Chapter 17

Lane

Lane was surprised to find Michael in the kitchen when she returned. She’d forgotten him somehow while talking to Mary. He was refilling his coffee mug, a scone caught between his teeth so that his hands were free. When he finished pouring he removed the scone, then picked up a scrap of paper off the counter.

“Your friend Delilah asked me to give you this note as she was leaving.”

Lane began unlacing her duck boots. “It’s Dahlia, actually—Dally for short. What does it say?”

Michael squinted at the note. “Well, it appears to be scribbled on the back of this month’s electric bill. Let’s see . . . Ninety days risk free. If not completely satisfied, simply return the unused portion for a full refund.” He frowned as he handed the note over. “It’s signed with a little smiley face.”

Heat prickled in Lane’s cheeks as she glanced at Dally’s scribble. Laundry or no laundry, it was definitely time to fire that girl.

Michael was making short work of his scone as he spooned sugar into his mug. “So, did you have a nice visit?”

Lane glanced up at him, feeling awkward and still vaguely annoyed. “What? Oh yes.”

“Coffee?” he offered, jerking a thumb toward the pot. “I’ll bet you’re freezing.”

“No, thanks.” She held up the thermos. “I brought tea, and it’s actually nice out. Almost balmy.”

Michael grunted. “Call me crazy, but maybe next time you could invite your friend in, rather than sitting out on the dunes freezing your tail off. You wouldn’t need the thermos.”

“Oh, she’d never come inside.”

Michael’s brows drew together. “Never come inside? What kind of friend is that?”

Lane stepped around him and crossed to the sink, busying herself with emptying and rinsing the thermos. She really didn’t want to get into explanations about Mary, at least not until she had a better handle on the woman.

“She isn’t exactly a friend,” Lane corrected, trying to keep her tone light. “She’s more of an acquaintance really, but for some reason we hit it off. She’s sort of . . . special.”

Michael’s spoon went still in his coffee. “Special . . . how?”

“Well, sort of like a bag lady, I guess. Her name is Mary.”

“Mary what?”

Lane shrugged again. “I have no idea. She just started showing up on the dunes a few weeks ago. Rain or shine, she’s there every morning. I don’t know a thing about her except that she hates coffee, and sometimes she seems like she’s not all there. She rides a rusty old bike with a DayGlo flag on the back and carries this purple cloth bag around with her everywhere she goes.” Lane paused, a smile slowly forming. “And she calls me my girl.”

“You mean she’s crazy.”

Lane’s chin lifted a measure in response to the word. “I’m not going to say that. But she is different—and sad. Day after day, she just sits there staring out at the ocean, waiting.”

“What’s she waiting for?”

Another shrug. The gesture seemed to perfectly sum up her brief relationship with Mary. “Truth. At least that’s what she said when I asked her. Every time I ask a question, I wind up with ten more.”

“Lane, do you really think this is wise?”

“Wise?”

“Getting mixed up with someone you know nothing about.”

“I run a bed-and-breakfast, Michael. I make a living getting mixed up with people I know nothing about.”

“That isn’t what I’m talking about.”

“Then what are you talking about?” It came out snippier than she’d intended, but as usual, something in his tone was getting under her skin.

“I’m just saying maybe you should think twice before getting involved with someone like that.”

Lane felt her anger bubbling close to the surface. “Someone like what?”

“Unstable, unhinged—hell, call it whatever you want. There are people who want help and there are people who are just looking for a crutch to prop them up between disasters. You seem like a nice person. I’d hate to see you get sucked into someone else’s self-induced hell.”

“How do you know I will?”

“Because that’s what happens. People like this Mary of yours are like human quicksand. You give them a hand and they drag you in with them. The woman could be dangerous for all you know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Mary might be a little . . . confused, but she’s not dangerous. In fact, there’s a sort of gracefulness about her, even if her clothes don’t match and her hair looks like it’s been hacked off with a pair of hedge clippers. I think she was probably quite beautiful once. You can tell by just looking that life’s been hard on her. She looks so tired, poor thing, and so alone.”

Michael set his mug on the counter, his expression steely. “Lane, trust me. You need to steer clear of this woman. Maybe you haven’t had experience with her type, but I have, and I can promise you, you’ll be sorry if you let yourself get pulled in.”

