Shore Lights (10 page)

Or make it stop.

THE CANDLELIGHT INN came by its name honestly. No matter the season, each of the 147 windows boasted an electric candle that blazed to life each evening at dusk. The effect was never more magical than it was at Christmastime when the candles were joined by lush wreaths of spruce and pine that hung from each of the windows that faced Main Street. The wreaths were accentuated by plush red velvet bows and pinecones faintly dusted with silvered snow. Garlands of fragrant pine and glossy mistletoe outlined the front porch and the enormous front door, softening the sharp edges and accentuating the gingerbread swoops and curves. Rose's competitors up the street had strung thousands of tiny twinkling white lights around windows and along eaves until the stately Victorians looked like they belonged on the Vegas Strip, but not Rose. She let the candles work their magic on the house and chose, instead, to turn the two bare oak trees in the front yard into works of art. Every inch of trunk, every centimeter of branch, every millimeter of twig glittered with fairy lights.

Maddy's heart leaped as she saw the guarded look of delight in her daughter's eyes. She and Rose exchanged glances in the winter-dark front yard, and for a moment the world felt more right than it had in a very long time. They stood together on the porch and watched quietly as Hannah told Priscilla how those magical trees would help Santa Claus find them at their new address. Maddy stiffened as her daughter talked, knowing her mother's dim view of Santa Claus, but Rose surprised her and simply smiled.

“Thanks,” Maddy said as they went back into the house a few minutes later.

Rose's eyebrows lifted behind her glasses. “For what?”

She glanced toward Hannah and lowered her voice. “The Santa thing. Thanks for understanding.”

“You thought I wouldn't?”

Why hadn't she been smart enough to let the moment play itself out without comment? “I know how you feel about . . . those things.”

“Maddy,” her mother said, “I don't think you know how I feel about anything.”

Maddy watched as Rose pushed open the swinging doors and disappeared down the hallway.

“Where's Grandma?” Hannah asked, clutching Priscilla to her chest. “Is she mad?”

There were times when honesty was vastly overrated. “Grandma had something to do,” she said in a lame attempt at evasion. Rose was probably searching for her Maddy Doll right now.

And a box of straight pins.

She held out her hand to Hannah. “Bathtime, kiddo.”

“You said I could watch
Aladdin
.”

“We watched the pretty twinkling lights instead.”

“You promised!”

“You can watch
Aladdin
tomorrow.”

“No! I want to watch him tonight.”

She glanced at the clock. “How about you take your bath and then we'll see if there's time to watch a little
Aladdin
.”

Hannah considered her words, then put her hand in Maddy's.

“Priscilla can't climb the stairs,” Hannah reminded Maddy, who bent down to scoop up their extremely spoiled little dog.

“I don't see why Priscilla can't carry us upstairs,” Maddy said as they made their way to the third floor.

Hannah found that idea quite funny. The sound of her giggle set off little explosions of delight inside Maddy's chest. They talked about Christmas trees and twinkly lights and how Santa managed to get so much done in one night with just a few elves to help him out. Maddy added a little lavender oil to Hannah's bath water, and the soothing scent worked its bedtime magic on the little girl. Hannah settled for an Aladdin bedtime story and the promise of the videotape tomorrow.

“Did you say your prayers?” she asked Hannah just before she turned out the light.

Hannah nodded. “I prayed for you and Daddy and Grandma Rose and Aunt Lucy and—” She stopped, her small brow furrowed. “I can't remember.”

“That's okay, honey,” Maddy said, kissing her daughter's forehead. “I can't remember all of the aunts, either.”

Hannah's eyes fluttered closed. Her dark lashes brushed against cheeks still baby round. She was so small, so vulnerable to every decision both good and bad that Maddy made. Maddy still remembered how it felt to be a child, to be small and powerless in a world you were too young to influence or understand. Her parents' divorce had thrown her world into chaos, much the same way Tom's marriage had done to Hannah. The thought that she had contributed to her little girl's distress made her sick at heart.

Maybe she shouldn't have given up so easily. Tom's roots were in Washington State. His children and grandchildren lived in the Seattle area. His friends and colleagues were spread along the coast of the Pacific Northwest. He would never be happy in San Diego. At least not permanently. Why, he had probably already had his fill of sunshine and sandy beaches and was beginning to think longingly of towering pines and the Space Needle. She should have waited. She should have stayed put, bided her time, listened to her little girl and not her mother.

Who the hell was she kidding?

