Barefoot by the Sea

Chapter Twenty-three

The wild, raw pain in John’s eyes reached right into Tessa’s soul and kind of horrified her. She’d never seen anything so—dark.

“I lied to you.” The words came out like burlap through his throat.

“About what?”

He closed his eyes, clearly buying time. Everything knotted—her chest, her stomach, and the blood in her ears seemed to gush like whitewater.

“I’ve been married.”

“Okay.” She merely mouthed the word. “And?”

“She died.”

Oh. She might have said the word, or just formed the letter, or barely breathed.

She died. The many, many implications of that rocked her, so she grabbed the easiest one. “That must have really hurt you.”

“More than you know.” He inched back, enough that she got cold and hollow inside. Deep down, the first tendril of a realization started to twine through her, but she was too busy taking in the torture on his face to think too hard about her own.

She backed away, too. Not to mirror his posture, but from the sheer anguish that emanated from him. This was no ordinary tale of loss, she realized with a shudder. Not that there was anything ordinary about death, but this was dark. “What happened?”

He tried to swallow, his moist eyelashes crinkling as he squeezed his eyes shut. “I found her,” he rasped. “I found her body.”

She let out a low exhale. “No.”

He nodded, still struggling for his voice.

“Did she…” Have a heart attack? An accident? Questions ricocheted as she waited for more.

“She was murdered.”

Gasping, she put her hand to her mouth, icy chills dancing over her. “How awful.”

Another nod, and he slowly moved even farther away, like his body and soul simply had to make distance from her.

And a wisp of a thought started to take shape: He’s not over her. He may never be.

“How long ago?” she asked.

“Three years.” He stabbed his hair, dragging his fingers through it as though counting. “And eight months.”

Oh, no. Not over her yet. Not even close. “You still…” Love her. “Are healing.”

He snorted softly. “There’s no healing from something like that, Tess. There’s merely existing.”

The words kicked her in the gut. “Did they…get the murderer?”

He nodded. “He’s in prison.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Very slowly, he shook his head, sliding back another few inches. She could practically feel the bricks go into place as he built a wall around himself.

“Why are you telling me if you don’t want…help?”

“You can’t help,” he fired back, the shot actually hurting her.

“You don’t know that.”

He searched her face again, his eyes red. “I shouldn’t have told you,” he said quickly. “You’ll want to know…” He shook his head as if he were trying to stop himself from talking. “I shouldn’t put you in this position.”

In what position? “You don’t want to talk about it? To a friend? To cry about it and…” Maybe move on? “Fix yourself?”

“I’m fine,” he said, standing abruptly.

She coughed a laugh, despite the weight of the topic. “I beg to differ.”

“She’s dead,” he said. “And…I’m…”

“Also dead,” Tessa whispered, standing as well. Dead to love, dead to possibilities, dead to the chance at a new life. The gardener in her ached to tend him and nurture him back, but something in his eyes told her that wasn’t possible. “Until you’re ready to talk about it, you’ll stay that way.”

“I can’t talk about it, Tessa.” The statement was flat and unequivocal, the complete lack of emotion cutting deeper than when he’d been ragged with feeling. “So don’t ask me to.”

“Then why did you tell me at all?” And, Good Lord, why had he lied all this time? The question shocked her, both because it hadn’t occurred yet and—well, why?

“Because I can’t talk about it.”

“So you pretend it never happened?”

He swiped at his hair again, the anguish a little different now. He’d gone from jagged pain to regret in the space of a few minutes. “It’s easier that way,” he finally said.

“Easier for who?” she demanded, hating the rise in her voice but unable to stop it.

“Just easier.” He rounded the table and put still more space between them. “I shouldn’t have talked about it. I really shouldn’t have.”

Definitely regret. But why? She stood speechless, the truth descending like a mid-summer storm cloud.

“You know now,” he said, waving his hand like he was absolved, somehow. “You understand.”

Was he kidding? She didn’t understand anything. Only that he was still in love with someone else. Dead or alive, it didn’t matter. He was in love with another woman, and that was the little something he’d been hiding all this time.

He was at the door in a few steps, his hand on the knob, the unspoken good-bye echoing through every dark corner of the room.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, letting himself out.

Stunned, she didn’t breathe until he was gone. “Yeah,” she whispered to the emptiness. “So am I.”

She heard the growl of his motorcycle starting up and the whine as it took off into the night.

