The Wishing Tide (12 page)

Lane

L
ane struggled to focus on the final edits for the article that was due tomorrow, but in her mind she was out on the dunes with Mary. She’d had hours to digest the startling declaration and she still couldn’t put a finger on exactly what it was she thought or felt.

“I killed a boy once.”

She’d said it just like that, without preamble or qualification—and very nearly without remorse. But Lane sensed there was much more to the story. There had to be. A car accident, perhaps, or an unwanted pregnancy quietly disposed of. But then why not say so? What kind of woman made such a confession without at least trying to explain it—unless it was true?

Michael’s warnings echoed again in her head. Without ever laying eyes on the woman, he had pegged her as possibly unhinged, even dangerous, and she had flatly dismissed him. Now it was beginning to look as though he’d been right. Mary had been institutionalized, labeled dangerous by her own admission. But dangerous to whom? She claimed it was to keep her from hurting herself. Did that mean she had tried, or had they only been afraid she might? She also claimed she hadn’t been held responsible for the boy’s death. Was that because she
was truly innocent, or because she’d been found not guilty by reason of insanity?

Insanity.

The word made Lane shudder. She could only imagine what it must have been like for Mary, kept for years in a small room with a heavy door, a tiny square of reinforced glass too high up to see out, rendered carefully docile with a regime of pills, enduring visits from a revolving door of anonymous doctors—
the White Coats
. It was a horrible image, like something out of the movies, and yet she couldn’t seem to shake it.

But something about Mary’s story didn’t feel right, like a book with some of the pages missing. It was clear that life had left the poor woman with her share of scars, the kind that ran deep and never quite healed, but it hadn’t broken her. Even now, after all the losses and horrors she’d clearly suffered, there was a depth to her, and a wisdom, a canny understanding of how the world really worked, that contrasted sharply with Lane’s idea of insanity.

But what of the princes? The castles? The jewels and fancy balls? Was she supposed to believe all of that as well? It all seemed rather unlikely, the product of a colorful and clouded imagination. And yet something in those cool blue-green eyes, so distant and yearning, made Lane almost believe there was some small scrap of truth in the tale.

Lane stood, prowling the small space of her writing room. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t hungry to know the rest. But was that really wise? Was there room in her life for this troubled woman? She honestly wasn’t sure. Sooner or later she was going to have to make a decision—and probably sooner. It wasn’t going to be easy. As far as she knew, Mary was alone in the world, without friends or family, and while they hadn’t known each other long enough to grow truly close, it was hard to deny that some sort of bond had formed, even if that bond seemed only to be based on mutual pity.

Perhaps she should talk to Michael, since he prided himself on being something of an expert. But no, only this morning they had agreed to avoid Mary as a topic of conversation. Besides, she already knew what he’d say, and she wasn’t in the mood for an
I told you so
, even if it was starting to look as though she deserved one.

Dropping back into her chair, she opened the center drawer of her writing desk and eased out the old green sketchbook, laying it open on her lap. Slowly, carefully, she thumbed through the heavy pages, hoping to lose herself in the intricate details of the sketches, but it was no good.

Restless, she closed the book and slid it back into the desk. It was too early for dinner, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t suggest to Michael that they go back to the Blue Water. They could sit on the deck and drink a few beers, and she could pretend the conversation with Mary never happened. Unfortunately, after last night’s rather embarrassing fiasco, it would be some time before she’d consider showing her face there again, if ever.

The dull buzz of her cell phone vibrating on the desk spared her having to relive that night. She frowned when she saw her sister’s number come up. Val called on Christmas and her birthday, and it was neither of those. Something must be wrong.

“Val, what’s the matter?” she answered without preamble.

“Why does something have to be the matter? Can’t I just call my favorite sister every now and then to say hello?”

Lane felt the first prickle of suspicion. “You can, but you never do. And I’m your only sister, Valerie.”

“That’s pretty cold. And the phone lines run both ways, you know.”

Suspicion quickly morphed into guilt. She had a point. “How are the kids?”

“They’re fine. Carla is taking piano, and Cameron is driving us crazy asking for a dirt bike. Daniel thinks he’s old enough, but it’s me
who’ll have to patch him up when he falls off the thing. And he will fall off.”

“Well, you know what they say. Boys will be boys.”

“I guess.” Val laughed, a tight, stilted chuckle followed by an awkward pause. “So . . .”

“So . . .” Lane held her breath, waiting for whatever was coming.

“Mom said she talked to you the other night.”

Michael. She should have guessed.

“She said something about a guy staying with you for the winter. Michael, I think she said his name was.”

“And she conned you into calling and putting on the sweet sister act.”

There was the scrape of a lighter, the huff of smoke being exhaled. “All right, yes, she did. But what’s wrong with that? Honestly, Lane, by now I think you’d know it’s just easier to let her have her way.”

“Her way?” Lane echoed, stunned. “With
my
life?”

“Okay, not her way, then, but you know what I mean. Sometimes you have to compromise and just make her happy.”

“Like you did, Val?”

Lane regretted the words the instant they were out of her mouth, but there was no way to take them back. Silence stretched over the line, frustration mingled with apology. They’d had this argument too many times. And they would almost certainly have it again.

