The Wishing Tide (23 page)

“I see,” Mary said, in that quiet way she had. “And you’re sure it’s just pretend?”

Lane looked away, feigning interest in the darkening sky. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“But you don’t want it to be, do you? This Michael—he means something to you?”

“I’m afraid he’s beginning to, yes.” With her usual acuity, Mary had seen straight to the heart of things. “The problem is I don’t know what to do about it. My mother’s gone, which means there’s no need to go on pretending. Except deep down I want to.”

Mary’s gaze slid toward the sea. “Be careful, my girl. Pretending
is a dangerous thing. One day you spin a pretty web, a fairy tale to cling to, and the next you’re caught in it, because somehow, without meaning to, you’ve begun to believe it. And the day after that they start calling you crazy.”

They were no longer talking about Michael. Mary had slipped away again, into some deeply worn groove of her past, where the view was meant only for her. Lane swallowed the urge to delve deeper. She remembered only too well what had happened the last time she pressed for answers. She’d have her answers when Mary was ready to give them. For now it was enough to sit quietly together and simply share the view.

Mary

I
watch her as she goes, her head ducked low against the wind as she makes her way along the dunes, back to her inn, and her Michael. She’s in love, poor thing, though I don’t believe she’s ready to admit just how deeply. How I wish I could be happy for her, this lovely woman with the sad eyes and the heart that’s so much bigger than she knows.

But I cannot.

A woman’s heart is like a bit of porcelain, you see, a fragile thing, not to be handled roughly. But men are so careless, so clumsy. They cannot be trusted with delicate things. Like fine lace or a bird’s wing, wounds of the heart are rarely mended. But then, perhaps this Michael is one of the rare ones, a man who will stand firm when the ground beneath him begins to shift, and not let himself be swept away—a man who will stay. I used to believe in such men, long ago, in my own fairy-tale days.

Now as I watch her move away, my heart is heavy with the warnings I should have given but did not, about the dangers of being reckless with one’s heart, and what can happen when you make room for the ones who can’t stay. But it’s not really my place. I’m not her mother. I’m no one’s mother now, and no one’s wife. I’m no one’s
anything. I was once, though, before the tide came in and the wreckage washed up.

We never dream we might lose those we love, because it’s too terrible, too inconceivable. They are simply the furniture of our lives, to be sidestepped, rearranged, and even stumbled over. Then one day they are simply gone, erased, and you’re left with only empty rooms and the echo of what once belonged to you. In that moment, that fraction of a second when your slate is wiped clean, there is the absolute certainty that none of it is true, that some error has been made, some hideous lie told, and that someday, somehow, it will all come right again. If you can only make them listen to the truth, the truth that you—and only you—know with your whole heart. But they don’t listen, and the rooms remain empty. And after a while your heart grinds to a halt, and you’re almost glad.

It’s a strange thing to know that you’re finally undone, to feel yourself at long last spooling free, that moment of terrible, wonderful freedom that comes when there’s nothing left to cling to, and you nearly weep with the relief of it.

And yet, beneath it all, the emptiness remains; the jagged place where love used to reside, where my princes reside still, has never fully closed. To lose one was a tragedy; to lose both was unspeakable. But no human frailty goes unpunished, or so the good nuns always told me, and my frailties are legion. And so I suppose my lost princes are my cross to bear, my bloodied crown of thorns, crucifixion without resurrection, sin without hope of redemption.

Through my fault.

Through my fault.

Through my most grievous fault.

Lane

L
ane felt her stomach clench as Michael pulled into the parking lot of Starry Point Town Hall. If Landon hoped waiting until the last minute to post the meeting notice would keep people away, he was going to be disappointed. The parking lot was jammed. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She only prayed that at least one car belonged to someone affiliated with Hope House, someone prepared to stand against Landon and Breester.

Heads turned as they entered the hall. The room was overwarm, and humming like a beehive, a blended rumble of curiosity and impatience. Lane scanned the crowd for allies. Erin from the Hot Spot sat in one of the blue plastic chairs near the front, Dally and her mother were somewhere in the middle rows with Skye sandwiched in between, and Sam, her handyman, stood near the back with his arms folded and his grizzled chin stuck out. She had lived in Starry Point for more than five years. She ran a business here, was a member of the community—and she barely knew a soul. How was that possible?

Row by row, she studied the unfamiliar faces, wondering how many of them would ultimately side with Landon. Most had no idea what he was about to propose. Neither did she, really. But she had a
pretty good hunch. She only hoped they had the good sense to see it for what it was, and would refuse to let him get away with it.

Up on the dais, a long table had been set up and covered with a starched white cloth, its pristine surface neatly lined with eight pads and pens, one each for Mayor Landon and the six members of the council, the eighth almost certainly for Donny Breester.

Breester and Landon were holding a private powwow in the corner, their heads bent close. As if sensing her gaze, Landon glanced up, following her with keen eyes as she and Michael found a place along the back wall. Breester’s gaze came next, dull and hungry as he looked her over, then going flinty when he spotted Michael at her side.