She was sorry, all right. Sorry and vindicated. Because, deep inside, she’d known this from the very beginning. Sure, the girls could say it was her silly fear of secrets, and she could rationalize and rationalize along with them, but she’d known deep in her gut that he was holding back something important, something truthful.

From her bedroom she heard the soft digital ding of her phone.

That didn’t take long. Of course he had to finish this conversation. Resentful of the hope that bubbled up, she ignored the call, dropping her head into her hands until the sound stopped.

A few minutes later she washed up in the bathroom, and she heard the ringtone again. Turning the water on harder, she tried to drown it out. What was left to say at this hour of the night?

As she climbed into bed the phone rang again, and this time she could see the screen light up on the nightstand.

Catherine Galloway.

Her mother was calling now? At two in the morning? That couldn’t be good. She picked up the phone and answered, “Mom?”

A sniff was all she got, making Tessa sit straight up in bed. “Mom, is that you? Are you all right?”

“I…I need to talk to you, Tess.”

“Now?”

“I know it’s late out there. Did I wake you?”

“Actually, no. What’s the matter?”

“She’s dead.”

For a moment, Tessa thought of John’s wife. But of course that wasn’t who her mother meant. “Who’s dead?”

“Finally, after all these years, she’s dead.”

Oh. The answer landed on Tessa with a thud. Uncle Ken’s wife. She couldn’t even remember the woman’s name since “Uncle Ken” never brought his wife with him when he visited their home. Because it was business, her mother would say.

Yeah. Monkey business.

Her mother shuddered another sob. “I wanted her dead for a long time, and now she is.”

Tessa cringed, so ashamed that her mother would even have that thought, and, coming on the heels of her conversation with John, the sentiment sounded more than crass. It was downright sinful.

“Well…” Tessa wasn’t about to start an argument with her mother now, not with her nerves and emotions laid bare by John. “There you go.”

Catherine choked. “You don’t understand, Tessa.”

“No, I can’t say that I do.” She curled under the sheet and comforter, wishing like hell she hadn’t picked up the phone. “What happened to her?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Some cancer of something.”

How could she be so cavalier about another woman’s life? “How old was she?” Tessa asked, a wave of sympathy for Mrs. Donnelly rolling over her. Far more sympathy for the deceased than for the woman who’d slept with Mr. Donnelly for almost twenty years.

“Sixty-something,” she said. “Oh, God, it hurts, Tessa.”

And not, she knew, because of guilt. Catherine had never felt guilt about the affair; she’d only felt remorse that it had ended with her lover’s death.

“It hurts?” Tessa couldn’t possibly keep the astonishment out of her voice. “How do you think she felt when her husband dropped dead at forty-eight of a heart attack?” Her husband who kept a mistress and an illegitimate child for sixteen years?

“She felt well taken care of,” Catherine said bitterly. “She was never a wife to him. Never the way I…” She had the dignity to let her voice trail off. “She got a couple of million dollars in life insurance and I got nothing.”

Possibly because you weren’t his wife? “You got the business,” Tessa said.

She snorted bitterly.

“And you got me.”

Silence, then a sigh. “I’m sorry to put this on you, Tess. I know how you feel, but I have no one…” Her voice cracked with a sob. “I have no one. There’s never been another man for me.”

But he wasn’t the man for you, either. He wasn’t your husband.

But Tessa and her mother had had this fight far too many times for her to start it again now. Catherine Galloway had made her choices: She’d loved another woman’s husband and she chose work—and time with that man—over being with her daughter.

And now she was all alone.

“When did she die?” Tessa asked.

“A couple of days ago.”

“Why didn’t you call then?”

She sniffed again. “I guess I didn’t care that much. I hate her, have always hated her. She was his wife, always demanding and whining for more of his time.”

She was his wife.

“But the funeral was today, and of course I had to go.”

“Of course.” Because who doesn’t love a hypocrite at a funeral?

“And I’ve been miserable ever since. I thought I was over him, and everything, but I guess not.”

Maybe she did feel guilt but didn’t recognize it. “Are you sorry, Mom?”

“Sorry?” she spat the word out. “For the best thing that ever happened to me?”

Tessa’s heart twisted for multiple reasons, but mainly because she knew she wasn’t the best thing that had ever happened to Catherine—Ken was.

“Of course I’m not sorry. I’m wrecked because the place was so packed you couldn’t find a seat.” Ugly notes of jealousy darkened her voice. “And the eulogies! My God, you’d think they buried Mother Teresa.”

