The Wishing Tide (9 page)

Mary

I
have always been . . . different . . . though I did not always know it. No, that isn’t quite true. I’ve always known. Even as a child one knows these things instinctively. What I should have said was I didn’t always understand it.

One of the fey, my Welsh grandmother used to say with a keen, dark eye. Fey. Such a charming little word, bright and otherworldly. For years I thought it meant fairy-born. Then one day I came across it in a story
and realized it meant something quite different. It meant touched, crazy—cursed. Even then, my grandmother knew that there was something not quite right about me. And looking back, I believe I must have frightened my parents. They never left off watching me. Something to do, I suppose, with my mother’s sister, who was always given to bouts of depression and threw herself from a window when she was sixteen.

I wasn’t supposed to know about that, but I did. An
accident
, they called it, rather than what it was—a blot on the family name, an unredeemable sin against God. Perhaps it’s why they sent me to the nuns. They had no faith in doctors. But they did have faith in the Almighty. And Lord help me, those little gray birds did their level best to mold me into a blank, colorless replica of their kind, to empty
me of me, to make me over for God. They brought their prayers and their beads and their candles to bear, but in the end I would have none of it.

Would now that they had succeeded.

Taking the veil would have stood in the way of so many sorrows. Not for me. I would ask no reprieve, nor do I deserve one. My sorrows are of my own making, my yoke to bear for what remains of this life, and, I suppose, the one beyond. But for those whose lives were mine to cherish, lives that were lost instead, I heartily wish I had chosen differently. Instead, when happiness beckoned, shiny and false, I closed my eyes to the truth and ran toward disaster with arms wide open. So much lost in the name of love. So much in ruins.

Through my fault.

Through my fault.

Through my most grievous fault.

Lane

L
ane was surprised to find Michael in the kitchen when she returned. She’d forgotten him somehow while talking to Mary. He was refilling his coffee mug, a scone caught between his teeth so that his hands were free. When he finished pouring he removed the scone, then picked up a scrap of paper off the counter.

“Your friend Delilah asked me to give you this note as she was leaving.”

Lane began unlacing her duck boots. “It’s Dahlia, actually—Dally for short. What does it say?”

Michael squinted at the note. “Well, it appears to be scribbled on the back of this month’s electric bill. Let’s see . . . Ninety days risk free. If not completely satisfied, simply return the unused portion for a full refund.” He frowned as he handed the note over. “It’s signed with a little smiley face.”

Heat prickled in Lane’s cheeks as she glanced at Dally’s scribble. Laundry or no laundry, it was definitely time to fire that girl.

Michael was making short work of his scone as he spooned sugar into his mug. “So, did you have a nice visit?”

Lane glanced up at him, feeling awkward and still vaguely annoyed. “What? Oh yes.”

“Coffee?” he offered, jerking a thumb toward the pot. “I’ll bet you’re freezing.”

“No, thanks.” She held up the thermos. “I brought tea, and it’s actually nice out. Almost balmy.”

Michael grunted. “Call me crazy, but maybe next time you could invite your friend in, rather than sitting out on the dunes freezing your tail off. You wouldn’t need the thermos.”

“Oh, she’d never come inside.”

Michael’s brows drew together. “Never come inside? What kind of friend is that?”

Lane stepped around him and crossed to the sink, busying herself with emptying and rinsing the thermos. She really didn’t want to get into explanations about Mary, at least not until she had a better handle on the woman.

“She isn’t exactly a friend,” Lane corrected, trying to keep her tone light. “She’s more of an acquaintance really, but for some reason we hit it off. She’s sort of . . . special.”

Michael’s spoon went still in his coffee. “Special . . . how?”

“Well, sort of like a bag lady, I guess. Her name is Mary.”

“Mary what?”

Lane shrugged again. “I have no idea. She just started showing up on the dunes a few weeks ago. Rain or shine, she’s there every morning. I don’t know a thing about her except that she hates coffee, and sometimes she seems like she’s not all there. She rides a rusty old bike with a DayGlo flag on the back and carries this purple cloth bag around with her everywhere she goes.” Lane paused, a smile slowly forming. “And she calls me
my girl
.”

“You mean she’s crazy.”

Lane’s chin lifted a measure in response to the word. “I’m not going to say that. But she
is
different—and sad. Day after day, she just sits there staring out at the ocean, waiting.”

“What’s she waiting for?”

Another shrug. The gesture seemed to perfectly sum up her brief relationship with Mary. “Truth. At least that’s what she said when I asked her. Every time I ask a question, I wind up with ten more.”

