Upon a Mystic Tide

by Vicki Hinze

So are wives.

  He didn’t want to talk about Bess. Talking about Elise had reopened the wound of losing her, and he was losing Bess too. “How did you know about my mother?” And how did Miss Hattie know about Elise? Wait . . . of course, Tony had known Elise. He’d been with John in the hospital. Told him to let Elise go, to give her peace.

  Yes, I was there.

  “I thought you were my conscience then.”

  I know.

  “You helped me a lot. Thanks.”

  My pleasure.

  “Are you talking with Miss Hattie too?”

  God, don’t I wish? Tony’s voice shook with longing. But, no, I don’t exactly talk to Hattie. I . . . can’t.

  “Tony?” Very confused by the emotion trembling in Tony’s voice, John prodded for a more specific answer.

  I know many people, Jonathan. Most, from the heart out. I can arrange a lot of things. Even a three-way conversation where no one has to speak aloud. All manner of things. But I have to weigh the total effects of any action I take. I have to consider the emotional impact along with everything else. Sometimes, I confess, that’s a crapshoot.

  “Big responsibility.”

  It is. But the learning involved is worth it. And unless I miss my guess, you’re going to be learning a lot of new things about your wife. Things you never dreamed you’d learn. Things she’s only discovering for herself.

  “What kind of things?”

  I can’t say.

  Elise and her flower came to mind. “Do you know anything about the flower petal I found in Elise’s hand?”

  She needed a little guidance to find her way . . . home.

  Home? What did that mean? “I don’t under—”

  Nor do you need to. I would like to say something, though I’m not sure you’re ready to hear it. Sometimes the costs of keeping secrets—regardless of how noble the intentions are behind it—are just too steep, Jonathan.

  A streak of sheer fear shot up John’s spine. “You know about my parents?”

  Yes, I do. I understand your reasons for keeping silent, and I’ll never betray your confidence. You’ve my word on that. But I wish you’d think about all you’ve lost because of this secret already. Maybe it’s time to reconsider the value of keeping it yourself.

  His bedroom door swung open. “Jonathan?”

  Bess. In a panic. He stretched and clicked on the bedside lamp. “What’s wrong?”

  Her robe hanging low on her shoulder, her eyes wild, she hurried across the room. Banging her hip against the tall stack of boxes near the desk didn’t even slow her down. She grabbed her side and rushed on, stopping beside the bed.

  “I know this is going to sound crazy, but I’m telling you it’s the truth.”

  Nails tapping on the floor, Silk came in and settled down on the rug. She seemed calm, but his wife certainly wasn’t. Bess was highly agitated, shifting her weight from foot to foot, wringing her hands. In all their married life, she’d never, not once, wrung her hands. “What’s the truth?”

  She started to say something, but changed her mind and turned pleading eyes on him. “I can’t talk about it yet.” She stepped closer, bumping her knees against the mattress. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

  Surprise streaked up his spine. It’s just a piece of paper and doesn’t change a thing. Six years. Six years, and she simply says, Can I sleep with you tonight? Did she mean sleep or sleep? Her Ritz perfume settled over him, and again he remembered that moment in her room where her robe had fallen open and he’d gazed upon those long, lovely legs of hers that went on forever. His throat went tight, his body hard. “Sure.” He lifted the quilts.

  She stared down at him. “You’re—You’re . . . nude.”

  “Geez, Bess. I’ve slept naked since I was thirteen—including every night of our marriage—and you’re surprised?”

  “I’m—I’m not.” She crawled onto the bed, over him with a none-too-gentle knee to his stomach, and then finally settled her head onto the pillow beside him. “I just forgot for a second. It’s been a while.”

  His heart chugged. Was she scared? Ticked? What? Tangled up inside, he couldn’t sort out his own emotions much less hers. He’d get her calmed down first, and then at least he’d stand a chance of finding out what was going on here. “The pillows have more lumps than my mashed potatoes.”

  “This one certainly does.” She squashed and fluffed it then lay back down. “You were a lousy cook.”

