The Wishing Tide (3 page)

She’d had no luck with batteries but had at least managed to scare up a few gallons of water and a lone jar of peanut butter. Crunchy wasn’t her favorite, but it would have to do. She had fuel for the Coleman stove, two loaves of fresh-baked bread, and a huge pot of soup cooling on the stove. She might end up sitting in the dark, but she wasn’t likely to starve.

After recording a “closed for the season” message referring callers to the inn’s Web site, she brewed a mug of Earl Grey and carried it upstairs, resigned to nailing herself to the chair in her writing room until she completed a first draft of the vintage soap-making piece that was due next week.

The first day of the off-season was generally one of her most productive, when she was finally free to mold the ideas that had been percolating all summer, to lose all sense of time without a care for anyone else’s needs. No bread to bake, no beds to change, no constantly being available for guests.

But today was different somehow. Even her writing room failed to inspire, despite last night’s careful preparations. Folders filled with research and interview notes were stacked to her right, scraps of ideas captured on pastel-colored sticky notes were arranged to her left, and in the center, her laptop awaited only the touch of a button to bring it to life. All that was missing was inspiration.

As always, when her creativity was playing hide-and-seek, Lane reached into the desk for the old sketchbook, tucked carefully in the center drawer. From the moment one of the contractors had discovered it in a dusty nook beneath the stairs, the book had held a strange fascination for her. She had scoured it for a signature or date, anything that might offer some clue about its origin, but there was nothing. Now, after five years, she knew every scuff and scar on the leather cover, every smooth place worn along its spine, every gorgeous, lushly colored sketch: fairy-tale images of castles and princes and fair-haired damsels, each framed with an intricate vine of white flowers, like something from a child’s storybook, but all done by hand.

Even now, Lane’s fingers moved with a kind of awe as she turned to her favorite illustration at the back of the book, faded with who knew how many years, but still enchanting. It was a two-masted schooner in the throes of a storm, its sails in shreds, its keel shattered on a jagged rise of rock, and on the shoals, a bare-breasted woman with a shimmering tail and creamy white shells woven into her flame-kissed hair.

The drawing had disturbed her the first time she ran across it, its doomed ship and storm-tossed sea too real, too much like life with its storms and its choices. Be brave or yield. Lane knew about yielding, about slowly letting yourself go hollow, until one day you looked in the mirror and no longer recognized the woman staring back, and wondering where you’d gone—or if you’d ever really been there at all.

Maybe that was the real reason the image fascinated her, why little by little a kind of fable had rooted itself in her thoughts: a cautionary
tale about a woman too weak to fight the tide, who chose to end her days in a great stone tower overlooking the sea. Purely fictional, of course, but sometimes—like now—her fingers itched to write that story. But she wouldn’t. Not this year. Not ever. Because doing so would mean having to confront her own long list of shipwrecks, and when all was said and done, she simply hadn’t the courage. Safer to stick to her articles and play with words she knew wouldn’t burn.

Sighing, she closed the book of illustrations and slid it back into the drawer, feeling the old familiar ache. It came less often now, but today it had come with a vengeance. Not sadness exactly, but the numbing awareness that this was all there would ever be. Once upon a time, she’d dreamed of so much more, of love and marriage and children, of somehow leaving her mark on the world. Now, as she stared out past the dunes, she saw that even the footprints she’d left in the sand a few hours ago were already gone, blown over—as if she’d never been there at all.

She sipped her tea, too sweet since it had gone cold. She hated herself when she was like this, pouty and discontent, wallowing in the past. If she wasn’t careful she’d soon find herself in the clutches of a full-blown sulk. Hardly the way she’d envisioned her first day of creative freedom.

Shake it off, Kramer. This is ridiculous.
Not to mention exactly what Bruce would want.

