Beside a Dreamswept Sea (44 page)

“What are you doing there with my wife?”

“Hold on a moment.” He looked to Miss Hattie, hoping she’d understand his meaning.

The angel nodded. “Cally, dear, will you come out to the greenhouse and help me with this bag of potting soil? I’m afraid I can’t lift it onto the counter.”

“Of course.”

The women left, Miss Hattie’s arm looped through Cally’s, patting it comfortingly. Bryce lowered the mouthpiece back to where he could talk into it. “Your wife is Joleen. Is she here?”

“You know I meant Caline.”

“Oh, Caline. The woman you abused, slept around on, and then divorced? But she’s not your wife, Dr. Tate.”

“Look, I called because I want my alimony payments lowered. Joleen and I just had a baby. A boy, Scott, and—”

After all the years he’d denied Cally a child, he’s wanting to lower his alimony payments because of one? “Forget it. You owe Cally that money, and a lot more. We both know it. Withdraw some money from your stash in the Cayman Islands. Oh, and find yourself another lawyer. I won’t represent you anymore, and I’m damn sorry to have to admit I ever did.”

“You’re sleeping with her.”

Bryce grimaced. “I’m marrying her.”

“The hell you are.”

“The subject isn’t open for debate, Doctor. I think that concludes this call.”

“Damn right it does. But I’ll tell you this, you son of a bitch. You marry her, and you’ll regret it. I’ll call the bar association and file a complaint—conflict of interest. You insisted on the alimony because you would benefit from it. I’ll add misconduct, and I won’t stop until I see you disbarred.”

Bryce hung up the phone. “Damn it! On top of everything else, this I do not need.”

And the worst of it still lay ahead of him. How in the name of God was he going to tell Cally that Gregory had become a father? That he’d given Joleen the child Cally had desired for so long? And how could Bryce do it, and make sure that her feelings didn’t revert back to the
lousy wife, the undesirable woman?

God help him, he didn’t have a clue.

Miss Hattie and Miss Millie
had taken the kids down to a pumpkin farm to handpick the ones that would become their Thanksgiving pies. All morning villagers had been dropping by the inn with special food-gifts for the wedding feast. There seemed to be a lunchtime lull, and for that, Bryce felt grateful. He had to tell Cally about the baby, and he’d just as soon tell her while everyone else was away and she had a little privacy in which to react.

She was at the kitchen counter, cutting up onions for the bread dressing. The knife clacked rhythmically against the wooden chopping block and, judging by her rapid blinks, her eyes were smarting. Her jeans were streaked dark across her thigh, as if she’d swiped them with wet hands.

He sat at the table and folded his hands over his chest, watching her, debating the wisdom of delivering news such as this to a woman with a knife in her hand.

“The temperature has fallen like a stone. Hatch says there might even be snow.” She sniffed, grabbed another onion from the red net bag, then washed it beneath the faucet at the sink. “Did the kids all have their coats?”

“Yes, they did.” He should tell her now. The knife was on the cutting block. “Did you get your dress hemmed for tomorrow?”

She smiled back at him. “Miss Hattie did it this morning. It’s gorgeous.”

“Good.” Do it now, Counselor, before she gets back to—damn. Too late.

She arced the knife. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Yes?”

“About Gregory’s call.” She looked at Bryce from under her lashes.

“I know it upset you.” Mildly put.

“It did.” She grunted and sliced through the onion hard enough to send half flying across the counter. “Oops.”

Good thing he’d waited.

She grabbed the onion, put it back on the board, then returned to her chopping. “You know what really ticks me off?” She glanced at him, her eyes red-rimmed from onion-sting. “I fell right back into that old trap of being intimidated.”

She had. Bryce had seen it. She’d tensed up like a client waiting for the jury foreman to read its verdict. “They had a baby, Cally.”

She dropped the knife. Stared at him. “What did you say?”

Good God, how could he have just blurted it out like that?

