Lane
By nightfall Penny had begun to push her way onshore. Rain lashed steadily at the windows, the wind a sharply rising keen that made the panes rattle like old bones. Lane ladled soup into a bowl and popped it into the microwave, struggling to keep her mind on what she was doing and off where the old woman might be at that moment. They had set up a shelter in the community center. Maybe she was there.
But what if she wasn’t?
It was hard to imagine the woman she had encountered this morning voluntarily shoehorning herself in with a bunch of strangers. In fact, it was impossible. A thought struck her, or rather, an image, a beam of light moving past empty windows. It was possible. It even made sense. The police swore there were no signs of forced entry, but they couldn’t have been very thorough in the few minutes they’d spent at the back of the house. They could easily have missed something.
While the microwave whirred she padded to the front parlor, peering through the curtains, past strips of soggy masking tape. Old Point Road, the empty stretch of oyster-shell macadam that brought tourists to the Cloister, was deserted now, the road swamped after hours of steady rain. Lane watched anxiously as odd bits of detritus cartwheeled down the street: fallen tree branches, an aluminum trash can lid, a sodden chair cushion she’d missed when securing the yard yesterday. Across the street at the Rourke House, nothing seemed amiss, no light of any kind, no bike with a bright plastic flag. Lane didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned as she let the curtains fall back into place. It was a hideous night for anyone to be out, particularly an old woman. Not that there was anything she could do about it now.
In the kitchen, she thought of the Burtons as she poured a glass of Pinot and pulled her soup from the microwave, hoping they’d made it back to the mainland before things got too bad. She was about to slice herself a thick slab of bread when the lights sputtered and the kitchen went dark. The bread knife was still in her fist as she whirled around at nothing, the pins-and-needles prickle of adrenaline hot along her arms and legs, breath held in the sudden absence of household whirring and ticking.
It took a moment for Lane’s heart to resume something like its normal rhythm, and several more to accept that the lights weren’t coming back on any time soon. Feeling her way to the parlor, she fumbled with a pack of matches and lit a few candles, then groped about in the half-light to lay a small fire in the hearth. She supposed there were worse things than dinner in front of the fire, even if she was alone.
In a few minutes the blaze was going nicely, washing the walls with wavering amber light. Lane sipped her wine and stared into the flames. Candles, firelight, a stormy night—like something right out of a book. Only in books heroines didn’t schlep around in sweats and stretched-out socks, or wear their hair in grubby ponytails. Groaning, she took another sip from her glass. The only thing missing was the eleven cats.
Her head shot up when she heard a knock at the front door. Who on earth—? Before she could finish the question, the knock came again, more insistent this time. Perhaps the Burtons had turned back after all. Or the old woman—?
Carrying a candle to the window, she pressed her forehead to the glass, hoping to be able to see out to the drive, but could make out nothing but sheets of gusting rain. When the knock came a third time she turned the dead bolt and eased the door open as far as the chain would allow. The silhouette standing on her porch was too tall to belong to either of the Burtons.
“Can I help you?” she asked through the crack.
“I hope so. I’m looking for a place to stay.”
It was a male voice, deep and tired, and unless she was mistaken, a little annoyed. Lifting her candle, she tried to put a face with the voice. It didn’t do much good. All she could make out was a square jawline and a pair of very broad shoulders.
“I’m sorry, but the inn’s closed for the winter. You can try the Windjammer. Take a right up at the stop sign and head back into town. You’ll see the blue neon sign.”
“No sign,” the voice shot back over the wind. “Power’s out everywhere. Are you sure you can’t put me up? The roads are a nightmare.”
Lane had heard that voice before. It belonged to every traveler who’d been behind the wheel too long, so road weary they’d happily pay suite money to sleep in the pantry if it was all she had available. Unhooking the chain, she eased the door open another few inches, just wide enough to let the candlelight spill out onto the porch.
