The Wishing Tide (15 page)

Lane did her best to return the smile. She could see that her mother meant it. She
was
happy, relieved that her sad and lonely daughter had at long last found a man. Somehow it made the lie that much worse.

Michael

M
ichael turned when he heard Lane coming down the back stairs, though he didn’t need to see her face to know he had some explaining to do. For instance, what had he been thinking when he decided to assume the role of doting boyfriend? The truth was he honestly didn’t know, unless it was the look of abject horror on her face when she turned to find her mother standing in her kitchen.

“Can I see you outside?” she said, not waiting for a response as she swept past him en route to the back door.

Sensing that it probably wasn’t a good time to remind her that it had been storming all day, or that it was likely to be freezing, he slid into his jacket and followed her out onto the deck.

For a long time she said nothing, just stood facing the sea, arms folded close to her body. “I can’t believe she did this,” she hissed at last. “Did she really think I wouldn’t see right through this little stunt?”

“She’s settled in?”

Lane nodded. “She’s on the second floor with you. I swear she brought enough clothes for . . . My God, she’s going to be here for six days.”

“How long since she visited?”

“Try never. She’s never visited. Until today.”

“Ah, I guess I see your point. Showing up out of the blue does seem rather suspect.”

“Actually, I should have seen it coming the minute Val called.”

“Val?”

“My sister,” Lane tossed over her shoulder as she pushed through the gate and out onto the boardwalk. “She called the other day on a fishing expedition for my mother. I didn’t give her what she wanted, so what does my mother do? Hops on a plane for the Outer Banks.”

“Lane, it’s freezing out here. Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. Hell, I don’t know.” She stopped, raking her fingers through her hair. “I just need to put some breathing room between her and me. You don’t have to come.”

“I know, but I am.” Michael shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to her. “Put this on. I won’t have your mother blaming me because you caught pneumonia.”

“Stop it,” Lane snapped, pushing the jacket away. “You don’t have to pretend out here.”

Michael shrugged, tossing the spurned jacket over his shoulder. “Fine, but anger isn’t going to keep you warm, Lane. Neither is being stubborn. I’m not the enemy here. In fact, I’m not sure who is.”

Lane said nothing as she moved farther down the rain-slick boards. In the wake of the day’s storms, the sky was moonless, the beach blanketed in darkness but for the blue-white sweep of Starry Point Light skimming the dunes at regular intervals. Beyond the stretch of darkened shore, the sea thrummed like a pulse, enduring, insistent.

“Why?” she asked finally, her voice almost lost on the chilly breeze.

“Why what?”

“Why did you do that? The sweetheart thing in front of my mother?”

Michael folded his arms and stared at her, though her face was hidden in the darkness. “Now, that’s a funny question coming from
you. I did it because your mother thinks we’re lovers. And the reason she thinks that is that you told her we were. I remember it all very clearly. We were at the Blue Water when your mother called, and you said—”

“Yes! Yes!” Lane snapped, shooting an anxious glance back at the inn. “I know what I said. I was there.”

“Then what? Did we break up, and you forgot to tell me?”

“Look, I know you think this is enormously amusing, but it’s never going to work.”

“Why? We don’t despise each other.”

“That’s not what I meant. Sooner or later—” She broke off, shoving a handful of wind-tangled hair off her face. “Just tell me why you did it.”

Michael’s smile slipped away. “Why do you think?”

“Because you felt sorry for me?”

“Not sorry. No. Empathy, maybe.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“No,” he said, gravely. “It isn’t. Empathy’s what you feel when you’ve walked a mile in someone’s shoes. I know what it’s like to see disappointment on a parent’s face, to know the way you live your life isn’t enough for him. I saw the look on your face when you turned around and saw your mother standing there. You were dreading having to tell her the truth. So I decided you wouldn’t have to.”

Lane closed her eyes, groaning softly. “God, it’s so completely ridiculous. I suppose I should say thank you. She thinks we’re head over heels, by the way, so nice job there. Maybe you should try your luck on the stage.”

“It’s not a hard part to play,” he said quietly, surprised to find he meant it. He’d never been easy in relationships, a fact Becca would freely admit, but somehow this felt easy, good. Maybe because it wasn’t a
real
relationship. There was no chance of getting hurt—or of hurting someone else. He hoped.

He looked at her, so damn pretty with the wind lifting all that fire-colored hair out around her head, but fragile, too, pale and almost breakable. The instinct was there to touch her, but he held it in check.

“I do wonder why you feel the need for the charade in the first place,” he said instead. “I understand that she was under your skin the night she called, that you just wanted to get her off the phone, but it seems like there’s more to it than that. Earlier, in the kitchen, you looked like you were on the verge of a panic attack, so I’m just wondering what the deal is.”

Lane snorted softly. “How long have you got?”

“Actually, I’ve got all winter.”

He followed her gaze to the sky, beginning to clear now as the last vestiges of the storm blew out to sea, the clouds shredding to reveal a smattering of stars and a glimpse of three-quarter moon. He was surprised when she spoke.

“A lot of it has to do with Bruce. He was more her idea than mine.”

“Her . . . idea?”

“We met at a party. Bruce was interning, and I was in my third year of undergrad. Eight months later he proposed, if you want to call it that. I don’t think the words
will you marry me
ever crossed his lips. Maybe because he was too busy detailing his fifteen-year plan. My mother was ecstatic. She lobbied hard for a yes. The next thing I knew I was walking down the aisle. It was a disaster almost from the beginning. I guess part of me blames her.”

“How long were you married?”

“Ten years, but it felt longer.”

“No children?”

The question seemed to catch her off guard. She turned away, but not before he caught the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “Almost,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Almost
. The single word said so much. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t. It’s not the kind of thing you assume, is it? I mean, most women pop out a baby without blinking. I couldn’t manage it.”

Michael blinked at her in the moonlight. “Lane . . .”

“I was five and a half months. Nothing happened. I just . . . lost it. Afterward, the doctors said I needed to wait before we tried again, but that wasn’t part of Bruce’s plan. He moved his things out of our room. It was pretty much over after that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was never going to work. My mother was the only one who couldn’t see it, because she didn’t want to. She wanted so badly for me to finally get something right that it didn’t matter what I wanted.”

“She told you that?”

“Not in so many words, no. But I knew it. My sister knew it. Even Bruce knew it. Nothing I did was ever good enough. The miscarriage was just the last straw, a shortcoming he simply couldn’t forgive.”

“I’m sorry,” Michael murmured again, knowing the words were inadequate but unable to find others.

Lane shrugged. “Don’t be. In the end, my mother was the only one disappointed that I left, and I got used to her disappointment a long time ago.”

“Your mother loves you, Lane. If she didn’t she wouldn’t have taken three planes and then driven over an hour in the rain to come see you.”

“That’s just it. She didn’t come to see me. She came to see you.”

“You know better than that.”

Lane sighed. “I wish I did. But the truth is we’ve always gotten along better when there was a little distance between us. My sister was the perfect one, cheerleader, prom queen, married to a blue-chip accountant, and gave him two perfect children. Me, I liked books. It drove her crazy. I think I still drive her crazy. I know she does me.”

Michael struggled to hold his tongue. She didn’t get it. But then, neither had he until it was too late. In the end, none of the petty stuff mattered. What mattered was holding on to family, even if that meant pretending not to see the flaws. Blood mattered. Being there mattered.

“You should try to work it out, Lane,” he said finally, sounding gruffer than he meant to. “You’ll only ever have one mother, and I can promise that you’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t fix it and something happens.”

Lane cocked her head. “Nothing’s going to happen, Michael.”

“No. Nothing’s ever going to happen—until it does.”

“You’re being melodramatic.”

Uncomfortable beneath her scrutiny, he turned to stare out over the sea, silver now beneath the freshly revealed moon. For a long moment he simply stood there, listening to the pound and pull of the waves. She had no idea what he was talking about. How could she? At any rate, he’d said too much. Her relationship with her mother was none of his business, and even if it was, he was the last person who should be handing out family advice.

“You’re right. Forget it.”

Her eyes were wide and luminous when he finally faced her again, a mix of confusion and concern. She looked almost ethereal standing there, vulnerable and soft, and shivering just a little, her hair turned gold by the moonlight.

“You’re cold,” he said, a statement of fact rather than a question.

And yet somehow it never occurred to him to offer the jacket again. Instead, almost before he realized what he was doing, he was pulling her into his arms. She was trembling in earnest now, soft and startlingly yielding as their breaths mingled and his lips closed over hers. She tasted like wine and smelled like the sea. And she felt like heaven.

How long?

The words thundered in his head. How long had he wanted her like this, in his arms, against his body? He had no idea. He only knew, as they drew apart, that whatever had arisen between them hadn’t just blown up out of nowhere. At least not for him.

She looked faintly dazed when he released her. “Why did you do that?”

Why seemed to be her favorite word tonight. “I did it for your mother, in case she was looking down at us from her window.”

“Her rooms face the street.”

“Okay, then, I did it because I wanted to.”

Her fingers fluttered to her throat, then to her mouth, still moist and full from their kiss. Something like a smile played there. “Oh. Well, that’s all right, then.”

“I should get you back,” he said, hearing the reluctance in his own voice. “Before you catch your death and your mother decides not to like me anymore.”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s any danger of that. She’s pretty well smitten.”

“And what about you?” he said, closing the distance between them with a single step. “Are you at all . . . smitten?”

She reached up and touched his face, the back of her fingers icy and featherlight along the stubbled line of his jaw. Her eyes brimmed with uncertainty. “I think I could be . . . if I let myself. I just don’t know if I can let myself.”

“It’s only six days,” he murmured, pulling her back for another kiss.

“Six days,” she whispered, as her mouth opened to his.

Later, as they drifted back up the boardwalk, fingers loosely linked, Michael couldn’t help thinking that if Lane’s mother were to peer out the window at that moment she would have no trouble believing that he was head over heels for her daughter.

Lane

L
ane reluctantly dragged her eyes open. Shafts of chilly sunshine spilled through the windows, creeping over the pillows, prodding her awake. Rolling over didn’t help. Neither did pulling the covers over her head. She didn’t want to think about last night, the thinly concealed look of triumph on her mother’s face as she stood in the kitchen with her arm linked through Michael’s. The thought left her queasy and more than a little angry.

She’d managed to be civil, but only just, doing what she could between sips of merlot to steer the conversation clear of tricky subjects. She hadn’t quite pulled it off. Dinner had been a nerve-racking affair, an awkward and stilted charade, despite Michael’s flawless performance as the doting boyfriend.

Michael.

Flawless indeed. Slowly, deliciously, the memory trickled back. He had kissed her. And she had kissed him back. Not for her mother’s sake, but because she wanted to, though she hadn’t realized just how much until his arms were cinched about her waist. He was the first man she’d kissed since Bruce, a virtual stranger after only three weeks, and yet somehow not a stranger at all. He’d touched something in her last night, awakening things she thought long burned out
and gone. It was playing with fire, she knew, flirting with a man who would be gone from her life in a few months, but she almost didn’t care. His kiss had left her reeling, had her reeling still.

Or maybe it was only the absurdity of the situation that had her off balance. How could she, for even a moment, believe she could fool the woman who raised her, the woman who had seen through every faked sore throat, every dime of lunch money spent on CDs, every cheerleader tryout ditched in favor of an afternoon at the library? Never in her life had she been able to keep anything from those keen, maternal eyes.

She would have to now, though, and not just about Michael. Her friendship with Mary was just one more detail she’d rather not have to explain to her mother. Throwing off the covers, she pulled on leggings, a baggy sweatshirt, and a pair of warm socks. At the window, she peered down the beach, quiet and cold—and empty. But it was still early. Maybe she’d still come. Perhaps by the time she returned from her walk. Except she wouldn’t be walking today.

Her mother’s ill-timed arrival made a morning walk unlikely, just as it would make riding over to Hope House unlikely. Something told her when it came to Mary, her mother would almost certainly take Michael’s side, and she’d already had more than enough lectures on that score. Best to leave her friendship with Mary out of the equation, especially since she was beginning to doubt that friendship still existed.

