The Wishing Tide (29 page)

L
ane’s breath caught painfully as she entered Hannah’s room. The doctor had prepared her, or had tried to, but actually seeing her, so pale and still against the pillows, brought tears scorching up into her throat. The gash on her forehead was bandaged now, the eye beneath shiny and swollen, already turning a livid shade of purple. Lane brushed her fingers over the back of Hannah’s hand, carefully avoiding the tape that held her IV in place.

“She looks so . . . frail.”

Ashton smiled. “If there’s one thing Hannah Rourke isn’t, it’s frail. What happened today would have—well, let’s just say most women her age wouldn’t have fared nearly as well. She’s a fighter. She’s had to be.”

For the first time, Lane noticed the heavy black sling just visible above the sheet. “She broke her arm?”

“Her right shoulder and elbow were both dislocated. They’re back in place for now, but more may be required down the road. At the very least she’s going to need some physical therapy. Unfortunately, I believe she’s left-handed, which means she’s going to need a significant amount of help when she gets out. Bathing, dressing, meals, that sort of thing.”

“That won’t be a problem. Can you give me any idea when that might be so I can make arrangements?”

Ashton pursed his lips. “It’s hard to say just now. We’ll need to assess her again when we withdraw the sedation, keep an eye on the head injury, and possibly adjust her current meds. If all goes well, it might be as little as a week. But again, given her history . . .”

Lane nodded when he let his words trail. There was no need to finish the sentence. As she turned back to the bed, the floor seemed to shift, the entire room to wobble. Grabbing the bedrail, she closed her eyes and waited for the world to right itself, dimly aware of Ashton’s hand on her elbow.

“Right now I think I’m more worried about you than I am Hannah. When was the last time you ate, Ms. Kramer?”

Lane shook her head vaguely. “I had some coffee from the vending machine.”

“I thought as much. Look, there’s nothing more you can do here tonight. Why don’t you go home, eat something, and get some sleep? You can leave your number with the desk. Someone will call if there’s any change.”

“But if she wakes up—”

“She won’t. I promise. Not with what we’ve given her. My suggestion is that you rest up. She’ll need you down the road, and she’ll need you at your best. Go on, now. Get some rest.”

Lane looked down at Hannah, apparently resting peacefully. It had been an exhausting day, and an even longer night. Sleep wasn’t likely, but a shower and food weren’t half-bad ideas.

“All right,” she agreed reluctantly. “But I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

Dragging her purse onto her shoulder, she headed for the door and the nurses’ station to leave her number. There was nothing to do now but go home and face Michael with the truth, to tell him the
woman he’d spent years hating and blaming for the death of his brother was very much alive, and very much in need of her son.

The lights in the library were still on when Lane pulled into the drive. She had hoped they wouldn’t be, that he would be upstairs in his room, sound asleep. No such luck. Her legs felt like lead as she stepped up onto the front porch and fumbled her key into the lock.

Michael was in the foyer when she walked through the door. “Where have you been all— Jesus, is that blood?”

Lane felt strangely detached as she blinked down at the front of her pale blue hoodie. She hadn’t realized she was covered with blood. “It’s not mine,” she said thickly.

“I’ve been calling your cell for hours. What happened? The last thing I knew you were on your way to Hope House. That was this morning.”

She dropped her keys and purse, unzipped the hoodie slowly, stalling. “They make you shut them off at the hospital.”

Michael took a step forward. “You were at the hospital? Are you hurt?”

“No. There was an accident. I was . . . We were . . .” Her words trailed away as the room began to tilt. She pressed a hand to her eyes, steadied herself. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

He touched her then, a hand on her elbow. “You’re pale, and you look exhausted. Have you eaten?”

Lane ignored the question as she dropped onto the sofa and patted the cushion beside her. “Michael, I need to tell you what’s happened, and I think you should sit down while I do it.”

Frowning, he eased down beside her. “All right, you have my attention.”

“I didn’t tell you this morning, but the reason Mary was upset was that I was asking her some questions—about Hannah Rourke. That’s when she started to unravel. I didn’t understand then, but I do now.”

Michael stared at her, clearly annoyed. “You were asking her about my mother?”