Lane looked away in time to catch Landon’s wife, Anne, give her husband a brisk nod. The room quieted as Mayor Landon peeled away from Breester and took his place at the table, calling the meeting to order. Briefly, he found her again, the unyielding set of his jaw a warning that she’d best keep her nose out of this.

“Friends and fellow residents,” he began in a booming voice. “I have called this meeting to discuss the recent crime wave that has infected our once-peaceful community, to update you on the progress of our investigation, and finally to propose a solution I believe will eradicate the dangerous elements we have reason to believe are at the root of the problem, before we see it escalate—as it most certainly will if allowed to go unchecked—into violence.”

Lane glanced from face to face, not liking what she saw in their expressions, fear in the women, brashness and anger in the men. It was already working.

“I can’t stand here and listen to this,” she hissed at Michael. “Dangerous elements? Violence? It’s nothing but a pack of lies meant to frighten people into doing what he wants.”

Michael cut his eyes at her. “You expected different?”

“I didn’t expect this. I hoped—” But he shushed her before she could finish, pointing up at the dais as the mayor went on.

“I’m going to let Chief Breester say a few words now, to fill everyone in on the current state of our investigation, what we already know, and what we soon expect to learn.”

There was a smattering of applause, a brace of bland smiles from the members of the council. Breester squared his shoulders and stood very still beside the mayor, waiting with an air of self-importance until the crowd fell silent and all eyes were trained on him.

“As Mayor Landon has just said, Starry Point currently finds itself in the grip of an unprecedented crime wave, something that as chief of police I take very seriously, and very personally. To date, there have been a total of sixteen reported break-ins, all of which have occurred on the sound side of the island, each resulting in material loss as well as property damage, not to mention the damage done to the peace of mind of our friends and neighbors.”

“They cut the screen out of my back door and stole my son’s bike off the porch,” a woman in the front hollered up at the dais. “That was almost three months ago, and so far no one’s been caught. We moved here from Richmond because we thought it was safe, and then this happens.”

Breester nodded gravely in her direction. “We understand your concerns, Mrs. Bridges, which is precisely why the mayor and I have called this meeting. We have reason to believe we’ve zeroed in on the perpetrators who broke into your home, and we need your help to . . . remove them from our midst.”

“Let’s hear it, then!” someone belted from the back row. “Or are we just going to sit here all night?”

Breester managed a tight smile and cleared his throat. “No, George, as a matter of fact we’re not. Over the last few weeks we’ve received several tips, each leading us in the same direction.” He paused for effect, scanning the crowd, like a revival preacher preparing to deliver his brimstone. “There is a certain element being housed in a certain facility over on the sound side of the island, the same side,
I might add, where all of the burglaries have occurred. It’s this element we’ve been investigating, and this element we believe responsible for all our problems.”

Lane felt her blood boil as she watched the council members scribbling furiously on their pads. “What tips?” she fumed near Michael’s ear. “He didn’t say a word about any tips the other day. This is nothing but a farce!”

A man in a John Deere ball cap shot to his feet. “Sounds like you’re talking about that halfway house.”

“Hope House,” Breester supplied curtly. “And yes, I am. We’ve interviewed several of the inmates and have reason—”

“They’re not inmates!” Lane shouted when she could stand it no longer. “And to suggest otherwise is a lie! They’re there of their own free will. They’re free to leave anytime they wish.”

Landon locked eyes with her briefly, his warning unmistakable, before nodding for Breester to continue.

“As I was saying, we’ve interviewed several of the, uh . . . residents . . . of Hope House, and have good reason to believe there is a theft ring operating out of that facility. We also have reason to believe they’ve been working with a local pawnbroker to sell what they steal . . . in order to finance their drug habits.”

A collective gasp went up. Lane stood silent, fists clenched at her sides as the mood in the room turned ugly. But none of it was true. Breester had as much as admitted it the other day. No witnesses. No evidence of any kind. And yet here he stood, laying it all out, one falsehood at a time—and the crowd was lapping it up.

“Will arrests be made?” the woman in the front row demanded. “Is someone going to be made to pay for my screen door? And will my son get his bike back?”

As if on cue, Breester backed away and Mayor Landon pushed back his chair, reclaiming the room’s attention. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Bridges, despite Chief Breester’s strenuous efforts, we have been
unable to secure the kind of evidence that would be needed to make any kind of arrest or demand for reparation.”

“Then what the hell are we doing sitting here?” a new voice fired up at the dais. “I didn’t come here to listen to you brag about knowing who’s breaking into our houses and stealing our stuff. I came to hear what you plan to do about it!”

The clamor rose steadily as more and more residents joined in the shouting. Breester stepped back from the table, a slim smile playing about his mouth as the seeds of anger he’d planted fanned to life and caught fire.

“Shut it down! There’s your answer!” someone finally shouted. “We don’t need a bunch of schizos and needle freaks living in Starry Point, stealing our things and sniffing around our children, thinking God knows what! I say, shut it down.”

There it was, then, Landon’s trump card at last, dramatically dealt by a man of his own careful choosing.
Schizos and needle freaks
. The same words Breester had used the other day at the Hot Spot, and surely no coincidence.

