Chapter 18

The Blue Water Grille wasn’t much to look at, a squat shack painted blue, with a red tin roof and a pair of bedraggled window boxes. That hadn’t stopped it from earning local landmark status, or from drawing a crowd every night of the week. Even on a Wednesday the place was packed to the rafters, the small square of pocked asphalt choked with cars anywhere they could find or make a spot. The unseasonably warm weather wasn’t hurting business, either, pulling in locals eager for one last meal beside the sea before a chilly winter drove them inside.

The front door beckoned, propped open with an enormous rusty anchor. The hum of people unwinding at the end of the day—conversation, clinking glasses, and sporadic bursts of laughter—drifted out to greet them as Lane trailed Michael up the weathered wooden steps. It was a strangely pleasant sound, lively and warm and far too foreign of late. Suddenly, she found herself eager to be a part of it, to let down her guard and have a little fun—if she still remembered how.

She eyed the chalkboard sign just inside the door: NO SHOES. NO SHIRT. NO PROBLEM. Cliché, perhaps, but in all likelihood true. It had taken some time to adjust to the concept of island time, a world away from the high-octane pace of Chicago’s city dwellers, where fashionable up-and-comers were forever checking their watches, hurrying from somewhere or to somewhere, always running late for something. But on Starry Point the days were different. Most of the things that seemed important back in Chicago carried little weight here. Life had its own rhythm, its own ideas about what mattered. At first the pace felt wrong—too careless, too loose. But then, little by little, the sand and the salt had crept into her veins, and she had realized how very right it all was.

The hostess gave them the option of a cramped corner table near the kitchen, or waiting a few minutes until the repairmen got the last of their equipment off the deck. She warned that with the sun going down it might be a little chilly until they lit the kerosene heaters, but the upside was that the band would be setting up shortly and they’d have great seats. Michael and Lane nodded simultaneously toward the deck. They didn’t have to wait long.

The deck was a maze of empty picnic tables. Michael took the menus the hostess offered and picked his way to a table along the railing, shooing a chubby gull who surveyed them with glassy, hopeful eyes. The sun was definitely on its way down, the cooling twilight thick with the scents of salt and seafood and beer, the light a pearly shade of lavender where it fell across the scarred tabletop.

Lane folded her arms along the edge of the table and let her eyes follow the smooth curve of empty beach. She’d come to Starry Point five years ago, and yet there were still times when the raw beauty of the Carolina coast caught her off guard: pristine stretches of sugar white sand, sea oats bending softly in the breeze, tireless waves that had been churning against the coast since time began. It didn’t take long to see why the Blue Water was a favorite with locals and tourists alike. Sitting here while the light died and the sea went flat and gray was more soothing than any tonic or pill could ever be.

“This is nice,” she said dreamily. “Like a postcard.”

“I think it was you who said I shouldn’t expect much,” he reminded her as he grabbed one of the laminated menus. “So, what’s good?”

“I have no idea. I was going to ask the waitress.”

Michael cocked an eye at her. “I thought you said this place was a landmark. Are you telling me you’ve never eaten here?”

“Never.”

“How is that possible?”

“Well, for one thing, running a bed-and-breakfast doesn’t leave a lot of time for dining out. You’re too busy taking care of everyone else’s food.”

“All right, I suppose I’ll give you a pass,” he said, but in a way that made her think he really wasn’t. “How ’bout we keep it simple—beer and a bucket of steamed clams to start?”

Their waitress was a perky, twentysomething blonde with Merthiolate-colored streaks running through her hair. She introduced herself as Jessica—Jess for short—then promptly forgot Lane was at the table, pinning her appreciative blue gaze on Michael as she rattled off the specials.

“We’ll take a couple Yuenglings and a bucket of clams,” he said as he handed back the menus. “And could I get some extra lemon, if it’s not too much trouble?”

“No trouble at all,” Jessica drawled, showing off perfect white teeth as she stuffed her order pad back into her apron.

Lane could almost swear she saw the girl toss a wink in Michael’s direction as she turned to leave. Apparently Jess didn’t have a problem with men who were almost twenty years her senior. Or at least not the ones who looked like Michael. And why would she? He was amazing-looking, the perfect blend of scruff and polish, sexy and smart—like now, when his square jaw was all stubbled and the breeze ruffled through his dark hair.

She wondered briefly if he was aware of the effect he had on women, then decided he must be. The man owned a mirror, surely. And if that wasn’t enough, she felt certain there were classrooms full of wide-eyed coeds back in Middlebury more than willing to confirm the power of his considerable charms.

“Warm enough?” Michael asked, startling Lane from her somewhat unwelcome thoughts.

She nodded, plucking at her turtleneck and jacket. “You learn to layer when you live at the beach. In Chicago, if it’s cold when you wake up, it’s going to be cold when you go to bed. Here, the weather changes hourly, especially at this time of year.”

“Speaking of Chicago, I’m curious. How in the world did you find your way to Starry Point, and why? Or is that being nosy again?”