“We’re different, Laney,” Val said finally. “We always have been. I didn’t have to compromise. I wanted the same things she wanted for me. But you fought her every step of the way, and you’re still doing it. She only gets how she gets because she loves you.”

Lane closed her eyes and counted to ten before answering. “Look, I’m glad you’re happy and that your life has turned out so perfectly, and I don’t mean that to sound nasty. But the last time I compromised to make Mother happy, I wound up miserable. I’m not doing that again, ever.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. I’m sorry I pissed you off. It’s not why I called. Can I at least tell her that you and this Michael person are happy? She might stop bugging both of us if she thinks you’re serious about someone.”

“Sure, Val. Tell her whatever you want. In fact, tell her we’re on our way to pick out china. I’ve got to go.”

Lane didn’t feel a bit guilty as she ended the call. Let her mother think what she wanted. It served her right for meddling. And Val should know better than to get involved in their mother’s schemes.

L
ane took the dripping skillet Michael handed her and wiped it dry. Despite her protests, he had insisted on helping with the dishes after dinner. He claimed he wasn’t in the mood to go back to work, but she suspected it was more than that. He’d been quiet during dinner, chewing mechanically until his plate was empty, with barely a word between bites.

A good hostess would have tried to lighten the mood with pleasant conversation, but something told her he’d rather be left to his thoughts. And to be honest, she didn’t feel like being entertaining. She couldn’t get Mary out of her head, and she was still stewing over her conversation with her sister.

“I feel awful about you doing your own dishes,” she told him, reaching for the sponge in his hand. “We’re about through here. I can finish up.”

Michael jerked the sponge out of her reach and proceeded to wipe down the counter. “You act like this is a first for me. I’ll have you know I’m a world-class pot scrubber.”

Lane eyed him dubiously. “I have a hard time imagining you up to your elbows in soapsuds.”

“Well, you don’t have to imagine it, do you? You’ve just seen it for yourself.”

Lane dried her hands, then handed him the towel. “That’s true. In fact, I’ve seen it twice now, but that isn’t what I meant.”

“Then may I inquire what you
did
mean?”

“Only that you strike me as coming from the kind of family that always had a maid.”

Michael tossed the towel at her with something like a smirk. “I should take that as an insult, but I can’t. We did have a maid, also a cook and a gardener. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t scrubbed my share of pots.”

Lane tried to stifle a grin but failed. “And where was that? Yachting camp?”

Michael’s eyes went flinty. “Something like that, yeah.”

Lane bit her lip, feeling as if she should apologize, though she had no idea what for. She watched mutely as he returned to his wiping, his mouth drawn thin and tight. It reminded her of yesterday, when she’d teased him about being a disappointment to his parents. Despite the gardener and the maid, she was beginning to suspect that growing up a Forrester hadn’t been all sunshine and lollipops. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Forget it. It’s water under the bridge.”

Turning the sponge on the stovetop, he set to work with a vengeance. Lane watched him from the corner of her eye as she spread her towel over the edge of the sink to dry. “I was thinking of taking a walk down to the lighthouse,” she announced, when the silence finally grew awkward. “You’re welcome to come along.”

He wouldn’t, of course. In the two and a half weeks he’d been here, he had yet to venture past the back gate, let alone out onto the beach. Just as well. She needed to clear her head, to walk off some of her tension, and in Michael’s current mood he wasn’t likely to be much help in that department.

“Can I have a minute to change shoes?”

Lane blinked at him a moment, then dropped her gaze to cover her surprise. “I thought you didn’t like the beach.”

Michael’s mouth twitched at the corners. “Ah, you were just being polite, weren’t you? And secretly hoping I’d say no.”

“Don’t be silly,” she assured him, flustered that he’d seen through her so easily. “Just let me grab a jacket and I’ll meet you on the deck.”

She was still kicking herself for inviting him along when she stepped outside. He was leaning against the railing, wearing jeans now, instead of khakis, his loafers swapped out for a pair of worn Top-Siders. He appeared not to notice her at first, his eyes raised to the top of the weathered stone turret, to the windows of her writing room. She cleared her throat softly.

“You’ve done an amazing job with the place,” he said, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. “You’ve made it feel . . . welcoming.”

Lane smiled graciously, wondering if she had imagined the almost proprietary tone of voice. “Thanks. You should have seen it when I bought it. It looked like—”

“A dungeon?”

Lane’s gaze narrowed. There it was again, that vague tone of familiarity, mingled with something like bitterness. “I was going to say fortress, but I suppose dungeon works, too. Everything was so dark and depressing. And yet the minute I laid eyes on her, I knew what she could be. It took just about every cent I had, but I don’t regret a single penny.”

Michael looked away, out toward the horizon. “It takes a special person to change the soul of a place,” he said, his eyes still on the sea.

Something about the words—or maybe it was the way he’d said them—made Lane go still. “The soul of a place?”

A smile briefly touched his lips, fleeting and almost wistful. “It sounds crazy, I know, but I believe buildings, old ones especially, possess a kind of soul, collected memories that live on in the plaster
and the floorboards. All the good and bad that’s ever happened, it stays—like people.”