Tessa closed her eyes, dark, old emotions swarming. She despised her mother for the way she’d lived, but now all she really felt was sorrow. Nothing but sadness for this bitter, lonely woman.

Good God, how she didn’t want to end up that way.

“She has kids and grandkids and ancient-looking sorority sisters and nephews and nieces and neighbors and a bunch of ladies in red hats all wailing over their precious Mimi.” She dragged out the two syllables like they tasted foul.

Mimi. For a moment, Tessa silently mourned the woman named Mimi who clearly didn’t die alone.

“And of course they had to do some ridiculous video montage of every picture ever taken of the woman. Including her…wedding pictures.”

She went silent, crying again.

“I know, I know what you’re thinking, Tess,” she finally said.

Tessa didn’t answer, because she’d made her feelings known in many arguments over the last fifteen years or so.

“But I loved him!” she insisted. “And he loved me.”

“If he really loved you, Mom, he wouldn’t have spent his life married to another woman.”

But was John much different? His wife might be dead, but his love for her sure wasn’t. Did Tessa even want to consider being with a man who clearly still loved another woman? Look what that had done to her mother.

“I better let you get back to sleep, Tessa.”

“’Kay. Feel better. I’m sure it won’t look so bad in the morning.”

Would it for her? For John?

“Oh, it won’t. I have a trial tomorrow and I intend to kick some insurance-company butt.”

Now that sounded like her mother again, a workaholic with a purpose. No husband, a distant daughter, and no friends. But a great job.

“What about you? How’s the farming going?”

“Fine. I intend to kick some sweet-potato butt tomorrow myself.”

Her mother laughed softly, her subtle disapproval of Tessa’s “career” always right under the surface. “Okay, then. G’night.”

When she hung up, Tessa walked to the windows and stared at John’s dark and empty bungalow. He was gone, of course. Running at the first sign of anything real.

She snapped the shutters closed, knowing exactly what she wanted to do first thing in the morning. Well, second. First, she’d harvest those damn sweets.

Ian rode. He fired up his bike, took off for the causeway, barreled onto an interstate, found a deserted highway, and kept going into—nothing. The world got so dark his entire focus was on the single lane lit by his headlight, the night closing in like his meager, unacceptable, regrettable decision to confess.

To confess nothing. Just enough to realize he should never have opened his mouth. The minute he started talking, he knew he’d said too much. Why didn’t he strip her down and silence every emotion with mindless sex, the way he’d done for three years?

Because he’d made the critical and idiotic error of letting this thing go past mindless. He’d made the stupid mistake of letting his feelings override his brain.

He swerved around a pothole, forced to slow down as the road narrowed and rutted. The thick smell of brackish water and wet leaves filled his head, doing nothing to clear the self-loathing in there.

And just like that, the road ended. He broke hard, fishtailing and finally coming to a stop by slamming a boot on the ground and letting it drag. Dead ahead was more nothing.

Where the fuck was he?

Blinking into the yellow beam, he peered at murk and mist and a rotted wooden bridge that went out to nowhere. Everything was black and thick and wet.

Good Christ, he’d driven right to the edge of the Everglades. Without thinking, he glanced down, half expecting a gator to chomp off his foot.

Let it. Some giant jaw could gnaw away the pain and misery, bringing it all to an end.

Hitting the kill switch, he silenced the engine and doused the light. Crickets and night creatures chirped, leaves rustled, and, somewhere out there, something splashed in the black water. He got off the bike and kicked the stand, shaking off the heat and the ride, walking slowly toward the weathered dock that spilled off the end of the road, leading right into a swamp.

He held his breath when one boot hit the wood, ready to fall right into the muck. But it held, and he walked the thirty or forty feet out to the end, the low platform barely above water level. It must be a launch dock for airboats, the only thing that could move through the thick grass of the Everglades.

A mosquito buzzed by and settled on his neck. Ian didn’t bother to swat it. Have a pint, mate. I’m bleeding all over the place tonight.

Grabbing the splintered rail, he leaned over to look into the water and long reeds that poked through it, sucking in another breath of humid, hot air, tasting a mouthful of regret.

What was he thinking? Why had he given in to that temptation to talk? Now she knew Kate had been murdered. She even had a time frame. How long would it take her to plow through the Internet until she found a clue, a grainy picture, a death notice…the truth?

And then what? A word to her friends, who whisper to a husband, who mention to a coworker, who—

Trapped.

