybe I resent you leaving me by phone. Maybe I think I deserved for you to tell me you were leaving me face to face.”
She looked up at him, into the underside of his chin. The sliver of moonlight splayed over it and it looked as hard as the granite cliffs beyond the turret room window. She drew back then rested her hands on his rock-hard thighs. “Maybe I resent you staying gone three days without a word. You didn’t call—not once, not even on Christmas.” Chilled, missing his warm, sure hold and, stupidly, the comfort of it, too, she snuggled back to him. “When you finally did call, all you said was, ‘Sorry, darling. I forgot.’” She slapped at his thigh. “That was a bastardly thing to do to me.”
He rested his chin on her crown. “You knew I was following a lead.”
“Kidnapers,” she snuggled closer still and curled her knees until they rested against the underside of his firm thighs. “You were following kidnapers who might have murdered Dixie and I thought, maybe you.” After putting Bess through that, holding her seemed the least he could do. God, but she’d been terrified.