“Bryce?” She walked over to him, stopped beside his chair. “What did you say?”

He craned back his neck to look up at her, swearing he’d give everything he owned not to have to repeat the god-awful words that would break her heart.

“Damn it, Bryce, what did you say?”

“I said, Gregory and Joleen had a baby.” He spoke slowly. “A son, Cally. They named him Scott.”

“He—he has a son? A son? And he gave the child what was to be my son’s name?” She swayed on her feet.

Bryce grabbed her arms, guided her to a chair.

She plopped onto it, her face pasty white, her jaw hanging loose. “I can’t believe this. How could he have a son? He can’t have a son.”

“He does, sweetheart.” Bryce swallowed a knot of emotion from his throat. This hurt her deeply, too deeply for tears.

“He can’t, I’m telling you.” She frowned. “Remember? He’s sterile.”

A shiver rippled up Bryce’s back. The hairs on his neck stood on end. Cally had told him that. She’d waited for her dream of a home and a family only to find that, with Gregory, she’d never have kids because he was sterile.

And she’d continued to love him.

And he’d refused to discuss adoption.

“I remember.” What was Tate pulling now? “But I’m telling you, honey, the man just told me he and Joleen have had a son.”

Cally shoved back her chair, walked straight to the phone, then dialed a long-distance number.

“Who are you calling?”

“Marianne. A friend of mine at Dr. Alexander’s office. She’ll, by gum, know what’s going on here.”

“Cally, she can’t give you that information. It’s a breach of the Privacy Act.”

Cally glared back at him. “We worked together decorating windows. She put her husband through med school, too.”

And he too had left his wife. Cally didn’t say it. She didn’t have to say it. From her tone and the expression on her face, a dead stump couldn’t miss knowing it.

“Marianne, hi. It’s me, Cally.” Cally turned toward the wall.

Bryce watched her, sure as certain it’d be an additional year before he got her to even glance at a mirror. He’d expected her to be devastated, and she was. But more than anything, she was angry. He never thought he’d be glad to see Cally angry, but angry beat the socks off devastated.

“That sorry son of a—”

Bryce nearly smiled. She was going to come through this fine. Thank God. Thank God.

“Thanks, Marianne. Bye.” Cally hung up the phone, then spun around to face Bryce and planted her hands on her hips. “I don’t believe that man. I just don’t believe him.”

“Are you going to keep me in suspense forever?”

She narrowed her gaze on Bryce. “How good a lawyer are you, Counselor?”

“Damn good. Why?”

“Because I’m going to murder that animal cracker, and I want to make sure you can get me off.”

“Murder?” Bryce sat up straight. “Cally, it’s not your nature to murder anyone.”

“I’m making an exception.”

“Would you stop this and just tell me what the animal cracker did?”

“He had a vasectomy. He wasn’t sterile. He had a vasectomy.”

“Then the baby couldn’t be his.”

“Oh, yes, it could.” Her voice fairly rattled with outrage.

“How?”

“He had it reversed!” She slapped at her thigh and stared ceilingward as if talking to herself more than to Bryce. “Which explains why he’d refused to make love, of course. Why he stayed at the hospital all the time. That sorry excuse for a man couldn’t risk impregnating his wife and his mistress at the same time.” She glared at Bryce. “I mourned him. I believed all the garbage he fed me about me being a lousy wife. But I wasn’t lousy, Bryce. Honest. I was a very good wife.”

“I’d bet on it.” This reaction he’d never suspected. Never in a million years. But, God, was he grateful for it. And he strongly suspected Tony had a hand in it.

Tony?

No answer.

Tony?

Still no answer.

Odd. He’d always come when called before now.

“That’s it, Bryce.” Cally stomped back to the chopping block and picked up the knife. “That man has caused me the last ounce of misery he’s ever going to cause me.”

I strongly suggest you tell her about the threat to disbar you, Counselor.

A woman’s voice? A shiver crept up Bryce’s spine.
Who are you?

