The Wishing Tide (35 page)

L
ane watched as Hannah took a bite of muffin and washed it down. She was struggling to eat with her right hand, dropping crumbs and sloshing tea, but she was looking decidedly better, in spite of her bruises, which were beginning to turn a sickly shade of yellow-green.

The consultation with Ashton had gone well. He was both pleased and surprised at the pace of Hannah’s recovery, and had every reason to believe she would be released by Christmas. The sling would come off, her bruises would heal, the scar on her forehead would fade with time. But Lane was worried about other scars, the kind that didn’t show, and might never heal if she was wrong about Hannah’s capacity to handle what she was about to learn.

She had confided in Ashton, about the letter and Michael’s plans to show it to Hannah. As expected, he had urged caution. While vindication might ultimately prove beneficial to Hannah’s recovery, he was concerned about the timing. In his opinion, there were only two likely outcomes: either Hannah would see the news as vindication, or she would let it push her over the brink. One way or the other, they were about to find out.

She hadn’t told Hannah why Michael was coming, only that he
was. Now, as he appeared in the doorway, she wondered if she should have at least tried to prepare her. But how? Was it even possible to pave the way for such news? If there was, she couldn’t imagine what it might be. At least they’d be a call button away from help if it went badly. And according to Ashton, it might.

She caught Michael’s eye as he stepped into the room, but it was impossible to label what she saw in his expression, though determination might come close. She shot him a look, an unspoken plea to tread lightly, but he was already pulling the letter from his pocket. Apparently he intended to launch right in. Stomach heaving, she stood and moved beside him. She couldn’t let him do this badly.

“Hannah,” she ventured, before he could begin. “There’s something Michael needs to tell you, something I’m afraid it won’t be easy to hear.”

“Something bad?”

“Yes,” Michael said flatly. “It’s something very bad.”

Lane narrowed her eyes at him, but to no avail.

“It’s about my father.”

“About . . . Sam?” Hannah’s face had gone a shade paler, her bruises suddenly standing out grotesquely. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Michael unfolded the letter, carefully smoothing the pages. “Do you remember Ronald Callahan? Uncle R.B.?”

“Ronnie?”

“Yes. Ronnie. I saw him yesterday and he told me . . . he gave me this.” Without further preamble, he pressed the letter into Hannah’s free hand. “Father wrote it—last year.”

Hannah stared at the pages a moment, examining the slanted, spidery hand. “Last . . . year?”

Michael nodded. “Yes.”

Her hand trembled as she lowered her head and began to read,
her swollen lips moving silently as she devoured every line, then went back to savor them again more slowly. Finally, she looked up, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“Not dead,” she rasped tearfully. “My Sam. Not dead.”

Lane met Michael’s uneasy gaze. They were both thinking the same thing.

“Hannah?” Lane said gently. “You understand that Sam isn’t still alive now, don’t you? That this letter was written over a year ago?”

Hannah nodded, sending a pair of hot tears sliding down her cheeks and onto the pillow. Her eyes fluttered closed as she clutched the letter to her breast. “They were wrong. All of them . . . wrong.”

“Yes, Hannah, they were.”

They were quiet for a time while Hannah cried herself out. After thirty years she had a right to her tears. Finally, Michael stepped to the bed, brushing the lingering traces of dampness from his mother’s cheek.

“All that time,” he said hoarsely. “All that time you knew he was alive, and none of us believed you. We should have listened. I should have listened.”

She reached for his hand, curled bloodlessly around the bedrail now, and gave it a pat. “You couldn’t have known.”

“You knew.”

“Of course I knew. We were man and wife. We shared a bed, a life. That counts for something.” Her face softened then with a tremulous smile. “He was a good man, your father, in spite of his faults.”

Michael jerked his hand back, looking mildly stunned. “How can you say that? After everything he did—the cheating, the lying—how can you lie there and say he was a good man?”

“Because it’s true. And because good men sometimes do bad things. Your father loved me once, though I’m not sure he ever knew it. He must have to have stayed as long as he did.”

“He left you for another woman!”

“No,” Hannah countered with a shake of her pale head. “He did not. He left because he didn’t know what to do with me. There’s no sin in that—weakness perhaps, but no sin. The woman was just a lie he told himself—an excuse—because it was more acceptable to run into the arms of another woman than to abandon a sick wife.”

“How is that more acceptable?” Michael demanded with barely controlled fury.

Hannah sighed, sagging deeper into her pillows. There were shadows beneath her eyes now. “My poor prince. You’ve carried so much anger, and for so long. First at me, and now at your father. But it’s time to give it up.”

Michael’s jaw clenched mutinously. “No.”