He never lied to you, Maddy. Not once. It doesn't matter if you live in Seattle or Botswana. He's not coming back to you. He's never going to be the father to Hannah that you want him to be
.

There weren't enough wishing stars in the galaxy to make that dream come true. She knew that. She had accepted it a long time ago. So why did the same ridiculous dreams come creeping into her heart every time she let her guard down? She didn't love Tom anymore. Not the way she once had. She loved the memory of all they had shared and would always share in the person of their little girl, but the giddy, head-over-heels love she had once had for him was long gone. Still, if he knocked on her door right now and said he was willing to give familyhood another try, she wasn't entirely sure she wouldn't say yes.

Children didn't care about soul mates or life plans or following your bliss. Children wanted you to be as steady and unbending as a redwood, as sheltering, as strong. Children wanted you to hold their hands when they crossed the street, to hear their prayers and tuck them in at night. Children wanted you to know without being told about the monsters in the closet and the scary shadows on the wall and why it's okay to have a night-light as long as your best friend doesn't know.

But more than anything, they wanted you to stay.

 
August 1978

No matter what
.

 
HANNAH'S BREATHING WAS deep and even and before long the room was filled with the sweet smell of a sleeping child. They had more in common than curly hair and a stubborn streak. When Maddy looked into her daughter's eyes, she saw herself all those years ago, and the pain in her heart was fresh and new. But this time it wasn't for the little girl she once was; it was for Hannah.

She had to make things better for her. She had hoped that surrounding her daughter with family would make a difference, but so far Hannah had shown little interest in her cousins and aunts and uncles. She loved her grandma Rose, but Maddy's stomach knotted each time she left them alone together. Hannah was a fey and imaginative creature, qualities Rose found disconcerting, if not incomprehensible. The very traits Maddy sought to encourage in her daughter were the ones Rose had tried to control in her own child.

Maddy knew she would be in for another lecture on the dangers of fantasy when the samovar arrived, but she didn't care. Hannah's face, aglow with happiness on Christmas morning, would make up for it.

She slipped quietly out of Hannah's room and tiptoed down the hallway toward the stairs. She had been so busy e-mailing FireGuy that she hadn't checked for confirmation from the seller. She'd check for messages and maybe do some more work on the Web site. The door to Rose's sitting room was closed. Whispers of Verdi seeped into the hallway. Rose never locked herself away this early, and Maddy experienced a guilty burst of understanding.

I don't blame you, Mother,
she thought as she moved quickly past. A few weeks into their grand experiment, and already they needed a time-out.

The only light in the office was the dark blue glow from the computer monitor. She sank into the cushy desk chair, jiggled the mouse, then waited while the screen image rearranged itself. Bless Rose's pricey fiber-optic connection. In the blink of an eye she downloaded her e-mail message, then let out a small cheer when she saw confirmation from the seller of Hannah's magic lamp. He lived one town over and would be happy to drop it off at the Inn tomorrow if she'd prefer.

If she preferred? She was over the moon with excitement! Now she wouldn't have to spend the next three days tracking the progress of the samovar as it made its way from one little Jersey shore town to another. By this time tomorrow that wonderful old teapot would be safely stashed away on the top shelf of her bedroom closet, far away from prying little eyes.

Fate, that's what it was. Lady Luck finally remembered her name and address. Not only had she won the auction, the seller was willing to hand-deliver. If she had had any lingering doubts about spending so much money on the samovar, this last bit of good fortune sent them packing.

JACK BERNSTEIN PUSHED his way through the kitchen door in time to see Kelly vanishing out the back door.

“Good to see you, too,” he said at the sound of the door slamming shut behind her. He turned to Aidan. “Domestic disturbance?”

“I don't know what the hell it was. One second everything was cool, the next she's sobbing that I've ruined her life.”

“Rachel hasn't talked to me since her bat mitzvah two years ago. Leah says she'd trade places with me, but I'm not crazy. I'll take the silent treatment any day.”

“Sit down,” Aidan said, pointing to the other chair. “Burger? Wings? Ribs?”

“Got any tofu?”

“Cholesterol's up?”

“Way up,” Jack said. “I promised Leah I'd give it my best shot before I let the doctor put me on meds.”

“Still drink coffee?”

“Bring it on.”

Aidan and Jack had known each other since grade school. Jack's grandfather had kept the books for Aidan's old man, and the torch had passed from grandfather to son to grandson. He poured them each a cup of coffee, then sat down opposite his friend.