Chapter 55

Lane

It was dark when they finally made it back to Starry Point, the air knife sharp as Lane opened the door of the SUV and stepped out onto the drive. The clouds that had shadowed them all day had finally begun to shred, revealing a spatter of crisp white stars and a bone white sliver of moon.

Michael hadn’t said a word on the ride back, fuming stonily behind the wheel, his eyes locked on the road as I-40 blurred past. There had been so much she wanted to say, so many questions she longed to ask. In the end, she had kept it all to herself. He slammed the car door now, marching away from the inn, and then across the street with long, purposeful strides.

Lane followed a few paces behind, silent as they slogged through the carpet of wet leaves that blanketed the lawn. She should have seen this coming, not that she could have stopped him. Rourke House was his now, to do with as he pleased, which was precisely what worried her. She couldn’t help sneaking a glance at the greenhouse, a chilling reminder of Michael’s long-suppressed anger. After today, another session of venting might be exactly what he needed—and what he deserved.

But Michael didn’t head to the greenhouse. Instead, he followed the weedy path up onto the front porch and sank down onto the top step, hands propped on his knees. Lane didn’t wait for an invitation. Tucking her hands up into the sleeves of her coat, she eased down beside him. It was all she could do not to touch him, to smooth the deep furrow between his brows.

“What are you going to do?” she asked instead.

Michael threw her a sidelong glance. “Do?”

It was a familiar conversation. “About your father . . . the letter . . . all of it.”

“I haven’t the first goddamn idea.”

“No, I guess not. Look, it’s cold. Why don’t we go back to the inn? I’ll fix you something to eat.”

“You can’t fix this with food, Lane.”

“How about alcohol?”

He managed a smile, but there was no humor in it. “No, thanks. If I start drinking now I might never stop. What I really need is to just sit here with my thoughts.”

“You want me to go?”

“Yes.”

“Will you promise not to go into the house? After everything, I don’t think you should. At least not yet.”

“I have no intention of going inside. I just need some time alone, to try to wrap my head around all this. Everything changed today. Everything I built my life around—everything I grew up believing—was a lie. I need to think about that, about what it means, and what I’m supposed to believe now—do now.”

Standing, she brushed the leaves from the seat of her pants, still fighting the urge to touch his face, all shadows now in the chilly moonlight. “Don’t stay too long, though. It’s cold.”

She was stretched out on her bed, running through the blurred events of the day, when she heard his knock. He looked miserable when she opened the door, although after the last forty-eight hours, he was certainly entitled. He said nothing as he stepped into the room, just pressed a thin white envelope into her hands. It was still sealed but badly rumpled, as if he’d been holding it for a very long time, trying to find the strength to open it.

“Read it,” he said bluntly.

“You’re sure?”

“No, but read it anyway before I lose my nerve and burn the damn thing.”

Lane lifted her head sharply. “You can’t. Not without knowing what it says.”

“I know,” he said flatly. “But I want to.” Wandering to the window, he stared out at the darkened beach, flinching a little each time the light swept past the glass. “I used to sleep in this room,” he said flatly. “Back when I was a boy. Did I ever tell you that?”

“Yes, you did. How many others were there?”

“Fifteen to twenty, give or take, all lined up like little soldiers in those skinny iron beds. The number was always changing. New kids came in; others got homes—like puppies at the pound.”

Lane didn’t want to think of him as a boy here, miserable and alone. She had teased him once, about yachting camp, and all the while he’d been living with memories no boy should ever have to live with. His attention was still fixed beyond the window, locked not on the horizon, but on some point in time that only he could see. Like Hannah.

“Out there,” he said, tapping the glass. “Down by the jetty. That’s where they found my father’s boat, or what was left of it, smashed against the rocks. Everyone just assumed . . .” He turned from the window then, his voice cracking with thinly veiled emotion. “Everyone except Hannah, that is. People thought she was crazy. I did, too.”

Lane said nothing. He needed this, she knew, but it was hard to watch, to see him torturing himself, taking even more guilt on those already scarred shoulders. She wished there was something to say, something that would help make sense of it all, but how could anyone make sense of a thing like this?

“Go on,” he said, jerking his chin at the envelope. “Open it.”

Lane stared at the handwriting, unsteady and heavily slanted—the hand of an old man, a sick man. A good-bye. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be part of such a private moment.

“Are you sure you want me to read it?”

“It’s a little late for discretion, don’t you think?”

Lane felt her cheeks go hot, but he wasn’t wrong. Dropping onto the edge of the bed, she tore open the envelope and teased out several folded pages. Clearing her throat, she began.

Evan,

I have no way of knowing if you’ll ever read this letter, but like all the others, it had to be written. By now you know what I did, and why. There are times in a man’s life, selfish times, I’ll grant, when doing the right thing becomes insupportable, when despair gives rise to its own brand of madness.

