The Wishing Tide, page 7
“What is it you want with me?”
Her voice was a surprise, quiet and almost melodic, not at all what Lane had expected. “I brought muffins and coffee,” she said, holding up the thermos.
“Why?”
“I thought it would be neighborly.”
“I’m not your neighbor. I’m no one’s neighbor.”
“Okay, then, to be friendly. I thought you might be cold.”
Eyes the color of a storm-tossed sea regarded her from a face that on closer inspection appeared more weary than weathered. She had been beautiful once, Lane realized with a start, but the years had been hard on her. The bone structure was still visible, though, high cheekbones and a straight, almost patrician nose. But a web of fine lines fanned out now from those strange, almost translucent eyes, and a deep V had embossed itself between her brows. Her hair, probably blond at one time, was now the color of old ivory, brutally cropped just below her ears. There was no way to guess her age, but it was obvious now that she was nowhere near as old as Lane had originally thought, just worn down by a life that had clearly not been easy.
“My name is Lane Kramer,” she offered tentatively. “I own the inn.”
The woman barely nodded, her eyes on the thermos.
Lane fished the paper cups from her pocket and carefully filled one. “There’s cream and sugar in it,” she said as she handed it over. “I wasn’t sure how you took it.”
A mute nod was the woman’s only reply.
After sipping from her own cup, Lane handed her a muffin. “I made these this morning. They might still be warm.”
With something resembling a nod of thanks, the woman took the muffin, peeling back the fluted paper cup before pinching off a bite and popping it into her mouth. Lane couldn’t help staring at her hands, smooth and strangely beautiful for a woman her age, long tapered fingers that moved with a delicacy that seemed at odds with her huddled posture and lumpy clothes.
“Mary.”
It had come out as little more than a grunt, delivered without so much as a turn of the head, but for now it was enough.
They ate their muffins slowly, and in silence. Lane pretended to watch a pair of gulls play tag along the shoreline while secretly stealing glimpses of the woman beside her. What was it she saw beyond the breaking waves? Lane followed the pale wide-eyed gaze out to sea, to the place where the water turned a flat shade of navy, then melted into a cold, cloudless sky, but there was nothing.
It caught her off guard when Mary popped the last of her muffin into her mouth and wordlessly held out her cup. Lane topped off both their cups, then tucked the empty thermos between her knees.
“I’ve seen you out here in the morning,” Lane said, dipping a toe into the heavy silence. “You sit here every day, like you’re watching for something.” Mary gave no indication that she’d heard. After a few beats Lane prompted her. “Are you . . . watching for something?”
The stooped shoulders rose and fell, rose and fell. Finally, her blue-veined lids fluttered closed. “Nothing you can see, my girl. Nothing anyone can see.”
Lane turned to stare at her. The answer seemed to come from far away, from another time and place in this woman’s life, but it begged more questions than it answered. And there was something else, the faintest hint of an accent, though it wasn’t one Lane could place, a singsong quality that fell just short of a lilt, not English or Irish, but something like it. Though she couldn’t be sure since she’d never heard it for herself, Lane suspected she was hearing what locals called a Hoi Toide brogue, common among Outer Banks natives. More perplexing, though, was how to respond. She had no idea what Mary’s words meant, only that the way they’d been said made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.
“What?” Mary blurted, obviously picking up on Lane’s confusion. “Have I got lipstick on my teeth?”
Lane wasn’t sure whether to apologize or laugh out loud. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. I just—”
“You think I’m not used to people staring?”
Once again Lane found herself at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, really.”
Something flickered in Mary’s eyes, a new emotion Lane couldn’t read. She shook her head. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you? Lovely hair. I knew someone once with hair like yours. She wasn’t as pretty as you, though. Or as kind. You needn’t worry, my girl. I didn’t take offense. You’re curious, not unkind. I already know that about you.”
“How?”
“The coffee,” she said simply. “You wear your scars on your sleeve, and I’ve learned that people, women especially, who’ve been knocked about by life are generally either terribly mean or terribly kind. You’re the latter.”
Lane’s cheeks warmed despite the biting wind. It was a wonderful compliment, but unsettling, too. How could this woman, a complete stranger, possibly know she’d been knocked about by life? Was she really that pathetic, or did this woman have some kind of second sight? She’d never really believed in things like that, but it was rapidly becoming clear that Mary wasn’t your average bag lady.
“How did you know I’d been . . . knocked about by life?”
Mary smiled her sad smile again. “It’s to do with the way you walk, my girl.”
“The way I walk?”
“You go at it with a vengeance. Keep your head tucked and your shoulders hunched, as if you expect life to land another blow at any moment, and all you want is to run away.”
Lane nodded. The words stung, though whether that was because they’d hit too close to home, or because she was ashamed of not concealing her weaknesses better, she honestly couldn’t say. Either way, it was sobering to be seen so clearly by someone who knew nothing about her life.