Tony calls me Sunshine. Cally’s got enough anger right now to deal with this threat constructively. If you let her cool down and then tell her . . . well, I wouldn’t do that.

I’ll consider it. Right now she’s pretty steamed. Wouldn’t a breather between shocks be better for her?

No answer.

“I’m still scared to death of him,” Cally said. “I know how he twists things. Boy, can he twist things. But I’m not going to be miserable because of him anymore.”

Hey, Sunshine. Did you hear that? She’s scared of the guy. How’s she going to react when I tell her about the threats? She’ll come unglued, is what she’ll do.

Still no answer.

I could use a little guidance here. That’s what you guys do, right? Do I wait, or tell her now? What am I supposed to do?

He called out twice more, but still with no success. Watching Cally rail, he waffled and wished Tony or Miss Hattie were around for advice. He loved the woman. He couldn’t be objective when it came to her. And he sure didn’t want her any more upset than was positively necessary.

One last time, he called out. But Sunshine didn’t answer. Neither did Tony.

Remembering Cally’s deduction about Tony and Miss Hattie being separated sent rivers of dread streaming through Bryce, and sweat beaded on his forehead. The sense of calm and serenity and well-being he’d felt since coming to Seascape had vanished. Had Tony also vanished? He hadn’t answered Bryce’s call. Sunshine had.

Every muscle in Bryce’s body clenched at once.

Where was Tony?

Hattie walked in the mud room door,
pegged her black coat on the wall. It was late, just after ten. The children were tucked in bed, everything had been prepared for dinner and the wedding, and she should be elated. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, the day Bryce would make Cally his wife. It would be a good Thanksgiving. But it might also be her first Thanksgiving without her beloved soldier.

Fear gripped her hard and its talons clawed deep. A knot of tears rushed up her throat, stung her eyes. At the back door, she reached inside her pocket, pulled out her lacy hankie, then dabbed at her eyes. God help her, she didn’t think she had the courage to walk through that door and up those stairs, knowing that Tony might not be there. Knowing he might never be there again.

When she’d seen Bryce and Cally walking on the cliffs that first time, Hattie had suspected Tony wouldn’t survive this case. But the feeling had ebbed . . . until this morning. Now, it burned so very strong. She’d tried her best to convince herself she’d been mistaken, but the signs were there. The grandfather clock’s ticks, always so rich and resonant, sounded hollow. The attic room, Tony’s room, which was cool when he was there, was hot. Not warm, but hot. And she’d been afraid. So afraid.

To prove her fears wrong, she’d pulled up the white dust-covers, draped them over his furniture and bed, over the chest that still held his clothes, and the dresser that still held his photo of her taken the day he proposed all those years ago and the photo of him and Hatch with the prize fish they caught the day they found that silly doubloon. Tony had fussed about her keeping that picture because his beautiful golden-brown hair had been mussed, but she couldn’t part with it. She never would. She loved that touchable side of him as much as she loved everything else about him.

Shivering from cold, she forced herself to go inside. The kitchen was empty, the light above the stove on. The fridge motor whirred softly, and she walked on through to the gallery. The clock’s ticks echoed into the stairwell, and she gripped the banister then began to climb, not daring to think.

The third stair creaked under her foot and tears blurred her eyes. She fixed her gaze on the portraits of Cecelia and Collin, and whispered an urgent plea for their help to get her through whatever came. She’d always felt Cecelia’s love reach out and embrace her, always felt comforted when the pain of losing Tony became too great to bear. But this time, she felt nothing.

Nothing.

Except fear.

God, help me.

Hattie turned at the bend in the stairs, made her way to the upstairs landing, then stared up the polished walls smelling of lemon oil and gleaming softly, her knees threatening to buckle. “No, Hattie,” she told herself. “You’re not a spiny woman and never have been. No, you’ll go on. You’ll do what you must because, in you, he’s still alive. In your mind and heart, he’ll always be alive.”