The Wishing Tide (19 page)

She knew what it was like to feel lost in your own skin, to sift through your todays and find no trace of your yesterdays, to know life had shaken you so hard that parts of you had simply fallen away. Mary’s circumstances might have been different, but the end result was the same. She was alone and adrift, defenseless in a world bent on mowing her down. Michael didn’t understand, but that didn’t matter. Mary needed a friend, and she planned on being that friend.

“I hear what you’re saying, Michael, but someone’s got to fight for her, and at the moment I seem to be all she has. This is a witch hunt,
and nothing more. In fact, I’d lay odds that the mayor has plans for the land Hope House is sitting on. I saw it for myself when I dropped Mary off. It’s a prime stretch of sound, much too picturesque to waste on a bunch of schizos and needle freaks.”

Michael stared at her, clearly stunned by her unsavory description.

Lane waved the look away. “Those are Breester’s words, not mine. It’s how he characterizes the residents of Hope House. I swear, I nearly smacked him.”

Michael eased down beside her, his face somber. “Lane, you need to be very careful about what you’re implying. You’ve got no proof of anything like that.”

“Apparently proof doesn’t matter. If Landon can imply that Mary’s some sort of criminal, why can’t I imply that he’s using his office for personal gain?”

“Because you could end up in court for slander, or worse.”

Lane huffed out a fresh wave of frustration as she let her head sag against the cushions. “God, I’m exhausted. Until today I had no idea how much energy it takes
not
to poke someone in the nose. And poor Mary. You should have seen her, Michael, like she’d just been shaken out of a nightmare. She had no idea why she was even there. And then, when I told her what Landon wanted to do—” Her words dangled when Michael’s hand closed over hers.

“You have a great big heart, Lane Kramer. It’s my favorite thing about you.”

Surprised, Lane lolled her head in his direction. “You have a favorite thing about me?”

“Several, actually.”

The words sent a pleasant surge of heat into her cheeks, as did the sparks smoldering in his slate gray eyes. Except none of it was real. He was leaving in a few months. She needed to remember that. She cleared her throat, extricated her hand.

“Yes, well, my great big heart better come up with a plan, and fast. Right now, though, I’m too wrung out to think past grabbing something to eat and falling into bed.” Her eyes widened suddenly. “My mother . . . my God, I forgot she was even here.”

“Relax,” Michael said before she could bolt off the couch. “She’s still lying down. I brought her some tea and soup on a tray. She didn’t look like she’d be up to having company any time soon. Dare I ask what you did to your mother to bring on a splitting headache?”

“Oh, ha-ha,” Lane shot back darkly. “It’s a migraine. She gets them all the time. Even when I’m not around.”

“Well, then, I suppose you’re off the hook. Did you at least have a little fun?”

“I took her to the Historical Society. She seemed to enjoy it, though I’m sure she would have enjoyed bridal shopping more.”

“You didn’t set a wedding date, by any chance, did you? Because I’ll need to let my family know.”

Lane grinned, then lowered her voice. “You’ve got no one but yourself to blame for this little charade, mister. But don’t worry. I’ll wait a few months, then call her with the teary details of our tragic breakup.”

Michael feigned a scowl. “And whose fault will
that
be?”

“Oh, mine, of course. I won’t have any trouble selling that. As far as my mother’s concerned, it’s always my fault. Seriously, though, thanks for looking after her while I dealt with Mary. It really was above and beyond the call of duty.”

“Shucks, ma’am. Any boyfriend worth his salt would’ve done the same. Now, you said something about food. Didn’t I see a little pizza joint down the road?”

Lane shot him a grateful look. “Carmine’s. There’s a magnet on the fridge if you don’t mind calling while I hop in the shower. I need to scrub off the police station residue. Anything but anchovies works for me.”

Feeling wearier than she had felt in a very long time, she dragged herself up the stairs, dimly aware of Michael’s voice in the kitchen as he ordered the pizza. In her sitting room, she scooped a scrap of paper from the floor—a note in Dally’s loopy script, scribbled on the back of a grocery store receipt and slipped under her door.

Call me. Dying to know what happened with the police. Enjoy Turkey Day with your mom and Professor McDreamy!

Lane crumpled the note and tossed it in the wastebasket, then stripped out of her clothes. There was no point in denying it. Michael
was
rather dreamy, although admitting it while stripped to the skin and waiting for the shower to warm up was unsettling in the extreme. Almost as unsettling as admitting how comfortable she was becoming with this little game of house they were playing. But then, it had been an unsettling sort of day.

Michael

M
ichael balanced the pizza box with one hand and led Lane along the boardwalk with the other, out to the blanket he had scavenged from his room and neatly spread on the sand. Pizza and beer on the beach; he wasn’t sure where the idea had come from, or what Lane would think of it, but after the day she’d had, it felt like exactly what she needed.

The fire was crackling nicely now, sending up a plume of fragrant smoke into the evening air. He hadn’t built a bonfire since he was a boy, but he’d been surprised at how easily it came back to him—a sandpit and a bit of driftwood, a little crumpled newspaper. It had been legal then. He had no idea what the law said now, but he strongly suspected he was on the wrong side of it. He didn’t care.

“When in the world did you do all this?” Lane said, wide-eyed.

Michael knelt with the pizza box and motioned for Lane to do the same with the beer. “While you were in the shower and I was waiting for the pizza. But we need to hurry up and eat it before it gets cold and the cheese congeals.”

He divvied up the slices—sausage and mushroom—then opened two beers, handing one to Lane. Lifting his bottle, he offered a toast. “To leaving the day behind.”

“Now,
that
I will definitely toast to.”

They ate in silence at first, tossing their crusts into the rapidly emptying box. Michael wasn’t sure what to talk about but knew to steer clear of Mary and Starry Point’s mayor. Finally, it was Lane who broke the ice.

“This is certainly unexpected, sitting out here with a fire, eating pizza.”

“When I was a kid we used to roast hot dogs on sticks. Well, charred was more like it. They were usually gritty with sand and raw in the middle, but we thought they were delicious. There was this kid—Smitty Barco was his name—always had a few bucks in his pockets. He was the one who got the hot dogs. He was also the one who taught me to build a decent bonfire. He explained that it was all about the wood. Has to be good and dry or all you’ll get is smoke.”

Lane grinned as she took a swallow of beer. “Was this at yachting camp?”

Michael tossed another crust into the box, then glanced away. “Yeah, it was while I was at camp.”

“It’s hard to picture you as a boy, maybe because you’re so tall. What about your family?”

“You mean are they tall? Not especially, no.”

Lane laughed. “That isn’t what I meant. I meant, tell me something about them.”

“What do you want to know?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Anything. Tell me about your brother—Matt, I think you said his name was. You never talk about him. Or your sister, either. Were the three of you close growing up?”

“Close?” Michael shook his head. “No. I wouldn’t say we’re close. We love each other in our own way, I suppose. We send Christmas cards and call on birthdays, that sort of thing. But we’re not part of each other’s lives the way most families are. Liz has a fun side, always
been a bit of a prankster. My brother, on the other hand, is a carbon copy of our father.”

“You don’t get along?”

“Let’s just say we give each other plenty of space.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’re just different people. We have been since day one. But then, I’ve never quite fit with any of them. I guess Liz and I are the most alike, but when you scratch the surface she’s a Forrester through and through.”

“That’s an odd thing to say. You’re not?”

He glanced at the flames, orange and red against the indigo horizon, and felt his shoulders tighten instinctively. “No,” he answered finally, wondering what she would make of that, wondering, too, why he was suddenly feeling so nostalgic. That other time, that other life, was in the past, and that was precisely where it needed to stay. What possible good could come of exhuming it now? Of reliving his failings, rehashing the guilt? Scars were forever, whether they were your fault or not. And his were.

Turning his empty bottle over into the beer bucket, he grabbed another. She’d been poking around in his emotional baggage. Now it was his turn. “Can I ask you something? Something personal?”

There was a flicker of hesitation in her face, but finally she nodded.

“You told me once that you didn’t write important things. My question is, why? And let’s skip over the stuff about your husband and his professor friend. You’re not married to Bruce now. So, what’s stopping you?”

Suddenly, her eyes were everywhere but on his. “You know as well as I do that that kind of writing takes time, something I haven’t got a lot of most of the year.”