Several more shouts of “Shut it down!” rose. The council members looked out over the crowd. Several looked ready to bolt. Eventually Landon stepped up to quiet the crowd. For a split second, he found her at the back of the room, a flicker of triumph in his small dark eyes as he made his next statement.

“It seems we have a consensus among our residents that the facility in question be closed and the land put to some better, and dare I say, safer, purpose.”

His triumphant expression was short-lived, however, vanishing as Lane stepped forward and the room quieted again. “And where will the people living there now go, Mayor Landon, if Hope House is shut down?”

Landon had just opened his mouth to reply when Breester chimed in. “I don’t really care where they go, as long as they get the hell out of Starry Point.”

The mayor shot a sidelong glance at Breester, who finally settled back into his chair.

“Mayor Landon, the question was for you,” Lane reminded him curtly. “And I’d like an answer.”

Landon donned the smooth smile again, a blend of impatience and condescension. “Ms. Kramer, may I remind you that it was I who took up your cause when you came to Starry Point, wanting to turn one of our most historic buildings into a bed-and-breakfast? I did so because I was convinced the proposition would prove a good thing for Starry Point, just as I’m convinced that closing this halfway house and ridding our community of its potentially dangerous element will prove a good thing for Starry Point. Perhaps, coming from Chicago, where crime and bad elements are tolerated, you can’t understand our desire for safety.”

“Safety?” she shot back, furious at this unfounded implication. “We’re talking about television sets here, bicycles and coffee cans full of change. No one’s been hurt.”

“Yet.”

The word hung in charged air while Lane searched for a response that would settle the room. “Hope House has been in existence for several years now, Mayor Landon,” she said at last, over the din. “Can you tell me, please, if there’s ever been an arrest of any kind associated with its residents?”

Landon’s eyes slid to Breester, who was sitting with his arms mutinously folded.

“No, there has not, Ms. Kramer,” Breester said flatly. “But, as I’m sure you know, the population of Hope House isn’t a stable one. They’re drifters and transients, there one day, gone the next. Consequently, we have no idea on any given day what sort of element might be housed there—or what they might be capable of.”

More murmurs, more eyes turning in her direction. He was playing on their prejudices, shamelessly stoking their fears, and it was working.

“Of course they’re transient!” she shot back in total frustration. “They’re there to get back on their feet so they can reenter society. The fact that they do eventually leave is proof that Hope House is helping people. And now you want to pull the plug based on zero evidence!”

Landon smiled at Breester, an icy curl that signaled he was ready to step in. “Tell me, Ms. Kramer,” he said, the warning plain in both tone and expression. “How do you think it would affect your business if it were known that you encourage people like Dirty Mary to hang about your inn?”

The threat hadn’t been a subtle one. Michael cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I don’t believe you’ve answered Ms. Kramer’s question, Mr. Landon.”

Something dark flitted across Landon’s face. He produced a handkerchief from his suit pocket, dabbed briefly at his upper lip, then tucked it away. The condescending smile slid back into place, a bit tighter than before.

“You’re a friend of Ms. Kramer’s, I take it, Mr.—?”

“Forrester. And I’m currently a guest at the Cloister.”

“A guest. Well, then, this really doesn’t concern you, although I suppose I don’t mind answering the question. It’s very simple, really. Here in Starry Point, we’re not used to having our homes plundered, and our women afraid to go out after dark. In fact, before this nonsense started, very few of our residents even bothered to lock their doors. They do now, though, because they feel threatened by the dangerous element in our midst. That doesn’t make me happy, Mr. Forrester. My first concern—my only concern—is the safety of our citizens. Where the residents of Hope House ultimately end up isn’t my problem.”

“Dangerous element,” Lane spat. “Who told you anyone at Hope House was a dangerous element? Have you spoken to the people who run the place? Have you spoken to a single doctor? Or is this just a convenient conclusion?”

“Ms. Kramer, you seem to have a short memory. I seem to recall you feeling compelled to call the police yourself several weeks ago because of a light you thought you saw?”

“A light Donny Breester assured me was only a figment of my imagination.”

“Sit down, lady, and let’s get on with this!” someone shouted near the front. But Lane wasn’t finished.

“You haven’t got a shred of evidence, and you’re tossing around words like
transient
and
dangerous
because you want people to be afraid. But what happens when you get your way? What happens when Hope House closes and the break-ins keep happening? Because they
will
keep happening.”

Landon gave the knot of his tie a yank, then cleared his throat. “Ms. Kramer, it seems you’ve allowed your personal feelings for these . . .
people . . .
to cloud your judgment. But what you need to keep in mind is that it only takes one unbalanced individual to put this community at risk, something our Old Pointers know only too well. They’ve seen what can happen when an unstable individual is allowed to walk free rather than being kept under lock and key. The result is very often tragic, as it was in this case. And it didn’t have to happen. The party in question was confined for a time, but ended up being released. Because of that, someone died. I’m not going to end up with something like that on my hands.”

Lane had no idea what he was referring to, but the older members of the crowd apparently did. A rumble went up. Grim faces. Heads nodding in shared recollection. Landon seemed to sense his moment and took it, his voice suddenly thundering above the din.