Most people can’t see past their noses.

Mary had said that once, and maybe it was true. Her mother wanted to see love in Michael’s eyes, and she did—even where none existed. There was, however, the small matter of Michael sleeping in his own room on the second floor, and the questions that would surely arise should her mother happen to catch him stumbling out, alone, first thing in the morning.

The thought was enough to send Lane scrambling out of her
room and down the stairs. She had no intention of suggesting they share a room, but they needed to have some sort of story ready. Until then, she needed to head her mother off at the pass.

Outside the door of her mother’s room, she caught the creak of floorboards, the opening and shutting of drawers. Gathering her resolve and a lungful of air, she rapped lightly.

“Mother, are you up?”

“Yes, dear. Come in.”

Lane stepped into the room, stunned once again by the sheer number of outfits hanging from the backs of doors and draped over every stick of furniture. Beneath the window, lined up like soldiers for inspection, a half dozen pairs of designer shoes hugged the baseboard. Where on earth did she think they’d be going?

“Mother, this is the Outer Banks. We don’t have a theater district.”

Cynthia was still in her robe and slippers, but her makeup and hair were flawless. She cut her eyes at Lane with a sniff. “I only wanted to make a good impression when I met your young man,” she said, her tone somewhere between a sulk and a huff. “And I’m glad I did. He seems quite the catch. Polite, handsome, and apparently very accomplished. What’s his book about?”

“It’s a biography on Dickens,” Lane said, thankful that she actually knew the answer. “It’s to do with Dickens’s writings as social commentary, and how he used his stories to bring attention to the way Victorian society dealt with the poor.”

“Oh. Well, that does sound impressive. Have you met his parents? What are they like?”

Lane felt a flash of panic. “No, I haven’t met them. Not yet. His father’s an attorney. His brother, too.” She was relieved to have at least that bit of information to impart, but she prayed the questions ended there. She hadn’t the first clue about their names and knew nothing whatever about Michael’s mother.

“Lawyers,” Cynthia said gravely, feigning a shudder. “You never see them. They’re either in court, preparing for court, or recuperating from a day in court. Thank heavens he didn’t follow in his father’s footsteps. He’s crazy about you, by the way. But I guess you already know that. It’s all over his face when he looks at you. He’s got forever in his eyes.”

Lane bit hard on her lower lip, pretending to be fascinated by the pattern of a nearby houndstooth blazer. In her head she was counting to ten. It didn’t help. “Wow,” she finally said, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “I believe you’ve hit a new personal best. It took you less than twenty-four hours to get us down the aisle. But then, after three husbands, I guess you qualify as an expert.”

Cynthia stopped fussing with the scarf she was folding and laid it at the foot of the bed. “That was uncalled for, Laney. And you can’t blame me. I have no idea what’s going on in your life. You shut me out. You always have. You wouldn’t talk to me, or your sister, about this man, and I just wanted to make sure—”

“That I was good enough for him?”

Her mother looked as if she’d just been slapped. “Why do you say things like that?”

“Because they’re true, Mother. We both know the real reason you’re here—the only reason—to make sure I don’t blow my last chance.”

Sighing, Cynthia closed her suitcase and dropped down beside it on the bed, her eyes focused on her lap and her perfectly manicured nails. “I didn’t say a word about you not being good enough. I never have. I also never said anything about this being your last chance. And the reason I know I never said them is that I don’t believe either of those things.” Eyes the same gray-green as her daughter’s lifted slowly. “But you do.”

Lane went still, letting the words sink deep. It was absurd, of course, ridiculous—her mother’s way of deflecting guilt. Well, it
wasn’t going to work. How could she believe Michael was her last chance? He wasn’t any kind of chance. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to respond to such a statement. In fact, she wasn’t even going to try. Squaring her shoulders, she headed for the door, pausing briefly as she stepped out into the hall. “I’m going to take a shower, Mother. I’ll see you downstairs for breakfast.”

The shower helped. She emerged feeling a little more in control of her temper, but only a little. Button pushing, that’s all it was. And no one was better at pushing her buttons than her mother. Not even Bruce. In six days it would be over. Her mother would go back to Chicago. Michael would go back to his book. And she would go back to her articles. Until then, she’d simply grit her teeth and do her best to be hospitable.