The thought of Bruce reveling in her self-pity was enough to light a fire. Powering up the laptop, she reached for a folder with
WILD AND SW
EET
VINTAGE
SOAPS
printed neatly on the tab. Before she could open it, a bit of movement caught her eye, a quick blur of purple. Surely it wasn’t. Pushing up out of her chair, she peered down at the beach. The old woman had been gone when she returned from the lighthouse, removed, Lane assumed, to safer and drier ground. Now here she was again, hunched on the dunes in a blowing gray rain. Clearly, the poor thing wasn’t well.

By the time Lane dragged on a pair of shoes and scrambled down two flights of stairs and out the back door, the woman was already on the move, crabbing her way up the dune and past the back gate. If she noticed Lane at the open door, she gave no sign, her drenched white head hunched into her collar as she skirted the boardwalk and cut across the vacant lot that bordered the inn.

With no thought for a jacket, Lane slipped out into the rain and through the gate to follow. She had no idea why, or what she might say if she were discovered creeping up behind her. She only knew the woman had no business being out in this weather. Moving furtively, she held back a few steps in hopes of avoiding discovery, but it was no good. As she turned the corner of the yard, the woman suddenly rounded on her.

For the second time that day, Lane found herself caught in that strange gaze, a mingling of panic and challenge. But this time it lingered, questioning.
Friend or foe?
it seemed to ask. The moment stretched, an uncomfortable eternity as they stood eying each other, soaked through and buffeted by the wind. Lane felt a prickle along the back of her neck, as if words had somehow passed between them, though the old woman stood as still and mute as stone. She should speak, she knew, say something, but her lips felt suddenly numb, useless.

It might have been a minute or an hour, but finally the old woman turned away, scuttling with startling speed across the grassy lot, vanishing behind a tall thicket of red cedars out along the road. Moments later, she reemerged on a bike, an ancient, rusty contraption with an enormous basket in front and a jaunty pink DayGlo flag in back.

Lane stood shivering at the edge of Old Point Road, arms wrapped close to her body, blinking fat drops from her lashes as she watched the bright plastic flag gradually fade from sight, praying the poor woman had a safe place to ride out the storm.

Mary

A
close call. Too close.

I see her every day, scuttling down the beach to feed the gulls—the Inn Lady. She’s a bright, pretty thing, but sad, too, I think, and just a little broken. But then, everyone is fighting some private war, grappling with some missing piece, carrying some unseen burden. She hides it well enough with her quick step, always in a hurry, always one step ahead of something only she can see or feel. And yet I see it plain. To one well acquainted, there is no hiding grief. It stains, you see, seeping deep into your flesh, like a brand. A shame in one so young and lovely, but then, I was young and lovely once, too. Life plays no favorites when she sets out to break a heart.

Until today the Inn Lady has stayed away like the others, seeming to pay me no mind, though more than once I have felt her eyes between my shoulder blades. I always feel their eyes. But hers are different somehow, even when standing nearly face-to-face. It has been a long time since anyone had the boldness to look me in the eye, to risk a true seeing. Oh, they glance in my direction, but they’re afraid of what they might see, a mirror, perhaps, of the future, should life go suddenly and terribly wrong. But it couldn’t ever happen to them. They’re good, clean, decent people. And so their curiosity, and their
sympathy, too, if they ever had any, turns into something hard and mean. They turn away, disgusted, while a little part of them thanks their maker it isn’t them.

But this woman is different. There was no disgust in her gaze, only curiosity and something like compassion as our eyes held for that long, rainy moment. And now, as I pedal away like the madwoman I am, I feel I have received a great kindness, perhaps the greatest of my life.

How strange that such a gift should come at the hands of a stranger, rather than the hands of someone who claimed to love me. But then, they’re all gone now, those loved ones. Swept away, burned away, blown away.

Through my fault.

Through my fault.

Through my most grievous fault.

Lane

B
y nightfall Penny had begun to push her way onshore. Rain lashed steadily at the windows, the wind a sharply rising keen that made the panes rattle like old bones. Lane ladled soup into a bowl and popped it into the microwave, struggling to keep her mind on what she was doing and off where the old woman might be at that moment. They had set up a shelter in the community center. Maybe she was there.

