The Wishing Tide (4 page)

Lane eyed him closely as she stepped around to unlock the door.
“Are you sure you haven’t stayed with me before? You seemed to know exactly where you were going.”

“You said the Tower Suite on the second floor. This is the second floor, and even in the storm I could see the tower when I pulled up. Also, the sign on the door kind of gives it away.”

She felt foolish as she looked at the plaque on the heavy oak door, clearly engraved with the words
TOWER
SUITE
. Gary Mickles said every woman in town was a nervous wreck. She hated to say it, but maybe he was right. Maybe the recent crime wave had unsettled her more than she realized, and soon she’d be checking under beds and sleeping with the lights on.

“Nice,” Michael pronounced as he followed her inside, though she had the distinct feeling he was just being polite. “Very . . . authentic.”

Lane had to agree. Of the inn’s twelve guest rooms, the Tower Suite was her favorite, richly appointed and period-perfect. She loved to show it off, probably because she’d spent more time and energy on it than any other room. Or maybe it was because aside from her own apartment on the third floor, the Tower Suite offered the most spectacular view of the coast and lighthouse.

Tonight, though, there was no view to brag about, only a merciless wind on the other side of the blackout curtains. The wind was louder here, too, on the second floor, howling in off the water. Maybe she should have put him on the first floor, in a room that fronted the street rather than up here, taking the brunt of the storm. In the end she doubted it would matter much. By the look of him, he’d be asleep before she made it downstairs. And by noon he’d be back on the road, on his way to wherever.

“The suite has a private bath,” she said, always the start of her spiel, “and an amazing tub, if you’re up for a soak. There’s probably still some hot water. Your toiletries are in this basket, and there are extra towels in the cabinet, along with a dryer and iron, not that they’ll do you much good.”

Michael nodded, but she could see that he’d appreciate it if she skipped the full tour and just hit the high points. “There’s a small sitting room in here,” she said, moving to the doorway of the small tower room at the southeast corner of the suite. “Normally, it’s a stunning view, though I’m afraid there’s not much to recommend it tonight.”

He surprised her by stepping past her into the center of the small turret room, the first real interest he’d shown. He stood with his back to her, his hands in his pockets, staring at the heavily curtained window. “I’ll bet you can see all the way to the light from here, watch the sun float up out of the sea and turn it silver in the morning. And at night, when it’s very clear, I bet those stars hang over the water like fairy lights.”

Lane felt a prickle along the back of her neck. His voice had gone so strange. And yet the words were exactly right, as if he’d snuck up behind her one day at her writing desk and peered out over her shoulder.

“How on earth can you describe something you’ve never seen in such perfect detail?”

Michael turned, his face all angles in the candlelight. “Did I?”

“Perfectly.”

He shrugged. “I’m a writer. Well, a literature professor who writes, at any rate. We tend to have rather vivid imaginations. Surely you can describe places you’ve never actually seen?”

Lane nodded. She did it all the time, in her articles. But this felt different, visceral, a product of memory rather than imagination. But then, she supposed one ocean view was much like another.

He said nothing more as he strode past her, just waited patiently while she turned down the bed and made a quick check of the minibar. She was halfway to the door when she turned back.

“I almost forgot. The curtains are blackout. I put them up because of the light, which some guests find charming, and others . . . well . . .
don’t.” She tugged the cord lightly. “As long as you keep these closed, you won’t even know it’s there.” She took a last look around the room, then handed him the key. “Breakfast is at nine. Will you be needing a wake-up call?”

Michael shook his head. “I’m a light sleeper and an early riser. Thanks, by the way, for putting me up like this. I don’t think I had another ten miles in me.”

Lane ducked her head in response and stepped out into the hall. As she pulled the door closed, she wondered what it was about Michael Forrester that made her linger in the hall a moment longer than was necessary, listening for—what? She had no idea. Finally, she started down, knowing she’d be up all night, tending her candles with one ear on the wind, waiting for some sign that the storm was beginning to abate, and wondering how much damage Penny would leave in her wake.

