Lane
Lane looked up from the coffeepot when the back door opened. Michael was there, his cheeks dark with morning stubble, windblown and slightly damp as he peeled off his jacket and draped it on a peg. Suddenly, her hands were clammy. She curled them into fists, not knowing what to say, or how to act. In the end, the oven timer saved her.
The kitchen filled with the mouthwatering aroma of cranberry-spice muffins as she extracted the pan and set it on the stove. Stalling for time, she spent a few minutes tidying: stowing oven mitts, wiping down counters, straightening towels.
“Lane—”
She cut him off with a hand as she lifted her mug. She didn’t need apologies or explanations. They’d done those already. And really, there was nothing to apologize for. In fact, she should probably thank him for taking the high road, for refusing to let her make a complete fool of herself. And if he’d snuck out again, well, who could blame him after the way she had thrown herself at him?
“Look,” she said, trying to sound casual as she poured him a mug of coffee and passed it to him. “Before you say anything, we don’t have to talk about last night. It’s done, and quite frankly, I’d rather not rehash it if you don’t mind. In fact, we don’t have to talk about it ever again.”
He nodded, looking distinctly relieved.
“So, have you given any more thought to what to do about Hannah and the letter?”
Michael stared down at his feet, as if fascinated by the wet half-moons at the tips of his boots. “I thought about it all night, as a matter of fact. You told me I need to forgive, and maybe that’s true. I can forgive my mother. Maybe because it turns out there’s really not that much to forgive when you take everything into consideration. But I can’t and won’t forgive my father. What he did set all the rest in motion, and no letter can ever change that. So I went down to the jetty to shred the damn thing and toss it into the ocean.”
Lane’s mug halted en route to her mouth. “Please, please tell me you didn’t.”
“I wanted to—still do. But no, I didn’t.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Something you said once, about Hannah waiting for the truth. All of a sudden I knew the letter was that truth, proof that she hadn’t been wrong, hadn’t been crazy. Last night, you said she had a right to know, and she does. I’m going to show her the letter.”
“I’m glad.”
“You were right, Lane,” he said quietly. “About a lot of things.”
“What . . . kind of things?”
“About there being no room in my heart, for starters.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t need to go there again. Really. I get it.”
“I don’t think you do,” Michael said evenly. “And I need you to. I asked you once how you know if you’re where you’re supposed to be. Do you remember that?”
“Yes, I remember.”
Her face was stony as she braced for yet another explanation about why he couldn’t stay, couldn’t be the man she needed—couldn’t love her. Instead, his cell phone went off in his pocket. He swore softly as he glanced at the display.
“It’s Katherine returning my call. I need to take this.”
Lane nodded curtly. “Go ahead. We’re done here anyway.”
Michael opened his mouth to say something, but the phone jangled again. Grimacing, he slipped out the back door to answer the call. Lane was actually relieved. There were only so many times a girl could be turned down before she started taking it personally. Besides, she needed to get to the hospital. Dr. Ashton had agreed to meet her at eleven to discuss Hannah’s care, and a potential time frame for her release.
Twenty minutes later, she was dressed and ready to go, packing muffins into a paper bag, when Michael reappeared, still clutching his cell. His cheeks were pink and shiny from the wind, like a boy’s, but his brows were bunched, his shoulders tightly hunched. Apparently the call hadn’t gone well.
She tried to imagine what it would be like to have your son, the boy you’d loved and thought of as your own for thirty years, call you out of the blue and tell you his birth mother was back from the grave and suddenly back in the picture. It couldn’t have been an easy conversation for either of them, but it had to have been especially hard on Michael. He was being pulled in too many directions. Two mothers, two lives, and she’d been pulling on him, too. None of it was fair.
“I’m sorry about all this, Michael. If I had stayed away from Mary—from Hannah—when you asked me to, none of this would be happening now. You wouldn’t know she was alive, wouldn’t know the truth about your father. And there’d be no reason to have what I’m sure was a rather uncomfortable conversation with Katherine just now.”
Michael nodded. “And Hannah would still be Dirty Mary, sitting out there all alone on the dunes, waiting for the truth. Now she won’t have to wait anymore. She has you to thank for that. I suppose I do, too.”
“She loved you Michael—and Peter. Never forget that.”
Michael said nothing as he stepped past her and began rinsing out his mug. Apparently the discussion was over.
