The Wishing Tide (34 page)

“I’m sorry, Lane. Sorrier than you’ll ever know.”

She managed another nod, then watched him go.

Michael’s door swung open almost instantly in response to her light rap. Clearly, he hadn’t been able to sleep, either. He stood in the doorway, a silhouette in the faint blue-white light that spilled into his room.

“Lane, it’s three a.m. What are you . . . what’s wrong?”

He was wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and nothing else.
Without meaning to, she let her eyes run the length of him, then back again. The moment spun out awkwardly.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said, finding her voice at last. “I just . . . changed my mind.”

Michael found her eyes in the gloom, then looked away. “That’s a bad idea.”

“I know,” Lane said softly. “But I’m here anyway.”

“What you said before, about being a distraction—” He broke off, raked a hand through already tousled hair. “You were right. You should go back to bed.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“They make pills for that.”

“I don’t want a pill.”

She gazed up at him through lowered lashes. Something had changed in the dark empty hours since he’d left her room, a stirring of blood and bone that refused to be quiet, a stripping away of pride and pretense. Stepping closer, she laid a hand on his bare chest, felt the deep thrum of his heart against her palm, the warm, quick urgency of it. He wanted her, as much as she wanted him. That hadn’t changed. How did she make him understand that he didn’t have to be noble, that her eyes were wide open, and for now, tonight, she didn’t care about tomorrow?

“Michael, you don’t have to protect me. I’ve been lying up there in the dark, thinking about everyone telling me to fight for what I want. Well, this is what I want. Here. Now. For however many days we have left. I don’t need a happy ending. I need right now.”

She stared at him, waiting, then realized she had no idea what she wanted him to do or say. Part of her hoped he’d send her back to her room, that he would care enough, down in places he hadn’t explored yet, not to risk hurting her again. But the other part, the flesh-and-blood part, hoped he would pull her into his arms and drag her into bed.

In the end, he did neither. With a single finger, he traced the curve
of her cheek with agonizing slowness, then tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “I won’t sleep with you,” he said with a husky softness. “But I will stay awake with you.”

“But I thought—”

“You deserve more than just right now, Lane. You shouldn’t ever forget that.”

Lane managed a nod, her throat suddenly too tight to speak.

He took her hand then, like a wayward child up past bedtime, and led her across the room to the large four-poster bed. The drapes were open, the stars on display out over a silver-black sea, and as she lay down she tried not to think of the lonely boy who had once looked out at that same sky as he drifted off to sleep.

His warmth was welcome when he finally dropped down beside her and snugged an arm about her waist—as if they’d been sharing a bed for years. They lay awake for a while, their bodies fitted like spoons in a drawer, until the mingled rhythm of heart and breath began to lull her toward sleep. It wasn’t what she’d come for when she padded down the stairs. There was no passion in their closeness, no threat and no promise, only a quiet sense of rightness as the horizon slid toward silver and she finally drifted off.

When she opened her eyes again, the horizon was a dusky shade of pink, and Michael was gone. Pushing back the sheets, she turned to look at the empty place beside her. She had no right to expect him to be there, no right at all. He had declared nothing—promised nothing. And despite it all, she felt betrayed. Not because Michael had betrayed her, but because she had betrayed herself.

Michael

M
ichael shrugged deeper into his jacket, turned his eyes toward the lighthouse, and picked up his pace. The sun glinted sharply off the cold gray sea, the wind biting hard as it skimmed in off the frothy Atlantic. He’d forgotten how cold the wind could be at this time of year, that there was a reason places like the Cloister shut down for the season.

He’d left Lane sleeping in his bed, the safest course, all things considered. She had looked so lovely with the morning light slanting across her face, setting all that auburn hair on fire. He wasn’t sure he could trust his resolve a second time. She wouldn’t understand when she woke up and found him gone, but eventually she’d thank him. Besides, he had a bit of business to take care of.

In his pocket, he found Samuel Rourke’s letter, the words of a dead man and a liar. At some point, during what had been a very long night, he had come to a decision. He would destroy the letter and leave Hannah to her blissful ignorance. Would that Callahan had done the same for him. Lane wouldn’t be happy, but it was his decision to make—alone. The sooner he was rid of the damn thing, the sooner he could start putting the whole hideous business behind him.

The jetty was slick as he scrambled out onto the rocks. Gradually he found his footing, determined to make it out to the end, to stand where the wreckage of the
Windseeker
had once washed up and deceived an entire town.