Michael

M
ichael didn’t move for several minutes, waiting until he was sure Lane Kramer had moved away from his door. What was she waiting for? The metallic snick of a pistol magazine sliding into place? A cryptic call to his comrades in Prague? He’d seen the sidelong glance she threw at him when they reached his door, the wary look of surprise when he startled babbling about the view from the turret room. She was suspicious—but of what exactly? He scowled at his own shadow on the far wall, stretched and ghoulish in the wavering candlelight, a grotesque shadow puppet. He supposed it was a wonder she’d let him in at all.

She had certainly done the place up right; he’d give her that. Even in the meager light, the room was like something from a glossy travel rag. She’d kept the elaborate woodwork, softening it with unfussy fabrics and period furniture with clean, straight lines. The result was both understated and authentic, no mean feat for a place as pompous as the Cloister. Her doing, he wondered, or a decorator’s?

Finally, reluctantly, he forced his feet to move, slow, tentative steps, as if he expected the gleaming floorboards to suddenly open up and swallow him. He felt a queer kind of vertigo as he ran light fingers over the chair rail and beadboard, wrapped them briefly
around the clear, satiny coolness of the mercury-glass doorknob, as if he’d entered a kind of time warp. From the bathroom door he walked off four careful paces, then leaned all his weight on his front foot until he was rewarded with the familiar give and groan of old boards. Everything changed. Everything the same.

And wasn’t that exactly what he’d been afraid of?

The pretty little redhead, though—that was new. Women like that—long-limbed and green-eyed—had no business at the Cloister. But then neither did he anymore. What the hell could he have been thinking? He’d turned the car around not once but twice, ready to abandon the entire idea. And yet here he was, in the middle of a tropical storm for crying out loud, with no idea what he hoped to accomplish.

Too tired to bother with laces, he pried off his shoes, heel to toe, a practice that still earned him the odd scolding from his finishing school–mannered mother whenever he ventured home to Boston, which wasn’t often these days. Dumping his canvas tote on the bed, he moved to the window, pulling back the heavy blackout curtain—fast, like yanking off a bandage. Nothing but pelting rain and the thin whistle of the wind squeezing itself into the chinks between window and frame. And then came the beacon, blue-white through all the whirling wet noise, illuminating and terrible. Sister Mary Constantine’s all-seeing
Eye of God.

Letting the curtain fall back, he turned away. He wanted to believe it was normal to be here, simple nostalgic curiosity. But deep down he knew it for what it was—unfinished business. Somewhere along the way, he’d taken leave of his senses. But then, that had been fairly predictable, hadn’t it?

His parents would be livid if they knew he was here. No—scratch that. His mother would be livid. His father would simply shrug it off, as he shrugged off most things Michael did. Still, this little quest of his was hardly worth a family squabble. Maybe he should call the
whole thing off. It wasn’t too late. He could pull out the minute the roads were clear, watch Starry Point recede in his rearview mirror once and for all, and no one would be the wiser. But he couldn’t decide any of that now. He needed sleep, the deep, dreamless variety that dumped you into a black hole and let you crawl out when you were good and ready. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept like that. No, that wasn’t true. He
could
remember—he just chose not to.

With a jaw-cracking yawn he yanked off his sweater and tossed it on a nearby chair, then fished a few essentials from his tote: toothbrush, toothpaste, and a well-thumbed edition of Poe, which he placed on the bedside table out of sheer habit. For once, he had neither the stamina nor the need to read before bed.

He brushed his teeth by candlelight, briefly tempted to take advantage of the fancy shower and what remained of the hot water to wash off the road grime before he slipped between his hostess’s neatly pressed sheets. In the end, though, the knobs and jets presented more of a challenge than he was willing to tackle in the dark. Cold water in the morning would have to do. He’d probably need it to wake up anyway.

Beside the bed, he emptied his pockets into a small driftwood bowl: keys, cell phone, loose change—and a small button of faded pink satin. He’d excavated the button from a leather case he kept in his dresser back home, where he stashed the bits of his life he no longer had any use for: the diamond cuff links he had received as a graduation present but never wore, the rosary of shiny black beads that had failed to aid his boyish prayers, the class ring from Exeter with its bloodred stone, still bright as the day he’d received it. All symbols of the person others expected him to be.

