The Wishing Tide (20 page)

Lane

L
ane woke the next morning to a flat gray sky and the high thin wail of gulls outside her window. Relieved to find the kitchen empty, she made a pot of coffee and tiptoed back upstairs with her mug, thankful that both her guests appeared to still be sleeping. There were a few things she wanted to check out before breakfast.

At this point, her plan to save Hope House consisted of little beyond locating someone—anyone—connected to the halfway house, and making them aware of the mayor’s intentions. She’d poke around a little online, then make a few calls after breakfast. The tricky part would be getting the information without disclosing her reason for wanting it. The last thing she needed was someone tipping off Landon that she was snooping around.

Starting a war wasn’t what she was after, but that’s exactly what she’d get if word of her interference got back to the mayor. She needed some sort of cover story. Maybe she could say she was looking to interview someone for a piece about the crucial role halfway houses played in the community. All she needed was a name. How hard could that be?

But an hour and dozens of Internet searches later, she found herself grumbling into her coffee cup, baffled as to why she had yet to
find anything remotely related to Hope House. Nothing about its founder, or the organization that oversaw its funding. Nothing, period. It was beginning to look as if the halfway house had sprung up out of the sound and simply maintained itself.

It seemed unlikely that public money was involved or there’d be a trail of some sort, and yet Mary had mentioned a social worker. Were social workers involved with privately funded facilities? Lane didn’t think so, but then she really had no idea how it all worked. She only knew Hope House had to exist on some radar, somewhere. Perhaps she could call the state hospitals—there were three—or even a few private ones, though she doubted they’d be terribly forthcoming.

After an hour of sleuthing without a single viable lead, she was all but ready to give up. The nearest she’d come was an obscure corporation with an even more obscure name: R&C Limited. There were no names, and no link attached, only a PO box in Raleigh as a point of contact, but at least it was something. After composing a brief note detailing the situation, she addressed the envelope and marked it
URGENT
, then went down to start the breakfast.

Cynthia looked much improved when she appeared, smiling as she poured herself a cup of coffee and glanced out the window down the beach.

“You look like you’re feeling better,” Lane said, handing her the morning paper. “Headache gone?”

“Yes, thanks. I’m so glad you and Val don’t get them. Are we going for a walk today?”

Lane looked up from a bowl of half-beaten eggs. “You want to go for a walk?”

“Sure. The fresh air will do me good after all that sleep.”

“Actually, I was thinking of skipping the walk this morning. I have a few calls to make, and then I thought if you were up to it we’d do a little shopping. There are some nice shops and galleries in the village. And then I need to shop for dinner tomorrow. Dally already ordered
the turkey, but I need to pick it up. And then there’s all the other stuff. I thought we could bake the pies tonight, if you’re up to it.”

“Pumpkin and mince?”

Lane nodded, going back to work with her whisk.

“Does Michael like mince pie?”

“I have no idea,” Lane answered truthfully. “It’s never come up.”

“I just asked because unless Michael’s fond of it, there’s really no need to make the mince.” She tipped her mug then, staring into it, a crease appearing between her neatly penciled brows. “We made the mince for Daddy. He was the only one who ever ate it.” She lifted the mug stiffly and took a sip, lingering over the rim. “We don’t need to make it anymore.”

Lane went still, caught off guard by this rare show of emotion. Her mother didn’t
do
feelings. Pleasure, sorrow, joy, and even grief, had always been kept carefully at bay, neatly tucked behind a mask of bland propriety. Her mother’s poker face, her father had called it. Lane had called it something else, something much less charitable.

Luckily, she was spared having to respond when Michael walked into the kitchen and dropped his customary kiss on the top of her head. It had become something of a ritual, one she was beginning to rather enjoy.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he said, flashing a grin that bordered on wicked. “Looks like you managed to get all the sand out of your hair after all.”

Lane swallowed her reply, then counted to ten while she waited for the color in her cheeks to recede.

Cynthia frowned up from her paper. “Did you say sand?”

Michael’s grin widened. “We had a little picnic, I guess you’d call it, out on the beach last night. I built a bonfire, and your daughter and I watched the moon come up.” He paused, offering a languid smile. “It was very romantic.”

Cynthia’s frown quickly morphed into a smile. “Laney, I believe this one’s a keeper.”