“It’s no good holding on to old hurts, my boy. Your father did what he had to. It wasn’t his fault.”

“Then whose fault was it?”

Hannah shrugged. “Mine, maybe, or God’s. It doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done.”

Michael shook his head slowly. “Maybe that’s the problem. For me, it isn’t done. I’ve had less than forty-eight hours to digest all this and people are already telling me it’s time to forgive. Well, I can’t. The man did a hideous thing. I can’t just let him off the hook.”

Hannah pursed her lips, her expression stern and surprisingly maternal. “You can. And you must. This grudge of yours will poison you if you let it. You won’t shake it on your own, though. You’ll need help, someone to anchor you when the anger rears its head. You know what I mean, don’t you—what I’m saying to you?”

Her gaze slid pointedly to Lane, and then back again. “It took me a long time to learn that it isn’t fate that makes off with our wishes, my boy. It’s us. Life gives us exactly what we need, even what we want, but we’re afraid to grab it and hold on with both hands. We let go when the holding gets hard. We blame when we should forgive.” She paused for the tiniest beat, locking eyes with her son. “And we run
when we should stand our ground. Because we don’t understand that we don’t just get the life we wish for. We get the life we fight for.”

The life we fight for.

The words reverberated in Lane’s head, weighty, and eerily familiar. Her mother had said much the same thing. She had taken those words with a grain of salt then, but now she saw them for what they were—sound truths from two women who had lived, and loved, and lost. And who even now found a way to keep fighting.

Hannah’s eyes were nearly closed now, her face shadowed with the strain of the morning’s revelations, but strangely calm, too, now that it was over. It seemed, at long last, Hannah Rourke had found her truth, and perhaps a little peace.

On the other side of the bed, Michael stood with his head lowered and his hands thrust into his pockets. Had he been listening at all? Lane hoped so, because the things his mother had said, her willingness to forgive, her incredible generosity toward the man who had wronged her, had been nothing short of astonishing.

In a moment that might have sent her careening off the mental cliff, she had faced the truth with wisdom and strength, excusing her husband’s cowardice and betrayal, even claiming a portion of the blame. But something told Lane Hannah’s generosities hadn’t been aimed at Samuel Rourke. They had been aimed at Michael. She had softened the edges of the selfish husband, painted over the faults of the flawed and careless father, in order to leave the door of forgiveness open for her son. It was an unfathomably kind gesture. And it was like her.

Michael cleared his throat. Lane glanced around in time to see him grab his coat from the chair and jerk his head toward the door.

Tiptoeing past Hannah’s bed, she followed him out into the hall. “I know this was hard for you,” she said, trying to get a handle on his mood. “But at least it’s over now, and—”

“I’m going to take off,” he said, before she could finish. He avoided her eyes as he dragged on his jacket. “It’s a five-hour drive to Raleigh.”

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving today.”

“Yeah, I guess this morning got a little messy. I’m sorry about that. It’s just that a lot’s happened, and I have a headful of questions that aren’t going away until I get some answers. Besides, I think a little distance might be a good thing for me right now.”

“Distance?”

“From Hannah. And from Starry Point.”

“And me?”

Michael’s eyes slid away. “Maybe. Yes.”

Lane stiffened but managed a nod. “Drive safely.”

“Lane—”

“No, you go,” she said, holding up a hand. “You’ve said all you need to. We both have.”

I
t was nearly eight when Lane finally returned home. She’d put it off as long as possible, lingering until the night-duty nurse had essentially thrown her out. She tried to ignore the empty spot in the drive where Michael’s SUV was usually parked. She’d better get used to it. This time it was only for a few days, but eventually he’d be gone for good.

At least with Hannah coming to stay, she wouldn’t be alone. And she’d have plenty of free time before the season started to outline the novel that had been percolating in her head for the past two weeks. Michael had been right about one thing: it was time to stop hiding behind magazine articles and write something real. Who knew, maybe she’d even send him a copy when it was finished—proof that there were no hard feelings. It would be the grown-up thing to do, and it was definitely time to grow up.

Exhausted in every way it was possible to be exhausted, she dragged herself up the front steps and fumbled for her key, wishing she’d remembered to leave a light on this morning when she left. In her present mood, the last thing she needed was to come home to a house that was not only glaringly empty, but pitch-dark as well.

Inside, she made a beeline for the parlor lamp. Dally’s Christmas
tree towered gloomily beside the fireplace, barren and utterly depressing. Groaning, she turned away. As if her day hadn’t been bad enough.

She was halfway to the kitchen before she realized the boxes Michael had stacked near the library door yesterday were gone. Backtracking, she flipped on the library light with a sinking feeling, and felt her throat tighten. Not a pencil or pad remained. Not so much as a paper clip to prove he’d ever been there.

