by Vicki Hinze
Miss Hattie smiled softly. “Because you still love him.”
“No, I don’t. I’d be a fool to love a man I know is ashamed of me.”
“Ashamed of you?” Miss Hattie forced her voice lower. “Bess, I can’t believe you’d honestly think Jonathan is ashamed of you.”
“He hasn’t introduced me to his parents.”
“Despite our short acquaintance, I know you well, and I don’t believe for a second that you’ve given yourself body and soul to a man you don’t love. Not for a moment, much less for a week.”
“Seven days,” Bess automatically corrected, then again sipped from her burgundy marble mug. “Actually, I agreed for more reasons than I told you. Aside from the custody suit for Silk, and to spare us public humiliation—honest, Miss Hattie, John has no idea how cruel the public can be—I agreed because . . .” Bess stopped cold. If she disclosed the truth, Miss Hattie would think Bess a terrible person. That would hurt. What Miss Hattie thought of her mattered; Bess respected the woman.
“Because?”
Bess couldn’t lie. She stiffened, bracing to see the concern in Miss Hattie’s eyes turn to disappointment, then to revulsion. “Because once we’re divorced, I want him to remember what he’s missing in losing me.” Bess lowered her gaze to a strip of bare floor. “Not very noble, but true.”
“It isn’t my place to judge you, dear. But I daresay in your position, I’d want the man to know he’d lost a good woman, too.”
Bess looked up. “Really?”
“Of course.” Miss Hattie grunted, fluffing up the first of three brown-and-green-print throw pillows on the bed. “What woman wouldn’t feel that way? Why, none who’s honest, I’d wager.”
“I . . . well, I agreed for me, too, Miss Hattie. Because, like I said, I need this time with him.” Getting used to losing him would take all of their seven days together and, she feared, more. Much, much more. A lifetime. Eternity. Infinity.
Cuddling the last of the pillows to her chest, Miss Hattie’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, the magic.”
Bess sighed, no longer surprised that Miss Hattie, like Tony, knew her deepest secrets. “I’ve called it lust with a kick, but you’re right. The magic.”
Miss Hattie smoothed the skirt of her dress. “Be careful, hmmm?” Worry deepened a soft wrinkle at the side of her mouth. “I’ve grown fond of you and John, and I’d hate to see either of you hurt. Lust is powerful, and that kick makes it more so. Unless it’s tempered with love, lust can be painful.”
Didn’t she know it? “Pain is exactly what I’m trying to avoid.”
Looking as if there were more she’d like to say but wouldn’t allow herself to, Miss Hattie nodded. “I’m sure you’ll do what’s best, dear.” She put the pillow back onto the forest green comforter, then left the room.
Bess again sipped from her mug. What else had been on Miss Hattie’s mind? What had she wanted to say but held herself back from saying? Whatever it—
You made promises, Doc. No more lies. What happened to no more lies?
Tony. A furious Tony. Bess shivered. “What’s wrong with you? I didn’t lie to Miss Hattie. I don’t think if anyone wanted to lie, they could lie to her. I didn’t want to. And I didn’t lie. So what are you so riled about?”
A stack of files near the foot of the bed lifted from the floor and flew throughout the room, their contents scattering, fluttering to the floor, to the bed, onto the rug. Look at them, Doc. Look at them!
He wouldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t. Two-handed, she set her mug down and stood up. Her knees felt as weak as water and at any moment she expected her heart to burst right out of her chest. “Would you just calm down? You’re scaring me.”
I hope I am. I hope I frighten you right into facing the truth.
“What truth?”
Crimney. Look at the papers, Doc!
He wasn’t going to hurt her. Furious, yes, but not harmful. She inched over to the bed, praying her legs would hold her upright, then looked down at the first paper. “It’s a report on a false lead.”
For God’s sake, woman, not the report. Look at the important stuff.
“What important stuff?”
The doodles, Bess. Look at the damn doodles.
She’d ignored doodles all afternoon. Now he wanted her to look at them, calling them and not the reports important? “John scribbles on everything. It’d take a month to read all his doodles.”
