The Wishing Tide (31 page)

Michael

M
ichael felt vaguely nauseated as he stood in the doorway of Hannah Rourke’s hospital room, palms slick, legs turned to stone at the memory of his days in Starry Point General’s burn unit: waking up with his back on fire, the burns too fresh to allow him to do anything but lie facedown and sob onto the sterile white sheets.

No one had to tell him Peter was dead. He’d known it when they loaded him into the ambulance—alone. Hannah was a different story. He had begged to know where they’d taken her, though he had a pretty good idea. He’d heard the screams as they strapped her down and took her away, the wild keening of an animal in pain. It was weeks before they finally told him the truth—that his mother wouldn’t be coming back. And now the woman who’d caused it all was lying just inside the door.

He was dimly aware of Lane getting to her feet, of her eyes following him as he stepped into the room. He could feel the anxiety radiating from her, an almost palpable dread that he was about to make a scene. And an hour ago she would have been right, since that was precisely what he’d intended when he turned around on Highway 12 and headed back to Starry Point. But now, as he stared at the woman
asleep on the narrow hospital bed, so fragile and battered, the words he’d rehearsed all the way back suddenly died in his throat.

He would have known her anywhere, this woman who had once spun stories and drawn pictures, who believed in fairy tales and made wishes on flowers. He had forgotten those times, had made himself forget them. Now they came rushing at him on a tide of emotion that nearly choked him. Her beauty had faded, victim to the ravages of guilt and loss. An unexpected knot constricted in his throat as he took in her bruises and abrasions, the bandage on her forehead, the sling that bound her shoulder.

He wasn’t prepared when her eyes fluttered open. Startled, he took a step back. Those eyes had been filled with terror the last time he saw them. Now they were glassy and dazed, confused by the stranger standing over her bed.

The silence spun out as he fumbled for something to say. How was it possible that after thirty years and more than a thousand imagined rants, he couldn’t manage to spit out a single word? Perhaps it was the quiet chaos brewing behind his mother’s eyes, the troubled questions that must be flitting through her head at that moment. Or maybe it was because he hadn’t remembered to take a breath since he entered the room.

He took one now, forcing air into his lungs, forcing it back out. And then, almost before he could register it, it was there—a kind of quickening in Hannah’s expression, when confusion became recognition, and then, finally, a heartrending knowing. She reached for him, her small, slender hand imploring.

“My prince.”

In that moment, Michael found himself trapped, caught in the dizzying space between anger and need, resentment and relief. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lane take a quick step forward. He stayed her with a look and, taking Hannah’s outstretched hand, finally found his voice.

“My lady,” he whispered hoarsely, the words strange on his tongue after so many years.

Lane’s eyes slid to his, shiny with tears. He looked away. For better or worse, he had her to thank for this. She had guilted him into coming back, into doing the right thing, because she believed in happy endings, and because, for reasons that completely escaped him, she seemed to believe in him, too.

“Evan?” Hannah choked tearfully. “Why are you here?”

Michael shot Lane a helpless look. He had no idea where to begin, no idea what she knew and what she didn’t. He was relieved when Lane stepped in.

“Michael, the man who’s been staying with me, is really Evan—your Evan. I only found out myself a day ago. I wanted to tell you, but the doctors were afraid . . .”

Hannah’s eyes closed briefly. “I know what they were afraid of.” Her gaze narrowed then as a new light gradually began to kindle. “This was . . . the mistake?”

The mistake?

Michael caught Lane’s almost imperceptible nod but decided to let it pass—for now. It never occurred to him that he might have come up in conversation. Now he found himself wondering exactly what had been said. Had she painted him as the type of guy who got a woman into bed and then promptly skipped town? Jesus, Hannah Rourke had been back in his life for all of ten minutes, and already there were complications. But then, she wasn’t really back in his life. He’d come back to close a door, nothing more.

“You changed your name,” Hannah said softly.

There was no missing the note of sadness in her voice, and perhaps betrayal. She had a right to that, he supposed. “The people who adopted me changed it. I’m Michael now. Michael Forrester.”

“Michael,” she repeated, as if tasting the name. “Your middle name, yes. And a new last name, too. You have a new family. But of
course you do.” Her eyes seemed to devour him as she reached up to smooth his cheek. “I always knew you’d grow up handsome and tall—like your father.”

