The Wishing Tide (6 page)

Michael

M
ichael knew, as he watched Lane disappear, that he’d gone too far. He’d treated her like one of his students. Worse, he’d come dangerously close to insulting her taste in literature. He hadn’t meant it to come out the way it did, but sometimes he forgot that not everyone spent their days hiding in the pages of old books. When he was a child books had been his sanctuary, a refuge from the bullies and the memories he couldn’t outrun. Later, his friends were others like him, academic types more comfortable with dead writers than live people, who preferred words on a page to real life.

It hardly made for satisfying relationships, as Becca, his on-again, off-again girlfriend, had icily pointed out while packing up her DVDs and exercise mats three months ago. Truth be told, he was relieved when it ended. Keeping up with a twenty-seven-year-old yoga instructor had been both exhausting and mind-numbing, a manic whirl of health lectures and vegan cooking classes, all ironically lubricated with far too much chardonnay. He should have known better. In fact, he had. But she’d been someone—something—to fill the void, to distract him from the growing realization that the life he was living belonged to someone else, someone who wasn’t even real.

Drifting back to the shelves, he slid the weathered volume of
Great Expectations
free and ran his palm over the front cover, cool and vaguely waxy. It had been beautiful once, moss green leather, embossed lettering, richly marbled endpapers. Now the lettering was gone, the leather badly scarred after God only knew how many readings. Not surprising, though. Boys didn’t take care of their own things, let alone books that belonged to someone else.

He opened the volume tentatively, savoring the musty scent of old book: dust and ink and slowly decaying paper. After coffee, it was his favorite scent in the world. Flipping to chapter twenty-seven, he scanned the pages until he found the passage he sought. It was one he knew by heart.

In the little world in which children have their existence, whosoever brings them up, there is nothing so finely perceived and so finely felt as injustice.

Yes, he’d been abrupt with his hostess, and less than truthful about the reason he disliked
Great Expectations
, but what was he supposed to do? Spill his guts to a virtual stranger? Explain that as a boy the story had torn him apart, giving him nightmares that left him drenched and weeping in his narrow bed? That even now thoughts of the tragic Miss Havisham filled him with revulsion? Lane would never understand. How could she? His hostess saw
Great Expectations
as a literary classic. He would always see it as something else.

Lane

L
ane stepped out onto the deck and sucked in a lungful of air. It was breezy and cold, even for November, but she didn’t care. Today would be her first walk since Penny had blown through, and after her recent conversations with Michael she needed to walk off a little steam, though she wasn’t as angry with him as she was with herself. It was becoming clear that letting him stay had been a mistake. She had allowed a silly light in an empty house to get under her skin, and now she was stuck with an unwanted guest who was growing more irritating by the minute.

Sure, he was brilliant and good-looking, and probably very well-heeled, but he was also moody and opinionated—and secretive. No, not secretive exactly, but definitely reclusive, and in a mysterious and brooding way she didn’t have time for. She couldn’t deny that he’d been a big help, boarding up the shed window and doing his best to flatten out the mangled roof, tacking it down to prevent further damage until Sam could get by to replace it. He’d even cut up the fallen tree in the driveway with a rusty handsaw he found in the shed and hauled it all out to the street.

She had to admit he’d surprised her. In his professor clothes he didn’t look as if he’d know which end of a nail was pointy, let alone
possess the talent to perform all the tasks he had. Lucky for her he was handy, since it didn’t look as though Sam was going to be able to get by for several weeks. The Cloister might have sustained only minor damage, but houses farther up the beach, many of them little more than cottages, had taken a much harder hit. Several had been reported a total loss.

Zipping her jacket higher, she headed for the narrow boardwalk, prepared to set out, when she spotted the old woman moving purposefully past the back gate toward her customary spot on the dunes. The sight sent something like relief tingling through Lane’s limbs. She was safe. Even more surprising, she was back.

Where had she come from? Did she have family on Starry Point? It seemed unlikely. Based on the white hair and stooped shoulders, she had to be closing in on eighty, and no family worth their salt would allow a woman that age to roam the dunes while a tropical storm moved onshore. No, everything about the poor woman screamed
alone
.

Lane made up her mind in an instant. She couldn’t just keep pretending the woman’s presence on the dunes was normal. Instead of heading for the lighthouse, she turned and marched back into the kitchen. It took several minutes to find the old green thermos in the cabinet over the fridge, a few more to rinse it out, then fill it from the fresh pot of coffee she’d just made for Michael. Three muffins still warm from the oven went into a white paper bag, and a pair of paper cups went into her jacket pocket.

She let the gate clang noisily as she stepped out onto the narrow boardwalk but received not the slightest reaction. There was no greeting, no recognition of any kind as she came to stand beside the woman, but neither did she make a move to flee. That was progress at least. After a few minutes Lane dropped down beside her on the chilly sand and fixed her eyes on the horizon, waiting. She couldn’t say how many waves washed in and then out again before the woman’s gaze finally shifted, settling on her.

Lane kept very still, pretending not to notice that she was being studied, and hoping she didn’t look like a big old do-gooder here to hand out charity muffins to a bag lady—which was exactly what she was.

“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.”