But what if she wasn’t?

It was hard to imagine the woman she had encountered this morning voluntarily shoehorning herself in with a bunch of strangers. In fact, it was impossible. A thought struck her, or rather, an image, a beam of light moving past empty windows. It was possible. It even made sense. The police swore there were no signs of forced entry, but they couldn’t have been very thorough in the few minutes they’d spent at the back of the house. They could easily have missed something.

While the microwave whirred she padded to the front parlor, peering through the curtains, past strips of soggy masking tape. Old Point Road, the empty stretch of oyster-shell macadam that brought tourists to the Cloister, was deserted now, the road swamped after
hours of steady rain. Lane watched anxiously as odd bits of detritus cartwheeled down the street: fallen tree branches, an aluminum trash can lid, a sodden chair cushion she’d missed when securing the yard yesterday. Across the street at the Rourke House, nothing seemed amiss, no light of any kind, no bike with a bright plastic flag. Lane didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned as she let the curtains fall back into place. It was a hideous night for anyone to be out, particularly an old woman. Not that there was anything she could do about it now.

In the kitchen, she thought of the Burtons as she poured a glass of Pinot and pulled her soup from the microwave, hoping they’d made it back to the mainland before things got too bad. She was about to slice herself a thick slab of bread when the lights sputtered and the kitchen went dark. The bread knife was still in her fist as she whirled around at nothing, the pins-and-needles prickle of adrenaline hot along her arms and legs, breath held in the sudden absence of household whirring and ticking.

It took a moment for Lane’s heart to resume something like its normal rhythm, and several more to accept that the lights weren’t coming back on any time soon. Feeling her way to the parlor, she fumbled with a pack of matches and lit a few candles, then groped about in the half-light to lay a small fire in the hearth. She supposed there were worse things than dinner in front of the fire, even if she was alone.

In a few minutes the blaze was going nicely, washing the walls with wavering amber light. Lane sipped her wine and stared into the flames. Candles, firelight, a stormy night—like something right out of a book. Only in books heroines didn’t schlep around in sweats and stretched-out socks, or wear their hair in grubby ponytails. Groaning, she took another sip from her glass. The only thing missing was the eleven cats.

Her head shot up when she heard a knock at the front door. Who
on earth—? Before she could finish the question, the knock came again, more insistent this time. Perhaps the Burtons had turned back after all. Or the old woman—?

Carrying a candle to the window, she pressed her forehead to the glass, hoping to be able to see out to the drive, but could make out nothing but sheets of gusting rain. When the knock came a third time she turned the dead bolt and eased the door open as far as the chain would allow. The silhouette standing on her porch was too tall to belong to either of the Burtons.

“Can I help you?” she asked through the crack.

“I hope so. I’m looking for a place to stay.”

It was a male voice, deep and tired, and unless she was mistaken, a little annoyed. Lifting her candle, she tried to put a face with the voice. It didn’t do much good. All she could make out was a square jawline and a pair of very broad shoulders.

“I’m sorry, but the inn’s closed for the winter. You can try the Windjammer. Take a right up at the stop sign and head back into town. You’ll see the blue neon sign.”

“No sign,” the voice shot back over the wind. “Power’s out everywhere. Are you sure you can’t put me up? The roads are a nightmare.”

Lane had heard that voice before. It belonged to every traveler who’d been behind the wheel too long, so road weary they’d happily pay suite money to sleep in the pantry if it was all she had available. Unhooking the chain, she eased the door open another few inches, just wide enough to let the candlelight spill out onto the porch.

If the man objected to her scrutiny, he gave no sign. He stood there, one arm braced against the doorframe to steady himself against the wind. She put him at well over six feet. Forty, maybe, with longish hair dripping onto the collar of his jacket, and some kind of satchel slung over one shoulder. Okay, maybe he wasn’t an ax murderer. On the other hand, who knew what the well-dressed ax murderer was wearing these days?

