It was nearly eight when Lane finally returned home. She’d put it off as long as possible, lingering until the night-duty nurse had essentially thrown her out. She tried to ignore the empty spot in the drive where Michael’s SUV was usually parked. She’d better get used to it. This time it was only for a few days, but eventually he’d be gone for good.
At least with Hannah coming to stay, she wouldn’t be alone. And she’d have plenty of free time before the season started to outline the novel that had been percolating in her head for the past two weeks. Michael had been right about one thing: it was time to stop hiding behind magazine articles and write something real. Who knew, maybe she’d even send him a copy when it was finished—proof that there were no hard feelings. It would be the grown-up thing to do, and it was definitely time to grow up.
Exhausted in every way it was possible to be exhausted, she dragged herself up the front steps and fumbled for her key, wishing she’d remembered to leave a light on this morning when she left. In her present mood, the last thing she needed was to come home to a house that was not only glaringly empty, but pitch-dark as well.
Inside, she made a beeline for the parlor lamp. Dally’s Christmas tree towered gloomily beside the fireplace, barren and utterly depressing. Groaning, she turned away. As if her day hadn’t been bad enough.
She was halfway to the kitchen before she realized the boxes Michael had stacked near the library door yesterday were gone. Backtracking, she flipped on the library light with a sinking feeling, and felt her throat tighten. Not a pencil or pad remained. Not so much as a paper clip to prove he’d ever been there.
There was no need to look upstairs—she already knew what she would find—and yet she made herself go, freezing when she reached the landing and peered down the hall toward the Tower Suite. The door stood ajar, revealing a slice of the bed where only last night they had lain awake together, staring at the stars. Her stomach lurched as she forced herself to step into the room, to take in the bureau with its hastily emptied drawers, the bathroom swept of personal possessions. He hadn’t gone to Raleigh. He’d just . . . gone.
Numb, she moved from surface to surface, hoping to find a note. An apology. A good-bye. But there was nothing. How had she not seen it? Not realized he meant to run? It was why he’d been so insistent about showing Hannah the letter. He knew he wasn’t coming back. Hannah had known it, too, she realized now. She had seen it, sensed it somehow, and had chosen her words accordingly. “We run when we should stand our ground.” Only, it appeared her son hadn’t been listening.
Downstairs, Lane crumpled onto the last step, hugging her knees like a sulky child. It didn’t matter, really. He was always going to leave. This was just sooner. And it wasn’t the leaving that upset her. It was the way he’d done it. At least that’s what she was telling herself when she heard her cell phone jangle in the foyer.
Her heart bounced into her throat as she scurried for her purse, counting rings as she fumbled the thing out of its small side pocket. Her face fell when she checked the display.
“Hey, Dally, what’s up?”
“Interested in a little gossip?”
Lane sighed. “Not really. