Lane
Lane woke the next morning to a flat gray sky and the high thin wail of gulls outside her window. Relieved to find the kitchen empty, she made a pot of coffee and tiptoed back upstairs with her mug, thankful that both her guests appeared to still be sleeping. There were a few things she wanted to check out before breakfast.
At this point, her plan to save Hope House consisted of little beyond locating someone—anyone—connected to the halfway house, and making them aware of the mayor’s intentions. She’d poke around a little online, then make a few calls after breakfast. The tricky part would be getting the information without disclosing her reason for wanting it. The last thing she needed was someone tipping off Landon that she was snooping around.
Starting a war wasn’t what she was after, but that’s exactly what she’d get if word of her interference got back to the mayor. She needed some sort of cover story. Maybe she could say she was looking to interview someone for a piece about the crucial role halfway houses played in the community. All she needed was a name. How hard could that be?
But an hour and dozens of Internet searches later, she found herself grumbling into her coffee cup, baffled as to why she had yet to find anything remotely related to Hope House. Nothing about its founder, or the organization that oversaw its funding. Nothing, period. It was beginning to look as if the halfway house had sprung up out of the sound and simply maintained itself.
It seemed unlikely that public money was involved or there’d be a trail of some sort, and yet Mary had mentioned a social worker. Were social workers involved with privately funded facilities? Lane didn’t think so, but then she really had no idea how it all worked. She only knew Hope House had to exist on some radar, somewhere. Perhaps she could call the state hospitals—there were three—or even a few private ones, though she doubted they’d be terribly forthcoming.
After an hour of sleuthing without a single viable lead, she was all but ready to give up. The nearest she’d come was an obscure corporation with an even more obscure name: R&C Limited. There were no names, and no link attached, only a PO box in Raleigh as a point of contact, but at least it was something. After composing a brief note detailing the situation, she addressed the envelope and marked it URGENT, then went down to start the breakfast.
Cynthia looked much improved when she appeared, smiling as she poured herself a cup of coffee and glanced out the window down the beach.
“You look like you’re feeling better,” Lane said, handing her the morning paper. “Headache gone?”
“Yes, thanks. I’m so glad you and Val don’t get them. Are we going for a walk today?”
Lane looked up from a bowl of half-beaten eggs. “You want to go for a walk?”
“Sure. The fresh air will do me good after all that sleep.”
“Actually, I was thinking of skipping the walk this morning. I have a few calls to make, and then I thought if you were up to it we’d do a little shopping. There are some nice shops and galleries in the village. And then I need to shop for dinner tomorrow. Dally already ordered the turkey, but I need to pick it up. And then there’s all the other stuff. I thought we could bake the pies tonight, if you’re up to it.”
“Pumpkin and mince?”
Lane nodded, going back to work with her whisk.
“Does Michael like mince pie?”
“I have no idea,” Lane answered truthfully. “It’s never come up.”
“I just asked because unless Michael’s fond of it, there’s really no need to make the mince.” She tipped her mug then, staring into it, a crease appearing between her neatly penciled brows. “We made the mince for Daddy. He was the only one who ever ate it.” She lifted the mug stiffly and took a sip, lingering over the rim. “We don’t need to make it anymore.”
Lane went still, caught off guard by this rare show of emotion. Her mother didn’t do feelings. Pleasure, sorrow, joy, and even grief, had always been kept carefully at bay, neatly tucked behind a mask of bland propriety. Her mother’s poker face, her father had called it. Lane had called it something else, something much less charitable.
Luckily, she was spared having to respond when Michael walked into the kitchen and dropped his customary kiss on the top of her head. It had become something of a ritual, one she was beginning to rather enjoy.
“Morning, Sunshine,” he said, flashing a grin that bordered on wicked. “Looks like you managed to get all the sand out of your hair after all.”
Lane swallowed her reply, then counted to ten while she waited for the color in her cheeks to recede.
Cynthia frowned up from her paper. “Did you say sand?”
Michael’s grin widened. “We had a little picnic, I guess you’d call it, out on the beach last night. I built a bonfire, and your daughter and I watched the moon come up.” He paused, offering a languid smile. “It was very romantic.”
Cynthia’s frown quickly morphed into a smile. “Laney, I believe this one’s a keeper.”
“Did you hear that, Laney?” Michael prodded, as he reached past her to grab three plates from the cabinet beside the sink. “Your mother thinks I’m a keeper.”
Lane shot him a look of exasperation, then dropped her voice to a hiss. “Keep it up, Romeo, and when I make that call about our breakup, I’ll make sure it’s all your fault.”
Michael threw back his head and laughed. “Go ahead. She’ll never buy it.”
Lane stole a glance at her mother, blissfully sipping her coffee and, in all likelihood, mentally selecting colors for flowers and bridesmaid dresses. “No, you’re right. She wouldn’t.”