“Lane, do you really think this is wise?”

“Wise?”

“Getting mixed up with someone you know nothing about.”

“I run a bed-and-breakfast, Michael. I make a living getting mixed up with people I know nothing about.”

“That isn’t what I’m talking about.”

“Then what are you talking about?” It came out snippier than she’d intended, but as usual, something in his tone was getting under her skin.

“I’m just saying maybe you should think twice before getting involved with someone like that.”

Lane felt her anger bubbling close to the surface. “Someone like what?”

“Unstable, unhinged—hell, call it whatever you want. There are people who want help and there are people who are just looking for a crutch to prop them up between disasters. You seem like a nice person. I’d hate to see you get sucked into someone else’s self-induced hell.”

“How do you know I will?”

“Because that’s what happens. People like this Mary of yours are like human quicksand. You give them a hand and they drag you in with them. The woman could be dangerous for all you know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Mary might be a little . . . confused, but she’s not dangerous. In fact, there’s a sort of gracefulness about her, even if her clothes don’t match and her hair looks like it’s been hacked off with a pair of hedge clippers. I think she was probably quite beautiful once. You can tell by just looking that life’s been hard on her. She looks so tired, poor thing, and so alone.”

Michael set his mug on the counter, his expression steely. “Lane,
trust me. You need to steer clear of this woman. Maybe you haven’t had experience with her type, but I have, and I can promise you, you’ll be sorry if you let yourself get pulled in.”

Lane studied him a moment, the bunched shoulders and grim mouth, the hands fisted tightly at his sides. Where was all this coming from? From the moment she laid eyes on him, she’d pegged him as well off, but prep-school, country-club well off, not heartless-bastard well off. Clearly she’d gotten it wrong.

“I’ll take my chances,” she answered finally, rolling her eyes for emphasis.

“Fine. Just remember I warned you. Before it’s over you’re going to wish you’d listened. These people lure you in with their sad stories, and then they take you right down with them.”

“Take you where?”

“To whatever sick place they go to in their heads. They like company, so they grab on to you and they don’t let go.”

Lane couldn’t help thinking about the look on Mary’s face when she had spoken about trying to save herself, and of eventually letting go—of sinking to the bottom. It was a terrible image, and a sad one, but the woman wasn’t a monster.

“For God’s sake, Michael, you’ve never laid eyes on the woman and you’re talking about her like she’s the
Creature from the Black Lagoon! She’s a tired old woman who’s had a hard life, and my guess is she could use a little compassion. Something tells me she hasn’t found much lately, if ever.”

“I see,” Michael said, raking a hand through his hair. “This is some mission of mercy, then, an act of Christian duty?”

Do-gooder
. The phrase popped into Lane’s head, fresh from Mary’s rant. Since when was trying to help someone a bad thing?

“How about a simple act of human kindness?” Lane snapped, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “Or is that out of fashion these days?”

Michael held up his hands, signaling a truce as he backed toward the door. “Just be careful, is all I’m saying.”

He turned and left the kitchen then, his coffee forgotten on the counter, leaving Lane to wonder what the hell all that had been about.

Two hours later, Lane was in her writing room still trying to put the final polish on the microbrew article that was due in two days. She wasn’t making much progress, distracted by the sparkling blue horizon, pondering what truth Mary hoped to find there.

She was also thinking about Michael, or maybe stewing was a better word. He had chutzpah, that was for sure. In little more than a week he’d found a way to question her taste in literature, her willingness to put herself on the line as a writer, and now her judgment in friends. But it wasn’t only that he’d weighed in with an opinion on something that was none of his business; it was the intensity with which he had voiced that opinion, the look in his eyes approaching panic, as if she’d just told him she’d shared a thermos of tea with a terrorist. It reminded her of Bruce, who had never trusted her judgment in anything.

Glancing at her watch, she realized it was time to start thinking about dinner. Michael Forrester might be a royal pain in the ass, but he was still a paying guest. And it wasn’t as if she was getting much writing done anyway. After tidying her notes she headed for the door. She was startled to find Michael on the other side, hand raised as if about to knock.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, stuffing the hand into his pocket. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I came to say I’m sorry.”

Lane fixed him with wide, unblinking eyes. “Sorry for what?” She knew damn well what he should be sorry for, but she wanted to hear him say it.

“For sticking my nose in your business—again. I came to ask if I could buy you dinner.”

His appearance at her door had definitely caught her off guard, but his offer of dinner was an even bigger surprise. “I was just on my way down to the kitchen.”

