Carla Neggers - The Harbor

"Call him off, Luke." Stick spoke in a quiet, measured voice, but there was no mistaking his seriousness. "You can't control a man like Teddy Shelton. I don't care how innocent your arrangement with him sounds to you, trust me that it won't sound that way to anyone else."

Her head spinning, her hands sweaty, Betsy staggered toward the two men. "What arrangement?"

Neither answered. She might have been invisible.

Luke's nostrils flared. His lips thinned and took on a purplish tint, but Betsy hoped it was just a combination of the lighting and his emotions, usually so repressed, rising to the surface. He was such a hypochondriac that if he were in real medical trouble, he'd throw Stick out and have Betsy call an ambulance.

"Do yourself a favor and head south," Stick went on. His tone was gentle now, the calm, wise older friend giving Luke sound advice. "You're normally gone by now, anyway. No one will think twice about it. There's no point staying here any longer. Call Teddy Shelton off and leave. Then you won't have to worry about people jumping to the wrong conclusions."

"Zoe and that FBI agent, you mean," Luke said.

Stick nodded. "Precisely."

"I had nothing to do with Patrick's death." Luke's voice was raspy, as if he were being strangled. "Neither did Shelton."

"I didn't say I or anyone else suspect you of any wrongdoing. I just don't think you want the likes of Zoe West and J. B. McGrath asking questions about why you hired Teddy Shelton." Unruffled, Stick polished off the last of his champagne and got slowly to his feet. He set the glass on the bar. "They're going to want to know who you suspect of wrongdoing. How far will you go-"

"Go to hell!"

Luke reared back to punch Stick, but the old judge shook his head, as if his disapproval alone would be enough to ward off the attack. It was. Luke backed away, breathing in rapid, shallow gulps, spit oozing out at the corners of his mouth. Betsy had never seen him so angry.

"Get off my boat," he spat. "Now."

Stick still didn't react. "Luke, I'm not accusing you of anything except hiring Teddy Shelton. I don't question your motives. Others might, but I don't. I know you wanted him to check out this FBI agent and keep an eye on Zoe-because you're afraid for her, afraid for Christina, afraid for your son."

Betsy was stunned, and she lost her footing, stumbling on the flat carpeting. "Luke? What's going on?"

"Your loyalty to Olivia is no secret," Stick continued. "Given Zoe's behavior this past year, we all want to make sure she doesn't self-destruct. I imagine we all have things we'd rather hide from the prying eyes of the police. A murder investigation spares no one. But to spy on Zoe here in Goose Harbor requires a subtlety and expertise Teddy Shelton doesn't have. People might draw the wrong conclusion if they find out."

"I don't care what people think. I've done nothing wrong!"

"Luke," Betsy said, "that FBI agent was talking to Teddy earlier today-"

He swung around at her. "Stay out of this, Betsy."

Stick waited. Betsy, breathless, could feel her pulse thumping in her temple and thought-watch, I'll drop dead of a stroke and Luke'll be fine.

"Patrick was my friend as much as yours," Luke continued, calmer but obviously only because he was forcing himself. "Just because I'm wealthy doesn't mean I'm arrogant and accustomed to having my own way. Don't make assumptions about me, Stick."

"Oh, for God's sake, Luke." Stick seemed almost amused. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were stating the obvious. "You are arrogant and accustomed to having your own way. So is your son. I'm here because I'm your friend. I'm not implying you know anything about Patrick's death or have anything to hide. I'm merely asking you to cut your ties with Shelton and head south. If this liaison with Teddy Shelton goes sour and someone gets hurt, what do you think will happen to you? Who do you think will stand up for you? You don't have a lot of friends in Goose Harbor as it is."

"When Olivia was alive-"

"She was a great lady and may be the only person in your life who ever loved you unconditionally, but she's gone, Luke. I know Zoe as if she were my own daughter, and I just had an encounter of my own with J. B. McGrath. Don't be fooled by his easygoing manner, playing darts with the guys, letting them tease him, teasing them back. He's tough as nails. Suspicious, well-trained." Stick stood back from the bar. "I'd listen to me if I were you."

Luke was silent, breathing hard. Betsy stumbled forward a few steps and touched Stick on the elbow. "It's time to leave, Stick. Luke's done. You won't get any more out of him tonight."

His expression softening, Stick didn't jerk his arm from Betsy's grasp but instead reached across with his free arm and patted her hand. "You're the salt of the earth, Betsy. I'm just trying to get him to see this situation for what it is. If I had any information, any inkling, Luke was trying to protect a murderer, I'd take what I knew to the authorities."

"Don't interfere, Betsy," Luke said. "Do yourself a favor for once and mind your own business."

"Luke," Stick chided him. "You're lucky to have a woman like Betsy in your life."

Luke said nothing.

Betsy tried to hide her embarrassment with a polite smile. She'd always been intimidated by Stick- it wasn't his fault. His reputation, his intellect, his manners, the fact that he'd lived in and seen more of the world than she ever would-everything about him made her feel frumpy and inadequate. At seventy-two, he could walk farther than she could. He grew prettier roses.

"Here," she said quietly, "I'll walk you out."

"It's all right, Betsy, I know the way." Stick kissed her warmly on the cheek. "I'm sorry about all this. Think of it as a form of tough love. I had to get through to him."

He nodded at Luke, who said nothing, his lips bloodless, and left.

When she was sure Stick was gone and out of earshot, Betsy grabbed up his empty champagne glass. "I hope the old fart trips and falls headfirst into the harbor. A dose of cold Maine water might give his system just the shock it needs." She noticed Luke was sweat ing, trembling. "I suppose he means well."

"Betsy…"

She didn't move to his side. She'd learned not to go near him unless he wanted her there. "What do you want me to do, Luke?"

"Help me…" He gasped for air. "Help me to bed."

"Are you sure? It's still early-"

His eyes shot through her, and she realized that even as upset as he was, anger and humiliation seethed just beneath the surface. She knew he hated the idea of someone like Stick Monroe thinking he'd done something stupid. "Help me."

"Do you want me to check your blood pressure?"

He shook his head. "I know it's high. I can feel it."

He motioned for her to come close, and when she put her arm around his lower back and took his hand, she could feel that his skin was clammy. But there wasn't a thing wrong with him. He'd live to be a hundred, unless it turned out all the supplements he was taking were no good for him, after all.

She guided him back to his stateroom. She had her own. He kept a little bell by his table in case he needed her in the night, not just for medical care. For sex, too. It was just a little arrangement they had. It made him feel more secure, and she didn't mind. Her stateroom was beautiful, and she appreciated the quiet nights when she could just sit in bed and read. But she'd die if anyone knew she responded to a bell.

She helped Luke out of his clothes. There was nothing romantic or loving in her actions, nothing remotely sexual. This was work. She was the nurse now, the professional.

"I don't think Kyle's relationship with Christina is anything that'll last, but if he-" Betsy found herself unable to get a proper breath. "Luke, I know you can't think your son had anything to do with Patrick's death."