The Wishing Tide (21 page)

She turned away then and walked back into the kitchen. Lane watched her go, knowing she should go after her, and knowing she couldn’t.

L
ane watched the last of the stars wink out as the sky slowly morphed from indigo to pearly pink. It seemed an eternity since she’d ventured out onto the dunes to watch an actual sunrise, but there had been little point in remaining in bed with her mother’s words wedged in her head like a pebble in a shoe. Instead, she had pulled on a T-shirt and sweats, foraged a blanket from the chest at the foot of her bed, and slipped out the back door. That had been somewhere around five. Now, nearly two hours later, the sun was up and she was numb in every way possible, chilled to the bone, emotionally drained, and all cried out.

Her mother’s words had cut deep, too deep to simply dismiss out of hand. But then, so much of it had needed saying. All these years, she’d been so busy blaming her mother for everything that had gone wrong in her life that she’d never bothered to look in the mirror. If she had, she might have realized that being her mother hadn’t exactly been a bowl of roses. Not that that little detail let her mother off the hook for Bruce. It didn’t.

A bit of movement caught Lane’s eye, a shadow slowly encroaching on the stretch of dune beside her. She stifled a groan, in no shape to resume last night’s argument.

“Mother, I really don’t—”

“You’re up early, my girl.”

Lane jerked her head around, surprised and relieved. “Mary.”

The woman’s keen eyes narrowed. “Something’s wrong.”

Lane nodded and looked away. “My mother’s here,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“I’ve seen her.”

“You’ve seen her? When?”

“Yesterday. You’d just set out for a walk. I made sure to keep out of sight. I didn’t think you’d want to explain someone like me.”

Lane felt a pang of shame. It was true. The only reason she’d shared Mary’s story at all was that Landon and Breester had forced her hand at the Hot Spot. “You knew she was my mother?”

“The minute I saw you together.”

“I guess it’s not hard to spot. I’ve always looked like her.”

“That’s not how I knew.”

Something in Mary’s tone made Lane glance up. “Then how?”

Mary eased down onto the sand. When she finally spoke, her voice had that faraway quality that Lane was beginning to recognize, a wistful blend of love and loss. “They say blood tells, but it’s more than that. We share things. Blood and bone, yes, but memories, too, and ways of being. Small, inconsequential things that are etched into us somehow, without our knowing it, things that can’t ever be erased. Not by time or distance—or even death.”

Lane wasn’t sure how to respond. She was speaking of her sons, of course—her princes, as she called them—the boys she had loved and lost.

“It isn’t like that with us,” she said at last. “We’re not . . . close.”

Mary’s faint, sagelike smile slid back into place. “It’s always like that, my girl. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not so. It’s not something you do. It’s who you are—both of you—bound by a thousand invisible threads.”

Lane propped her chin on her knees, hugging them close as she stared at the shoreline. Coming from anyone else Mary’s words might have sounded faintly eccentric, but here, now, they seemed quite sensible, one more example of her unique brand of wisdom.

“I suppose it’s like that with my sister. They’re close, and always have been. As far back as I can remember she just had a knack for making my mother love her. I, on the other hand, was never very good at that.”

Mary shot her a look of reproach. “That’s a little girl’s hurt.”

“You don’t understand. You don’t . . . know her.”

“I do know her!” Mary barked back. “I know a mother’s heart—what breathes, and beats, and bleeds there. Never think I don’t, no matter what you ever hear of me. Whatever your mother did—or didn’t do—was because she loved you and wanted you to be happy. It’s all we ever want for our children—all of them.”

“It isn’t that simple. We had a terrible fight last night. We said things—hurtful things.”

“My girl,” she said, taking hold of Lane’s hands. “To live and to live well are two very different things. The former, it seems, cannot be escaped, while the latter is rarely obtained, and never for long. Most people live in between.”

“I don’t understand. What’s that got to do—”

“Purgatory is the in-between, my girl, the earthly here and now where we take our lashes and pay for our frailties. If you’d lived through what I have, lost what I have, you’d know that words are only flesh wounds. They can’t leave scars unless you let them.”

Lane eyed Mary warily, wondering if she had lost her grip on the conversation. “Why are you telling me this, Mary? We were talking about my mother.”

“And we still are. I don’t know what’s been festering between the two of you, but whatever it is, you mustn’t let it leave scars. She’s your
mother, the only one you’ll ever have, no matter how many harsh words pass between you. Never let the thread snap.”

“And how do I do that?”

“You’re a woman. So is she. Meet her there—woman’s heart to woman’s heart.”

Lane stuck out her chin. “I don’t see that happening. I’m thirty-nine, and she still treats me like a child.”

“Come, now, don’t be petulant. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I left my husband because I was miserable. Now she can’t stop reminding me that if I’m not careful I’ll be alone for the rest of my life.” Lane looked away and dropped her voice. “So a few weeks ago I did something stupid.”

“This stupid thing you did—it’s a man?”

Lane nearly smiled. How was it this woman saw through her so easily? “Yes, it’s a man. I’ll tell you about him one day, but not now. Right now I think I need to be alone for a while. Then I suppose I’ll have to go in and straighten out the mess I’ve made.”

Mary gave Lane’s hands a final squeeze before getting to her feet. “You’ll find the way, my girl. Just remember—woman’s heart to woman’s heart.”

“I haven’t forgotten my promise, you know, about Hope House.”

“Of course you haven’t. We’ll talk about it when you’re feeling better.”

Lane smiled up at her. “Thank you, Mary. I’m glad you came into my life.”