You’re trying my patience here. Look at the blasted doodles.
“All right, all right!” Geez, the man was a pain in the tush. She lowered her gaze to the paper. “Bess the Beautiful?”
Look at the date.
“Two years ago. Right after I filed for the legal separation.” Her heart started a low, hard beat. “He thought me beautiful then?”
Evidently. Check out the one over there, on the pillow. No, no, no. The other pillow.
She moved around to the other side of the bed then looked down at the page. “Miguel the Intruder?” She lifted the page and frowned. “Is that how John feels about Miguel? That he’s intruding on John’s turf?”
Well, I don’t know, Doc. What do you think?
“I don’t know.”
While you’re deciding that maybe you should know, take a gander at that note on the nightstand, the one by the clock.
Bess grabbed it and zoomed in on the doodles. “Bess the Betrayer.” Her heartstrings felt a vicious tug and her eyes burned. This he’d written recently—right after Elise’s death. The day of the funeral. That Bess hadn’t gone had upset him.
“What do these mean, Tony? I don’t want to read too much into them.” She didn’t dare to read too much into them. One thing she couldn’t forget. John didn’t love her anymore.
Think about it.
From cryptic, to fury, to sarcasm, and now back to cryptic. The cryptic that sent cold chills racing up and down her spine. “Do you interpret these to mean John felt betrayed because I left him? Because they can’t mean that. He was hurt because I didn’t show up at Elise’s funeral. That’s all.”
Is it?
She didn’t know. “Maybe. He is jealous of Miguel.” She flipped her hair back from her face. “I should have told him we were just friends, but I didn’t.”
You wanted him jealous.
“I wanted him to think I’d built a fine life without him.”
And have you?
“I don’t have to answer that. You know the truth.”
Jonathan is jealous of Miguel. And you perpetuated that. You don’t have to explain why to me, but you certainly should understand yourself.
Bess plopped down on the bed and snapped her eyes shut. “He didn’t want me, Tony. He didn’t love me. Do you know how humiliating it is to have your husband forget you exist for three days and to put another woman first indefinitely? Regardless of the reasons, regardless of how well intended or founded they are, it hurts, damn it. It . . . hurts.”
Maybe if you’d been honest about your feelings rather than burying them, he’d have understood. You say he didn’t love you, but I have to wonder, Doc, if you loved him. You didn’t trust him, or share with him, or have faith in his love. Sounds to me as if you got a good dose of what you dished out.
“That’s not true!” Bess opened her eyes and jerked upright. “You don’t—”
A luminescent man, very handsome, very concerned eyes, wearing an old-fashioned Army uniform stood not two feet from the edge of the bed. No, not a man. Not . . . solid.
A ghost.
And in his left lapel was a yellow carnation.
She gasped. Her knees gave out. Staring gape jawed at him, she collapsed back onto the bed. “Good . . . grief.”
Chapter 10
It’s me—Tony. Crimney, Doc, don’t faint! I never did know what to do with women who cry or faint.
“Faint?” The shock had passed. Well, sort of. And now she was the one who was furious. “Oh, no, Tony. I’m not going to faint. I’m going to phone.” She scooted off t
he bed, demanded her knees knock off the gelatin act, then moved to the desk and the brown, streamline phone. The smell of Tony’s Old Spice cologne made her nostrils tingle.
Phone? Who are you going to call?
Bess lifted the receiver. “Maggie MacGregor. She’s got a queen-size backside-chewing coming and, by gum, prego or no, she’s going to get it.” Bess started dialing. “She knew about you all along and didn’t tell me. And I thought she was my friend.”
She was, er, is. He folded his arms over his chest. Now just how would you have reacted if she’d told you the truth about me? And, if memory serves me correctly, she did hint. He tapped at his lapel, jiggling the yellow carnation there.
“She didn’t tell me. She should’ve told me.”
You wouldn’t have believed her, Doc.
She probably wouldn’t have. She probably would have thought Maggie had overdosed on prenatal vitamins or something. Still . . .