“You think buildings are like people?”

“I do. And so do you. Just now, when you were talking about the inn, you called it a her.”

“I was just—”

“You were referring to its personality. A building’s personality hinges on its experiences. Again, just like people.”

Lane found the thought more than a little disturbing, particularly when she thought of the Rourke House. Suddenly, she understood what Michael meant the day after the storm when he told her there were all kinds of ghosts.

“Like the house across the street,” she said quietly. “Where the little boy died.”

Michael shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away, his shoulders suddenly bunched up tight. “Yes,” he said. “Like the house across the street where the little boy died.”

Without thinking, Lane laid a hand on his shoulder. “Michael?”

“I’m fine,” he said, and ducked away from her touch.

“Are you? You look like you’re in pain.”

“It’s nothing. An old injury that acts up sometimes.” Turning away, he headed for the gate. “If we’re going to walk we’d better do it.”

Lane followed him through the gate and out onto the narrow boardwalk, regretting her invitation more than ever. There was more to this mercurial man than met the eye, and although he might be gorgeous, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know what it was.

The breeze was chilly as they broke from the shelter of the dunes, the sun nearly gone, leaving in its wake a swatch of pink and silver sky. Dusk had always been her favorite time of day, but moving to Starry Point had given her an entirely new list of reasons to appreciate it. She loved the way the sea went quiet and glassy at the end of the day, the pearly gold quality of the light as it backlit the clouds and
set them on fire. Tonight, though, she was wound too tight to enjoy any of those things. Out of habit, she ran her eyes over the dunes, looking for Mary, but there was no sign of her.

She set out for the lighthouse at a brisk pace. Michael matched her stride for stride, apparently not interested in further conversation. She was grateful for that at least. He’d been right about her not wanting him along. It wasn’t personal. She just needed a little time to empty her head, to rid her thoughts of Mary and the dead boy, to focus on nothing more than the blood pulsing through her limbs. Instead, she had company, and sullen company at that. When they finally reached the jetty she checked her watch. They’d made good time.

She was halfway out onto the rocks when she realized Michael wasn’t behind her. “Aren’t you coming?” she called over the thrum of wind and waves. “Standing on the end of the jetty is the best part. Or are you afraid you’ll get splashed?”

Michael eyed the narrow finger of rock but made no move to follow. “I’m not afraid of getting splashed.”

“Then what? Don’t you swim?”

“I’m a grown man. Of course I swim.”

Despite his words, Lane couldn’t help noticing his body language—legs braced, arms locked stiffly at his sides. Seconds ticked by, but he gave no sign of changing his mind. Shrugging, she turned away. If he didn’t want to come, that was his choice. She wasn’t going to hold his hand.

Seagulls wheeled overhead as she picked her way over the jutting boulders, their numbers swelling exponentially by the time she reached the jetty’s end. “Sorry, boys,” she muttered to the noisy gray and white horde. “You’ll have to wait till morning.”

“Wait for what?”

Lane swung around, startled. Between the wind and waves, and the greedy cries of the gulls, she hadn’t heard Michael approach. “I
was talking to the birds,” she said. “I bring bread every morning. I guess they’re spoiled.”

Michael tipped his head back a moment, following the gulls as they circled and dove in the rapidly dying light. When he brought his attention back to Lane he was almost smiling. “Bread for the birds. Scones for the bag lady. You’re quite the soft touch, Ms. Kramer.”

She eyed him sharply, but his face was unreadable. “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t talk about Mary.”

“I’m not talking about Mary, at least not directly. And I honestly didn’t mean for that to sound snide. What I was trying to say is that while I don’t necessarily approve of your choice in friends, I do admire your motives. You’re kind, and I like that about you. I wanted to tell you that. Mostly so you’d stop looking at me like I’m some kind of heartless monster.”

Lane’s mouth worked silently before she realized she had no idea what to say, or even which of his remarks to respond to. In the end she let both the compliment and apology pass, choosing instead to drop down onto the rocks and tip her face to the breeze. She didn’t want to reopen their discussion of Mary. Not because she was convinced Michael was wrong about her, but because she was beginning to fear he might be right.

“It’s getting dark,” Michael said. “We should probably get back.”

“We’ve got time yet.” She patted the rock beside hers. “Sit with me awhile and wait.”

Michael made no move to sit. “Exactly what is it we’d be waiting for?”

Lane shrugged, her eyes still locked on the horizon. “I don’t know. The truth, maybe. A friend told me it was out there somewhere.” But as she fastened her gaze on the fading crease between sea and sky, she wondered if she would ever really know the truth about Mary—or if she even wanted to. Some truths were just too terrible to be spoken aloud.

Suddenly, she was aware of the chill, of the damp seeping into her bones. Scrambling back up onto her feet, she stuffed her fists into her pockets and turned to go.

Even in the fading light, Michael looked confused. “Where are you going?”

“You’re right. We should get back.”

“What about the truth?”

“I changed my mind,” she mumbled as she angled past him, keenly aware of his eyes as she made her way back down the jetty.