“I’m really quite respectable,” he assured her, as if reading her thoughts. “I’m a professor at Middlebury College. I’m looking for a place to ride this thing out, and maybe park for the winter. I promise, the scariest thing in my bag is a collection of stories by Edgar Allan Poe.”

“I don’t have any power,” Lane said, knowing it wouldn’t dissuade him.

He glanced past her, to the parlor with its candles and cozy fire. “Looks like you’re managing. Besides, I don’t need lights to sleep, which is all I want in the world right now. You can charge me double if you want.”

Lane felt herself softening. He was drenched to the bone and obviously exhausted. She could put up with him for one night, she supposed, until the storm passed and the roads were clear. Pulling back the door, she waved him in with her candle.

He wasted no time stepping into the foyer. Shrugging the satchel from his shoulder, he let it slide to the floor, then unzipped his jacket, revealing khakis and a dark blue sweater.

“Is there somewhere I can hang this? I don’t want to drip all over your floor.”

Lane took the coat, giving it a good shake over the entrance mat before hanging it on the rack beside the door, then motioned for him to follow her to the reception desk in the den. “Let’s get you checked in. The worst of the storm should blow over by tomorrow. Then you can find other lodgings.” She had taken several steps before she realized her guest wasn’t behind her.

“Professor?”

He gave no sign that he heard her, standing almost eerily still, his head tilted back as he surveyed the parlor’s coffered ceiling. Lane cleared her throat, and he jerked his head in her direction. “Oh, sorry. Right behind you.”

At the desk Lane gave him a registration card to fill out, situating
her candle so he could see. She’d have to key him into the system in the morning. No way to run a credit card, either. When he finished with the card he slid it back. Lane looked it over.
Michael Forrester. Middlebury, Vermont.
Nice penmanship. That was good—no serial killer handwriting.

“I’ll let you have the Tower Suite at the regular-room rate since it’s just one night and you’re the only guest,” she informed him, then launched into her standard first-time-guest speech. “All the rooms are nonsmoking. Breakfast is at nine, though with no power I’m not exactly sure what that might be. If you need anything, press two on your room phone and you’ll get me. Well, no, you won’t, actually, with the power out. I guess you can just bang on the ceiling. My rooms are just above yours on the third floor.”

“I won’t need anything except a bed. Would you like me to pay you now?”

“We’ll take care of it in the morning when the power’s back up.”

“How long’s it been down?”

“About thirty minutes.” Lane saw him glance at the tray in front of the fire, at her wineglass and half-eaten bowl of soup. “Have you eaten, Mr. Forrester?”

“Not since lunch. I was trying to beat the storm. By the time I hit town, everything was closed.”

“I’ve got some soup on the stove, but it might not be hot. And there’s fresh bread, if you’re interested.”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I’ve already interrupted your dinner.”

“It’s no trouble. Your rate includes dinner, such as it is. Sit and I’ll bring it out. Can I bring you a glass of wine?”

Dropping down onto the couch with something between a sigh and a groan, he stretched his legs out in front of him. “Wine would be great.”

Even by candlelight it didn’t take long to fill another bowl and
slice off a hunk of bread. She carried the tray in and set it on the ottoman beside her own. “It isn’t much, but at least it’s still warm.”

Michael Forrester rubbed a hand over his face, stretched the kinks from his neck. “Thanks, Ms.—I’m sorry, I don’t believe I got your name.”

“It’s Kramer,” Lane supplied sheepishly. “Sorry. I usually do the introduction thing at the desk, but everything’s a bit . . . out of sync. Call me Lane.”

Settling cross-legged on the floor, Lane reached for her wine, covertly watching her guest over the rim of her glass as he eagerly spooned up his cold soup. She could see him more clearly in the firelight. His dark hair was pushed back from his forehead, longish and still damp, not a bad look on the whole. He had a good face, too, high cheekbones and a firm, square jaw, a chin that hinted slightly at a cleft, with just enough scruff to keep him from being pretty. He probably wasn’t as old as she’d originally thought, either, just tired.