And what of Mary’s life, this vagrant who roamed the dunes clutching a bag of purple cloth? There were so many questions she wanted to ask the woman. Where did she live? Was there anyone to look after her? But something made her hold back. She’d only just broken the ice. To pry now might spook her, this time for good. And for reasons Lane couldn’t begin to understand, she knew she didn’t want that to happen.
“I’m glad you came through the storm okay,” she said, pivoting to firmer ground. It was a bland but safe topic, though she secretly hoped Mary might volunteer details about where she’d actually been while Penny was blowing across the island.
The V deepened between Mary’s brows, her blue-green eyes suddenly clouded. “Storm? What storm?”
Lane blinked at her. “Penny?” she prompted gently. “The tropical storm that hit a few days ago? I was worried that day I watched you pedal off in the rain.”
“Oh, that.” Mary waved off her concern, but something in her eyes warned Lane that she was lying, or at least not telling the whole truth. “A little wind, my girl, nothing more. There are all kinds of storms, the kind we weather with our eyes closed, and the kind we’re not meant to weather at all. Sometimes, though, we cheat life. Sometimes we come through when we’re not meant to.” Her gaze slid away then, back toward the watery horizon. “Though I suppose in the end we pay for that, too.”
Again, Lane had no idea what Mary was talking about but felt certain it had nothing to do with Penny, or anything else that could be tracked on a weather map. She longed to delve deeper, to know what had brought this inexplicable woman with her lilting voice and faded beauty to such humble circumstances, but the pain in her gaze was too raw, still fresh after what she suspected had been many years.
Mary was gone again, Lane realized, lost in her memories and her watching. She’d leave her to it, then. Standing, she tucked her thermos under her arm and dusted the sand off her backside. “I’d best get back. I’ve got some work to do.”
Mary barely nodded, her eyes fixed out to sea.
Lane held out the bag with the last muffin. “Take it. I’ve got more in the kitchen.”
Something that might have been gratitude glimmered in the old woman’s eyes as she accepted the offering. Lane watched, fascinated, as she dragged the cherished purple bag from beneath her coat—a tattered Crown Royal bag, she realized with surprise as Mary tucked her offering away and cinched the drawstrings tight.
When it seemed she would say nothing more, Lane took a step toward the inn, then turned back. “I walk down to the lighthouse every morning. I could bring coffee again tomorrow if you like.”
Mary’s frown deepened to something like a scowl. “Don’t trouble yourself. I hate coffee.”
Lane nodded, cheeks hot with embarrassment. The woman had only been humoring her, politely tolerating her charitable intentions. She turned to go.
“I’m very fond of tea, though,” Mary called over her shoulder before Lane had taken a step. “Milk, not lemon, but only a touch.”
It was a peculiar exchange to be having with a bag lady on a beach, Lane knew, more like something you’d overhear in a richly appointed drawing room, but she wasn’t about to try to sort that out now.
“Can I ask you something?” she said instead, shielding her eyes with one hand. “You said a moment ago that you hated coffee, and yet you drank it and then asked for a second cup. Why?”
A smile trembled on the old woman’s lips, thin and a little sad. “Because, my girl, I’m terribly kind, too.”
Chapter 12
Mary
What on earth am I doing? I shake my muddled head as I watch the Inn Lady climb back up the dunes, her green thermos snug beneath her arm, and wonder if I’ve lost what little is left of my mind. Letting people in is a bad idea. A dangerous idea.
They sidle up next to you, all syrup and smiles, ask all the right questions, say all the right words. And then while you aren’t looking, they open you up and take you apart, poke at your wheels and your gears, until they realize they have no stomach for what they’ve found—and then they leave you.
And each time they do, you scrape up the pieces and find a way to put yourself back together. Only somewhere along the way, a few gears go missing, and then a few more, until one day the little that’s left comes flying apart, and all your warped wheels and broken springs are laid bare to the world. And perhaps you deserve that kind of scrutiny. Perhaps it’s even good for you. They tell you it is.
But I can’t do that again. I won’t.
And yet here I am, risking exposure—and worse. How would pretty little Lane Kramer react if she knew where I’d spent the better part of my years—if she knew what I’d done? Would she turn away like the rest? I don’t believe she would. Because in a way I can’t explain, way down in my marrow, I know this woman. She’s safe, not broken like me, only a little bruised around the edges, and those bruises, wherever they’ve come from, make me sad for her, in a way I suspect people were once sad for me. No one is sad for me now. And that’s as it should be.
Still, it’s a frightening thing, this sympathy—unfamiliar territory. My heart has been frozen for so long I can scarcely remember the last time I felt sorry for anyone but myself. Still, I feel it now, thawing like a glacier that’s drifted too far south, leaving me exposed and uncertain on this slippery new ground. I don’t know Lane Kramer’s story, or who left her black-and-blue. I only know I’m willing to risk the finding out.
Chapter 13
Michael
Michael sat at the dining room table, sipping a glass of Chianti and listening to the sounds of dinner being served up on the other side of the kitchen door. Lane hadn’t volunteered what was on the menu when she suggested they dine together, but whatever it was smelled amazing. After this morning’s somewhat strained conversation in the library, the offer had come as a bit of a surprise. She had seemed distracted when she returned from her walk, her face grim and set, but then who could blame her? He had sworn he’d be no trouble, and so far he’d been nothing but. He was lucky she hadn’t booted him out on his ear. Instead, she’d invited him to dinner.