“Did you hear that, Laney?” Michael prodded, as he reached past her to grab three plates from the cabinet beside the sink. “Your mother thinks I’m a keeper.”

Lane shot him a look of exasperation, then dropped her voice to a hiss. “Keep it up, Romeo, and when I make that call about our breakup, I’ll make sure it’s all your fault.”

Michael threw back his head and laughed. “Go ahead. She’ll never buy it.”

Lane stole a glance at her mother, blissfully sipping her coffee and, in all likelihood, mentally selecting colors for flowers and bridesmaid dresses. “No, you’re right. She wouldn’t.”

B
y nine thirty that evening the turkey had been cleaned and was waiting for stuffing, the casseroles were in the fridge, covered with foil and ready for baking, and the pies had just come out of the oven. In the end, she’d gone with apple instead of mince. Not because it was Michael’s favorite—she hadn’t even remembered to ask—but because she didn’t want to risk a glaringly untouched mince pie on her Thanksgiving table. Cynthia had said nothing about her choice, even when she carried the bowl of Granny Smiths to the table for peeling.

Lane was pleasantly surprised at how well they had worked together, slipping into the well-worn rhythm of countless Thanksgivings, the same cranberry relish, green-bean casserole, and candied sweet potatoes they’d been making since she was a girl, the same recipes her mother had made with Nana Jean before that.

It was comforting in a way, the unconscious sameness of it all, the predictable refuge of family tradition, and yet there was something else beneath—the niggling awareness that none of it was real, that they were all moving through some queer kind of pantomime, merely for the sake of appearance. Her father was gone and had been for years, her mother was remarried to yet another man Lane had never
met, her sister and the kids were miles away, and the boyfriend with whom she was supposed to be sharing her first Thanksgiving was nothing but a clever ruse that would end the moment her mother’s rental car pulled out of the drive. Like Cinderella at midnight, the illusion would vanish.

The thought left an uncomfortable hollow just south of her ribs. Suddenly, she felt weary and a little claustrophobic as she scanned the kitchen, counters dusted with pastry flour and drying scraps of piecrust, sink heaped with every mixing bowl she owned, all waiting to be washed and put away. They’d be lucky to finish before midnight.

Stifling a sigh, she stepped to the sink and began sorting out the mess while her mother moved from counter to counter with a sponge, scraping up bits of piecrust, bread crumbs, and the occasional runaway cranberry.

“You’re quiet,” she observed with a sidelong glance at Lane. “Everything all right?”

“I’m just tired, Mother. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

“Why would I be nervous?”

“Well, it’s your first big dinner with Michael. Naturally, you want everything to be perfect.”

“I wasn’t thinking about Michael,” she lied. “I was thinking about Mary, and what’s going to happen if they close Hope House.”

“Have you learned anything more?”

“No, I mailed the letter to the PO box I told you about, then made a few calls. I spoke with several counselors, but they all claim not to know anything.”

“You sound as though you don’t believe that.”

“Well, it doesn’t make sense, does it? Somebody has to know something, but I swear it’s as if whoever’s behind the place is going out of his or her way to keep it a secret.”

“Philanthropists don’t always trumpet their good works, Laney.”

“I know, but this feels . . . different. Deliberate.”

“What does Michael think about you getting involved in this?”

Lane’s hands went quiet in the dishwater. It was the kind of thing she would have asked about Bruce. Had she gotten permission? Did her views coincide with the almighty Dr. Bruce?

“I didn’t ask,” she lied again. “Something has to be done, and I’m the only one who seems to care.”

Cynthia stepped to the sink to rinse out her sponge, her mouth pursed thoughtfully. “Laney, honey, I understand that this woman means a great deal to you, but if Michael’s going to be your husband—”

Lane spun around to gape at her mother, not caring that she was dripping water down the front of her pants and all over the floor. “Please remind me when I said anything about getting married.”

Cynthia’s eyes went wide. “Well, I just assumed—”

“That’s the problem, Mother. You’re always assuming. You assume I need your advice. You assume you know what’s best for me. You assume you always know exactly what’s going on when you don’t have the first damn clue. Why is it that suddenly everyone’s an expert on what I’m doing wrong with my life?”

“Laney—”

Lane threw up her hands, taking an abrupt step back. “For once in your life, can’t you please just leave me alone?”

