The Wishing Tide (22 page)

“Michael,” Cynthia said, oblivious of any tension as she picked up the carving knife and handed it to him. “Will you do the honors?”

“Me?”

“Well, you
are
the man of the house at the moment.”

Michael threw Lane a helpless look. “I have no experience with turkeys. My father was always in charge of that.”

Lane grinned, enjoying the sight of him outside his comfort zone. “Oh, go ahead. Take a whack at it. If you make a bad job of it we’ll just call it hash.”

Michael managed without making too big a mess. When he finished, he relinquished the knife and bowed with a flourish, though he was clearly relieved to be back in his chair and out of the spotlight.

Plates filled as potatoes and stuffing and glazed carrots were passed around. Lane watched her mother spoon a bit of cranberry relish onto her plate. The day had begun on shaky ground, but somehow they had talked it out, struck a truce, and come together to make something lovely. She was about to take her first bite of turkey when Cynthia turned to her, peering pointedly over her wineglass.

“So, have you two lovebirds given any thought as to how you’ll spend Christmas? It’s your first, after all, so you’ll want to make it special. You could always come to us. Valerie would love to see you, and so would the kids. It would be great to have everyone together, and we’ve got plenty of room.”

Lane’s fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass. Suddenly, she knew exactly how a deer felt the moment it was snagged in oncoming headlights. “Christmas?”

“Yes, dear,” Cynthia said sweetly. “It’s the holiday after this one. There’s usually a tree involved, presents, that sort of thing?”

Lane held back a sigh. It wasn’t really an out-of-the-way question, after all. Michael was living with her, ostensibly, and would be for the entire off-season. What made it awkward was the lie, and she had no one to blame but herself for that. She took a sip of wine, briefly toying with the idea of blurting out that Michael was Jewish—or perhaps a Buddhist—and didn’t celebrate Christmas. Instead, she settled for a half-truth.

“To be honest, Mother, we haven’t really thought about it. Michael’s so busy with his research right now, and I’ve got several articles coming due. I don’t really think—”

“Actually, Cynthia, we would love to come to Chicago,” Michael interrupted, causing Lane’s head to whip around sharply. “But the truth is—and I was really going to try to surprise Lane with this—I was sort of planning a romantic Christmas for two. I thought we’d go pick out a tree, decorate it up, maybe light a fire and put on a little Bing Crosby.”

Cynthia smiled conspiratorially. “Well, now, what mother could argue with that? Even if it does mean not having my baby and her young man with us for the holidays, I think it sounds perfectly lovely.”

Lane clenched her teeth to keep her jaw from dropping, and prayed the gesture would pass for a smile. He hadn’t batted an eye as he painted the scene, knowing full well that nothing would make
Cynthia relinquish the idea of a family Christmas faster than the thought of the two of them snuggled up in front of a roaring fire—perhaps with a tiny box beneath the tree.

She had barely finished the thought when Michael reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. It was a quick touch, the barest brush of warmth against her knuckles. Their eyes met briefly, and she saw the teasing smile there. God, they were getting in deeper by the minute. Her mother was never going to forgive her when the bogus but inevitable breakup occurred and she learned her daughter had let this amazing man slip through her fingers.

L
ane stood by while Michael helped Cynthia load her bags into the trunk of the rented Buick. The weather was good and her flight wasn’t until one thirty, so they’d have plenty of time to grab breakfast before she needed to head to the airport. Getting to Starry Point from Chicago had been no small feat for a woman unaccustomed to traveling alone—three planes, a rental car, and an hour and a half of partially flooded highway—but Lane had to admit she was glad her mother had taken the trouble.

They’d spent the final days of her visit paging through imaginary scrapbooks, recalling birthday parties, Christmas Eves, and summer vacations. Their relationship would never be as close as the one her mother shared with Val, but thanks to Mary, they had become more than just a mother and daughter who shared a bumpy past—they had become friends.

It was a Monday and the breakfast crowd at the Patty Cake Diner was thin, Old Pointers mostly, in gaggles of three or four, washing down the latest gossip with bottomless cups of coffee. Lane nodded and waved to several familiar faces as she threaded past the
PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF
sign toward an empty corner booth.

Cynthia scooted in next to the window. Lane slid in beside her.
Michael took his place opposite and plucked three syrup-sticky menus from between the napkin dispenser and the salt and pepper. Cynthia stared at the laminated cover, fascinated by the depiction of the house specialty—the Patty Cake Platter—which consisted of three pancakes, three eggs, three sausage patties, and a biscuit the size of a lumberjack’s fist smothered in sawmill gravy.

“Who on earth could eat all that? And what is it they’ve poured all over that biscuit?”

“This is the South, Mother,” Lane said with a chuckle. “We take our breakfast very seriously. And that’s sausage gravy. I’d stick to the short stack if I were you. Pat’s pancakes are legendary around—”

The rest was left dangling when Lane noticed a man in an orange Windbreaker taping a notice of some sort to the front door. Beneath his arm were several more of the pale blue sheets. When he was sure the notice was secure, he slipped out the door with a wink and a wave for the pink-cheeked blonde behind the counter.