Lane studied him a moment, the bunched shoulders and grim mouth, the hands fisted tightly at his sides. Where was all this coming from? From the moment she laid eyes on him, she’d pegged him as well off, but prep-school, country-club well off, not heartless-bastard well off. Clearly she’d gotten it wrong.

“I’ll take my chances,” she answered finally, rolling her eyes for emphasis.

“Fine. Just remember I warned you. Before it’s over you’re going to wish you’d listened. These people lure you in with their sad stories, and then they take you right down with them.”

“Take you where?”

“To whatever sick place they go to in their heads. They like company, so they grab on to you and they don’t let go.”

Lane couldn’t help thinking about the look on Mary’s face when she had spoken about trying to save herself, and of eventually letting go—of sinking to the bottom. It was a terrible image, and a sad one, but the woman wasn’t a monster.

“For God’s sake, Michael, you’ve never laid eyes on the woman and you’re talking about her like she’s the Creature from the Black Lagoon! She’s a tired old woman who’s had a hard life, and my guess is she could use a little compassion. Something tells me she hasn’t found much lately, if ever.”

“I see,” Michael said, raking a hand through his hair. “This is some mission of mercy, then, an act of Christian duty?”

Do-gooder. The phrase popped into Lane’s head, fresh from Mary’s rant. Since when was trying to help someone a bad thing?

“How about a simple act of human kindness?” Lane snapped, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “Or is that out of fashion these days?”

Michael held up his hands, signaling a truce as he backed toward the door. “Just be careful, is all I’m saying.”

He turned and left the kitchen then, his coffee forgotten on the counter, leaving Lane to wonder what the hell all that had been about.

Two hours later, Lane was in her writing room still trying to put the final polish on the microbrew article that was due in two days. She wasn’t making much progress, distracted by the sparkling blue horizon, pondering what truth Mary hoped to find there.

She was also thinking about Michael, or maybe stewing was a better word. He had chutzpah, that was for sure. In little more than a week he’d found a way to question her taste in literature, her willingness to put herself on the line as a writer, and now her judgment in friends. But it wasn’t only that he’d weighed in with an opinion on something that was none of his business; it was the intensity with which he had voiced that opinion, the look in his eyes approaching panic, as if she’d just told him she’d shared a thermos of tea with a terrorist. It reminded her of Bruce, who had never trusted her judgment in anything.

Glancing at her watch, she realized it was time to start thinking about dinner. Michael Forrester might be a royal pain in the ass, but he was still a paying guest. And it wasn’t as if she was getting much writing done anyway. After tidying her notes she headed for the door. She was startled to find Michael on the other side, hand raised as if about to knock.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, stuffing the hand into his pocket. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I came to say I’m sorry.”

Lane fixed him with wide, unblinking eyes. “Sorry for what?” She knew damn well what he should be sorry for, but she wanted to hear him say it.

“For sticking my nose in your business—again. I came to ask if I could buy you dinner.”

His appearance at her door had definitely caught her off guard, but his offer of dinner was an even bigger surprise. “I was just on my way down to the kitchen.”

“Look, I know what you think, but I promise I’m not the jackass I appear to be—or at least not all the time. In fact, some people actually like me.”

“Parents don’t count,” she replied frostily, though she felt a grin tugging at her lips. He looked so serious, and slightly ridiculous, too, towering in her doorway all sheepish and sorry.

It was Michael’s turn to grin. “Damn good thing. Mine would hardly make my case.”

Folding her arms, she made a show of looking him over. “Oh yes, I can see how you’d be a terrible disappointment—handsome author, esteemed college professor. Yes indeed, a total failure.”

She realized at once that she’d hit a nerve. She could see it in his eyes, a fleeting shadow that was there and then gone. Still, he covered well enough and even managed a smile.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

Lane dropped her hands, ready to protest, but suddenly the idea of dinner out was a tempting one, even with a guy who drove her crazy. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had prepared a meal for her, served her, and then done the dishes.

“I’m not sure what’s reopened after the storm. I guess I could call around to a few places. It’s all pretty casual on the island, so don’t expect much.”

“Low maintenance, remember? Come find me when you’re ready. I’ll be in the den shutting things down.” He turned and took two steps, then turned back. “And thanks for the second chance.”

Lane closed the door and leaned against it, wondering if this was a good idea and trying not to think of the smiley face at the bottom of Dally’s note.