Lane
Lane closed her eyes briefly as she washed up Michael’s breakfast dishes, her cheeks warming at the memory of last night’s dinner conversation. Two glasses of Chianti and she’d poured out her life story to a veritable stranger. Jesus, maybe Mary was right. Maybe she did wear her scars on her sleeve.
She had risen early to get her morning walk out of the way, then manufactured an excuse to skip breakfast with Michael. He hadn’t seemed to mind. In fact, she might even have detected relief in his coolly distracted nod when she told him she was having breakfast with a friend later on. And it was mostly true, if you counted blueberry scones as breakfast, and Mary as her friend. Besides, she hadn’t been the only one making free with personal details last night. She suspected Michael might be feeling a little sheepish, too. The good news was that in a few months they’d never see each other again.
The front door buzzer interrupted her thoughts. It would be Dally. A moment later came the scrape of a key in the lock, followed by Dahlia Morgan’s signature greeting.
“Hey-howdy!”
“Back here in the kitchen,” Lane hollered.
Dahlia Morgan bounced into the room with her usual burst of twentysomething energy, fueled in part by the enormous cup of Stop-N-Go coffee she never seemed to be without. Lane couldn’t blame her, though. For a single mom juggling three jobs, not to mention online classes to become a massage therapist and something called a Reiki practitioner, it was probably the only way she managed to keep all the balls in the air. Still, even with megadoses of caffeine and a mother who helped out with Skye, Dally’s four-year-old daughter, Lane honestly didn’t see how she kept going.
Skye was just one of the reasons Lane kept Dally on during the off-season, though with no guests she usually cut her back from four days to one. The other reason, and perhaps the real one, was that Dally had been there for her from the beginning. She had lived next door to the cottage Lane briefly rented during early renovations. Skye’s father had been abusive, and while Bruce had never laid a hand on Lane, Dally had had no trouble recognizing a woman who’d lost her confidence and needed to get her feet back under her.
She’d introduced Lane to yoga, and had nearly drowned her with herbal tea, but more important, she had listened and understood. Not to mention, when it came to keeping up with local affairs, her weekly visits were better than a subscription to the Islander Dispatch. She had a talent for picking up every scrap of Starry Point gossip worth knowing, and even a few that weren’t.
Dally doffed her lime green jacket and draped it over a chair. “I haven’t been by since Penny, but it looks like you fared pretty well. I saw the big tree all cut up out by the road, though. It didn’t do any damage, did it?”
“No. It fell across the driveway. How about your place?”
“Not bad. The landlord came by and boarded us up. Mom was terrified, but Skye slept through the whole thing. The worst of it was going three days without power.”
“And the Village Mart’s still pretty bare, which makes meals a bit of a challenge.”
Dally grinned as she snuck a scone out of the basket on the counter and nibbled off one of the corners. “Long as I can boil water, we’re fine over at my place. We’re plenty used to ramen and Kraft mac and cheese.”
Lane refilled her mug, then crossed the kitchen, scowling at Dally as she dropped into a chair. “You do know that child’s going to end up with rickets one of these days, right? Just because you think broccoli’s some sort of government plot doesn’t mean Skye can’t eat a green bean every once in a while. I swear, for an earth-mother type you’re the most unhealthy eater I know.”
“Lord, now you sound just like Mama.”
“Your mother’s a smart woman.”
The floorboards creaked briefly as Michael appeared in the doorway. “Who in the world are you talking—” He broke off, his face suddenly sheepish. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize . . .”
“Michael, this is Dally Morgan. Dally, Michael Forrester.”
Michael nodded politely as he backed out of the doorway. “I forgot you said you had a friend coming by. Excuse me.”
His footsteps had barely receded when Dally pounced. “Who. Was. That?”
“A guest.”
Dally folded her arms, her dark brows arched skeptically. “In November? Since when?”
“Since he knocked on my door in the middle of tropical storm Penny.”
“And you let him stay? Well, of course you did. I mean, look at him. He must be seven feet tall.”
“I promise you his height had nothing to do with it. He’s a college professor on sabbatical. He needed somewhere to finish researching a book he’s working on.”
“So he’s a writer, too? And no ring. How perfect!”
“It’s not—” Lane glanced at the doorway, then dropped her voice. “It’s not perfect at all. In fact, it’s a bit inconvenient.”
“Having a smart, hunky guy stay with you? Yeah, I can see how that would be a real hardship.”
Lane shot her a look of exasperation. “Maybe it’s me, but twenty-eight seems a little old to still be boy-crazy.”
“I’m twenty-seven,” Dally shot back as she pushed another bite of scone into her mouth. “So, how long is Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hunky staying?”
Lane stifled a groan, knowing what would come next. “He’ll be here through the off-season.”
“Through February?” Dally counted off on her fingers. “That’s four and a half months. Eighteen weeks.”
“I’m glad to see those online courses are helping sharpen your math skills. And yes, I know how many weeks it is. I also know where you’re going with this, and you can stop.”
Dally blinked wide brown eyes at her. “What?”
A grin threatened but Lane swallowed it, replacing it with her best stern face. “Don’t play dumb, Dally. You stink at it. He’s a guest—a paying guest.”
“Okay, fine. But what’s the big deal? He’s here. You’re here. What’s wrong with mixing business with pleasure?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it. I’m just not interested.”
Dally slouched sulkily in her chair. “Suit yourself, but I’ve worked for you for over four years now, and unless you’ve been holding out on me, you haven’t had so much as a date. Don’t you think it’s time?”
“For what?”
“Oh, for crying out loud. Now who’s playing dumb? To get back on the horse, silly. Think of it as one of those no-risk ninety-day trials.”
Lane set her cup down with a firm shake of the head. “No, thanks. I’m still chafed from my last ride. I’m not looking for a new set of saddle sores. Michael is here because with all the break-ins around town I thought it might be a good idea to have a man around.”
“Hmmm.” The eyebrow notched up again. “You never struck me as the nervous type.”
Lane ignored the sarcasm. “The other night I was looking out front. I think I saw a light in the house across the street.”
Dally suddenly sat up straight. “The Rourke place?”
“It looked like a flashlight, but whatever it was I can tell you it made me nervous. The worst part is the police don’t seem one bit interested. In fact, I’m pretty sure they don’t even believe me.”
“Wow . . . creepy.”
“I know what I saw, Dally. Someone was in that house.”
Dally fingered the crystal amulet around her neck. “Maybe there’s some truth to all those rumors—the banker back in the twenties, and then that poor little boy. Sounds like some pretty negative energy to me.”
Lane made a face. “I know you believe in that stuff, but I’m pretty sure this light was man-made.”
Dally shrugged. “Well, the good news is there haven’t been any new break-ins since right before the storm. Maybe the culprit left the island.”
“I’d love to believe that. But even if it’s true I’m afraid I’m stuck with Michael Forrester until March.”
Dally rose, carrying her empty Stop-N-Go cup to the trash on her way to the stairs. “Honey, all I can say is I’d love to have your problems. Now, if you’ll tell me which room the professor is staying in, I’ll go up and change his sheets and towels.”
“I put him in the Tower Suite.”
“Wonderful. I’ll rifle the nightstand to make sure there aren’t any pictures of a girlfriend lying around—just in case you change your mind between now and March.”
Lane rolled her eyes, calling after Dally as she disappeared up the stairs, “You know I only put up with you because I can’t stand doing laundry.”
Dally’s voice drifted back down. “I do. And you know I’m only here for the baked goods.”