The remark seemed to take Mary by surprise. Something like a smile flickered briefly about her mouth before she turned and headed down the dunes. Lane watched as she made her way up the sandy, vine-tangled rise, then disappeared down the other side, and wondered why it was so much easier to talk to a virtual stranger than to her own mother.

Woman’s heart to woman’s heart.

Was it possible, after all the hurtful words and finger-pointing, to see past the mother who had raised her—the mother she always seemed to disappoint—and find the woman beneath? To be seen as more than just the daughter who needed saving? She honestly didn’t know. It wasn’t their first argument, nor was it likely to be their last. They were different women, with vastly different views of the world, but they were family, mother and child bound by blood and years—and yes, by love. Maybe Mary was right. When it came down to it, maybe words
were
only flesh wounds.

After the chilly wind out on the dunes the kitchen felt almost stifling. Lane peeled out of the blanket, letting it puddle on the floor just inside the door. Cynthia looked up briefly from the table, a mug of coffee pressed between her palms, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed.

“Mother—”

“There’s coffee,” she said thickly into her mug.

Lane scanned the counters, spick-and-span now, neatly stacked with pots and pans, washed and waiting to be returned to their proper places. She’d left a mess last night when she stalked out. At some point Cynthia had cleaned it up, by herself. She tried not to envision it—her mother up to her elbows in dishwater, crying quietly over the sink.

God.

The clock ticked heavily as she filled a mug with coffee, then added a splash of cream. Lingering over the first sip, she cast about for something to say, for how and where to begin. But the words seemed to stick in her throat, mingled with the ache of last night’s tears. When nothing came, she set down her mug, crossed to the table, and wrapped her arms around her mother’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry about last night, about everything.”

Cynthia stiffened briefly, before melting into her daughter’s
embrace. “I never meant to hurt you, Laney. Not with Bruce, and not last night.”

Lane dropped into the nearest chair, quiet for a time as she again searched for the right words. “I don’t think I ever realized how well you know me.”

Cynthia was clearly surprised. “I’m your mother, Laney. Of course I know you. You’re part of me.”

“I guess I thought you never paid enough attention to know me. Now I’m starting to think maybe I was the one not paying attention.” She laid a hand on her mother’s arm. “I’m sorry I was difficult after Daddy died . . . and that I never noticed you were sad.”

“It wasn’t your job to worry about me. It was my job to worry about you.”

“And it seems I gave you plenty to worry about.”

Cynthia searched her daughter’s face with eyes that missed nothing. Finally, she reached up to brush a strand of bangs from Lane’s eyes. “I only want you to be—”

“Happy. Yes, I know.”

Cynthia averted her gaze. A single, shiny tear tracked down her cheek. She brushed it away. “I’m sorry I pushed you about Bruce. It was wrong of me, and selfish.”

Lane drew a long breath and held it as she digested the apology, savoring the balm of finally, finally, being heard. “You didn’t mean it to be. I know that now. Besides, it was me walking down that aisle, me standing beside Bruce, me saying I do. You said last night that I should have fought you, and you were right. I’ve just never known how.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You seemed to do a pretty good job last night.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t ever stop fighting, Laney. I should have taught you that.”

“I love you, Mother. And you taught me plenty.”

Cynthia managed a shaky smile. In the remnants of yesterday’s makeup she looked pale and suddenly fragile, as if she hadn’t slept at
all. She glanced about the kitchen, looking slightly overwhelmed. “It’s Thanksgiving. I almost forgot. We’ve got the turkey, and all that food . . .”

Lane smiled through an unexpected sheen of tears. Yes, it was Thanksgiving. And today they would cook. Side by side. Woman to woman.

They gathered in the dining room just after five. Lane ran a critical eye over the table, set with her best crystal and silver, but could find no fault. When she was a child, her mother had taken great pains with her table at the holidays, and Lane had gone out of her way to duplicate her results, right down to the precisely placed water glasses and carefully folded napkins.

“Oh, Laney, your table is lovely. And that bird is an absolute picture.”

Michael made the appropriate appreciative murmurs as he slid around to hold out Cynthia’s chair, then settled into his own. Lane went to work with a corkscrew and a bottle of Gewürztraminer she had chosen especially for the meal. Now that the work was done and they were seated, she actually felt a little nervous, which was silly since she and her mother had been preparing Thanksgiving dinners together for years. Maybe it had to do with being reminded almost hourly that this was her first Thanksgiving with Michael, and everything needed to be perfect.

“Shall we say grace?” Cynthia asked, holding a hand out to Michael.

Lane flicked an anxious glance at Michael—they’d never spoken about religion—but he seemed fine as he accepted Cynthia’s hand. “Go ahead, Mother. You’ve always done the blessing.”

She beamed as she took her daughter’s hand, and for a moment Lane thought she saw tears sparkling in her mother’s eyes as she
bowed her head. “Heavenly Father, we gather together today to offer thanks for your bounty, for this wonderful meal, and for the gift of family and friends. May we never forget their place in our hearts and our lives. And thank you especially for bringing Michael to our table, and into my Laney’s life. May this be the first of many holidays together. For these things and more, we humbly thank you. Amen.”

Lane’s cheeks were flaming by the time the prayer ended. Lying to her mother was one thing. Now they were lying to God as well. Surely there would be some retribution for that, some plague visited upon her house—boils perhaps, or locusts. And it certainly couldn’t have been a very comfortable thing for Michael to sit through. She could barely look at him as she passed him the wine bottle, though when she managed to sneak a glance in his direction, his face gave nothing away.