“Look, I know what you think, but I promise I’m not the jackass I appear to be—or at least not all the time. In fact, some people actually like me.”

“Parents don’t count,” she replied frostily, though she felt a grin tugging at her lips. He looked so serious, and slightly ridiculous, too, towering in her doorway all sheepish and sorry.

It was Michael’s turn to grin. “Damn good thing. Mine would hardly make my case.”

Folding her arms, she made a show of looking him over. “Oh yes, I can see how you’d be a terrible disappointment—handsome author, esteemed college professor. Yes indeed, a total failure.”

She realized at once that she’d hit a nerve. She could see it in his eyes, a fleeting shadow that was there and then gone. Still, he covered well enough and even managed a smile.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

Lane dropped her hands, ready to protest, but suddenly the idea of dinner out was a tempting one, even with a guy who drove her crazy. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had prepared a meal for her, served her, and then done the dishes.

“I’m not sure what’s reopened after the storm. I guess I could call around to a few places. It’s all pretty casual on the island, so don’t expect much.”

“Low maintenance, remember? Come find me when you’re ready. I’ll be in the den shutting things down.” He turned and took two steps, then turned back. “And thanks for the second chance.”

Lane closed the door and leaned against it, wondering if this was a good idea and trying not to think of the smiley face at the bottom of Dally’s note.

T
he Blue Water Grille wasn’t much to look at, a squat shack painted blue, with a red tin roof and a pair of bedraggled window boxes. That hadn’t stopped it from earning local landmark status, or from drawing a crowd every night of the week. Even on a Wednesday the place was packed to the rafters, the small square of pocked asphalt choked with cars anywhere they could find or make a spot. The unseasonably warm weather wasn’t hurting business, either, pulling in locals eager for one last meal beside the sea before a chilly winter drove them inside.

The front door beckoned, propped open with an enormous rusty anchor. The hum of people unwinding at the end of the day—conversation, clinking glasses, and sporadic bursts of laughter—drifted out to greet them as Lane trailed Michael up the weathered wooden steps. It was a strangely pleasant sound, lively and warm and far too foreign of late. Suddenly, she found herself eager to be a part of it, to let down her guard and have a little fun—if she still remembered how.

She eyed the chalkboard sign just inside the door:
NO
SHOES
.
NO
SHIRT
.
NO
PROBLEM
.
Cliché, perhaps, but in all likelihood true. It had taken some time to adjust to the concept of
island time
, a world away
from the high-octane pace of Chicago’s city dwellers, where fashionable up-and-comers were forever checking their watches, hurrying
from
somewhere or
to
somewhere, always running late for something. But on Starry Point the days were different. Most of the things that seemed important back in Chicago carried little weight here. Life had its own rhythm, its own ideas about what mattered. At first the pace felt wrong—too careless, too loose. But then, little by little, the sand and the salt had crept into her veins, and she had realized how very right it all was.

The hostess gave them the option of a cramped corner table near the kitchen, or waiting a few minutes until the repairmen got the last of their equipment off the deck. She warned that with the sun going down it might be a little chilly until they lit the kerosene heaters, but the upside was that the band would be setting up shortly and they’d have great seats. Michael and Lane nodded simultaneously toward the deck. They didn’t have to wait long.

The deck was a maze of empty picnic tables. Michael took the menus the hostess offered and picked his way to a table along the railing, shooing a chubby gull who surveyed them with glassy, hopeful eyes. The sun was definitely on its way down, the cooling twilight thick with the scents of salt and seafood and beer, the light a pearly shade of lavender where it fell across the scarred tabletop.

Lane folded her arms along the edge of the table and let her eyes follow the smooth curve of empty beach. She’d come to Starry Point five years ago, and yet there were still times when the raw beauty of the Carolina coast caught her off guard: pristine stretches of sugar white sand, sea oats bending softly in the breeze, tireless waves that had been churning against the coast since time began. It didn’t take long to see why the Blue Water was a favorite with locals and tourists alike. Sitting here while the light died and the sea went flat and gray was more soothing than any tonic or pill could ever be.

“This is nice,” she said dreamily. “Like a postcard.”

“I think it was you who said I shouldn’t expect much,” he reminded her as he grabbed one of the laminated menus. “So, what’s good?”

“I have no idea. I was going to ask the waitress.”

Michael cocked an eye at her. “I thought you said this place was a landmark. Are you telling me you’ve never eaten here?”

“Never.”

“How is that possible?”

“Well, for one thing, running a bed-and-breakfast doesn’t leave a lot of time for dining out. You’re too busy taking care of everyone else’s food.”