Lane was still wearing her apron when she pushed through the swinging door connecting the kitchen with the inn’s formal dining room. He stood to help with the tray, but she shooed him back into his chair, then proceeded to set out garlic bread, salad, and an enormous bowl of pasta.
It all looked wonderful, but at the moment Michael was more interested in the woman who had prepared it. Her face was just inches from his as she leaned forward to set out the dishes, though most of it was concealed behind a curtain of deep red hair, the kind of hair you wanted to touch just to prove it was real. She really was quite lovely, long-limbed and slender with enormous gold-flecked green eyes and a dusting of pale freckles across the bridge of her nose. He hadn’t noticed those before, but suddenly he had a flash of her as she must have been as a girl, the freckles more pronounced, the auburn hair wound into a pair of heavy braids, all knees and elbows and eyes. He found himself wondering if she’d been happy then—and if she was happy now.
She sighed softly as she untied her apron and tossed it aside, then slid into the chair across from him, her cheeks still flushed from cooking.
“Wine?” Michael inquired, poised to fill her glass.
Lane shook her head. “Best not. I still have some writing to do.”
Michael waited for her to take the first bite before picking up his fork to dive in. “This is amazing,” he said after a few bites. “There’s a little place outside Boston, La Campania. Best Italian I’ve ever eaten. But they’ve got nothing on you.”
She waved off the compliment. “There’s still no meat to be had, but there were some vegetables in the bins that were still halfway decent, so I opted for the primavera. I’m never, ever out of pasta.”
“Are you Italian?”
“Lord, no. I was a Campbell before I married Bruce.”
“Bruce?”
“My ex.”
“Oh,” he said, feigning relief. “I thought maybe you were stashing him somewhere.”
“Hardly,” Lane said with a roll of the eyes. “Have you got one? An ex, I mean.”
Michael thought of Becca sorting through the CD tower in his living room. Could you call someone your ex if she required only one cardboard box to pack her possessions when she moved out?
“No,” he said finally. “No ex.”
Michael wasn’t sure she’d heard him. She was nibbling on a piece of bread, staring off into space. He hadn’t meant to bring up a sour subject, but the look on her face suggested he’d done just that. His suspicions were confirmed when she grabbed the bottle of Chianti and splashed some into her glass.
“I didn’t mean to pry. I’m sorry.”
“You asked if I was Italian,” she said between sips. “That’s hardly prying.”
“Would it be prying to ask how the articles are coming along? I haven’t been in your way, have I?”
Lane shook her head as she chased a chunk of zucchini around her plate. “No, you haven’t. And they’re coming along nicely, thank you. What about you? How’s the research going?”
“Tedious. So pretty much as expected.”
“You don’t enjoy research?”
Michael helped himself to more salad and began carefully herding olives to the edge of his plate. “I think I’m just tired of working on this book.”
“Then why write it?”
“Ever heard the phrase publish or perish?”
Lane nodded.
“Well, that’s why.”
“I thought you were crazy about Dickens and his social commentary on the poor and downtrodden.”
Michael caught the slightly snarky reference but let it pass. “I am, which is precisely the point. The more I work on the thing, the more I realize it isn’t the book I meant to write.”
“I don’t understand. It’s your book. Write it the way you want.”
Michael eased back in his chair, sipping his wine while he considered Lane’s remark. If only it were that easy. If only he believed he had that kind of say over his career and his work. But he’d learned early on, and was still learning, that the hallowed halls of academia carried their share of drawbacks, particularly for the son of a prominent Boston attorney whose shockingly generous gift to the school had conveniently arrived one month before he was hired.
He’d been trying to prove himself ever since, trying to overcome the niggling suspicion that he was sitting in someone else’s chair, that he’d usurped the job of someone who might have been more deserving, though not as well connected or well-heeled. The worst part was that he honestly couldn’t say whether he would have landed the position had his father not mailed the check. He did, however, know what everyone else thought.
“Can I ask you a question?” he asked, setting his glass aside.
Lane nodded, but her gold-flecked eyes were suddenly wary.
“This place—the inn—do you enjoy running it?”
“Very much. Why?”
“And your articles—you like writing them?” Her brow furrowed and he could tell she was trying to surmise where these questions were leading. “I guess I’m trying to figure out how you know if you’re where you’re supposed to be in life, or if you’re just, you know, treading water.”
The words seemed to catch Lane off guard. She set down her fork and blinked across the table at him. “I’m not sure if you’re asking the wrong question, or just the wrong girl. I mean, how does anybody know that?”
He planted his elbows on either side of his plate and folded his hands beneath his chin. “Did you always want to do this?”
“The inn? No, never. But I knew the minute I saw it.”
“And it’s enough? Even though it’s not what you always dreamed of doing?”