The phone’s out, anyway. You’ll have to wait to call her.
The receiver at her ear, Bess stared at him. The phone was out of order, its static-free line as silent as a tomb. He’d done it. “I’ll have to wait until I calm down?”
He smiled. Works for me.
She cradled the receiver and sat down at the desk. “You’re intruding again.”
Just doing my job, Doc.
Scaring the socks off me keeps you gainfully employed? Why aren’t you just rattling a few chains or something?
His golden eyes twinkled. That’s one of my hobbies. This is more interesting.
“I see.”
No, you don’t. Not yet. But you will.
“That sounds almost like a threat, Tony.” Was she really sitting here holding a conversation with a ghost? Really? Maybe she’d just lost her mind. Yes, insanity. That had to be it. She’d been under a lot of stress—who could deny it? It’d gotten the best of her and she’d slipped right on over, beyond twilight. Yes, insanity. Had to be insanity because she felt no fear. Only being insane could explain the absence of fear.
You’re not insane, woman, just stubborn.
“There’s not a stubborn bone in my body,” she insisted, shoving aside a stack of folders. She folded her elbow, then propped her chin on her palm. “Since you’re here, and hell-bent on intruding, can you tell me what all these doodles mean?”
What do you think they mean? Wait, let me rephrase that. What would you like for them to mean?
Nothing seemed easy anymore. No black and white, only a million shades of gray. “Straight out, my head doesn’t want them to mean anything. But my heart, well, it wants the doodles to mean that John might—”
Might? Knock it off Doc. Hearts don’t deal in mights. They desire, yearn, crave, but they don’t mess around with mights.
Her face went hot. “All right, then. The truth is, my heart wishes they mean he still cares for me.”
You’re doing it again. Cares for. What heart would worry itself with a nit-picking thing like caring when it loves unconditionally and prays—not wishes, prays—it’ll be loved back?
Bess went stiff. “I will not love Jonathan again, Tony. I will not.”
I’m convinced. He looked down at her as if he were wearing glasses and peeking at her up over the rims. Are you?
Her chin quivered. “He’ll break my heart.”
We’ve been through this before. You’re not thinking. Why aren’t you thinking?
A knot of tears clogged her throat. Bess gulped them down. “I’ve been thinking, but I’ve been spending a lot more time on feelings. I’ve about decided neither is smart.”
On the contrary. Your discussion with your father was a very healthy one. Even if he didn’t hear it.
“You were eavesdropping?” Bess gasped.
Tony laughed. Not exactly. I can’t not hear anything that goes on around here—even when I’d like to. Beaulah Favish comes to mind. I’d really like to not hear her.
“I expect the sheriff does, too.” Bess smiled. Not being able to turn off sounds must be as deafening as silence. When she and John had first separated, she’d finally had to move out. Two days of silence in their home and it had become purgatory to her. Yes, silence could be deafening. Sound, too, for Tony. Could he get away from it as easily as she had? For some reason, though purely speculation, she doubted it. She’d have to ask him about that some time. When she got used to the idea of conversing with a gho—with him.
Along with thinking about my message to you, the tide one—you haven’t forgotten it, have you?
If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was deliberately trying to be cute. But she did, and he wasn’t. He was serious. “Not at all.” It plagued her night and day.
Ah, good. Along with it, I suggest you think about the doodles, Doc. They’re very telling.
For the first time, Bess tried looking at their situation from John’s perspective. “He felt betrayed,” she told Tony. “The way he sees it, I walked out on him and got involved with another man. I betrayed him. Is that how he felt?”
Feels, Bess, not felt. And, yes, I’d say that’s about right.
“But that would mean that he’d tied his feelings of worth as a husband to the success of Mystic Investigations. Surely John wouldn’t have done that. Surely he knew—”
Bess, Bess, Bess. Man’s feelings have become inbred over thousands of years. You can’t negate the power of innate feelings in the blink of an eye. These things take time. To him, your independence and reserve translated to you not wanting or needing his protection. More accurately, to you not needing him. Your refusal to accept half of your combined assets only reinforces those, feelings.