“All right, I suppose I’ll give you a pass,” he said, but in a way that made her think he really wasn’t. “How ’bout we keep it simple—beer and a bucket of steamed clams to start?”

Their waitress was a perky, twentysomething blonde with Merthiolate-colored streaks running through her hair. She introduced herself as Jessica—Jess for short—then promptly forgot Lane was at the table, pinning her appreciative blue gaze on Michael as she rattled off the specials.

“We’ll take a couple Yuenglings and a bucket of clams,” he said as he handed back the menus. “And could I get some extra lemon, if it’s not too much trouble?”

“No trouble at all,” Jessica drawled, showing off perfect white teeth as she stuffed her order pad back into her apron.

Lane could almost swear she saw the girl toss a wink in Michael’s direction as she turned to leave. Apparently
Jess
didn’t have a problem with men who were almost twenty years her senior. Or at least not the ones who looked like Michael. And why would she? He was amazing-looking, the perfect blend of scruff and polish, sexy and smart—like now, when his square jaw was all stubbled and the breeze ruffled through his dark hair.

She wondered briefly if he was aware of the effect he had on
women, then decided he must be. The man owned a mirror, surely. And if that wasn’t enough, she felt certain there were classrooms full of wide-eyed coeds back in Middlebury more than willing to confirm the power of his considerable charms.

“Warm enough?” Michael asked, startling Lane from her somewhat unwelcome thoughts.

She nodded, plucking at her turtleneck and jacket. “You learn to layer when you live at the beach. In Chicago, if it’s cold when you wake up, it’s going to be cold when you go to bed. Here, the weather changes hourly, especially at this time of year.”

“Speaking of Chicago, I’m curious. How in the world did you find your way to Starry Point, and why? Or is that being nosy again?”

Lane smiled. “It is, but I’ll tell you anyway. After the divorce I couldn’t stand all the hand patting and pitiful looks, not to mention the endless attempts to fix me up. So one day I packed a bag and drove away. When I found a place I liked, I stopped. When I got bored, I moved on. Then I found Starry Point and I knew I wanted to stay. It felt like the edge of the world—one road in, one road out. That was appealing.”

“And does it still feel like the edge of the world?”

“It does,” she admitted, scraping at her beer label with her thumbnail. “And one road in and out is still appealing.”

“Do you ever miss home?”

Lane’s head came up sharply. “This is home.” The words landed harder than she’d meant them to. “And the answer is no. I don’t miss Chicago. My mother was furious when I left.”

“Chicago or Bruce?”

She gave a halfhearted shrug. “Both, I guess. She thought I should stay and fight for my marriage. After all, it’s not every day a girl catches a surgeon.”

“She liked your husband?”

“My
ex
-husband, thank you very much. And yes, she did. At least
she liked being able to brag about her son-in-law, the doctor. Social status is very important to my mother. She liked the parties we threw, and the men that came to them. After my father died she started collecting husbands—and last names. Cynthia Campbell Daniels White. She finally hit the jackpot with number four. He’s an attorney.”

Michael grinned. “So is my father, although I’m not sure my mother would say she hit the jackpot.”

“Your parents aren’t happy?”

“Now who’s being nosy?”

Lane leveled her gaze on him. “It’s my turn.”

Michael inclined his head, conceding the point. He swirled the last of his beer and drained it, then held up the bottle along with two fingers as Jessica passed by. “I suppose
unhappy
isn’t really the right word. They’re just, I don’t know . . . dutiful. My whole family is, actually. Except me.”

Lane took a swallow of beer, recalling the fleeting shadow in his eyes when she had teased him about being a disappointment. Still, it was a strange thing to say to someone you barely knew. “You don’t consider yourself dutiful?”

“If I was I’d be an attorney now, like my brother. And a junior partner in my father’s firm. But I wanted to teach, or thought I did.”

“How’d your father take that?”

“Let’s just say the announcement went over like the proverbial lead balloon. When he realized I was serious, he said he’d make a few calls. He had connections in Cambridge, and if I was hell-bent on teaching, the least I could do was do it at a prestigious university. I asked him not to make the calls. I wanted to get it for myself, and the truth was I really didn’t want to stay in Boston. So I applied at Middlebury and got the position. Two weeks after I unpacked my boxes, I found out my father had sent a hefty donation to the school. I guess he didn’t think I was impressive enough without his money.”

There was no missing the bitterness in Michael’s voice, or the steady tic that suddenly pulsed along the side of his jaw. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“Don’t be. It’s water under the bridge. My father pretends he’s not disappointed. I pretend I’m not angry. And my mother pretends the whole thing never happened. Problem solved.”