“And you know as well as I do that that’s just an excuse.”

Lane’s expression in the firelight was a mix of hurt and surprise. “That’s what you think? That I’m just making excuses?”

“Okay, I put that badly. I think what I’m trying to say is that you always seem like you’re in retreat mode, like you’re—I don’t know—hiding.”

“Retreat mode?” She bristled visibly now. “And what is it I’m supposed to be retreating from? Enlighten me.”

“Life.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Isn’t it? You moved all the way to Starry Point, a place with one road in and one road out, just to get away from your husband. Then you bought yourself a castle where you can hide from the real world and live vicariously through your guests.”

For a moment she looked as if he’d slapped her. “That isn’t fair. The inn is—”

“Lane.” He placed a hand on her arm, hoping to soften what he was about to say. “The drawing on your refrigerator was done by someone else’s kid. You invented a boyfriend out of thin air rather than tell your mother to stay out of your love life. And instead of following your passion, instead of writing something important, as you call it, you write articles about places you’ve never been and things you’ve never done.”

Before the words were even out of his mouth, he knew he’d gone too far—again. It was a pattern he’d developed since meeting her, a Jekyll-and-Hyde thing that seemed to bring out his inner jackass. What she chose to write was none of his business. He knew that. Just as he knew it was none of his business how she chose to live her life. And yet he couldn’t seem to help himself.

It was the waste that bothered him. She had so much to offer the world. Instead, she chose to hide. But there was more to it than that, he knew, similarities he’d rather not examine at the moment, coupled with feelings he’d also rather not examine. To look at them now, to acknowledge them as real, was pointless, and probably dangerous as well. No, he needed to keep this professional, to focus on her writing potential and nothing more.

Keeping it professional, however, was easier said than done when he glanced over at her, her face lovely in the firelight, despite her anger. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound harsh.”

“What about judgmental?” she asked sullenly. “Did you mean to sound judgmental?”

“No. But I did, and I’m sorry. Look, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with the choices you’ve made. If your life is the way it is because that’s how you want it, fine. But if it isn’t, if you’re making excuses and settling just to stay safe, then maybe you need to rethink things. You’ve got talent, Lane, real talent, but no one’s ever going to know if you keep playing it safe. That’s all I meant.”

She sighed, a sound full of resignation. “It’s too late to start now. I’ve got the inn.”

“That’s another excuse. Tell me what you’d write if you knew you’d be successful.”

She looked up from the fire, her answer immediate. “I’d write books about women. Real women, with real problems—messy ones—who eventually figure it all out.”

“Okay, so you’ve obviously given this some thought. Why don’t you write them?”

Lane drained what was left of her beer and dropped the empty back in the bucket. “Maybe because I’m not qualified to write about
happily ever after
. It doesn’t seem right, somehow, writing about women who figure it out, when I can’t figure it out for myself.”

“Did you ever think that maybe the writing is
how
you figure it out?”

She stared at him for a long time, as if the remark had struck some chord. Finally, she smiled. “You’re not going to say something clever now, are you? Like the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step?”

“I was, in fact, but now you’ve gone and spoiled it.”

“After the day I’ve had I’m too tired to contemplate Eastern
philosophy, or much of anything, really. Can’t we just sit here and watch the stars come out?”

Michael gazed up at the indigo sky, silky-dark and flecked with pinpricks of light, at the moon slipping white and lazy from a silvered sea. “I think that could be arranged.” Patting the blanket invitingly, he stretched out, fingers laced over his chest. “Sorry. I didn’t have time to plan. Next time we’ll do s’mores for dessert.”

Lane lay back beside him, a smile softening her voice. “Has anyone ever told you you’re full of surprises?”

“Oh, once or twice, but I don’t think it was meant as a compliment. I hope this time it was.” Almost involuntarily, his hand found hers on the blanket, her fingers chilly as he folded them into his. What was he doing? There wasn’t room in his life for this—whatever it was. He would be gone in a few months, back to his classroom and his students and his never-ending research. Back behind his walls of solitude and safety. As he watched two new stars wink into view, he realized he wasn’t so very different from Lane Kramer.