Lane smiled. “It is, but I’ll tell you anyway. After the divorce I couldn’t stand all the hand patting and pitiful looks, not to mention the endless attempts to fix me up. So one day I packed a bag and drove away. When I found a place I liked, I stopped. When I got bored, I moved on. Then I found Starry Point and I knew I wanted to stay. It felt like the edge of the world—one road in, one road out. That was appealing.”

“And does it still feel like the edge of the world?”

“It does,” she admitted, scraping at her beer label with her thumbnail. “And one road in and out is still appealing.”

“Do you ever miss home?”

Lane’s head came up sharply. “This is home.” The words landed harder than she’d meant them to. “And the answer is no. I don’t miss Chicago. My mother was furious when I left.”

“Chicago or Bruce?”

She gave a halfhearted shrug. “Both, I guess. She thought I should stay and fight for my marriage. After all, it’s not every day a girl catches a surgeon.”

“She liked your husband?”

“My ex-husband, thank you very much. And yes, she did. At least she liked being able to brag about her son-in-law, the doctor. Social status is very important to my mother. She liked the parties we threw, and the men that came to them. After my father died she started collecting husbands—and last names. Cynthia Campbell Daniels White. She finally hit the jackpot with number four. He’s an attorney.”

Michael grinned. “So is my father, although I’m not sure my mother would say she hit the jackpot.”

“Your parents aren’t happy?”

“Now who’s being nosy?”

Lane leveled her gaze on him. “It’s my turn.”

Michael inclined his head, conceding the point. He swirled the last of his beer and drained it, then held up the bottle along with two fingers as Jessica passed by. “I suppose unhappy isn’t really the right word. They’re just, I don’t know . . . dutiful. My whole family is, actually. Except me.”

Lane took a swallow of beer, recalling the fleeting shadow in his eyes when she had teased him about being a disappointment. Still, it was a strange thing to say to someone you barely knew. “You don’t consider yourself dutiful?”

“If I was I’d be an attorney now, like my brother. And a junior partner in my father’s firm. But I wanted to teach, or thought I did.”

“How’d your father take that?”

“Let’s just say the announcement went over like the proverbial lead balloon. When he realized I was serious, he said he’d make a few calls. He had connections in Cambridge, and if I was hell-bent on teaching, the least I could do was do it at a prestigious university. I asked him not to make the calls. I wanted to get it for myself, and the truth was I really didn’t want to stay in Boston. So I applied at Middlebury and got the position. Two weeks after I unpacked my boxes, I found out my father had sent a hefty donation to the school. I guess he didn’t think I was impressive enough without his money.”

There was no missing the bitterness in Michael’s voice, or the steady tic that suddenly pulsed along the side of his jaw. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“Don’t be. It’s water under the bridge. My father pretends he’s not disappointed. I pretend I’m not angry. And my mother pretends the whole thing never happened. Problem solved.”

Lane was more than a little relieved when the clams and second round of beer arrived. She barely knew what to say about her own family relationships, let alone someone else’s.

They ate with gusto, sopping up garlicky broth with hunks of warm bread, sipping ice-cold beer as the sun went down and the deck tables steadily filled. In the corner, beneath a skeletal aluminum frame that was meant to be covered with canvas, and probably had been until Penny blew through, a trio of musicians began running a series of sound checks while a busboy scurried between tables, lighting the stainless-steel patio heaters.

A few minutes later the crowd broke into raucous applause as the band opened their first set with “Brown Eyed Girl.” Several couples got up to dance between the tables. By the second verse everyone in the place was singing along. Lane said yes to another round. Not because she wanted another beer, but because she wasn’t ready to leave. It felt good to be out, good to know that she still knew how to enjoy herself.

She barely heard her cell when it went off in the middle of “Hotel California.” She scowled as she pulled the phone from her pocket and checked the number. Perfect timing, as always. Apparently their conversation had conjured her mother out of thin air.

“My mom,” she hollered to Michael over the thumping music. “I’m just going to step down onto the beach a minute so I can hear. I won’t be long.”

It was quieter down on the sand, but not by much. Lane bit her lip as she tapped the screen to answer the call, instantly wishing she had just let it go to voice mail. She grimaced at the sound of her mother’s voice.

“Lane—honey? What in the world is that racket?”

“It’s music, Mother. What’s up?”

“Robert and I just got back from New York, and I called your sister to tell her I was home. She said something about a storm?”

Lane took a deep breath and let it out very slowly. Of course she’d called Val the minute she got home. “It was a week ago, Mother, and I’m fine, thanks.”

“Lane, you know I don’t like you living in that old castle all by yourself. Anything could happen and there wouldn’t be a soul to take care of you.”

God, not again.

“Mom, it’s not a castle; it’s an inn. And I can take care of myself. I have been for years now. And if it makes you feel any better, I’m not alone.”

There was a long silence on the line, and then, in a whole new tone, “Do you have . . . company?”