Ian Browning was as trapped as his wife had been in the kitchen the day Luther Vane burst in with murderous intent. Had she screamed? Had she pleaded for her life? Had she lied about the babies to save their lives?

The sob pulled from his throat, doubling him over in an old and viciously familiar pain. He gave in to it, clutching his belly, growling with the agony. Then he stood straight, lifted his face to the star-spotted sky, and let out a wail that echoed across the Everglades and woke every stinking alligator for miles.

The howl tore at his throat and rattled his ribs and trembled his eyeballs and did absolutely nothing to heal the pain.

Not like Tessa would have.

The realization made him hurt all over again. He ached for the balm of her touch, the soft understanding of her voice. Her nurturing, gentle spirit was exactly what he needed…and the very reason he couldn’t drag her into his mess any more than he already had.

Spent, he let his knees buckle and drop to the dock, hitting it hard. He clutched the rough-hewn wood of the rail, bent over and broken. What was he doing out here? Hiding, of course. Running. Escaping.

Would he still be living like this once he got his kids? To a certain extent, but, somehow, he imagined a brighter life, one filled with laughter and love, tucked away on a village in New Zealand or a farm in Australia. Wherever they sent him, he could start over as a single father.

Without Tessa.

Maybe she’d want to go to a farm in New Zealand.

He sat straight up at the thought, so loud and clear he almost thought someone else had said it out loud. Maybe he had said it out loud.

Not that the idea was completely new, but the words hadn’t really formed in his head before this, taking shape and somehow becoming real. She’d told him about her life with her ex-husband, traveling from country to country, starting organic farms, and how she wanted to settle down and raise a family in one place.

Could he offer her something like that? Who knew when they’d have to uproot again because the wrong information got out or someone found a link to the past or his loose lips sank their ship?

Could he make her love him…for real? Could he get her to marry him for real?

Nothing prepared him for the sensation that rocked him at that thought. He actually fell flat on the wood, knocked over by the very idea of really marrying her and how much he wanted that.

Motionless on his back, he stared straight up and let the possibility fill him with something so unfamiliar he almost couldn’t put a name on it.

Hope. Hope. Like a pinprick of light no bigger than one of the stars above him, he saw a glimmer of hope, of happiness, and a chance to love again.

It was the only answer. Well, that or rolling over and letting the beasts eat him. Forget getting Henry to convince some official to bring a “real” certificate of marriage and somehow fooling her into signing. Forget disappearing into Canada and getting an annulment arranged. Forget breaking her heart and being the scum of the earth to get what he needed.

Of course Henry would have to agree. And Tessa would have to leave her home. But if that happened…

Maybe he was as deep into a fantasy as the muck around this old boat ramp. But he folded the new possibility around his heart, tenderly wrapping his wounds. Then he closed his eyes, and slept right on the dock for hours.

He rose before the sun did, got back on the bike, and rode to Barefoot Bay. When he stepped inside his dimly lit bungalow, the first thing he heard was a rumble in the distance—the steady growl of a tractor.

At dawn? She couldn’t sleep, no doubt. What did that mean? His new plan had a snowball’s chance?

Time to find out.

The only thing that really surprised him was how much he wanted to hurry the process. Not because they didn’t have much time until the fake wedding that he now wanted to be real. But because of how much he wanted to be with her.

He washed his face, brushed his teeth, grabbed a pair of jeans, and stuck his feet into sneakers. He was halfway across the gardens before he even bothered to tie them.

He crossed the garden, following the sound of the tractor to the opposite end of the fields, and stopped to stare at the sight. The sun had yet to cross the horizon, but a yellow glow lit the tips of the palm and oak trees along the eastern border of the property, the morning clouds washed gold and pink. Silhouetted against that backdrop, Tessa rolled along on a small tractor, her back ramrod straight, her hair blowing, a look of strength and invincibility visible on her face even from this distance.

Yes, he wanted to be with her. With her, next to her, in her bed, and in her life. The tableau punched him, stealing his breath for a moment. He tried to take another step but couldn’t, captivated by the sight of her, the purity of her spare moves as she looked over her shoulder. Behind her, whatever tool she had attached to the tractor plowed up a wake of churning leaves and dirt.

Inside him, more muscles coiled with desire—and affection. It was like she’d crawled right under his skin and taken up residence there. As if she sensed him there, she turned, and the engine hitched in speed like Ian’s pulse.