It took only moments for the first patron to leave his seat and investigate, a grizzled man in baggy overalls and a green corduroy jacket. His lips moved as he squinted to read the printed words. When he was finished, he peered over his glasses at the members of his party, then strode back, lips pursed thoughtfully.

Lane watched, amused by how quickly the news—whatever it was—fanned out from his table at the back of the diner, heads bending from table to table, until it seemed everyone in the place was talking about whatever was taped to the door.

“Mornin’, guys.” Their waitress had arrived, plump and cheerful, as she plucked the pen from behind her ear, ready to jot down their order. “Can I bring y’all some coffee or juice to start?”

Lane ignored the question. “Mindy,” she said after a quick glance at the woman’s name tag. “Can you tell me what all the buzz is about? What did that man just post on your door?”

“Oh, just a notice about the meeting tonight.”

“Meeting?”

“Seven thirty, at the town hall. Mayor called it this morning, apparently.”

Lane nodded, a cold knowing already settling in her belly. Landon wasn’t wasting any time, and she was no closer to blocking him than she’d been the day he made his intentions known. Michael had obviously drawn the same conclusion. He covered her hand and squeezed gently, the look he shot her a blend of caution and concern.

Mindy, unaware of the sudden tension at the table, stood smiling with her pen poised. When she retreated with their orders and a promise to return with water and coffee, Cynthia was the first to speak.

“It’s about the halfway house, isn’t it? The meeting?”

Lane huffed, then nodded. “What else could it be? It’s just like him to call a meeting on such short notice.”

Michael gathered up the menus, returning them to their rightful place. “He hopes no one actually shows up. That way he can ram his plans through and still be able to claim he kept the community informed.”

Cynthia bristled visibly. “Can he actually do that?”

Michael shrugged. “It would seem so.”

“But there must be laws about how these things have to be handled. A man can’t just decide he wants to kick people out into the street, even if he is the mayor.”

“Ah,” Michael said with a fleeting smile. “You sounded just like your daughter then. She’s been saying the same thing for days now.”

“Because she’s right. That man is picking on people who can’t defend themselves, and it’s because he doesn’t believe anyone will stop him.” Cynthia quieted as Mindy appeared with a pot of coffee, but she picked up the thread of the conversation the minute they were alone again. “I’ll bet you everything in Robert’s bank account that he’s got his own reasons for wanting that place closed. I’m telling
you, someone needs to put a stop to it before it’s too late. Laney, have you had any luck with your searches?”

Lane stifled a smile, wishing she’d seen this side of her mother sooner. “Not really. So far, it’s just the PO box I told you about. And with it being Thanksgiving week, I doubt they’ve received the letter yet.”

“It’s all a bit mysterious, don’t you think? How would you feel about me asking Robert to do a little poking around? He’s got people working for him who can find out anything. And, Laney, if it gets ugly, I want you to know you can count on him for legal advice.”

Lane didn’t bother to hide her surprise. “I’ve never met the man. Why would he do that?”

“Because he loves me, and he knows I love you. I’ll talk to him the minute I get in tonight.”

Lane reached for her mother’s hand, an unspoken thanks. At the same time, she caught the look of trepidation on Michael’s face.

“You’ll be attending this meeting, I suppose?” he asked drily.

Cynthia chimed in before Lane could answer. “Well, of course she will. And you’ll be there with her, I hope, to lend support. Your mayor likes to wear a great big smile, but I know a bully when I see one, and that man is definitely a bully.”

Lane felt a stab of guilt as Michael nodded his grudging assent. She’d let him off the hook once her mother was gone, though deep down she would feel better with him there. Her mother was right. Landon was a bully, and she’d never had much luck with bullies.

Cynthia had produced a small notebook from her purse and was still scribbling furiously when breakfast arrived. Tucking it away, she checked her watch, then patted Lane’s hand again before picking up her fork. “Eat up now, both of you. I need to get to the airport so I can get home to Robert and get him to work on this.”

Later, in the parking lot, Lane and Cynthia said their good-byes, each fighting tears and failing miserably. Michael gave Cynthia a refresher on the route back to Manteo, then submitted to a lavish farewell hug.

“Take care of my little girl,” she said with a watery smile.

Michael’s expression never faltered. “You know I will.”

She turned then, for one last farewell from Lane. For a moment their eyes met and held, unspoken words passing between them until Cynthia finally dragged her daughter into her arms. “Marry him; don’t marry him,” she whispered against Lane’s cheek. “Hell, don’t marry anyone if that’s what you want. I just want you to be happy. I swear that’s all I want, Laney.”

“I know that, Mother,” Lane whispered back.