Michael felt his gut twist. He’d come back to do the right thing, but he wasn’t letting her bring his father into this. “Lane tells me you took a nasty spill. How are you feeling?” It was an awkward pivot, but it was better than where they were heading.

Hannah managed a thin smile. A brave smile, Michael thought as she patted his hand. “You were kind to come, my boy, truly. But you don’t need to stay. I’m not your mother anymore. You’ve got a new life now. No reason for you to relive the old horrors.”

She turned her face away then, as a fresh fountain of tears racked her. He winced as Lane’s nails dug into his arm, an unspoken plea to do something, say . . . something. But he was at a loss. They were strangers. Yes, she’d given birth to him, had raised him for a time. But could a few strands of DNA bridge the gap of thirty bitter years? He wasn’t sure they could, or that he even wanted them to. And yet, as he stood there looking at her, so wretched and ashamed, he could feel her heart breaking, the same heart that had loved him all those years ago, that had lost a husband, and not one son, but two.

Reaching down, he brushed a strand of hair from Hannah’s cheek. “We won’t talk about old times,” he said softly. “But I’m here now—as Michael. Let’s let that be enough.”

Lane flashed him a look of gratitude, dabbed at her eyes, and gave Hannah’s hand a pat. “I’m just going to pop down to the nurses’ station and see when you might be allowed to have something to eat.”

“No,” Michael blurted, knowing he must look like a deer in headlights. “I’ll go. I’ll do it.”

“It’s okay. I need to stretch my legs.”

So, what? They were just supposed to
catch up
now, after thirty years?

Michael did his best to telegraph terror, but either Lane wasn’t picking up on his signals, or she was flat-out ignoring them.
Stay,
she mouthed, giving him that look women saved for moments like this.
Talk to
her. Please.

And with that, she was gone.

Lane

O
ut in the hall, Lane made a beeline for the ladies’ room, slipped into a stall, and let the tears come, a damp jumble of hope, relief, and gratitude. She had braced herself for the worst when she saw Michael in the doorway. Instead, he’d surprised her with a display of compassion and tenderness she hadn’t dared hope for.

And if she had shamed him into coming back, so what? She was beginning to realize that Michael coming into her life had never been about happily ever after, that she was only meant to be a catalyst in the reconciliation between mother and son. So be it. If it brought Hannah some measure of peace, she could live with that. She would have to.

Resolved, she emerged from the stall, splashed her face with cold water, and dabbed on a little lip gloss. Life went on, after all, and there were things to do. Dr. Ashton said Hannah was going to need help when she got out, the kind of aftercare Hope House wasn’t likely to provide.

There were places, rehab centers, for that sort of thing, but she didn’t like to think about the long-term effects of a prolonged stay in such a setting. No, there was a better option, though it wasn’t one Michael was likely to approve.

At the nurses’ station, she cleared her throat until a woman whose name tag identified her as Karen Walsh, R.N., lifted her head from the chart she was scanning.

“Help you?”

“I’m a friend of Hannah Rourke’s, and I was wondering if you could give me any information about the kind of aftercare she’ll require once she’s discharged?”

Nurse Walsh smiled benignly but shook her head. “I’m afraid you’ll need to speak to Mrs. Rourke’s private physician about that. It’ll be his decision, and they don’t usually write that kind of thing down on the charts. That would be Dr. Ashton. He was in to see her early this morning and adjust her meds. He said he’d be back later today to check on her. You might catch him then.”

Private physician?

Lane flashed back to last night—Dr. Ashton in his shiny shoes and well-cut black suit. She’d been too frazzled to ask how he happened to know so much about Hannah’s psychiatric history. She had just assumed it was all somewhere in the hospital’s records. Now she sensed there was more to it than that.

“Is Dr. Ashton not on staff here?”

“Not technically, no. Not for a long time now. But he was called in when Mrs. Rourke presented.”

“And he just dropped everything and came running?”

“For Mrs. Rourke? Oh yes, ma’am.”

Lane nodded distractedly as the wheels in her head began to grind. Private physicians cost money, and not a little money, either. So how was Ashton getting paid? Presumably, Medicare would pick up some of it, but a
private
physician who looked as if he’d been on his way to the opera when he was called?

“Can you tell me if Hannah has any kind of insurance? Private insurance, I mean?”

“Sorry, we don’t handle the money stuff down here. We just put
them back together. You’ll need to go to the financial offices. They won’t tell you anything, though, unless you’re family.”