Overhead, Lane’s gulls circled greedily, scolding him for bringing no breakfast. They floated above him as he made his way toward the jetty’s end, a noisy cloud of gray and white, as he dropped down onto the driest rock he could find. He swore softly as the wet seeped through his pants, summoning Sister Mary Constantine’s grim warnings about piles.

Dragging the letter from his pocket, he carefully unfolded the pages, fighting to keep the wind from snatching them. When he finally threw his father’s words into the sea, he didn’t want it to be an accident. He imagined how it would feel to tear the letter in half, and then in half again and again, how the bits would flutter in the wind like so much confetti, until they finally fell into the purling gray water—gone for good.

But in spite of his resolve, he held fast to the pages. It was hard to say why. He didn’t need to read them. Every word was already burned into his brain. Perhaps his father hadn’t asked for forgiveness outright, but he had certainly pleaded his case, trying to explain away the terrible thing he’d done, to justify the unjustifiable. The final act of a selfish bastard.

And yet he couldn’t shake the bone-deep sense of loss. Not for the man his father had been, but for the man he had once believed him to be, for the memories he could no longer cherish, for the role model who died not as a hero but as a coward.

Samuel Rourke had chosen to walk away from his life, a wife who needed him, children who loved him—for another woman. It was that choice, a single moment of blind selfishness, that had led to his mother’s undoing, and ultimately to Peter’s death. For thirty years he’d been blaming the wrong parent.

Lane had asked him to stand in his father’s shoes, to see that he’d taken the only avenue open to him, and that his mother had done the same. They had turned their backs on intolerable lives and invented new ones. Hadn’t he done the same? Michael Forrester hadn’t been his invention, but it hadn’t taken him long to step into that new boy’s skin, to leave Evan Rourke and his scars behind. Except those scars had never healed. That he was back in Starry Point was proof of that.

So, what was it all for? All the running and blaming and pretending. All the lies. For what? Despite their best efforts and years of denial, the truth had won out. What good, then, was likely to come from more deception? It hadn’t worked for any of them, and for his mother least of all.

The pages in his fist had grown limp in the damp salt air. He stared at them now, wondering if Lane was right. Was Hannah strong enough to hear the truth, to read the words her long-lost husband had penned just days before his death? And if not, could he live with the very real possibility of another breakdown? He honestly didn’t know. But if there was a chance, even a small one, that that truth could bring his mother some measure of peace, wasn’t it worth the risk? He could leave Starry Point with a clear conscience, though when that leaving might take place he had absolutely no idea.

He had yet to delve into the paperwork Callahan had handed him yesterday, but he suspected there’d be plenty of loose ends to tie up: trusts to be overseen, assets to be transferred, the house to be disposed of. And of course, Landon would have to be dealt with, and the Hope House issue resolved. Lane would expect that of him before he left town, and it was the least he could do. The very least, in fact.

Only the weakest kind of man turns his back on a woman who needs him.

His father’s words hissed hotly in his ear, grinding against his conscience like fingernails on a blackboard. The hindsight of a guilty man, or perhaps a plea to the son now beyond his reach, to be a
better man than he himself had been. Whatever the intent, they were making him think, and he wasn’t sure he liked the direction of his thoughts. A few days ago, putting Starry Point behind him was all he wanted. Now, quite suddenly, the idea left him hollow.

Maybe it was the thought of following in his father’s footsteps, of slinking off like a coward. Or the realization that his urgency to be gone wasn’t about running toward something, only about running away. His life had been empty for longer than he cared to admit, a professional and personal sham that filled his time, but little else. But it didn’t have to stay that way. Now there was Lane, and a promise of happiness—if he chose to take it.

The wind picked up, sending a gust of sea spray into his face. He licked the salt off his lips, tasting his boyhood. Could he stay? In this place where everything seemed to pulse with memories, where every sight and sound reminded him of his first life—his real life? It was hard to imagine. Impossible, actually.

Lane had said it, and she was right. There would never be room in his heart for anyone until he learned to forgive. And there was just too much to forgive. For starters, there was no way to make things right with a dead man, to erase the facts contained in the letter now crumpled in his fist. The nearest he could get was to destroy it, for his sake as well as Hannah’s.

But once again something stopped him, some nebulous scrap of thought that kept flitting through his head, like a moth or dust mote that refused to land. And then, finally, he had it: an image of Dirty Mary—of Hannah—perched on the dunes, waiting for the truth. Was it possible that he was, even now, holding that truth in his hands? That what his mother had really been waiting for all these years was vindication? It sounded crazy, but the longer he stared at his father’s unsteady scrawl, the more convinced he became that he was right.