  “Hey, at least I didn’t set off every smoke alarm in a two-mile radius.” Ritz. She’d come to him robed in slinky silk sex and Ritz.

  “Beat starving, too.” She scrunched down, buried herself to her chin under the quilt.

  “Your culinary skills weren’t the greatest, either. Though you did burn a mean piece of toast.”

  “I’m a great cook.” She slid him a wicked grin. “I burned everything on purpose.”

  He guffawed. “You burned everything because you can’t cook.”

  “Nonsense. I said, I’m an excellent cook.”

  “The hell you are. Remember, darling, this is me you’re talking to, not your sorry Spaniard. I shared your bed and your kitchen for over a year. You can’t cook.”

  Seeing that she’d calmed down immensely, he turned off the light. As it went out, John saw her sinful smile—and the truth. “You tricked me, didn’t you? You burned everything so you wouldn’t have to cook.”

  “I never tricked you or lied.”

  “The hell you didn’t.” He’d been had.

  “Jonathan, each and every meal I burned, I swore I was a good cook.”

  She had told him that—every damn. time. And he’d fallen for it—every damn time. “You’re good, Bess. Really good.”

  “I hate cooking.”

  He couldn’t see her face in the darkness but whatever had sent her running in here still had her as tense as strung wire. She wasn’t ready to talk about it yet and, if he knew nothing else about Doc, he knew she wouldn’t utter a word until she was good and ready. “Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t like to cook?”

  “What if I had and then you’d said you didn’t like it either?”

  He frowned at her. “Well, I guess we’d have done something drastic like toss a coin, rotate nights, or maybe even hire a cook. Pretty grim scenarios.” He sighed. “Yeah, with stakes like those, I can see why you chose to deceive me.”

  “I didn’t deceive you. I told you straight out I could cook.”

  She had a point.

  She wears your ring . . . chump.

  Watch it, Tony—and take a hike. This is private.

  I happen to agree—on both counts.

  Both?

  This is private and, right now, she is one moody woman.

  She’s upset, not moody. Do you know why?

  Yes.

  Well, aren’t you going to tell me?

  I am. I’m going to tell you good night. He made a production of clearing his throat. Good night, Jonathan.

  Tony had gone; John could feel it. And, for some reason—likely the fault of the woman beside him—the room had suddenly grown a lot warmer. “Bess?”

  She wasn’t touching him, but he felt her body heat all along his side. Maybe she wanted to make love. Her needing him physically beat her not needing him at all. “Is this your way of telling me you’ve accepted my proposal?”

  “Fat chance.”

  He’d figured, but he’d still had to ask. “Are you wanting to make love, then?”

  “Frankly, yes . . . but I’m not going to.”

  That she’d admit it, even as she denied them both, surprised him. He’d been right, thinking protection and not desire had brought her to him. But protection from what? She sounded cool and controlled, but she wasn’t. He admired her discipline, but just once—just once—he wanted her to abandon it. With him.

  “John,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t mind just a hug, though. I’m chilled to the bone.”

  Just a hug? Just a hug? Could he
give her just a hug and stop there?

  Six years, he’d ached for her. Contemplated a million reasons why she’d left him. Hurt for her, and hungered like a starving man for her to need him for anything. And now, inside of three weeks of divorcing him, she admits she needs him—if only to hold her for a minute. Naturally, she waits until he’s naked and vulnerable. Naturally, she waits until she’s in his bed and nothing but that filmy excuse of silk robe separates her skin from his. And, naturally, she levels him with that soft and husky I-trust-you-Jonathan voice that set him on fire. How could she trust him to demand no more than a hug when he couldn’t trust himself? He’d try—he really would—but with all these memories crashing through his mind . . . legs that went on forever, wrapped around his hips. Their bodies hot and sleek and melding, moving together in rhythm. Bess whispering lovers’ secrets in his ears. Could he do it? He was only human.

  But she trusted him.

  Trust.

  And for the first time ever, she’d admitted that she needed him. She . . . needed him.