Except for the button.

The button was real—the only memento he had of who he really was. He lingered over it briefly, the fabric worn thin at the edges, barely pink at all now. Most people had actual memorabilia, albums
filled with photos, chests stuffed with baby clothes and discarded toys. He had a button. The candlelight flickered red against the backs of his lids as he closed them, fighting the dizzying barrage of memory—bourbon fumes and the sour pong of vomit, terror mingled with revulsion.

For a moment he stood stock-still, shoulders bunched high and tight, as if the T-shirt he was wearing had suddenly grown several sizes too small. When he finally managed to shove the memory away, he opened his eyes and tossed the button into the bowl with his keys. As he blew out the candle and collapsed into the antique mahogany four-poster, he tried to remember why he’d ever thought it was a good idea to come back to Starry Point.

Lane

L
ane sat bolt upright on the couch and glanced blearily at her watch—seven forty. It took a minute to remember what she was doing in yesterday’s clothes, and why she’d slept on the parlor sofa instead of upstairs in her bed. Finally, the fog cleared and she began to connect the acrid scent of fireplace ashes with the candles scattered about the room. She’d gone up to her room, had even tried lying down, but to no avail. The relentless wind and rain battering the third-story windows had simply been too much to take. Sometime around two she had given up, groping her way downstairs, where the noise seemed less ominous and the windows seemed less likely to blow in. It must’ve been around five thirty when she snuffed the candles and finally managed to close her eyes.

She felt stiff and gritty as she got to her feet, already dreading the cold shower she knew was in her future. Clearly, the power was still out—not a hum or whir to be heard. That was going to make coffee a challenge, and she couldn’t remember ever needing coffee more than she did this morning. God only knew what awaited her outside.

Sighing, she bent to collect the wineglasses from the coffee table. Glasses. Plural.

Damn.

She’d forgotten about Michael Forrester, asleep upstairs in the Tower Suite. The last thing she felt like doing at that moment was playing hostess. Oh well, there was fruit and fresh bread. She’d heat some water on the Coleman stove for tea. That was going to have to do. Right now she needed to see what kind of mess she was dealing with and find out whether there was anything left of the dunes. Yanking on her jacket and duck boots, she unchained the front door and ventured out onto the front porch.

Penny might have moved on, but she’d left no sunshine in her wake. Low gray clouds dragged by overhead, somber and still spitting rain. And while the wind no longer posed a threat, the breeze off the Atlantic was stiff and chilly, tangy with salt and the scent of freshly severed tree limbs.

Battered
was the first word that came to mind as she stepped off the porch—plenty of downed trees, branches scattered over the lawn, but it wasn’t bad, considering. Certainly nothing like the devastation she’d been dreading. The mailbox was gone, blown who knew where, and a heavy tree limb lay across the driveway, blocking the path of a charcoal gray SUV with Vermont plates. She wondered how long it would take Sam to come by with his chain saw.

Moving around the side of the inn, she further surveyed the damage. The wind had peeled back a section of the shed’s tin roof, curling it back on itself like an apple peel, and one of the windows at the back was smashed out, but other than that the inn itself looked as if it had escaped any serious toll. Not so much as a cracked pane of glass, and only a handful of slate shingles off the roof. Those wouldn’t be easy to replace, but all in all her relief was profound. She made a mental note to price shutters the minute things were back to normal. She’d worked too hard and invested too much money—all of it, in fact—to see it blown away in a single night.

She was on her way back around front when she saw Michael standing at the edge of the road. “Good morning,” she said, slipping
into hostess mode as she reached him. “Did you manage to get any sleep with all the wind and racket?”

He turned, unsmiling. “I did, as a matter of fact.”

He had showered and shaved, and smelled of the Belgian sea soap she used in the guest baths. His still-wet hair was combed straight back off his forehead, curling slightly against the damp collar of his light blue button-down. Once again, Lane found herself painfully aware of her own appearance: the remnants of last night’s ponytail, the sweats she’d been in now for almost twenty-four hours, and—God help her—duck boots and sweat socks. From where Michael Forrester stood she must look like some kind of . . . bag lady.