He surprised her by looking up from his bowl and lifting his glass. “My compliments to the chef, whoever he is. This may be the best meal of my life, and I’m not just saying that because you’re giving me a place to sleep, or at least not entirely.”

Lane returned the salute, certain that she detected a faint trace of Boston in his voice. She’d become a dialect expert since opening the inn. “
He
is me, Mr. Forrester. And you should have tasted it when it was hot.”

“Yeah, well, hot soup is overrated, especially to a starving man. And please call me Michael.” His mouth curved in an attractive way. “Dinner in front of the fire calls for first names, don’t you think?”

Dinner in front of the fire. Yes, everything certainly was . . . out of sync. It wasn’t as though she never dined with guests. She did, in fact quite often, but it was usually with people like the Burtons, couples who felt more like family than patrons. This didn’t feel like that. Suddenly, she was keenly aware of her baggy sweats and slouchy socks,
her lazily scraped together ponytail. Maybe it was too dark to notice that she looked like a slob, but she doubted it. There’d been more than enough light for her to give
him
the once-over.

He was mopping up the last of his soup now, folding the last bite of bread into his mouth. It was silly, but with his long legs stretched out before the fire and a wineglass at his elbow, he seemed to belong right where he was. And yet there had been moments when she’d caught him glancing almost uneasily about the parlor, as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. What was his story? she wondered. Where had he been heading, and what was so important that he’d take to the road on a night like this? A critical job interview? A dying relative? An illicit rendezvous with a lover?

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but she’d always maintained a strict policy against prying into the private lives of her guests. If they volunteered, well and fine, but she knew not everyone’s story was a pretty one. And so she wouldn’t ask. Instead, she offered to refill his glass.

Michael made a sound of assent, lids heavy as he stared at the flames licking up from the hearth. “Nice fire. You should probably throw another log on, though.”

“I didn’t want it to get too hot.”

“Trust me, it’s in the forties outside. With no power this place will be like a refrigerator by morning.”

Lane looked at him, surprised. She’d just been thinking the same thing. “It’s because of all the stone.”

“And the leaky old windows.”

“Architecture professor?” Lane prompted, knowing full well she was breaking her own rules.

Michael blinked heavily, clearly trying to process the question. Finally, he shook his head. “No, but I’ve had some experience with old places like this. There’s a reason there are fireplaces in every room.” The words trailed away in a stifled yawn.

Lane stood, fishing a room key from her pocket. “I think I’d better show you to your room while you can still make it up the stairs.”

“Please,” Michael half groaned. “No stairs.”

Lane smothered a smile. He’d meant it as a quip, but the words were laced with genuine fatigue. “I told you, I put you in the Tower Suite, the best room in the house. The only catch is you have to climb a few stairs.”

Michael squinted up at her with one eye shut. “How many stairs, exactly?”

“I don’t know. I never counted. But I promise you, the view’s worth every one.”

Another groan as he got to his feet and stretched to his full height. Lane wasn’t sure why she was startled. She’d noticed his height the moment she stole a peek at him through the still-chained door, then again when he was hunched over the desk filling out his registration card, but now, with him standing right in front of her, she realized he must be at least six-four. For a moment she envisioned him asleep in the Tower Suite’s four-poster with his feet dangling over the edge.

“All right, innkeeper,” Michael muttered thickly as he stooped to retrieve his satchel. “Lead the way.”

“You’d best grab a couple of those candles to take up with you,” she told him. “It’ll be pitch-dark upstairs.”

How anyone could think of sleep in the middle of a storm like this one, Lane would never know, though clearly it was all Michael Forrester was thinking about. Before she could grab her own candle, he started up ahead of her, preventing her from leading the way as he had just suggested. Never mind—she’d tell him where he was going when they reached the landing. Except he didn’t seem to need directions. Like a man with a compass, he made an abrupt right at the top of the first flight, then continued on to the end of the corridor.