For just a moment, she found herself fighting the urge to blurt out the truth about her relationship with Michael. It felt wrong somehow to let her mother return to Chicago nursing hopes that were completely false, especially after they had managed to find some sort of common ground. But was the truth really the wisest course? After years of emotional distance, they had finally pulled down their fences. Why risk this new and fragile détente with an awkward confession just as her mother was leaving?

The decision was made for her when Cynthia slid behind the wheel of the silver Buick and started the engine. She blew Lane a kiss, then with one final wave pulled out of the parking lot. Lane wiped her eyes on her sleeve as she watched the car disappear from sight, dimly registering the comfort of Michael’s arm as it slipped about her waist. It was a gesture of kindness, she reminded herself, kindness and nothing more. And yet it felt strangely intimate—and far too comfortable.

Slipping free, she turned and headed for the car, wondering if the real reason she hadn’t told her mother the truth about Michael was that she didn’t want to admit it to herself.

Back home, she didn’t bother removing her jacket. Instead, she told Michael she was going out to the dunes to look for Mary, to tell her about the meeting.

Michael eyed her dubiously. “Surely, you’re not thinking of asking
her to tag along, because if you are, you should know you’ll be playing right into Landon’s hands.”

“How?”

“By giving him a poster child for his scare campaign, for starters. Not everyone sees what you do when they look at Mary. They see a crazy old woman who rides around town on a rickety old bike and mumbles to herself. They see Dirty Mary.”

Lane cringed at his use of the moniker. “She’s not dirty. And she doesn’t mumble.”

“I noticed you didn’t say she wasn’t crazy.”

Her mouth worked silently for a moment, groping for a way around what she knew of Mary’s past. “Scarred doesn’t always mean crazy,” she said finally.

“No? Then what does it mean?”

“I don’t know . . . confused . . . sad.”

“Maybe. But that’s not what people are going to see, Lane. They’ll take one look at her and swallow every nasty insinuation Landon’s going to make about the people living at Hope House. It’ll be over before it starts. And don’t look at me like that. You know I’m right.”

The sad part was he likely was right. “I still want her to hear about what’s happening. And who knows, maybe she’s found out something that could help us.”

“Us?”

“Okay, me. Will you go tonight?”

Michael glanced down at his shoes, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“You did promise my mother.”

“Yes, I did. And I suppose a promise is a promise.”

The tentative morning sun had given way to a threatening pewter sky by the time Lane stepped out onto the boardwalk. Mary had perched
herself on a dune about ten yards down the beach, no doubt in deference to Cynthia. But Cynthia was halfway to Manteo by now, on her way back to Chicago to enlist the aid of a stepfather Lane had never met, to help a woman she barely knew.

Mary raised a hand in greeting as Lane approached, her pale hair standing out around her head like a dirty storm cloud, tattered orange scarf flailing in the wind, an unfortunate parody of the neon bike flag. Michael was right. They would only see Dirty Mary. Landon would win the war without ever firing a shot.

“My mother left this morning,” Lane announced as she dropped down beside Mary. “You don’t have to stay away anymore. Not that you ever did.”

“Easier for everyone,” Mary answered without taking her eyes from the sea. “How did the two of you leave it?”

“I did what you said, and it’s . . . better. She’s even offered to ask her husband—” She broke off abruptly, realizing she needed to back up. “Mary, the mayor has called an emergency meeting of the town council tonight. I’m pretty sure it’s about Hope House.”

Mary stiffened but said nothing.

“I haven’t been able to get in touch with anyone yet, but I’ve written a letter to a corporation that might be tied to Hope House. Have you ever heard of R&C Limited?”

Mary shook her head.

“It’s all I’ve been able to find so far, but my mother’s husband has people who do this sort of investigating for a living, and she thinks he might be able to help us.”

Mary remained silent, rigid as a pillar.

“I promise you, Mary, I’m not giving up. I’ll be there tonight, at the meeting. And the minute I know who it is I need to talk to, we’re going to put together some sort of plan to stop this. Michael’s coming, too.”

Mary surprised her by turning her head. “Michael?”

“The man . . . I mean the guest . . . who’s staying with me through the winter. I sort of mentioned him to you the other day.”

“He’s the stupid thing you did?”

“Not exactly, but it has to do with him. I sort of lied to my mother about our relationship.”

“Lied how?”

“I told her we had one.”

“And you don’t?”

“Not a real one. No.”

Mary’s pale brows lifted. “You have a pretend relationship?”

Lane stifled a groan. Put like that, it sounded even more pathetic. “I guess that’s what you’d call it. It started with something stupid I said one night when we were on the phone. She was pushing my buttons and I just blurted it out. But then she flew halfway across the country to check him out. I meant to tell her the truth, I really did, but Michael stepped into the role of boyfriend before I could get it out. After that, it just never seemed to be the right time. She fell in love with him, but then, of course she would. He’s handsome and brooding in a Heathcliff sort of way, and polite, and smart—he’s a literature professor at a small college in Vermont and he’s writing a book.”