If the man objected to her scrutiny, he gave no sign. He stood there, one arm braced against the doorframe to steady himself against the wind. She put him at well over six feet. Forty, maybe, with longish hair dripping onto the collar of his jacket, and some kind of satchel slung over one shoulder. Okay, maybe he wasn’t an ax murderer. On the other hand, who knew what the well-dressed ax murderer was wearing these days?
“I’m really quite respectable,” he assured her, as if reading her thoughts. “I’m a professor at Middlebury College. I’m looking for a place to ride this thing out, and maybe park for the winter. I promise, the scariest thing in my bag is a collection of stories by Edgar Allan Poe.”
“I don’t have any power,” Lane said, knowing it wouldn’t dissuade him.
He glanced past her, to the parlor with its candles and cozy fire. “Looks like you’re managing. Besides, I don’t need lights to sleep, which is all I want in the world right now. You can charge me double if you want.”
Lane felt herself softening. He was drenched to the bone and obviously exhausted. She could put up with him for one night, she supposed, until the storm passed and the roads were clear. Pulling back the door, she waved him in with her candle.
He wasted no time stepping into the foyer. Shrugging the satchel from his shoulder, he let it slide to the floor, then unzipped his jacket, revealing khakis and a dark blue sweater.
“Is there somewhere I can hang this? I don’t want to drip all over your floor.”
Lane took the coat, giving it a good shake over the entrance mat before hanging it on the rack beside the door, then motioned for him to follow her to the reception desk in the den. “Let’s get you checked in. The worst of the storm should blow over by tomorrow. Then you can find other lodgings.” She had taken several steps before she realized her guest wasn’t behind her.
“Professor?”
He gave no sign that he heard her, standing almost eerily still, his head tilted back as he surveyed the parlor’s coffered ceiling. Lane cleared her throat, and he jerked his head in her direction. “Oh, sorry. Right behind you.”
At the desk Lane gave him a registration card to fill out, situating her candle so he could see. She’d have to key him into the system in the morning. No way to run a credit card, either. When he finished with the card he slid it back. Lane looked it over. Michael Forrester. Middlebury, Vermont. Nice penmanship. That was good—no serial killer handwriting.
“I’ll let you have the Tower Suite at the regular-room rate since it’s just one night and you’re the only guest,” she informed him, then launched into her standard first-time-guest speech. “All the rooms are nonsmoking. Breakfast is at nine, though with no power I’m not exactly sure what that might be. If you need anything, press two on your room phone and you’ll get me. Well, no, you won’t, actually, with the power out. I guess you can just bang on the ceiling. My rooms are just above yours on the third floor.”
“I won’t need anything except a bed. Would you like me to pay you now?”
“We’ll take care of it in the morning when the power’s back up.”
“How long’s it been down?”
“About thirty minutes.” Lane saw him glance at the tray in front of the fire, at her wineglass and half-eaten bowl of soup. “Have you eaten, Mr. Forrester?”
“Not since lunch. I was trying to beat the storm. By the time I hit town, everything was closed.”
“I’ve got some soup on the stove, but it might not be hot. And there’s fresh bread, if you’re interested.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I’ve already interrupted your dinner.”
“It’s no trouble. Your rate includes dinner, such as it is. Sit and I’ll bring it out. Can I bring you a glass of wine?”
Dropping down onto the couch with something between a sigh and a groan, he stretched his legs out in front of him. “Wine would be great.”
Even by candlelight it didn’t take long to fill another bowl and slice off a hunk of bread. She carried the tray in and set it on the ottoman beside her own. “It isn’t much, but at least it’s still warm.”
Michael Forrester rubbed a hand over his face, stretched the kinks from his neck. “Thanks, Ms.—I’m sorry, I don’t believe I got your name.”
“It’s Kramer,” Lane supplied sheepishly. “Sorry. I usually do the introduction thing at the desk, but everything’s a bit . . . out of sync. Call me Lane.”
Settling cross-legged on the floor, Lane reached for her wine, covertly watching her guest over the rim of her glass as he eagerly spooned up his cold soup. She could see him more clearly in the firelight. His dark hair was pushed back from his forehead, longish and still damp, not a bad look on the whole. He had a good face, too, high cheekbones and a firm, square jaw, a chin that hinted slightly at a cleft, with just enough scruff to keep him from being pretty. He probably wasn’t as old as she’d originally thought, either, just tired.