“But that doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
Doesn’t matter. That’s how he sees and feels about it. You have to understand. Man has long been the protector and provider of women.
“Thousands of years. So you’ve mentioned.”
Right. And your actions, intentional or unintentional, scorn John following his natural instincts, trying to do both. In a real way, you’ve neutered him.
“For God’s sake, this is the twentieth century, Tony. Men don’t want helpless, dependent women anymore. They expect us to be capable of handling things. Who’d want a victim for a wife, anyway? And who’d want a man who wanted his wife to be a victim? No. No, you’re in the wrong century, Tony.”
You misunderstand me, Doc. We’ve talked about this before, but it’s obvious now you missed my meaning. All John wants is to feel needed. That desire—feeling needed—is universal to any man in any century. Or to any woman, for that matter. Being needed is what all this boils down to. And that’s what you’ve denied John.
Bess just stared at him, taking all this in, unsure what, if any, of it held value.
Tony slid a hip onto the edge of the desk. You’re still looking baffled. Let me clear a little of the mud. If you love someone and they don’t need you, what do you consider yourself worth to that person?
The truth hit Bess like a hammer blow. “I get it. It’s not just being needed. It’s a question of self-worth. Because I didn’t share my trials and challenges with him, because I didn’t share my feelings with him, John felt unworthy. He felt I had weighed his value as a husband, a provider—as a man—and he didn’t have any value.” Her stomach curling, she licked at her lips, then returned her gaze to Tony, sitting perched on the desk’s edge, his hands laced in his lap. “John didn’t neglect me. Oh, Lord, I neglected him.”
Well, as John himself would say, truth is truth, and I think you both did a fair share of neglecting, Doc. But you’ve nailed the upshot of the situation from his point of view.
“But that’s not how it was!”
Doesn’t matter. We’re not talking reality here, Doc. We’re talking perception. And, right or wrong, this is how John perceived your relationship and what he perceived to be the truth.
Tony stilled, tipped his chin toward the door as if listening. Oh-oh. Jonathan’s back. Don’t mention that you’ve s
een me, Bess. The man isn’t ready yet and . . . Tony’s voice trailed. He cocked his head, then grimaced.
“And? That’s a heck of place to drop the conversation, Tony.”
He’s ticked to the gills.
“At who?”
Tony shrugged. Beats me, but I’m outta here. He’s got a wicked temper, and I’ve got chains to rattle.
“Chicken.”
Now isn’t that fine? Tony grinned. Bess Cameron Mystic, who shook like a leaf at the sound of my voice yesterday, now teases me in my natural state. Crimney, but I’m pleased, Doc.
He was pleased. And she wondered if he ever got lonely. Though she’d wanted to ask Miss Hattie about him, she feared upsetting her, and so Bess had kept her questions to herself. But she hated the thought of Tony or Miss Hattie feeling lonely. “If you’re so pleased, then hang around and help me get John unticked.”
I’m pleased, not stupid. You handle him.
“Tony, are you the only ghost around here?”
Tony smiled enigmatically. Leap, Doc. Leap! Then in a blink, he disappeared.
“I would leap—maybe,” she shouted out. “If I knew what the heck you meant!”
Jonathan took the steps two at a time up to the second-floor landing, then stormed across the hallway’s white Berber rug. The little Occupied sign hung on the nail on the bathroom door, but the light was off, and the bathroom empty. Bess had forgotten to take it down. He looked back down the hall to her room, double-checking. The door was closed, but no streak of light seeped under it onto the planked floor outside it. Her room had been dark from the drive, and it was still dark.
A surge of panic swelled in his stomach. He slammed the bathroom door shut, then went on toward his room. What if Jimmy had fixed her car? What if she’d left? What if he’d blown this second chance? Damn it! Hadn’t he learned anything from the first time she’d left him?
He opened his bedroom door—and there stood Bess, wearing her pink silk robe and, if the white splotch over the front of it was an accurate indicator, half a cup of milk. Papers were strewn and stacked all over the room. And her face glowed bright pink.