Lane’s gaze shifted briefly toward the beach behind the inn. It was the first time since opening her eyes that she’d given the old woman a thought. How had she weathered the storm, and where? It was a disturbing thought, but after yesterday’s uneasy encounter Lane doubted she’d ever see the woman again. Shaking off a twinge of guilt, she dragged her eyes back to Michael.

“I’ll work on some breakfast as soon as I give my handyman a call. He’ll pop over and get that limb out of the way so we can get you back on the road.”

“Give him a call . . . how?” Michael asked with annoyingly dry amusement. “The phones are out and I’ve got no signal on my cell. Towers must be down. They’ll be down several days, too, if there’s any real damage. You wouldn’t happen to have a radio, would you?”

Lane grimaced. “I do, but no batteries.”

Michael’s brows shot up, a blend of surprise and censure. “Did no one ever tell you that when you live on the Banks, water and batteries are Hurricane Prep 101?”

“I got the water,” she explained defensively. “But the batteries were gone by the time I got to the store. It’s not like there’s a Walmart on every corner, you know. This isn’t Boston.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed on her. “What’s Boston got to do with it?”

“It’s where you’re from, isn’t it? At least it’s where you
sound
like you’re from.”

“My parents are from Boston,” he corrected evenly. “I live in Middlebury, which is in Vermont. And we have only one Walmart in the entire state, though we do know that when there’s a storm coming, batteries are the first things to go.”

Lane cast about for a reply but couldn’t think of one. She was too busy wondering what she’d said to make this stranger’s mood turn sullen. Perhaps he’d mistaken her question for prying, but it was perfectly normal, almost required, for an innkeeper to chitchat with guests about where they were from.

It didn’t matter. Apparently he wasn’t interested in a reply. Fishing a set of keys from his pocket, he crossed the lawn and slid in behind the wheel of the charcoal SUV. He turned the key without cranking the engine, then fiddled with the radio buttons until he found a station. Lane stepped to the edge of the drive so she could hear.

Modest structural damage. All of Starry Point without power and likely to remain so for several days. Sections of Highway 12 washed out or impassable in many locations. No way on or off the island. Stay tuned for a list of shelters and medical aid stations in your area.

“Sounds like your basic mess,” Michael said as he switched off the radio and got out of the car. “Could’ve been worse, though, I guess.”

Lane was barely listening. She was too busy wondering what she was supposed to do with Michael Forrester. She had no power, no hot water, and since she’d planned on spending the next four months alone, she hadn’t much in the way of food. But she couldn’t turn him out, not when everything on Starry Point was shuttered, and there was no way to get back to the mainland. There was always the community center, although she was pretty sure turning a guest out to go to a shelter would be considered bad form, not to mention the review he was certain to post on the inn’s Web site.

He was standing at the end of the drive now, hands buried deep
in his pockets, his shoulders hunching uncomfortably as he stared across the street at the Rourke House. Lane pushed her bangs out of her eyes as she gave the old house an uneasy once-over. It was hard to know exactly what to chalk up to years of neglect, and what had resulted from the storm, but none of the damage looked serious. A shutter lay splintered on the front walk while another dangled precariously from the second-floor window. Several branches were down in the yard amid a scattering of shingles.

“It’s a little bit creepy, isn’t it?” she said gravely as she came to stand beside him. “It’s been empty for years. I guess it’s not surprising, though. Not too many people looking to buy a house that’s cursed.”

Michael’s head snapped in her direction. “Cursed?”

“Its residents have a nasty habit of dying. Back in ’twenty-nine a man hanged himself in the attic, a banker who’d lost all his money in the crash. Then a while back, in the seventies, I think, the mayor bought it. One day he went out sailing and never came back. Pieces of his boat washed up several days later. A year after that there was a fire on the upper floor and a little boy died. No one’s lived there since. If you listen to the locals they’ll tell you it’s haunted.”

“And if I listened to you?”

Lane was startled. Not by the question, but by the intensity in his voice when he turned to ask it. She opened her mouth, prepared to tell him about the light she’d seen in the window two nights ago, but something stopped her. If she wasn’t careful she was going to start sounding like the locals, up to her ears in ghosts and things that went bump in the night. She stole another look at the place, its empty windows and gloomy air of dissipation stirring the old familiar sadness.