  His throat tight, he prayed he wouldn’t let her down.

  From the creaking floorboards, she’d paced a hundred miles in her room before coming to him, claiming herself cold. It was warm in here, quickly growing hot. She wasn’t frigid, she was frightened, but he’d give her the lie—and the hug. And no more. Not even if it killed him.

  Never would she regret needing him and telling him she did. He reached for her.

  Grunting, she shifted farther onto her side of the bed, away from him. She’d clearly changed her mind. Disappointment so sharp he swore it cut through his soul stabbed him.

  It’s only a piece of paper . . .

  Chump.

  His chest went tight and, though he was furious with her for taunting him, he still ached to hold her. He lay on his hand, trapping it under his hip, to keep from pulling her into his embrace. It’d been such a long, long time. And he might never again have the chance to hold her. Might never again feel the sweet agony of her needing him.

  “What are those boxes? I’ll have a bruise on my hip the size of Maine.”

  “Case files.” The moment had passed. He hadn’t responded quickly enough. She’d pulled out her armor and hidden back behind it.

  “Dixie Dupree’s files?”

  “Yes.” Here it came. More censure. The desire swelling in his heart fell like a rock off a cliff. Resentment replaced it.

  “So you’re up here following a lead.”

  “I’m here to settle the property dispute.”

  “But there’s a chance of a lead too.”

  Was she pleased or upset? “Possibly. Hopefully. A man in Portland might have some information. He’s checking it out.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t say that, Bess.” He tunneled his fingers through his hair. Maybe he should just tell her he needed the hug. What would she say? Do? “I hate it when you say that.”

  “Why?”

  Likely she’d laugh at him, or sear his ears with some scathing remark. She certainly wouldn’t respect his honesty. Needs were weaknesses to Bess. In herself, and in her husband. “Because too often you don’t see and it really sets me off that you say you do.”

  “Oh.” She sighed. “I hope your lead pans out.”

  She didn’t. But saying she did was proper and right. Vintage Bess. Push all the right buttons. Even if nothing’s hooked up to them. He played her game. “Thank you.”

  She rolled over onto her side, facing him, and lowered her voice. “I have to tell you something. I should have told you before, but the time just hasn’t seemed quite right. No, that’s not true. I didn’t want to talk about it, but now I do.”

  He waited. She’d get around to it, as she did everything else: in her own sweet time. His heart rate sped up a notch. Was she finally going to tell him why she’d left him?

  “I’m sorry about Elise.” Bess’s voice went ragged. “I can imagine what you think of me, not showing up at her funeral, but I didn’t know she’d died until . . . recently. Long after the funeral.” Bess swallowed hard, saying things in the dark she’d never have said to him in the light of day. “If I’d known, I’d have been there, Jonathan. You know I would have.”

  “Would you?” He hated the hope in his voice as much as he’d hated her for not coming to the funeral. That she’d brought up Elise stunned him. And it made him wary.

  “Of course.”

  The woman was lying through her teeth. “You hated Elise.”

  “I didn’t. I envied her.”

  That took a moment to digest. A lot of people probably did envy Elise, especially those who only saw the image of her: wealthy, powerful, answerable only to herself and to God. But he’d seen the real woman. The widow who continued year after year to grieve the loss of her husband, Clayton. The mother who didn’t know if her daughter was dead or alive and feared with every breath that moment was the moment Dixie was being tortured, raped, or murdered. The woman who’d taken him under her wing and had called him dear heart: rich words to his motherless ears that had helped soothe the pain of empty years of longing to be considered dear to anyone.

  “I really am sorry. I know you loved Elise and she loved you.”

  “She didn’t,” he said. “She never said she did.”

  “She loved you, John. Trust me on this. Elise Dupree loved you with all her heart.”

  A tear slid down his cheek and his voice went gruff. “I felt as if she did. But just once . . .”

  “You wanted to hear the words.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes.”

  Bess patted his upper arm, then lay back down on her pillow. “Did you ever tell her you loved her?”