It took several inquiries and a series of wrong turns, but finally Lane managed to locate the financial offices, which turned out to be a row of glass-fronted cubbies on the first floor.

“Are you a family member?” the middle-aged blonde asked robotically.

“I’m engaged to Mrs. Rourke’s son,” Lane answered without blinking. If she could lie to her mother’s face, surely she could fool a hospital billing clerk. “We’re, uh . . . we’re thinking of having Mrs. Rourke stay with us while she rehabs, and Dr. Ashton said we’d need to make arrangements for her to have physical therapy, so I was wondering about the financial—”

The woman seemed not to be listening. Finally, she glanced up from the notes on her computer screen. “It says here all arrangements for Mrs. Rourke’s care are to be made through Mr. Callahan.”

“Mr. Callahan?”

The clerk eyed Lane dubiously. “Perhaps you should speak to your fiancé. Mr. Callahan is the gentleman who looks after Mrs. Rourke’s affairs—her money and things.”

Lane blinked at her, stunned to learn that Hannah had any money at all, let alone enough to be looked after. She did her best to recover. “Yes, of course. I guess I’ve never heard him mentioned by name. You don’t happen to have his number handy there, do you? My fiancé is a bit overwhelmed right now, after his mother’s accident, and I promised I’d get the ball rolling. You know, one less thing for him to worry about.”

More than a little surprised, Lane watched the woman scribble the number onto a pink message pad, tear off the top sheet, and slide it across the desk. Snatching it up with a hastily muttered thanks, she hurried away before the woman had a chance to second-guess her decision.

Michael was just stepping out into the hall when Lane returned
to Hannah’s room. He looked worn out, and vaguely annoyed. “Where the hell have you been? I thought you were going to get her some food.”

“I’m sorry. I got caught up in other things—when she might go home, and what she’ll need when she does. I completely forgot about getting her something to eat.”

“Don’t worry about it now. The nurse came in to give her something for pain, and it’s already making her groggy. They want her to rest, but she asked to see you before we leave.”

Lane was aware of Michael behind her as she stepped back into the room. She did her best not to think about the conversation that would have to take place once they left the hospital, the one about where they all went from here.

Crossing to the bed, she laid a hand over Hannah’s. “We’re going for a little while so you can get some rest. But Michael said you wanted to see me first.”

Hannah’s eyes dragged open, heavy-lidded and already bleary from the meds. Holding out her free arm, she beckoned Lane to bend down for an awkward hug. “Thank you for this,” she whispered against her cheek. “Thank you for my son.”

“Rest now,” Lane said softly. “We’ll be back later.”

She was about to pull away when Hannah’s grip tightened, and she found herself staring into eyes that were surprisingly lucid. “It was no mistake, my girl. So just you hold on to him. He doesn’t know it yet, but he needs you every bit as much as you need him.”

It was Lane who finally broke the silence as they left the hospital. “Are you all right?”

Michael was wearing his unreadable face again. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’ve just seen your mother for the first time in thirty
years, and she looks like she’s been through a meat grinder. It’s okay to feel . . . I don’t know . . . shaken up.”

“I’m fine.”

Lane sighed. “Michael, you don’t always have to put on such a brave face. It’s okay to have feelings about this.” She slowed as she reached her car and looked at him squarely. “You did a good thing today, by the way.”

Michael pressed his fingers to his lids, as if warding off a headache. “Yeah, well, it sure as hell didn’t feel good.”

“Maybe not now, but it will later. Have you eaten?”

“Eaten?”

“As in food. Why don’t we take my car and go grab some lunch? When we come back we’ll talk to the doctor about Hannah’s prognosis. In the meantime, there’s something I need to ask you.”

Michael eyed her warily but slid into the passenger seat when Lane opened the door. There was so much she wanted to ask. Why he’d changed his mind. What he planned to do now. What he and Hannah had talked about after she left the room. But first and foremost, she wanted to know what he knew about a man named Callahan.

At the diner, Michael ordered an omelet, Lane a club sandwich. Conversation, or what there was of it, was stilted while they waited for their food to arrive, as if they had suddenly used up all the words between them.

She could see his side. He’d been hiding from his past, from the scars and the memories, for more than thirty years. And today, quite against his will, he’d come face-to-face with all of it. Part of him—a very big part—would always blame her for that. And maybe that was fair, but nothing could make her regret the joy she had seen on Hannah’s face when she had thanked her for her son. Still, it might be wise to steer clear of the emotional stuff right now.