“Well, then, I guess I’m off to the hospital. Unless . . . you want to ride along?”
He turned as he dried his hands. “Thanks, but I need to tie up a few loose ends. I’ll meet you there in about an hour.”
Lane blinked at him. “Really? I didn’t think you’d want to see her again.”
“I don’t. But you were right about the letter. She has a right to know.”
“Yes, but not now, Michael. I didn’t mean now. She’s been through too much. The accident. Seeing you. We have to wait.”
“I can’t wait. I need to do this now—before I leave for Raleigh.”
She set down the muffins. “Raleigh?”
“I’m going back to talk to Callahan. I’ll be away for a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“A few days. A week. I don’t know right now. There’s some business I need to see to, about the house and the trusts. And I suppose we’ll need to decide what to do about Hope House. Hannah’s going to need somewhere to go once she’s discharged.”
“About that,” Lane began hesitantly. “I’ve been thinking about something more long-term.”
“Long-term?”
“What would you say to Hannah coming to live with me?”
Michael couldn’t have looked more stunned if she’d proposed dancing naked out on the jetty. “To live with you . . . here?”
“It makes sense, right now. She’s going to need someone to look after her for a while, and with the inn closed for the winter I’ll have time to help her through rehab. After that, maybe we can find her something long-term, a place where she can move into something like a normal life if that’s what she wants, and her doctors say it’s okay.”
Michael sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “Lane, I can’t think long term right now. I’ve got my hands full with the here and now.”
“I know that. I wasn’t pushing. I just thought—”
“What? That you could fix it? Make us one big happy family again?”
“I’m just trying to help. I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t. I just . . . I can’t promise anything right now. To anyone.”
Lane lifted her chin a notch. The words stung, but they weren’t new. “You’ve always made that pretty clear.”
The clock over the sink ticked noisily as she held his gaze, a thin, mechanical heartbeat in the charged silence. He made no attempt to defend himself. But then how could he when they both knew it was true?
The moment was broken when the doorbell rang. Their eyes held a moment more before Lane turned and headed for the parlor. She wasn’t prepared for the enormous Fraser fir standing on her front porch, or for the young man who popped out from behind it.
“Delivery,” he said simply.
Lane blinked at the monstrous evergreen. It dwarfed the boy by at least three feet. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid you have the wrong address.”
He tugged a receipt from his pocket and squinted at it. “This the Cloister House?”
“Yes, but—”
“Says right here, Cloister House. Where do you want it?”
“But I didn’t order a tree. There’s been a mistake.”
“There are some boxes in the truck, too,” he informed her. “Oh, and I’m supposed to give you this.”
He pushed the receipt into Lane’s hands. It took only a moment to recognize the Sewell’s Hardware logo, and Dally’s loopy script.
Sorry, boss, couldn’t help myself. After everything that’s happened I thought you deserved a Christmas tree. I charged it all to your account. If you hate it you can fire me. Don’t forget to pop Harry into the CD player. If anyone can help you forget Professor McDreamy, it’s Harry. D—
Sighing, she stepped aside. “Just put it anywhere.”
Several trips later, the tree was surrounded by four large cardboard boxes, and Lane stood shaking her head. She really did need to fire that girl. At the sound of approaching footsteps, she turned. Michael seemed vaguely astonished to find an evergreen tree had sprouted beside the fireplace.
“What’s all this?”
“Dally,” she said simply.
“She bought you a tree?”
“Not exactly, no. But she sent one.”
“That girl’s a piece of work.”
Lane found a smile. “Yes, but she’s a good friend.”
“What’s in the boxes?”
“Ornaments, I’m guessing. The inn’s always closed at the holidays, so there never seemed much point in a tree. She must have assumed I’d need them. I’ll return them tomorrow, or maybe donate it all to Hope House.”
“You’re not going to keep it?”
Lane nudged the closest box with the toe of her boot. “I’m not really in the mood for holiday cheer at the moment. Besides, I’ve got a ton of work to get caught up on, and a new project I’m thinking about starting.”
A smile flickered at the corners of Michael’s mouth, sad and a bit reminiscent. “When I was here as a boy we always begged for a Christmas tree, but the nuns wouldn’t have it. We had a nativity scene instead, which, as you can imagine, fell a bit short of our boyish ideals.”
“So, do you do one now?”
His expression hardened as he eyed the bare tree. “Like you said, not much point.”