He surprised her by looking up from his bowl and lifting his glass. “My compliments to the chef, whoever he is. This may be the best meal of my life, and I’m not just saying that because you’re giving me a place to sleep, or at least not entirely.”
Lane returned the salute, certain that she detected a faint trace of Boston in his voice. She’d become a dialect expert since opening the inn. “He is me, Mr. Forrester. And you should have tasted it when it was hot.”
“Yeah, well, hot soup is overrated, especially to a starving man. And please call me Michael.” His mouth curved in an attractive way. “Dinner in front of the fire calls for first names, don’t you think?”
Dinner in front of the fire. Yes, everything certainly was . . . out of sync. It wasn’t as though she never dined with guests. She did, in fact quite often, but it was usually with people like the Burtons, couples who felt more like family than patrons. This didn’t feel like that. Suddenly, she was keenly aware of her baggy sweats and slouchy socks, her lazily scraped together ponytail. Maybe it was too dark to notice that she looked like a slob, but she doubted it. There’d been more than enough light for her to give him the once-over.
He was mopping up the last of his soup now, folding the last bite of bread into his mouth. It was silly, but with his long legs stretched out before the fire and a wineglass at his elbow, he seemed to belong right where he was. And yet there had been moments when she’d caught him glancing almost uneasily about the parlor, as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. What was his story? she wondered. Where had he been heading, and what was so important that he’d take to the road on a night like this? A critical job interview? A dying relative? An illicit rendezvous with a lover?
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but she’d always maintained a strict policy against prying into the private lives of her guests. If they volunteered, well and fine, but she knew not everyone’s story was a pretty one. And so she wouldn’t ask. Instead, she offered to refill his glass.
Michael made a sound of assent, lids heavy as he stared at the flames licking up from the hearth. “Nice fire. You should probably throw another log on, though.”
“I didn’t want it to get too hot.”
“Trust me, it’s in the forties outside. With no power this place will be like a refrigerator by morning.”
Lane looked at him, surprised. She’d just been thinking the same thing. “It’s because of all the stone.”
“And the leaky old windows.”
“Architecture professor?” Lane prompted, knowing full well she was breaking her own rules.
Michael blinked heavily, clearly trying to process the question. Finally, he shook his head. “No, but I’ve had some experience with old places like this. There’s a reason there are fireplaces in every room.” The words trailed away in a stifled yawn.
Lane stood, fishing a room key from her pocket. “I think I’d better show you to your room while you can still make it up the stairs.”
“Please,” Michael half groaned. “No stairs.”
Lane smothered a smile. He’d meant it as a quip, but the words were laced with genuine fatigue. “I told you, I put you in the Tower Suite, the best room in the house. The only catch is you have to climb a few stairs.”
Michael squinted up at her with one eye shut. “How many stairs, exactly?”
“I don’t know. I never counted. But I promise you, the view’s worth every one.”
Another groan as he got to his feet and stretched to his full height. Lane wasn’t sure why she was startled. She’d noticed his height the moment she stole a peek at him through the still-chained door, then again when he was hunched over the desk filling out his registration card, but now, with him standing right in front of her, she realized he must be at least six-four. For a moment she envisioned him asleep in the Tower Suite’s four-poster with his feet dangling over the edge.
“All right, innkeeper,” Michael muttered thickly as he stooped to retrieve his satchel. “Lead the way.”
“You’d best grab a couple of those candles to take up with you,” she told him. “It’ll be pitch-dark upstairs.”
How anyone could think of sleep in the middle of a storm like this one, Lane would never know, though clearly it was all Michael Forrester was thinking about. Before she could grab her own candle, he started up ahead of her, preventing her from leading the way as he had just suggested. Never mind—she’d tell him where he was going when they reached the landing. Except he didn’t seem to need directions. Like a man with a compass, he made an abrupt right at the top of the first flight, then continued on to the end of the corridor.
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.