There was no need to look upstairs—she already knew what she would find—and yet she made herself go, freezing when she reached the landing and peered down the hall toward the Tower Suite. The door stood ajar, revealing a slice of the bed where only last night they had lain awake together, staring at the stars. Her stomach lurched as she forced herself to step into the room, to take in the bureau with its hastily emptied drawers, the bathroom swept of personal possessions. He hadn’t gone to Raleigh. He’d just . . . gone.

Numb, she moved from surface to surface, hoping to find a note. An apology. A good-bye. But there was nothing. How had she not seen it? Not realized he meant to run? It was why he’d been so insistent about showing Hannah the letter. He knew he wasn’t coming back. Hannah had known it, too, she realized now. She had seen it, sensed it somehow, and had chosen her words accordingly.
“We run when we should stand our ground.”
Only, it appeared her son hadn’t been listening.

Downstairs, Lane crumpled onto the last step, hugging her knees like a sulky child. It didn’t matter, really. He was always going to leave. This was just sooner. And it wasn’t the leaving that upset her. It was the way he’d done it. At least that’s what she was telling herself when she heard her cell phone jangle in the foyer.

Her heart bounced into her throat as she scurried for her purse, counting rings as she fumbled the thing out of its small side pocket. Her face fell when she checked the display.

“Hey, Dally, what’s up?”

“Interested in a little gossip?”

Lane sighed. “Not really. Not tonight.”

“I bet you change your mind when you hear what Dustin Redall just spilled.”

“Dustin?”

“The cop I’ve been seeing? Blond hair, blue eyes?”

“They all have blond hair and blue eyes, Dally. What’s the scoop?”

“Just that the police have made an arrest in all these break-ins. Three little punks from the south side—imagine that. It’s hush-hush for right now, but it should hit the papers in a day or two, as soon as Breester figures out how to spin it. Which means Hope House is off the hook.”

Lane gripped the phone a little tighter. “Are you sure about this? I mean
really
sure?”

“I got it straight from the horse’s mouth, didn’t I?”

“Why would Dustin tell you something like that?”

“He wants me to think he’s a big deal, I guess. Anyway, I thought you’d want to know.”

She could hear the smile in Dally’s voice. She checked her watch—too late to call Callahan. It would have to wait until morning. “I always said you were better than a subscription to the
Islander Dispatch
, and you are. Dally, this is wonderful news.”

“So . . . do I still have a job?”

Lane eyed the tree balefully. “Barely.”

“Have you decorated it yet?”

“No.”

“Come on. Don’t be a grinch. It’ll be fun.”

Lane smothered another sigh, the shine of Dally’s news already beginning to dim. “It’s been . . . a bit of a day.”

“Let me guess—Professor McDreamy?”

“He’s gone.”

“As in . . . gone?”

“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

“I could come over if you want. So you’re not alone.”

“Thanks, but no. Right now I’m thinking about getting good and drunk.”

“Wow, that bad?”

“Tomorrow, okay? But thanks for the update.”

“Okay, boss.”

Lane struggled to process the news as she ended the call. Under normal circumstances Dally’s bit of gossip would have left her giddy, but now, as she thought of the other news she would have to impart to Hannah, the news that her son was gone, she found her excitement severely curtailed. In fact, the prospect of such a conversation made her want to climb into bed and pull the covers over her head. Had he thought of that, she wondered, as he was heading out of town?

In the kitchen, she excavated a bottle of Pinot from the fridge and poured herself a hefty glass. She was halfway to the parlor when she decided to go back for the bottle. Not even she could get drunk on one glass of wine.

She just prayed Dally had been listening when she said she didn’t want company. It would be just like her to pop by with a box of Twinkies, an assortment of Ben & Jerry’s, and a bootleg copy of
The Notebook
. The girl had a heart of gold, but at times her gestures could be a bit overwhelming, as the eight-foot Fraser fir in her parlor would attest.

She eyed the green monstrosity now with a shake of the head. So much for the romantic Christmas for two. Not that it had ever been real. She’d always known that, hadn’t she? Then why did the sight of it, freshly cut and waiting to be trimmed, feel like such a taunt? For two cents she’d toss it, and all four boxes of decorations, out onto the lawn.

Instead, she sank down onto the hearth with her bottle and her glass, keenly aware of the silence that seemed suddenly to crowd the
corners of the room. It had been enough once, this quiet existence. No expectations. No complications. Just a safe and solitary sameness. Then Michael had shown up, with his charming smile and his willingness to play house, and now she didn’t know how to go back. She would have to, though—somehow.