  “No.” And, God, but did he regret that now. “I thought she’d—It doesn’t matter anymore. She’s gone.”

  They fell quiet, then a long moment later, Bess turned back toward him, onto her side. “John?”

  Her perfume settled over him like a soothing blanket. Ritz. God, but nothing else in this world ever smelled so good. “Hmmm?”

  “You can still tell her.”

  Face to face with Bess in the darkness, he saw only her shadowy outline. “She’s dead, honey. How can I—”

  “By pretending that I’m her.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “No, but it will give you a sense of closure. You need that.” Bess cupped his chin. “Please, do it. Say to me whatever you wish you had said to her.”

  Foolish, but this seemed really important to Bess. Maybe the idea of helping him appealed to her—though, after his stunt with Silk, he couldn’t imagine why she’d want to do anything but wring his neck. And yet the night Tony had called the station, he’d mentioned her using her skills to help others, and her needing to now use them to help herself. Maybe in doing this for John, she would be helping herself. Maybe she too needed to feel needed. And maybe before, John had failed to let her know she had been.

  A second chance. Don’t blow it.

  A memory. Not Tony. John swallowed hard. “All right.”

  He closed his eyes, thought back to the night Elise had died. Remembering it now just as it had happened then, with him walking into the hospital weak-kneed, knowing he’d failed her, and not wanting to watch her die . . .

  “I knew you’d come, John Mystic.”

  He stood beside Elise’s hospital bed. It was dark outside, but the dim glow of the fluorescent light above her bed glared on the window pane and her ruby amulet flickered in it. Swaddled in white linen, she looked so pale and wan, so little. He had a hard time reconciling the vibrant woman of a few months ago and this small, frail-looking woman with sunken, frightened eyes. “Where else would I be?”

  She managed a semblance of a smile. “Sit down, dear heart. I need to say some things and there isn’t much time.”

  A nurse he hadn’t seen before came into the room and checked Elise’s blood pressure. When she was done, she frowned down at Elise. “Oh, my. Someone missed this.” She
reached for the clasp on Elise’s amulet.

  “No.” Fumbling, Elise reached up and palmed the necklace.

  John sat up straighter. “Leave it alone.”

  The startled nurse looked at him. “But a patient wearing jewelry here is not advisable.”

  Because he knew the importance of the amulet to Elise and the nurse didn’t, he softened his voice. “Leave it.” On the day Elise’s only child, Dixie, had been born, Elise’s beloved husband, Clayton, had given mother and daughter matching amulets. He’d died a long time ago, and Dixie had been missing for nearly seven long years. “She’s more comfortable with it on.”

  “All right, Mr. Mystic. But the hospital can’t accept responsibility.”

  Responsibility. Didn’t anyone care about comfort and meaning and compassion anymore? Did everything have to be judged, ruled, and settled based on finances? “No problem,” he said more sharply than he intended.

  The nurse’s expression sobered. Wordlessly, she tucked the blood-pressure cuff under her arm, then left the private room. Her shoes squeaked down the hallway, then faded into silence.

  “John?”

  He scooted nearer to the bed, then clasped Elise’s hand in his. “I’m right here.”

  “It’s getting close,” she whispered, her lips dry and cracked, her eyelids drooping. “I feel my body shutting down.”

  His heart wrenched and a wall of regret and guilt and grief slammed through his chest. He dammed it deep inside. “Shh, save your strength.”

  “I have to tell you—”

  “It can wait until you’re stronger.” She couldn’t die on him, too. Not now. Please, not now. Not yet!

  “You have to face it, dear heart. I’m not going to get stronger.”

  “Don’t say that.” She had to get stronger. Had to.

  “John, I’m dying. We both know it. Please, let me say what I have to say.”

  He dipped his chin and stared at the white sheet draping over her thin chest. His eyes burned like fire. It was wrong, but he had to do it. Had to give her what peace he could. “You’ve got to get stronger.” He forced his gaze to meet hers. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life. “I reached that lead at Dockside—the bar in Portland.”