I have never asked for your forgiveness, nor do I ask it now. I deserve no such kindness. I write only to say how sorry I am at having lost you—and Peter. R.B. told me about the fire. I died a little that day. What happened to your brother will forever be on my hands, and on my heart. Mine—not your mother’s.

I have only days left on this earth, and so this will be my last letter. Know that it is written with love and regret, a final handful of words to atone for a lifetime of heartbreak. How clear the right way seems once you’ve chosen the wrong one. And yet, as I look back over my life, I find there is one bright spot, and that is you, my son, though I know I haven’t any right to your accomplishments, or even to a place in your memory. Please know that in my heart I have never stopped being your father, and that I did the best I could for you from a distance. And for your mother, too, as you must surely know by now. She didn’t deserve what I did to her. Only the weakest kind of man turns his back on a woman who needs him. I was the weakest kind of man.

The father who never stopped loving you—

P.S.—Hold nothing against R.B. He played no part in the choice I made, but has remained a faithful friend, helping me to make reparation in the only way I knew how.

Lane blinked back tears as she folded the pages back along their creases and handed them to Michael. “How will you tell Hannah?”

Michael stared at the pages briefly, then let them flutter to the floor. “I have no intention of telling her.”

It was what she was afraid he’d say. “Are you sure that’s the right decision? You said it yourself, all those years ago, she was the one—the only one—who refused to accept that your father was dead. After everything she’s been through, don’t you think she deserves to know she was right?”

Michael’s face registered something approaching astonishment. “To what end? So she’ll finally have proof that her husband was desperate to be free of her? That he cared more about some secretary than he did about his own family?”

Lane was careful to keep her voice even. He didn’t need a lecture right now, but he did need to understand. “Don’t you see? She never needed proof, because she always knew. It was everyone else who needed convincing.”

“Fine, she learns she was right. Then what? She spends the rest of her life reliving it all, and blaming herself?”

“Or maybe she realizes it’s time to forgive herself. She’s stronger than you think, Michael. She’s had to be. I’m not saying tell her today, but I think that in time the truth might help her feel vindicated.”

Michael eyed her grimly. “There are more important things than being right, Lane.”

“I understand that, but this isn’t just about being right. It’s about proving she wasn’t crazy for believing what she did. And just maybe, she’ll finally see that not everything that happened back then was her fault.”

“Meanwhile, the Rourke name gets dragged through the mud all over again. Only this time my mother plays the tragically wronged heroine, and my father is the villain.”

“The Rourke name? That’s what you’re worried about? Michael, no one else has to know any of this, but your mother has a right to the truth, to know that what people thought about her all those years ago was wrong. She needs that, and she deserves it.”

“I was one of those people, Lane. How do I look her in the eye now and admit that?”

“You don’t.” She reached for his arm, surprised when he didn’t pull away. “You were a child, Michael, a little boy. What were you supposed to believe?”

“I saw the wreckage with my own eyes. The pictures ran in the paper for days.” He stepped away and resumed pacing, this time giving the windows a wide berth. At length, he sagged down onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his thighs, hands dangling between his knees. “All my life, I’ve blamed her for his death, for forcing him out of the house that day. It never once occurred to me that she might be right, that the bastard might actually be alive.”

“Under the circumstances I don’t think anyone would have believed differently. But, Michael, you’re going to have to find a way to forgive and let go of the past.”

He closed his eyes, shook his head. “That isn’t going to happen.”

“I know you don’t believe it’s possible, that you’re hurting right now, but try standing in your father’s shoes for a minute. You heard what he wrote. Life with your mother wasn’t easy. Even she admits that. He was miserable—desperate. Right or wrong, he took the only avenue he believed open to him. He walked away from one life and began a new one. And in her way, your mother did the same thing. She gradually withdrew from the real world, where every day was a struggle, and not even the doctors could help her. Then, when the grief became too much to bear, she buried Hannah Rourke and became Dirty Mary—because it was easier to be a social outcast than a woman who’d lost a husband and two sons.”

Suddenly, Michael looked very tired, tired of listening and tired of talking. “I know this all seems very clear to you, Lane. And you’d like me to say I can just put it all behind me, but it’s not that easy. I lived it.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

Michael looked at her wearily. “There’s more?”

“Yes, but you won’t like it.”

“I haven’t liked any of this, so far.”

“I think before you can forgive anyone else, you’re going to have to find a way to forgive yourself. All these years, you’ve been blaming yourself, for not being able to make your mother well, for not being there for Peter when the fire started, for not being able to hold your family together. But none of those things were your fault. Actually, I’m not sure they were anyone’s fault. Your father, your mother—all of you—did the only thing you knew to do at the time. You survived.”