If anyone can help you forget Professor McDreamy, Harry can.

Well, they’d just see about that.

Diving into the cartons of decorations with a gusto that could only be fueled by the Pinot, Lane rummaged through strands of garland and boxes of fragile glass ornaments until she found what she was looking for at the bottom of box number three—Harry Connick Jr. staring up at her with his liquid eyes and that movie-star mouth.

Wrestling the CD from its shiny plastic, she slid it into the stereo and hit
PLAY
, then turned up the volume, letting the jazzy rendition of “Sleigh Ride” fill the room. She eyed the tree again dubiously, the decorations she had just heaped out onto the floor.
Why the hell not?
She had wine, twinkle lights, and Harry. She could do this. She could decorate Dally’s monster tree and pretend that everything was fine—that she was fine.

It had been a while but she still remembered her tree-trimming basics as she unraveled the first strand of tiny white bulbs and plugged them in. They flicked to life, warm and white, then blurred into tiny prisms as the tears finally came. With a muffled sob she sank back down onto the hearth. She couldn’t do this. And she sure as hell wasn’t fine.

The sound of the front door opening brought her head up with a jerk. Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she stood, trailing Christmas lights behind her as she headed for the foyer.

“I thought I told you I didn’t want—oh.”

“My key was still under the mat.”

Michael had the good grace to look sheepish as he stood in the
doorway, holding up the key in question. He seemed about to say more when he closed his mouth and ran his eyes around the room, taking in the blaring stereo and decoration-strewn floor, the wine bottle and glass on the hearth. Finally, he pointed to the strand of lights dangling from her hand. “Are you having a party?”

Dropping the lights, she stepped past him to turn off the stereo. “As I matter of fact, I am,” she answered coolly as she turned back to face him. “It’s a going-away party.”

“Lane—”

“Did you forget something?” she asked, not caring that she sounded petulant. “No, I doubt that. You were very thorough.”

“Let me explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain. You lied, and then you left. I guess I should have listened. You said you’d hurt me, and you did.”

“I told you I couldn’t stay, and I told you why.”

“You didn’t say you were clearing out today, though, did you? And without so much as a good-bye.”

“I didn’t know. I—” He stopped abruptly, and raked a hand through his hair. “No. That’s a lie. I did know. Or at least I was pretty sure I was leaving.”

It was all she could do to keep her face blank as she absorbed this frank admission. Honesty was supposed to be refreshing, but this didn’t feel refreshing at all. “Were you even going to see Callahan? Or was the bit about saving Hope House a lie, too?”

“No. That part was true. I was going to Raleigh. In fact, I was almost there when I turned around.”

“Because you realized you’d forgotten to leave a note?”

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Well, I’m not sure what
this
is, but no, I’m not inclined to make anything easy for you at the moment.”

Michael sighed. “Fair enough. The reason I turned around was that I realized I was going the wrong way. For a long time now I’ve
known something’s been missing. I just didn’t know what it was. Now I do.”

Lane swallowed the lump in her throat but could still find no words.

“It took me a while to get out of my own way, but I finally get that this is where I’m supposed to be. Everything that’s happened—Hannah, you, the letter from my father—all of it was meant to show me the way home.”

“To Starry Point?”

“To you.”

He took a step toward her then, slow, cautious, as if he were afraid she might bolt. “I don’t want to relive my father’s mistakes, Lane. I don’t want to hurt the people I care about, and I don’t want to run away from what’s hard. I’d rather stay and fight for the life I want.”

Hannah’s words. He
had
been listening.

“You left—no note, no good-bye. You just left.” Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away. “How do I know you won’t do it again?”

“Because I’m done being an idiot. I was afraid to let myself love you, afraid it would mean being tied to this place, to always living in the past. I didn’t realize that’s exactly what I was already doing. I’ve been stuck, but not anymore. Somewhere between here and Raleigh I finally figured out the only way to stop living in the past is to make a future.”

“A future . . . with me?”

Michael closed the distance between them with a single step. Cupping her face in both hands, he bent to brush a kiss against her forehead, then one across her mouth, his lips whisper-soft. “Yes, with you.”

A fresh set of tears welled before she could check them. “I missed you,” she whispered as she blinked them away.

“I was only gone seven hours.”

“I know.” Standing on tiptoe, she matched his kiss, the barest of touches, then angled her head to look up at him. “Don’t do it again.”

He nodded, his eyes never wavering from hers.

Lane felt her heart quicken as the gaze lingered and stretched. It was a look she would happily have drowned in, smoldering and smoky gray, but it was what lay behind it that finally made her heart sing: love, need, and for the first time—a promise.