“Michael, there’s something you need to know—”

“We’re talking about Mary.”

“Her name isn’t Mary.”

The words had tumbled out before she had time to think about them, before she’d given any thought to how she would finish them. Now there was no going back, no closing the door she had dragged open.

“I couldn’t find her when I got to Hope House. A woman named Dana pointed out her room, so I went to look for her.” She paused briefly, letting the words settle. “The walls were covered with drawings.”

Reaching into the pocket of her hoodie, she produced the damp and rumpled sketch, unfolding it before she handed it off. Michael’s face went through a parade of emotions as he stared at the sketch—recognition, shock, denial.

“This is . . . from Mary’s room?”

“Yes. But she isn’t really Mary.”

He looked up then, shaking his head slowly. “No. This can’t be—”

“It is, Michael,” Lane said softly. “She’s Hannah. She’s your mother. I should have seen it sooner, put two and two together. But she was always so careful not to give herself away, to steer away from details. It wasn’t until I saw the sketches that it hit me. After that, everything started to fit—the princes, and the wrecked ship. It was her story.”

Michael was on his feet now, stalking the parlor with the sketch still in his hand. “It’s a scam—some kind of bullshit scam. It’s obvious when you think about it. You live across the street from the house. You presumably know the history. You’re the perfect mark.”

“I’m not a mark, and there’s no scam. Look at the drawing, Michael. She’s Hannah.”

“I don’t have to look at it.”

“You’re saying you don’t recognize it? That it isn’t almost identical to the sketches your mother used to do?”

“I never told you Hannah drew. How—”

Lane pushed to her feet. “Wait here.”

A few moments later, she returned with the old leather sketchbook. “I think you’ve been looking for this.”

Michael eyed the green leather cover and took a deliberate step back. “Where did you get that?”

“Some workmen found it in the basement. It was under the stairs—where you left it.”

Michael took the book, sinking into the nearest chair. After flipping a few pages he glanced up. “Why didn’t you tell me you had this?”

The unspoken accusation raised Lane’s hackles. “Tell you? I didn’t know what it was, or that it meant anything to you. How could I? Until a few days ago I didn’t know who you were.”

Michael nodded, grudgingly conceding her point, then turned his attention to the sketchbook, open now to a pair of colorful young knights—Hannah’s princes, Lane now realized.

“It’s what you came back for, isn’t it?”

Michael cleared his throat and closed the book. “I thought they were just pictures. I didn’t realize what they meant, that they were about her life—and my father. I hated her so much after Peter died, couldn’t bear to think of her. And yet I had to know if the damn thing had survived the fire. So one night after they brought me here, I snuck out to look for it.”

“And you found it.”

He nodded. “Yes, and brought it back here. I kept it hidden under the stairs so the other boys couldn’t get at it. There wasn’t time to go after it when they came for me.” Smoothing his palm over the worn leather cover, he smiled almost sadly. “For thirty years I’ve been
wondering if it was still there, and so I came. When I didn’t find it I tried to convince myself it didn’t matter.”

“But it did.”

“Yes.”

Lane waited while the silence yawned, hoping he’d say more. Finally, she laid a hand on his shoulder. “You believe me, then, about Hannah?”

He shrugged. “I’ve no choice but to believe you.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Do?”

“About Hannah, now that you know she’s alive.”

He glanced away, the muscles in his jaw clenched. “I’m not going to do anything. I know you’re hoping for some happy ending here, but this doesn’t change anything. Alive or dead, Hannah Rourke isn’t a part of my life, and that’s how I intend to keep it.”

The anger in his voice was so raw, so brutal, that it set something off in her. Sliding off the arm of the chair, she stared down at him, her hands on her hips. “She was hurt today, Michael—badly. That’s where I’ve been all this time, in the emergency room. She was hit by a car. She was upset and she . . .” She paused, ran a hand over her eyes, pushed her bangs off her face. “It was my fault.”

He stood then, stretching to his full height to glare down at her. “Don’t ever say that again. I’m not letting you blame yourself for something that woman did. If you want to blame yourself for something, blame yourself for getting involved with her in the first place, for letting her into your life—and back into mine. The woman was dead, Lane. Dead! But you just couldn’t leave it alone. You had to dig her up, shove her under my nose. I warned you, didn’t I? That this would turn into something else? That sooner or later she’d suck you in? Well—welcome to the club. You’ve just earned your Hannah Rourke merit badge.”