For a long time they just looked at each other across the field. Then he made his way toward her, over dirt and sprays of bright-green vegetable leaves. When he was a few feet away from the tractor, she gave his bare torso a once-over, shaking her head.

“Damn, dude, you don’t play fair.”

He resisted the urge to tell her everything he’d decided, because he still had to take this idea one baby step at a time. First, he needed to get back to where they were before he fell apart last night.

“Somebody was plowing at five-thirty in the morning. I’m not awake enough for a shirt.”

She studied him, no doubt aware that she’d never heard his bike return. “What is that welt on your cheek?”

He touched the bite. “Mosquito. I crashed outside.”

“Are you crazy?”

He nodded. “’Fraid so.”

She gestured toward the dirt behind her. “So, you too wiped out to help me? I’m running late and once I get these vines torn up, I need to start getting as many potatoes picked and into the storehouse as possible.”

“Late? It’s barely sunrise. What are you late for?”

“I need to be somewhere at eight,” she said vaguely, then glanced at the sunny sky. “And the potatoes can’t be in the hot sun once we cut the vines, so anything I cut has to be harvested and put away in the storehouse. Thus, I’m in a hurry.”

“I’ll help,” he said quickly. “Tell me what to do.”

She pointed behind her tractor to the plowed row. “Dig up the sweets. As soon as I finish this I’ll help, but if we can get one row done, I’ll be happy.”

“What about the other two rows?”

She glanced toward them, sighing. “I’ll get them eventually.”

He reached to her, still not ready to gloss over what had transpired. “Tessa, are you all right? With everything I told you last night—”

“I’m fine,” she assured him, frowning. “You’re the one I’m worried about.”

“I’m better than fine. And I want to talk, okay?”

She considered that for a moment, then shook her head. “Not now. I don’t want to get distracted. I’ve put these sweets off for too long. I’ve put a lot of things off for too long,” she added.

What did that mean? But he took her cue and didn’t ask; instead went off to find a faded wood bushel basket and carried it to the end of the plowed row, kneeling down to brush dirt off the hefty yams and toss them into the basket. After a while, he looked up, watching her maneuver her tractor.

Funny how he’d mistakenly thought she was a vulnerable woman. She was strong and independent. She could probably handle anything.

Could she handle a life in the government protection program? Raising children who weren’t hers? Leaving her friends, who were her whole family?

Doubts pressed like the sun as it rose. When should he tell her if not now?

When she finished plowing, she got another pile of baskets and started at the other end of the row, too far away to really talk intimately until they met in the middle.

“Ever work on a farm before, John?” she called.

Yeah, in the Cotswolds, at his uncle’s farm. He could say that. He could start there. You know, I used to live in England.

“Now and again,” he said when she glanced up at him because he’d taken so long to answer.

“I love farming,” she said, the meaningless small talk suddenly taking on much more meaning.

Would she love farming on the other side of the planet—with him? “I noticed.”

“Yeah, much to my lawyer mother’s dismay. I wandered into it by accident, but it suits me so well. Have you always been passionate about cooking?”

What was she doing? Making conversation or trying to get him to open up? Either way, she was throwing a door wide open for him to walk through.

“Not always,” he said. “I like other things.”

She looked up from her work. “Like what?”

Finance, stocks and bonds, business, numbers, spreadsheets, and investments. Damn, he’d been good at it, too. “Played a little football when I was young,” he said when too much time had passed.

“What position?”

He opened his mouth to say goalie, but shit. She thought he meant American football. He pictured the field and picked a position. Should he say quarterback? That would be another lie. Should he—

She stood up suddenly. “Never mind, John.” She gave him a tight smile. “You can throw those in the storehouse for me and leave the tractor here. I really need to be there when the doors open.”

“You’re shutting me down, aren’t you? You don’t want to hear about my…my life, do you?”

She backed away. “Another time, okay? I know you understand.”

No, he did not understand. He’d finally broken the barrier and was ready to trust her and she was off to some appointment? “I want to tell you.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to know, John.”

“Why not?”

“Because…because I don’t want to get close to your heart and know your past and understand your pain and still not…” She stopped, waving her hand.

“Still not what?” He didn’t follow where she was going.

“Don’t you get it?”

“Get what?”

“I don’t want to fall in love with you.” She tipped her head good-bye and took off across the field, slipping off her gardening gloves and stuffing them into her back pocket.

“But I want to fall in love with you,” he whispered but didn’t follow her.

He’d have to show her, not tell her, how he felt.