Lane
Lane reluctantly dragged her eyes open. Shafts of chilly sunshine spilled through the windows, creeping over the pillows, prodding her awake. Rolling over didn’t help. Neither did pulling the covers over her head. She didn’t want to think about last night, the thinly concealed look of triumph on her mother’s face as she stood in the kitchen with her arm linked through Michael’s. The thought left her queasy and more than a little angry.
She’d managed to be civil, but only just, doing what she could between sips of merlot to steer the conversation clear of tricky subjects. She hadn’t quite pulled it off. Dinner had been a nerve-racking affair, an awkward and stilted charade, despite Michael’s flawless performance as the doting boyfriend.
Michael.
Flawless indeed. Slowly, deliciously, the memory trickled back. He had kissed her. And she had kissed him back. Not for her mother’s sake, but because she wanted to, though she hadn’t realized just how much until his arms were cinched about her waist. He was the first man she’d kissed since Bruce, a virtual stranger after only three weeks, and yet somehow not a stranger at all. He’d touched something in her last night, awakening things she thought long burned out and gone. It was playing with fire, she knew, flirting with a man who would be gone from her life in a few months, but she almost didn’t care. His kiss had left her reeling, had her reeling still.
Or maybe it was only the absurdity of the situation that had her off balance. How could she, for even a moment, believe she could fool the woman who raised her, the woman who had seen through every faked sore throat, every dime of lunch money spent on CDs, every cheerleader tryout ditched in favor of an afternoon at the library? Never in her life had she been able to keep anything from those keen, maternal eyes.
She would have to now, though, and not just about Michael. Her friendship with Mary was just one more detail she’d rather not have to explain to her mother. Throwing off the covers, she pulled on leggings, a baggy sweatshirt, and a pair of warm socks. At the window, she peered down the beach, quiet and cold—and empty. But it was still early. Maybe she’d still come. Perhaps by the time she returned from her walk. Except she wouldn’t be walking today.
Her mother’s ill-timed arrival made a morning walk unlikely, just as it would make riding over to Hope House unlikely. Something told her when it came to Mary, her mother would almost certainly take Michael’s side, and she’d already had more than enough lectures on that score. Best to leave her friendship with Mary out of the equation, especially since she was beginning to doubt that friendship still existed.
Most people can’t see past their noses.
Mary had said that once, and maybe it was true. Her mother wanted to see love in Michael’s eyes, and she did—even where none existed. There was, however, the small matter of Michael sleeping in his own room on the second floor, and the questions that would surely arise should her mother happen to catch him stumbling out, alone, first thing in the morning.
The thought was enough to send Lane scrambling out of her room and down the stairs. She had no intention of suggesting they share a room, but they needed to have some sort of story ready. Until then, she needed to head her mother off at the pass.
Outside the door of her mother’s room, she caught the creak of floorboards, the opening and shutting of drawers. Gathering her resolve and a lungful of air, she rapped lightly.
“Mother, are you up?”
“Yes, dear. Come in.”
Lane stepped into the room, stunned once again by the sheer number of outfits hanging from the backs of doors and draped over every stick of furniture. Beneath the window, lined up like soldiers for inspection, a half dozen pairs of designer shoes hugged the baseboard. Where on earth did she think they’d be going?
“Mother, this is the Outer Banks. We don’t have a theater district.”
Cynthia was still in her robe and slippers, but her makeup and hair were flawless. She cut her eyes at Lane with a sniff. “I only wanted to make a good impression when I met your young man,” she said, her tone somewhere between a sulk and a huff. “And I’m glad I did. He seems quite the catch. Polite, handsome, and apparently very accomplished. What’s his book about?”
“It’s a biography on Dickens,” Lane said, thankful that she actually knew the answer. “It’s to do with Dickens’s writings as social commentary, and how he used his stories to bring attention to the way Victorian society dealt with the poor.”
“Oh. Well, that does sound impressive. Have you met his parents? What are they like?”
Lane felt a flash of panic. “No, I haven’t met them. Not yet. His father’s an attorney. His brother, too.” She was relieved to have at least that bit of information to impart, but she prayed the questions ended there. She hadn’t the first clue about their names and knew nothing whatever about Michael’s mother.
“Lawyers,” Cynthia said gravely, feigning a shudder. “You never see them. They’re either in court, preparing for court, or recuperating from a day in court. Thank heavens he didn’t follow in his father’s footsteps. He’s crazy about you, by the way. But I guess you already know that. It’s all over his face when he looks at you. He’s got forever in his eyes.”
Lane bit hard on her lower lip, pretending to be fascinated by the pattern of a nearby houndstooth blazer. In her head she was counting to ten. It didn’t help. “Wow,” she finally said, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “I believe you’ve hit a new personal best. It took you less than twenty-four hours to get us down the aisle. But then, after three husbands, I guess you qualify as an expert.”
Cynthia stopped fussing with the scarf she was folding and laid it at the foot of the bed. “That was uncalled for, Laney. And you can’t blame me. I have no idea what’s going on in your life. You shut me out. You always have. You wouldn’t talk to me, or your sister, about this man, and I just wanted to make sure—”
“That I was good enough for him?”
Her mother looked as if she’d just been slapped. “Why do you say things like that?”