“Michael, I told you I needed to talk to you about something.”

He looked up from the thick china plate where he’d been chasing
a bit of tomato around with his fork. “Yes,” he said flatly, a grudging invitation for her to continue.

“I know this isn’t really any of my business, but does your mother have any money?”

Michael set down his fork with a look that said he clearly didn’t understand why she would ask him, of all people, such a question. “How in God’s name would I know that?”

“I guess I’m asking if your father left her well-off when he died. He was the mayor, and a businessman. Presumably, he had assets.”

“There was some insurance money, but that would be long gone by now. And as far as I know, most of the business holdings went to his partner. Why? What’s this all about?”

Lane slid the scrap of paper with Callahan’s number from her pocket and unfolded it. “Earlier, when I went down to the nurses’ station, I learned that Dr. Ashton—that’s your mother’s doctor—isn’t on staff at the hospital, that he’s actually her private physician. He was called in when she presented at the emergency room.”

“So?”

“So, how does someone like Hannah, who lives in a halfway house and has no income, happen to have her own private physician?”

“I have no idea.”

“I didn’t, either. Then, when I went down to the financial offices to ask about what kind of arrangements we’d need to make before Hannah could be discharged, the woman working there told me I’d have to check with a Mr. Callahan, since he was the one who looked after Hannah’s money. She gave me his number. Have you ever heard of a Mr. Callahan?”

Michael frowned thoughtfully, then shook his head. “No.”

“I think we should talk to him.”

Michael pushed his plate away and carefully folded his napkin. “Are you under the impression that my feelings have changed? Because you should really know that they haven’t. Visiting her in the hospital,
making sure she’s all right, is one thing, but I have no intention—none whatsoever—of getting tangled up in that woman’s life again.”

“This wouldn’t be about getting tangled up in
that woman’s
life, as you say. And by the way,
that woman
is still your mother, no matter what you or she might think. And she’s still going to need a roof over her head when this is over—and the way things are looking, so will everyone else at Hope House. I’d like to talk to this Callahan. If he’s the one who initially arranged for her to get in there, maybe he knows how to get in touch with someone who’d be willing to stand up to Landon.”

“So talk to him. Just leave me out of it.”

“Come on, Michael. Do you really think he’s going to tell me anything? A complete stranger?” She waited a beat, until she could see that her words had registered. “He would talk to you, though—her son. You could help Hannah, and a lot of other people.”

Finally, grudgingly, Michael nodded. “All right.” His eyes widened when she pulled her phone from her bag. “You’re going to call him now?”

Lane nodded as she tapped in the number. “Yes. So you can’t change your mind.”

A man answered on the third ring.

“Mr. Callahan?”

“This is he.”

“Yes, well—” Lane stumbled, wishing now that she’d taken a moment to plan what she was going to say. “My name is Lane Kramer,” she said finally, simple and to the point. “I’m a friend of Hannah Rourke’s.”

There was a long silence, the awkward void of a man caught off guard. “How can I help you?”

“I was given your number by a billing clerk at Starry Point General. Hannah was in an accident yesterday. The hospital suggested I get in touch with you, since you apparently handle her personal affairs.”

“Is Mrs. Rourke all right? Is she—”

“She was hit by a car while riding her bike. She’s banged up, but
we expect her to make a full recovery. What I’m really calling about is Hope House.”

There was another pause, then a long release of breath. “What can I do for you, Ms. Kramer?”

“You’re probably not aware that there are plans to try to shut it down, very serious plans, in fact, by the mayor and town council. I was hoping you might be able to help me contact the founders, or the board, or whoever I need to talk to in order to keep that from happening. I’ve tried locating them myself, but it all seems very hush-hush.”

“Forgive me, but may I ask why you believe I could help?”

“Well, I suppose I thought that since you must have been involved in getting her into Hope House, you might be able to point me in the right direction. I’ve been snooping around, writing letters, but so far I’ve come up empty-handed, and time is running out.”

There was another long pause; then Callahan cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Ms. Kramer, I’m not really comfortable discussing Mrs. Rourke’s personal affairs with someone I’ve neither met nor heard of.”

“Would you be willing to discuss them with her son?”

“I’m sorry. Did you say . . . her son?”