Lane
Lane struggled to focus on the final edits for the article that was due tomorrow, but in her mind she was out on the dunes with Mary. She’d had hours to digest the startling declaration and she still couldn’t put a finger on exactly what it was she thought or felt.
“I killed a boy once.”
She’d said it just like that, without preamble or qualification—and very nearly without remorse. But Lane sensed there was much more to the story. There had to be. A car accident, perhaps, or an unwanted pregnancy quietly disposed of. But then why not say so? What kind of woman made such a confession without at least trying to explain it—unless it was true?
Michael’s warnings echoed again in her head. Without ever laying eyes on the woman, he had pegged her as possibly unhinged, even dangerous, and she had flatly dismissed him. Now it was beginning to look as though he’d been right. Mary had been institutionalized, labeled dangerous by her own admission. But dangerous to whom? She claimed it was to keep her from hurting herself. Did that mean she had tried, or had they only been afraid she might? She also claimed she hadn’t been held responsible for the boy’s death. Was that because she was truly innocent, or because she’d been found not guilty by reason of insanity?
Insanity.
The word made Lane shudder. She could only imagine what it must have been like for Mary, kept for years in a small room with a heavy door, a tiny square of reinforced glass too high up to see out, rendered carefully docile with a regime of pills, enduring visits from a revolving door of anonymous doctors—the White Coats. It was a horrible image, like something out of the movies, and yet she couldn’t seem to shake it.
But something about Mary’s story didn’t feel right, like a book with some of the pages missing. It was clear that life had left the poor woman with her share of scars, the kind that ran deep and never quite healed, but it hadn’t broken her. Even now, after all the losses and horrors she’d clearly suffered, there was a depth to her, and a wisdom, a canny understanding of how the world really worked, that contrasted sharply with Lane’s idea of insanity.
But what of the princes? The castles? The jewels and fancy balls? Was she supposed to believe all of that as well? It all seemed rather unlikely, the product of a colorful and clouded imagination. And yet something in those cool blue-green eyes, so distant and yearning, made Lane almost believe there was some small scrap of truth in the tale.
Lane stood, prowling the small space of her writing room. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t hungry to know the rest. But was that really wise? Was there room in her life for this troubled woman? She honestly wasn’t sure. Sooner or later she was going to have to make a decision—and probably sooner. It wasn’t going to be easy. As far as she knew, Mary was alone in the world, without friends or family, and while they hadn’t known each other long enough to grow truly close, it was hard to deny that some sort of bond had formed, even if that bond seemed only to be based on mutual pity.
Perhaps she should talk to Michael, since he prided himself on being something of an expert. But no, only this morning they had agreed to avoid Mary as a topic of conversation. Besides, she already knew what he’d say, and she wasn’t in the mood for an I told you so, even if it was starting to look as though she deserved one.
Dropping back into her chair, she opened the center drawer of her writing desk and eased out the old green sketchbook, laying it open on her lap. Slowly, carefully, she thumbed through the heavy pages, hoping to lose herself in the intricate details of the sketches, but it was no good.
Restless, she closed the book and slid it back into the desk. It was too early for dinner, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t suggest to Michael that they go back to the Blue Water. They could sit on the deck and drink a few beers, and she could pretend the conversation with Mary never happened. Unfortunately, after last night’s rather embarrassing fiasco, it would be some time before she’d consider showing her face there again, if ever.
The dull buzz of her cell phone vibrating on the desk spared her having to relive that night. She frowned when she saw her sister’s number come up. Val called on Christmas and her birthday, and it was neither of those. Something must be wrong.
“Val, what’s the matter?” she answered without preamble.
“Why does something have to be the matter? Can’t I just call my favorite sister every now and then to say hello?”
Lane felt the first prickle of suspicion. “You can, but you never do. And I’m your only sister, Valerie.”
“That’s pretty cold. And the phone lines run both ways, you know.”
Suspicion quickly morphed into guilt. She had a point. “How are the kids?”
“They’re fine. Carla is taking piano, and Cameron is driving us crazy asking for a dirt bike. Daniel thinks he’s old enough, but it’s me who’ll have to patch him up when he falls off the thing. And he will fall off.”
“Well, you know what they say. Boys will be boys.”
“I guess.” Val laughed, a tight, stilted chuckle followed by an awkward pause. “So . . .”
“So . . .” Lane held her breath, waiting for whatever was coming.
“Mom said she talked to you the other night.”
Michael. She should have guessed.
“She said something about a guy staying with you for the winter. Michael, I think she said his name was.”
“And she conned you into calling and putting on the sweet sister act.”
There was the scrape of a lighter, the huff of smoke being exhaled. “All right, yes, she did. But what’s wrong with that? Honestly, Lane, by now I think you’d know it’s just easier to let her have her way.”
“Her way?” Lane echoed, stunned. “With my life?”
“Okay, not her way, then, but you know what I mean. Sometimes you have to compromise and just make her happy.”
“Like you did, Val?”
Lane regretted the words the instant they were out of her mouth, but there was no way to take them back. Silence stretched over the line, frustration mingled with apology. They’d had this argument too many times. And they would almost certainly have it again.
“We’re different, Laney,” Val said finally. “We always have been. I didn’t have to compromise. I wanted the same things she wanted for me. But you fought her every step of the way, and you’re still doing it. She only gets how she gets because she loves you.”
Lane closed her eyes and counted to ten before answering. “Look, I’m glad you’re happy and that your life has turned out so perfectly, and I don’t mean that to sound nasty. But the last time I compromised to make Mother happy, I wound up miserable. I’m not doing that again, ever.”
“Okay, okay, I get it. I’m sorry I pissed you off. It’s not why I called. Can I at least tell her that you and this Michael person are happy? She might stop bugging both of us if she thinks you’re serious about someone.”
“Sure, Val. Tell her whatever you want. In fact, tell her we’re on our way to pick out china. I’ve got to go.”
Lane didn’t feel a bit guilty as she ended the call. Let her mother think what she wanted. It served her right for meddling. And Val should know better than to get involved in their mother’s schemes.