“Because they’re true, Mother. We both know the real reason you’re here—the only reason—to make sure I don’t blow my last chance.”
Sighing, Cynthia closed her suitcase and dropped down beside it on the bed, her eyes focused on her lap and her perfectly manicured nails. “I didn’t say a word about you not being good enough. I never have. I also never said anything about this being your last chance. And the reason I know I never said them is that I don’t believe either of those things.” Eyes the same gray-green as her daughter’s lifted slowly. “But you do.”
Lane went still, letting the words sink deep. It was absurd, of course, ridiculous—her mother’s way of deflecting guilt. Well, it wasn’t going to work. How could she believe Michael was her last chance? He wasn’t any kind of chance. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to respond to such a statement. In fact, she wasn’t even going to try. Squaring her shoulders, she headed for the door, pausing briefly as she stepped out into the hall. “I’m going to take a shower, Mother. I’ll see you downstairs for breakfast.”
The shower helped. She emerged feeling a little more in control of her temper, but only a little. Button pushing, that’s all it was. And no one was better at pushing her buttons than her mother. Not even Bruce. In six days it would be over. Her mother would go back to Chicago. Michael would go back to his book. And she would go back to her articles. Until then, she’d simply grit her teeth and do her best to be hospitable.
The delicious aromas of coffee and bacon greeted her as she made her way downstairs. She envisioned Michael already in the kitchen, sipping coffee as he puttered about with the breakfast. It was a pleasant thought, but not an accurate one, she saw as she rounded the corner.
“What on earth are you doing?” The words tumbled out unchecked at the sight of her impeccably dressed mother laying bacon into a skillet.
Damn. Must learn the difference between hospitable and hostile.
“I was making breakfast for everyone,” Cynthia said, wearing her best martyr look as she poured a mug of coffee and handed it to Lane. “Call it a peace offering, if you like. I didn’t mean to upset you before. I shouldn’t have said . . . what I did.”
No, you shouldn’t have. “Forget it,” Lane said instead, just wanting to put the moment behind them. “Need any help?”
Cynthia handed her an open bag of flour. “If you want, you can sift the flour for the pancakes.”
Sifting—the secret to her mother’s lighter-than-air pancakes. She’d learned it as a girl, along with so many other secrets: how to tell if an egg is fresh, how to slice garlic rather than mincing to keep it from burning, how cold water is the secret to a flaky piecrust. Come to think of it, the kitchen was one place—perhaps the only place—she and her mother had ever gotten along, perhaps because it was the one time they were focused on a common goal. Or maybe it was only because they stayed too busy to find fault with each other.
“You know, I never thought to ask. Does Michael like pancakes?”
Lane took her nose out of her coffee cup. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Pancakes—does he like them?”
“Um . . . sure.” It was purely a guess, but it felt safe enough. Who didn’t like pancakes?
She had just started sifting when a small flash of movement caught her eye just beyond the kitchen window. Breath held, Lane abandoned her bowl of flour and stepped to the window, eagerly scouring the dunes for Mary. Instead, she spotted a father and son emerging from the vacant lot beside the inn. Disappointed, she watched as they turned in the direction of the lighthouse before letting the curtains fall back.
Where are you, Mary?
“Have you finished with— Laney, honey, what is it?” Her mother was beside her now, following her gaze out onto the beach. “Good heavens, is everything all right? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No,” Lane answered numbly. “I was just . . .”
Just what? Looking for the old bag lady who hangs out on the dunes and claims to have killed a child? No, she couldn’t say that. She couldn’t say anything.
Her mother eyed her skeptically but eventually drifted back to the eggs she’d been cracking. “By the way, where is Michael this morning? I haven’t seen him.”
The mention of Michael was enough to yank Lane back to the present. One crisis at a time was all she was equipped to handle. “He’s still sleeping,” she replied, hoping she sounded casual and not panicked. “He was up late working, so I let him sleep. How about you? Did you sleep well?”
“I did, surprisingly. I was skeptical about that old four-poster bed at first, but I was so exhausted I think I could have slept on a bed of nails. I thought air travel was supposed to be a convenience. I swear, I feel like I’ve got jet lag.”
“You can’t have jet lag, Mother. You crossed one time zone.”
Michael suddenly filled the kitchen doorway. “It’s all this sea air, Cynthia. Hits you like a rock if you’re not used to it.” He made a beeline for Lane, planting a kiss on her temple before dusting a smudge of flour off her chin. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
Lane met his gaze with a mixture of wariness and uncertainty. To buy time she filled a mug with coffee and pressed it into his hands. “You looked so peaceful,” she said finally, startled by how easily the lie rolled off her tongue. “I thought after last night you could use the rest.”
Michael smiled, a slow, suggestive curl that made her insides skitter. “Did you?”
Lane felt her cheeks go hot. He had purposely misconstrued her meaning, leaving the unsaid lingering suggestively in the bacon-scented air. He really was enjoying himself immensely. And if her mother’s discreetly averted gaze was any indication, she had swallowed the show hook, line, and sinker. And why wouldn’t she? As far as she knew, her daughter was having quite a lot of sex.
Oh, dear God. Turning away, Lane made a beeline for the pantry. “I’ll get the syrup.”