Lane bit her lower lip, already hating herself for what she was about to do. “Yes, I have company, and we’re in the middle of dinner, so I should get off.”

“I didn’t hear you. Is it a man? Where did you meet him?”

Frustrated, Lane plugged her ear with one knuckle and raised her voice a notch. “Yes, it’s a man, and he’ll be at the inn through the off-season, so you can stop worrying about me.” It wasn’t a complete lie, and if it got her mother off her back—and off the phone—she wasn’t going to feel guilty. In a few months she’d invent a messy breakup and the whole thing would be forgotten.

“Who is he, Laney? Is he from a good family? What does he do?”

“He’s a professor,” she yelled into the phone. “Mother, I’ve got to go. I can barely hear you.”

“I just want you to be happy, honey. You let Bruce get away. Men like that don’t grow on trees, you know.”

“Well, let’s all thank God for that, shall we?”

“I heard he’s seeing someone,” her mother said, ignoring her sarcasm. “And that it might be serious.”

“I’ll pray for her.”

“I just thought you should know, in case . . .”

“In case what? In case I want to go crawling back?” Okay, time to get off before she said something she regretted. “Look, I’ve really got to go. I told you, we’re out to dinner.”

“Why don’t you bring him home, Laney? Your sister can come for the weekend, bring the kids. It would be nice.”

Nice? Lane shuddered at the thought. Yes, bring him home by all means, parade him in front of her mother and Val so they could grill him about his prospects, then vote thumbs-up or thumbs-down. Maybe they could go through his wallet while he was sleeping, check the balance in his checking account. Sweet Lord, what was she thinking? This entire conversation was a farce, and Michael Forrester wasn’t a prospective anything.

“I’ll have to get back to you,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even. “He’s working on a book, so it’s probably not a good time for a trip. I’ll, um—I’ll call you next week.”

“Can’t you at least tell me his name and a little about him?”

There it was, the old familiar wheedling that was supposed to pass for concern but was really nothing more than good old-fashioned nosiness. It was all Lane needed to go teetering over the precipice of good sense and good manners.

“His name is Michael, Mother,” she shouted in exasperation over a series of earsplitting drum licks. “And we’re having quite a lot of sex!”

The words hung sharply in the chilly salt air—too sharply. Lane glanced up, realizing for the first time that the band had stopped playing, and that every head on the patio had just jerked in her direction—including Michael’s.

Lane leaned against the passenger door of Michael’s SUV. Her head came up at the sound of his voice. She wasn’t sure which was worse: the fact that she had blurted such an outrageous lie in front of dozens of strangers or that she had lacked the courage to return to the table, choosing instead to slink out to the parking lot and sulk.

“Is . . . everything okay?” The question was a tentative one, as if he were addressing a child who’d just pitched an enormous tantrum.

“Everything’s just peachy,” she muttered, folding her arms tight to her chest. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason, really.”

He wasn’t being snarky, just comically low-key. That made it worse somehow.

Reaching around her, he opened the car door and waited for her to slide in. They rode home in silence. For Lane, it was torture. She’d been prepared for the outburst, the angry looks, the what the hell was that about? grilling, not this unsettling, unreadable quiet. She supposed he’d pack up his papers and books now and hightail it out of town. And who could blame him? She’d acted like some stalker nut job, and just that afternoon he’d been crystal clear about how he felt about nut jobs.

She should try to explain, she knew, but every time she attempted to string the words together in her head she realized how absurd they would sound. What could she possibly say that would explain lying to her mother about a nonexistent romance with one of her guests, particularly one who’d barely glanced in her direction? Anything she said would only make her look more pathetic.

She was out of the SUV almost before it rolled to a stop in the driveway, wanting only to get inside and up to her apartment. Michael trailed a few paces behind, pausing at the door to kick off his shoes and hang up his jacket. Instead of following her to the stairs, he hovered in the doorway of the library.

“I’ve got a little reading to finish before I go up,” he said evenly. “Thanks for . . . an interesting evening.”

Lane couldn’t stand it anymore. “Aren’t you going to ask me about what happened back there?”

He shrugged, then shook his head. “I don’t have to. Your mother was making you crazy and you wanted her to back off. No biggie. The band finishing up when they did, though—that was a bit unfortunate.”

He was letting her off the hook, and she was more grateful than she could say, but she had to say something. “I’m not . . . I mean, I don’t usually—”

“Forget about it. Seriously. I’ll see you in the morning.” She had just turned to mount the stairs when he spoke again. “There is one thing I need to know.”

Lane turned back, steeling herself for whatever was coming.

“You told your mother we were having quite a lot of sex. You never said whether or not the sex was good.”

The remark was so unexpected that Lane actually managed a grin. For the first time since her phone had gone off in the middle of “Hotel California,” she felt the knot of embarrassment in her gut loosen. “What can I say?” she said, with a wink and a shrug. “There are some things a girl doesn’t even share with her mother.”