The delicious aromas of coffee and bacon greeted her as she made her way downstairs. She envisioned Michael already in the kitchen, sipping coffee as he puttered about with the breakfast. It was a pleasant thought, but not an accurate one, she saw as she rounded the corner.

“What on earth are you doing?” The words tumbled out unchecked at the sight of her impeccably dressed mother laying bacon into a skillet.

Damn. Must learn the difference between hospitable and hostile.

“I was making breakfast for everyone,” Cynthia said, wearing her best martyr look as she poured a mug of coffee and handed it to Lane. “Call it a peace offering, if you like. I didn’t mean to upset you before. I shouldn’t have said . . . what I did.”

No, you shouldn’t have.
“Forget it,” Lane said instead, just wanting to put the moment behind them. “Need any help?”

Cynthia handed her an open bag of flour. “If you want, you can sift the flour for the pancakes.”

Sifting—the secret to her mother’s lighter-than-air pancakes. She’d learned it as a girl, along with so many other secrets: how to tell
if an egg is fresh, how to slice garlic rather than mincing to keep it from burning, how cold water is the secret to a flaky piecrust. Come to think of it, the kitchen was one place—perhaps the only place—she and her mother had ever gotten along, perhaps because it was the one time they were focused on a common goal. Or maybe it was only because they stayed too busy to find fault with each other.

“You know, I never thought to ask. Does Michael like pancakes?”

Lane took her nose out of her coffee cup. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Pancakes—does he like them?”

“Um . . . sure.” It was purely a guess, but it felt safe enough. Who didn’t like pancakes?

She had just started sifting when a small flash of movement caught her eye just beyond the kitchen window. Breath held, Lane abandoned her bowl of flour and stepped to the window, eagerly scouring the dunes for Mary. Instead, she spotted a father and son emerging from the vacant lot beside the inn. Disappointed, she watched as they turned in the direction of the lighthouse before letting the curtains fall back.

Where are you, Mary?

“Have you finished with— Laney, honey, what is it?” Her mother was beside her now, following her gaze out onto the beach. “Good heavens, is everything all right? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No,” Lane answered numbly. “I was just . . .”

Just what? Looking for the old bag lady who hangs out on the dunes and claims to have killed a child? No, she couldn’t say that. She couldn’t say anything.

Her mother eyed her skeptically but eventually drifted back to the eggs she’d been cracking. “By the way, where is Michael this morning? I haven’t seen him.”

The mention of Michael was enough to yank Lane back to the present. One crisis at a time was all she was equipped to handle. “He’s
still sleeping,” she replied, hoping she sounded casual and not panicked. “He was up late working, so I let him sleep. How about you? Did you sleep well?”

“I did, surprisingly. I was skeptical about that old four-poster bed at first, but I was so exhausted I think I could have slept on a bed of nails. I thought air travel was supposed to be a convenience. I swear, I feel like I’ve got jet lag.”

“You can’t have jet lag, Mother. You crossed one time zone.”

Michael suddenly filled the kitchen doorway. “It’s all this sea air, Cynthia. Hits you like a rock if you’re not used to it.” He made a beeline for Lane, planting a kiss on her temple before dusting a smudge of flour off her chin. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Lane met his gaze with a mixture of wariness and uncertainty. To buy time she filled a mug with coffee and pressed it into his hands. “You looked so peaceful,” she said finally, startled by how easily the lie rolled off her tongue. “I thought after last night you could use the rest.”

Michael smiled, a slow, suggestive curl that made her insides skitter. “Did you?”

Lane felt her cheeks go hot. He had purposely misconstrued her meaning, leaving the unsaid lingering suggestively in the bacon-scented air. He really was enjoying himself immensely. And if her mother’s discreetly averted gaze was any indication, she had swallowed the show hook, line, and sinker. And why wouldn’t she? As far as she knew, her daughter was having quite a lot of sex.

Oh, dear God
. Turning away, Lane made a beeline for the pantry. “I’ll get the syrup.”