Lane held her ground. “She needs you, Michael. You’re her son—the only one she has left.”

“And whose fault is that?” The words seemed to explode out of him. “I’m her only son because she couldn’t be bothered keeping the other one safe. Does she remember that part? Or was that someone else’s fault, too?”

“Do you know where I found your mother yesterday?”

“Stop calling her that! My mother’s name is Katherine.”

Lane pretended not to hear, raising her voice to match his. “She was kneeling in the rain, in front of Peter’s grave. She blames herself—no one else. It’s time to forgive her, Michael, so she’ll finally stop torturing herself.”

“Sorry, I can’t help with that. I won’t get sucked in again. The sooner I see Starry Point in my rearview mirror, the better. And if you’re smart, you’ll see that I’m right. You do what you want. It’s your life, which is certainly none of my business, but I’m telling you, the best thing you can do is stay away from that hospital and forget you ever met Hannah Rourke—or me.”

Lane felt the words like a knife, cool and true to their target. Lifting her chin, she blinked back the sting of tears. “My life isn’t your business. Fine. But I can’t do what you’re asking. And if you can, you’re not the man I thought you were.”

“I believe I tried to tell you that.”

Lane winced, then turned her face away. “So you did.”

Michael shifted his weight, scraped a hand through his hair. “Look, I don’t need a lecture, and I sure as hell don’t need a guilt trip. Have you forgotten that I was the one who dragged her out of the house the night my brother died? Or do you need to see the scars again?”

“She isn’t that woman anymore. She’s . . . better. And she needs you.”

“Needs me?” He blinked at her a moment, then laughed, a hollow sound that rang sharply around the room. “Well, now, that is rich. You’ll pardon my skepticism if I find it hard to believe she’s given up the pills and the booze long enough to care about someone besides
herself. That’s how the fire started, by the way. Or didn’t she tell you that part? The night Peter died she was so blind drunk she could barely stand up.”

The words made Lane go stock-still. “That’s what you think? That Peter died because your mother was drunk?”

“I was there.”

“No, Michael, you weren’t. You were in the greenhouse.”

“You’re saying it was my fault?”

“No. I’m saying you’re remembering it wrong, that there are things you don’t know about that night.”

“Really?” he fired back coldly. “By all means, enlighten me.”

Lane bit her lip, not at all sure what she was about to tell him would help her case. And yet she couldn’t let him go on remembering it as he did. “Michael, the night Peter died your mother had washed down a handful of pills with a bottle of scotch. She wasn’t drunk. She was trying to die.”

Michael’s face darkened with a mix of anger and disbelief. “Who told you that?”

“She did. And her doctor pretty much confirmed it.”

For an instant, he looked dazed, as if he’d just been sucker punched. “Well, then, that’s much better. Not boozy, just suicidal.”

“She was sick, Michael—and ashamed. She thought you and your brother would be better off with no mother at all than with her.”

“Don’t!” he barked the second the words were out of her mouth. “Don’t you dare stand there and try to make me feel sorry for her. This is how she does it, how she sucks you in, makes you care. And I guess it all comes back to me, then, doesn’t it? Because I wasn’t there when Peter needed me.”

“Michael, no one believes that but you. And maybe if you could see that, you’d stop hating her for things that were beyond her control.”

“That’s right, stand up for her. Hell, canonize her, if you want to.
But I’m not sticking around to see it, or to pick up the pieces when it all goes to hell again. And it will. Only this time it’s you she’ll be taking with her. Just remember, I tried to warn you.” With that, he turned and headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Where are you going?”

“To pack up the rest of my things. Storm or no storm, I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.”

Lane closed her eyes, trying to channel the urge to cry into something more like anger. It was easier to be angry than to feel what she was really feeling. She waited until she heard his door slam to pick up Hannah’s sketchbook. Perhaps she’d try again in the morning, after he’d had a little time to digest the news. But then, what was there to say that hadn’t already been said—by both of them?