Stalking to the back door, she yanked it open, then slammed it behind her with a force that threatened to jar the frame loose. A few minutes later Cynthia followed her out onto the deck wearing Michael’s jacket. It swallowed her almost to the knees. She handed Lane a sweater.

“Put that on. It’s freezing out here.”

Lane took the sweater and slipped it on wordlessly. Obviously the answer was
no
. Her mother couldn’t just leave her alone, even when expressly asked.

“So,” Cynthia said when the silence began to stretch uncomfortably. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, I’m certain of that. You never do. But we’re going to talk about it anyway.”

Lane folded her arms, fully aware of how petulant she must look. She didn’t care. “What is it you want from me, Mother?”

“What do I want?” Cynthia let out a huff of breath that was visible in the briny night air. “I want to know what’s behind these showdowns we keep having. I think it’s time, don’t you?”

“Trust me, Mother. It’s really not.”

“Fine,” Cynthia said, huddling deeper into the ridiculously oversize jacket. “Have it your way. I’ll just stand here until I freeze to death.”

Dear God, give me strength.
“Fine, then. Why did you make me marry Bruce?”

Cynthia’s mouth rounded in a little O of surprise. “Make you? Lane, you were twenty-four years old when you married Bruce. And as far as I know, other than his, your name was the only one on the license.”

“You know what I mean. You started pushing him down my throat the minute you met him.” Lane drummed her fingers impatiently on the railing. “Well? You wanted to have this discussion. Now all of a sudden you’ve got nothing to say?”

“I’m just trying to figure out why we’re talking about this now.”

“Why?” Lane stared at her, incredulous. “Because you’re here—doing it again!”

“But you and Michael are—”

“Are what? Perfect for each other? I seem to remember you saying the same thing about Bruce, and you couldn’t have been more wrong. Not that it mattered, then or now. You wanted your daughter to
marry the promising young heart specialist. Too bad he didn’t have one of his own.”

Cynthia stared at her, stricken. “I didn’t know that then, Laney. How could I? You didn’t even know.”

“No, I didn’t. But maybe I could have figured it out if you hadn’t been so busy poking wedding invitations in my face and leaving stacks of bridal magazines all over the house. So I could be like Val.”

“My wanting you to marry Bruce had nothing to do with your sister.”

“Then what did it have to do with?”

“Your father, I think.”

“Daddy?” Lane said softly. It wasn’t the answer she’d expected.

There was a long stretch of silence, punctuated by the distant thrum of sea, the steady rush of ice-cold wind. When Cynthia spoke again her voice was thready, thinned with some unnameable emotion.

“When your father died—for years after, I was so lonely. We had our ups and downs like everyone else, but through it all he was my rock, the other half of me. When he got sick, when I lost him, my world crumbled. It was all I could do to get out of bed, to put one foot in front of the other, to be a mother to you and your sister. There were times when I wasn’t sure I could even remember how to breathe by myself. It was like I didn’t have a soul in the world. I know I shouldn’t have felt that way. I had you girls. But I couldn’t help it. Without your father I was . . . adrift.”

“You never told us.”

“No. But Val knew. She always understood me.”

“Is that why you love her more?”

Cynthia looked at Lane, astonished. “Please tell me you don’t believe that.”

“No, I guess not,” Lane said with a halfhearted shrug. “But you can’t pretend I ever measured up the way she did.”

“It was never a question of measuring up, Laney. It had to do with
the differences between the two of you. Being Val’s mother was easy. She liked the same things I did. We were comfortable together. But you, you were like your father, smart and serious, and most of the time very closed off. You always had your nose in some book or were scribbling on some pad. And it got worse after your father died. There was no room for me. I was never very good at connecting with you, but all of a sudden I couldn’t reach you at all. It was like you were punishing me for something, but I had no idea what. I wasn’t mother of the year. I know that. But, Laney, you have to know there were times when you made it very hard to be your mother.”

Punishing her?

Lane was so startled she didn’t know how to respond. The accusation stirred feelings of guilt and sadness, and she didn’t want to feel either of those things right now—probably because she deserved to feel both. It was true. Part of her had blamed her mother for her father’s death. If only he’d been diagnosed sooner. If only her mother had paid closer attention when he started complaining about feeling tired. But that wasn’t what tonight’s blowup was about.

“We were talking about Bruce, Mother. Daddy’s death doesn’t explain you pushing him at me, or telling me to stay and fight for my marriage.”