Lane was more than a little relieved when the clams and second round of beer arrived. She barely knew what to say about her own family relationships, let alone someone else’s.

They ate with gusto, sopping up garlicky broth with hunks of warm bread, sipping ice-cold beer as the sun went down and the deck tables steadily filled. In the corner, beneath a skeletal aluminum frame that was meant to be covered with canvas, and probably had been until Penny blew through, a trio of musicians began running a series of sound checks while a busboy scurried between tables, lighting the stainless-steel patio heaters.

A few minutes later the crowd broke into raucous applause as the band opened their first set with “Brown Eyed Girl.” Several couples got up to dance between the tables. By the second verse everyone in the place was singing along. Lane said yes to another round. Not because she wanted another beer, but because she wasn’t ready to leave. It felt good to be out, good to know that she still knew how to enjoy herself.

She barely heard her cell when it went off in the middle of “Hotel California.” She scowled as she pulled the phone from her pocket and checked the number. Perfect timing, as always. Apparently their conversation had conjured her mother out of thin air.

“My mom,” she hollered to Michael over the thumping music. “I’m just going to step down onto the beach a minute so I can hear. I won’t be long.”

It was quieter down on the sand, but not by much. Lane bit her lip as she tapped the screen to answer the call, instantly wishing she
had just let it go to voice mail. She grimaced at the sound of her mother’s voice.

“Lane—honey? What in the world is that racket?”

“It’s music, Mother. What’s up?”

“Robert and I just got back from New York, and I called your sister to tell her I was home. She said something about a storm?”

Lane took a deep breath and let it out very slowly. Of course she’d called Val the minute she got home. “It was a week ago, Mother, and I’m fine, thanks.”

“Lane, you know I don’t like you living in that old castle all by yourself. Anything could happen and there wouldn’t be a soul to take care of you.”

God, not again.

“Mom, it’s not a castle; it’s an inn. And I can take care of myself. I have been for years now. And if it makes you feel any better, I’m not alone.”

There was a long silence on the line, and then, in a whole new tone, “Do you have . . . company?”

Lane bit her lower lip, already hating herself for what she was about to do. “Yes, I have company, and we’re in the middle of dinner, so I should get off.”

“I didn’t hear you. Is it a man? Where did you meet him?”

Frustrated, Lane plugged her ear with one knuckle and raised her voice a notch. “Yes, it’s a man, and he’ll be at the inn through the off-season, so you can stop worrying about me.” It wasn’t a complete lie, and if it got her mother off her back—and off the phone—she wasn’t going to feel guilty. In a few months she’d invent a messy breakup and the whole thing would be forgotten.

“Who is he, Laney? Is he from a good family? What does he do?”

“He’s a professor,” she yelled into the phone. “Mother, I’ve got to go. I can barely hear you.”

“I just want you to be happy, honey. You let Bruce get away. Men like that don’t grow on trees, you know.”

“Well, let’s all thank God for that, shall we?”

“I heard he’s seeing someone,” her mother said, ignoring her sarcasm. “And that it might be serious.”

“I’ll pray for her.”

“I just thought you should know, in case . . .”

“In case what? In case I want to go crawling back?” Okay, time to get off before she said something she regretted. “Look, I’ve really got to go. I told you, we’re out to dinner.”

“Why don’t you bring him home, Laney? Your sister can come for the weekend, bring the kids. It would be nice.”

Nice?
Lane shuddered at the thought. Yes, bring him home by all means, parade him in front of her mother and Val so they could grill him about his prospects, then vote thumbs-up or thumbs-down. Maybe they could go through his wallet while he was sleeping, check the balance in his checking account. Sweet Lord, what was she thinking? This entire conversation was a farce, and Michael Forrester wasn’t a prospective anything.

“I’ll have to get back to you,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even. “He’s working on a book, so it’s probably not a good time for a trip. I’ll, um—I’ll call you next week.”

“Can’t you at least tell me his name and a little about him?”

There it was, the old familiar wheedling that was supposed to pass for concern but was really nothing more than good old-fashioned nosiness. It was all Lane needed to go teetering over the precipice of good sense and good manners.

“His name is Michael, Mother,” she shouted in exasperation over a series of earsplitting drum licks. “And we’re having quite a lot of sex!”

The words hung sharply in the chilly salt air—too sharply. Lane
glanced up, realizing for the first time that the band had stopped playing, and that every head on the patio had just jerked in her direction—including Michael’s.