Lane

L
ane looked up from the coffeepot when the back door opened. Michael was there, his cheeks dark with morning stubble, windblown and slightly damp as he peeled off his jacket and draped it on a peg. Suddenly, her hands were clammy. She curled them into fists, not knowing what to say, or how to act. In the end, the oven timer saved her.

The kitchen filled with the mouthwatering aroma of cranberry-spice muffins as she extracted the pan and set it on the stove. Stalling for time, she spent a few minutes tidying: stowing oven mitts, wiping down counters, straightening towels.

“Lane—”

She cut him off with a hand as she lifted her mug. She didn’t need apologies or explanations. They’d done those already. And really, there was nothing to apologize for. In fact, she should probably thank him for taking the high road, for refusing to let her make a complete fool of herself. And if he’d snuck out again, well, who could blame him after the way she had thrown herself at him?

“Look,” she said, trying to sound casual as she poured him a mug of coffee and passed it to him. “Before you say anything, we don’t have to talk about last night. It’s done, and quite frankly, I’d rather not
rehash it if you don’t mind. In fact, we don’t have to talk about it ever again.”

He nodded, looking distinctly relieved.

“So, have you given any more thought to what to do about Hannah and the letter?”

Michael stared down at his feet, as if fascinated by the wet half-moons at the tips of his boots. “I thought about it all night, as a matter of fact. You told me I need to forgive, and maybe that’s true. I can forgive my mother. Maybe because it turns out there’s really not that much to forgive when you take everything into consideration. But I can’t and won’t forgive my father. What he did set all the rest in motion, and no letter can ever change that. So I went down to the jetty to shred the damn thing and toss it into the ocean.”

Lane’s mug halted en route to her mouth. “Please, please tell me you didn’t.”

“I wanted to—still do. But no, I didn’t.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Something you said once, about Hannah waiting for the truth. All of a sudden I knew the letter
was
that truth, proof that she hadn’t been wrong, hadn’t been crazy. Last night, you said she had a right to know, and she does. I’m going to show her the letter.”

“I’m glad.”

“You were right, Lane,” he said quietly. “About a lot of things.”

“What . . . kind of things?”

“About there being no room in my heart, for starters.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t need to go there again. Really. I get it.”

“I don’t think you do,” Michael said evenly. “And I need you to. I asked you once how you know if you’re where you’re supposed to be. Do you remember that?”

“Yes, I remember.”

Her face was stony as she braced for yet another explanation about why he couldn’t stay, couldn’t be the man she needed—couldn’t
love her. Instead, his cell phone went off in his pocket. He swore softly as he glanced at the display.

“It’s Katherine returning my call. I need to take this.”

Lane nodded curtly. “Go ahead. We’re done here anyway.”

Michael opened his mouth to say something, but the phone jangled again. Grimacing, he slipped out the back door to answer the call. Lane was actually relieved. There were only so many times a girl could be turned down before she started taking it personally. Besides, she needed to get to the hospital. Dr. Ashton had agreed to meet her at eleven to discuss Hannah’s care, and a potential time frame for her release.

Twenty minutes later, she was dressed and ready to go, packing muffins into a paper bag, when Michael reappeared, still clutching his cell. His cheeks were pink and shiny from the wind, like a boy’s, but his brows were bunched, his shoulders tightly hunched. Apparently the call hadn’t gone well.

She tried to imagine what it would be like to have your son, the boy you’d loved and thought of as your own for thirty years, call you out of the blue and tell you his birth mother was back from the grave and suddenly back in the picture. It couldn’t have been an easy conversation for either of them, but it had to have been especially hard on Michael. He was being pulled in too many directions. Two mothers, two lives, and she’d been pulling on him, too. None of it was fair.

“I’m sorry about all this, Michael. If I had stayed away from Mary—from Hannah—when you asked me to, none of this would be happening now. You wouldn’t know she was alive, wouldn’t know the truth about your father. And there’d be no reason to have what I’m sure was a rather uncomfortable conversation with Katherine just now.”

Michael nodded. “And Hannah would still be Dirty Mary, sitting out there all alone on the dunes, waiting for the truth. Now she won’t have to wait anymore. She has you to thank for that. I suppose I do, too.”

“She loved you Michael—and Peter. Never forget that.”