Cynthia sighed. “In a way it does. I knew Val would find someone to spend her life with, someone who would make her happy, and she did. But you, Laney, I was so scared—scared you’d keep shutting people out, scared you’d be alone like I was. The thought of it broke my heart. So I guess I started pushing. I suppose I didn’t want you to be alone because I didn’t want to be alone.”

“Is that why you married Gary, and then Robert?” Lane asked, feeling the edge starting to wear off her anger. “Because you didn’t want to be alone?”

Cynthia looked away and nodded. “I thought someone was better than no one. I learned the hard way just how wrong I was. Gary was
a mistake. But now, with Robert, I’m happy. Oh, not like I was with your father, but it’s a kind of happy, and at my age that’s more than most women can say.”

A long silence fell. Finally, Lane broke it. “The other day you said something. You said I thought I wasn’t good enough, that I believed Michael was my last chance.”

“I shouldn’t have said that. Please forget it.”

“What did you mean?”

“Laney—”

“What did you mean?”

“What I said, I suppose.”

“That I think I’m not good enough? That I—”

Cynthia cut her off. “You should have fought me, Laney.”

“What?”

“About Bruce—you should have fought me. Instead you said nothing, and went along with something you never wanted. And then you said nothing to Bruce. You let him bully you into a life you didn’t want. You should have fought us both.”

At her sides, Lane’s hands knotted into fists. “That isn’t fair! You don’t
let
someone bully you. They just do it. And you weren’t saying all this back then. Back then, all you ever talked about was how I needed to learn to compromise.”

“I didn’t know everything. You never told me how bad it was.”

It was true; she hadn’t. She’d been ashamed to admit she couldn’t pull off something as simple, as basic, as marriage. Val never had any problem. Maybe she was missing something other women seemed to be born with, some wifely gene that had somehow skipped her.

“Maybe it wasn’t that bad. Maybe I just thought it was.”

“You stopped writing, Lane. Writing. The one thing you’ve loved all your life, and you just . . . stopped. Because Bruce hated it. That isn’t compromise. That’s quitting. And you didn’t learn that from me.”

“No, that’s right,” Lane fired back. “When it comes to marriage,
no one could ever call you a quitter. Your motto has always been
if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again
. And I didn’t stop writing because of Bruce. I stopped because I was told I wasn’t any good.”

Cynthia folded her arms, shivering, then shook her head. “No, Laney. You stopped because you believed it.”

Speechless, Lane absorbed her mother’s words like a slap.

When Cynthia spoke again her voice was weary, but resolved, too. “You want to blame me, fine. Blame me. But maybe it’s time you looked in the mirror.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve never been one to stand up for what you want. You don’t see it, but I do, because I’ve known you all your life. You’ve always been content to bury your head in the sand—or in a book, like your father—and let the world have its way. That’s what I was trying to say. I told you to fight for your marriage. I didn’t mean you should be a doormat. I meant it was time you stood up for the life you wanted, the life you deserved. Instead, you retreated.”

Retreat.

There it was again, an unnerving echo of last night’s conversation with Michael, but somehow it was harder to ignore when it came from her mother.

“I was miserable, Mother—too miserable and too tired to fight. Especially for something I knew I didn’t want. But you could never see that. You didn’t want to, and you still don’t. After everything, the baby, the women, the bullying as you put it, you still think I should have stayed.”

“I don’t.” Stepping closer, Cynthia laid a hand on her daughter’s arm. “All I want, all I’ve ever wanted, was for you and your sister to be happy. With Val, happiness just seemed to come naturally, but you weren’t like that.”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Lane said, shrinking from her touch. “At least you had Val, who always did everything right.”

Cynthia dropped her arms to her sides with a sigh. “Laney, what I’m saying has nothing to do with Val, or Michael, or anybody. It has to do with going after what you want in life, and to hell with what anyone else thinks. And yes, that includes me.”

She paused, drawing a deep, shuddery breath, then squared her shoulders. “I thought—well, I hoped—that over the last few days, we’d gotten past all this. But I see now that we haven’t, and probably never will. I wanted you to have someone, a life, a future. I’m sorry you think that was selfish of me, but if you’re waiting for an apology, I don’t have one to give. I’ve made mistakes. Lots of them, I suppose. But wanting my daughter to be happy wasn’t one of them.”