“So that’s your answer? Just forgive myself and everything will be fine?”

He was getting surly now, like a child who didn’t want to do his homework, because he didn’t know how, and didn’t know how to ask for help. Dropping down beside him, she gentled her voice. “I didn’t say that. But there won’t be room in your heart for anyone else until you try. Blame can take up a lot of space in a heart. I finally figured that out. Life is too short for grudges, the big ones or the small ones.”

If Michael was listening, he made no response. It broke her heart to see him hurting so, tortured by a past that kept rearing its ugly head. Before she could stop herself she pressed a kiss to his temple. The air seemed to go out of the room as he lifted his head, his eyes full of pain and confusion—full of need. Lane felt her bones go soft, felt the warm, strong pull of him, stirring memories of another night—and the last time he’d needed her. When he reached for her she pulled away. She couldn’t be there for him this time, not like that—not temporarily.

“I’m sorry, Michael, I can’t. I don’t want to just be a distraction, and we both know that’s what I’d be, a way to keep your mind off things you’d rather not think about. I was that for you once. I can’t do it again.”

“Right. Got it.” He stood, pushing his hands deep into his pockets. “I know you want the happy ending. And you deserve one. But I can’t stay in Starry Point. Not when there are memories everywhere I look. I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t want to hurt you, or when I said leaving was the best thing for both of us. It still is. That hasn’t changed.”

Lane nodded, trying to pretend she hadn’t been hoping he’d say something else. She watched as he crossed the room and retrieved his father’s letter from the floor. When he had folded and pocketed the rumpled sheets, he turned back to face her.

“I’m sorry, Lane. Sorrier than you’ll ever know.”

She managed another nod, then watched him go.

Michael’s door swung open almost instantly in response to her light rap. Clearly, he hadn’t been able to sleep, either. He stood in the doorway, a silhouette in the faint blue-white light that spilled into his room.

“Lane, it’s three a.m. What are you . . . what’s wrong?”

He was wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and nothing else. Without meaning to, she let her eyes run the length of him, then back again. The moment spun out awkwardly.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said, finding her voice at last. “I just . . . changed my mind.”

Michael found her eyes in the gloom, then looked away. “That’s a bad idea.”

“I know,” Lane said softly. “But I’m here anyway.”

“What you said before, about being a distraction—” He broke off, raked a hand through already tousled hair. “You were right. You should go back to bed.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“They make pills for that.”

“I don’t want a pill.”

She gazed up at him through lowered lashes. Something had changed in the dark empty hours since he’d left her room, a stirring of blood and bone that refused to be quiet, a stripping away of pride and pretense. Stepping closer, she laid a hand on his bare chest, felt the deep thrum of his heart against her palm, the warm, quick urgency of it. He wanted her, as much as she wanted him. That hadn’t changed. How did she make him understand that he didn’t have to be noble, that her eyes were wide open, and for now, tonight, she didn’t care about tomorrow?

“Michael, you don’t have to protect me. I’ve been lying up there in the dark, thinking about everyone telling me to fight for what I want. Well, this is what I want. Here. Now. For however many days we have left. I don’t need a happy ending. I need right now.”

She stared at him, waiting, then realized she had no idea what she wanted him to do or say. Part of her hoped he’d send her back to her room, that he would care enough, down in places he hadn’t explored yet, not to risk hurting her again. But the other part, the flesh-and-blood part, hoped he would pull her into his arms and drag her into bed.

In the end, he did neither. With a single finger, he traced the curve of her cheek with agonizing slowness, then tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “I won’t sleep with you,” he said with a husky softness. “But I will stay awake with you.”

“But I thought—”

“You deserve more than just right now, Lane. You shouldn’t ever forget that.”

Lane managed a nod, her throat suddenly too tight to speak.

He took her hand then, like a wayward child up past bedtime, and led her across the room to the large four-poster bed. The drapes were open, the stars on display out over a silver-black sea, and as she lay down she tried not to think of the lonely boy who had once looked out at that same sky as he drifted off to sleep.

His warmth was welcome when he finally dropped down beside her and snugged an arm about her waist—as if they’d been sharing a bed for years. They lay awake for a while, their bodies fitted like spoons in a drawer, until the mingled rhythm of heart and breath began to lull her toward sleep. It wasn’t what she’d come for when she padded down the stairs. There was no passion in their closeness, no threat and no promise, only a quiet sense of rightness as the horizon slid toward silver and she finally drifted off.

When she opened her eyes again, the horizon was a dusky shade of pink, and Michael was gone. Pushing back the sheets, she turned to look at the empty place beside her. She had no right to expect him to be there, no right at all. He had declared nothing—promised nothing. And despite it all, she felt betrayed. Not because Michael had betrayed her, but because she had betrayed herself.