“If you listened to me I’d tell you it’s an amazing old house with a very sad history. And that I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“No?”

“You say that as if you do.”

Michael shrugged, a deep, uneasy bunching of the shoulders. “There are all kinds of ghosts, Miss Kramer.”

“Lane.”

“Right,” he grunted as he turned away. “Lane. Now, I think you said something about breakfast?”

And just like that, the conversation was over. He was already halfway up the drive, offering no opportunity to delve into his mercurial mood. Not that his mood was any of her business. She had a few ghosts of her own, and she’d just as soon keep them to herself. She could only assume he felt the same.

Breakfast was a simple affair: bread and honey with a bowl of fresh berries, washed down with a surprisingly decent pot of tea. Michael didn’t seem to mind. He ate quietly across from Lane, browsing an old copy of the
Islander Dispatch
, licking honey from his fingers as he turned the pages.

“Mr. Forrester,” Lane began tentatively. “We seem to have a bit of a situation here.”

Michael folded down the corner of the newspaper and peered at her. “Have we?”

“As I said last night when you showed up, the inn is closed for the season. And as you can plainly see, I’m not exactly prepared for guests.”

“During a hurricane? No, I wouldn’t think so. Yet here I am, I’m afraid—at your mercy.”

Lane cleared her throat and tried again. “My point is, last night you mentioned that you were looking for a place to—park for the winter, I think was how you put it—and I just wanted to make sure you understood that as soon as the roads are clear you’ll need to find other lodgings. I could make a few calls if you wanted to stay here on the island.”

“I thought I’d just stay here.”

“Mr. Forrester, I—”

“Michael.”

“Michael,” she corrected. “Maybe I wasn’t clear. I don’t take guests between November and March. I’m closed.”

“Perfect. It’ll be nice and quiet, exactly what I’m looking for. I’m on a sort of sabbatical, trying to finish up the research for a book I’ve been working on for about five years now. A closed inn is ideal.”

“Except for the part where it’s closed,” Lane shot back, putting emphasis on the last word. Then she realized what he’d said. “Did you say you’re writing a book?”

He nodded. “A biography on Dickens.”

Lane saw a chink and went straight for it. “Good, then you’ll understand. I’m a writer, too. Well, not a real writer. Just freelance stuff, magazines mostly. But the winter is when I do most of my work. I won’t have time to look after a guest.”

He tapped his chin thoughtfully a moment, then carefully folded the
Islander Dispatch
and set it aside. “What is a . . .
real
writer?”

The sudden change of subject gave Lane momentary whiplash. “What?”

“You said you weren’t a real writer. I’m curious to know what that means.”

“I just meant the stuff I write isn’t—I don’t know—important.”

“Ah, as opposed to tedious biographies about dead Victorian authors?”

Lane blinked at him, not sure how to answer.

It was Michael who broke the silence, his words flavored with a smile she could hear but not see. “I won’t be any trouble.”

She rolled her eyes as she began hastily gathering plates and silverware. “Of course you will. There’ll be meals to cook, beds to make, showers to scrub.”

“I’ve been making my own bed since I was six. I know my way
around a frying pan. And I am perfectly capable of scrubbing my own shower. In other words, I’m extremely low maintenance. All I need is a bed and a quiet place to work. I promise to be invisible. You won’t even know I’m here.”

Lane pulled in a deep breath and let it out very slowly. If he was trying to be annoying, he was certainly succeeding. And yet there was something disarming in his tone, as if he was deliberately trying to charm his way in. She hadn’t been charmed in a very long time. She wasn’t sure she liked it. She stood abruptly with the stacked dishes and headed for the sink, trying to think of a way to end the conversation once and for all.

But Michael wasn’t giving up. Gathering the teapot and empty cups, he followed her to the sink. “How about this—you’re stuck with me anyway until the roads are clear and the power’s back on. Until then, I do my writer thing, and you do yours. If I’m a bother you have my permission to toss me out on my ear. If not, I get to stay. As a bonus, I’ll help with some of the cleanup until your handyman can come around.”