Michael said nothing as he stepped past her and began rinsing out his mug. Apparently the discussion was over.

“Well, then, I guess I’m off to the hospital. Unless . . . you want to ride along?”

He turned as he dried his hands. “Thanks, but I need to tie up a few loose ends. I’ll meet you there in about an hour.”

Lane blinked at him. “Really? I didn’t think you’d want to see her again.”

“I don’t. But you were right about the letter. She has a right to know.”

“Yes, but not now, Michael. I didn’t mean now. She’s been through too much. The accident. Seeing you. We have to wait.”

“I can’t wait. I need to do this now—before I leave for Raleigh.”

She set down the muffins. “Raleigh?”

“I’m going back to talk to Callahan. I’ll be away for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“A few days. A week. I don’t know right now. There’s some business I need to see to, about the house and the trusts. And I suppose we’ll need to decide what to do about Hope House. Hannah’s going to need somewhere to go once she’s discharged.”

“About that,” Lane began hesitantly. “I’ve been thinking about something more long-term.”

“Long-term?”

“What would you say to Hannah coming to live with me?”

Michael couldn’t have looked more stunned if she’d proposed dancing naked out on the jetty. “To live with you . . . here?”

“It makes sense, right now. She’s going to need someone to look after her for a while, and with the inn closed for the winter I’ll have time to help her through rehab. After that, maybe we can find her something long-term, a place where she can move into something like a normal life if that’s what she wants, and her doctors say it’s okay.”

Michael sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “Lane, I
can’t think long term right now. I’ve got my hands full with the here and now.”

“I know that. I wasn’t pushing. I just thought—”

“What? That you could fix it? Make us one big happy family again?”

“I’m just trying to help. I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t. I just . . . I can’t promise anything right now. To anyone.”

Lane lifted her chin a notch. The words stung, but they weren’t new. “You’ve always made that pretty clear.”

The clock over the sink ticked noisily as she held his gaze, a thin, mechanical heartbeat in the charged silence. He made no attempt to defend himself. But then how could he when they both knew it was true?

The moment was broken when the doorbell rang. Their eyes held a moment more before Lane turned and headed for the parlor. She wasn’t prepared for the enormous Fraser fir standing on her front porch, or for the young man who popped out from behind it.

“Delivery,” he said simply.

Lane blinked at the monstrous evergreen. It dwarfed the boy by at least three feet. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid you have the wrong address.”

He tugged a receipt from his pocket and squinted at it. “This the Cloister House?”

“Yes, but—”

“Says right here, Cloister House. Where do you want it?”

“But I didn’t order a tree. There’s been a mistake.”

“There are some boxes in the truck, too,” he informed her. “Oh, and I’m supposed to give you this.”

He pushed the receipt into Lane’s hands. It took only a moment to recognize the Sewell’s Hardware logo, and Dally’s loopy script.

Sorry, boss, couldn’t help myself. After everything that’s happened I thought you deserved a Christmas tree. I charged it all to your account. If you hate it you can fire me. Don’t forget to pop
Harry into the CD player. If anyone can help you forget Professor McDreamy, it’s Harry. D—

Sighing, she stepped aside. “Just put it anywhere.”

Several trips later, the tree was surrounded by four large cardboard boxes, and Lane stood shaking her head. She really did need to fire that girl. At the sound of approaching footsteps, she turned. Michael seemed vaguely astonished to find an evergreen tree had sprouted beside the fireplace.

“What’s all this?”

“Dally,” she said simply.

“She bought you a tree?”

“Not exactly, no. But she sent one.”

“That girl’s a piece of work.”

Lane found a smile. “Yes, but she’s a good friend.”

“What’s in the boxes?”

“Ornaments, I’m guessing. The inn’s always closed at the holidays, so there never seemed much point in a tree. She must have assumed I’d need them. I’ll return them tomorrow, or maybe donate it all to Hope House.”

“You’re not going to keep it?”

Lane nudged the closest box with the toe of her boot. “I’m not really in the mood for holiday cheer at the moment. Besides, I’ve got a ton of work to get caught up on, and a new project I’m thinking about starting.”

A smile flickered at the corners of Michael’s mouth, sad and a bit reminiscent. “When I was here as a boy we always begged for a Christmas tree, but the nuns wouldn’t have it. We had a nativity scene instead, which, as you can imagine, fell a bit short of our boyish ideals.”

“So, do you do one now?”

His expression hardened as he eyed the bare tree. “Like you said, not much point.”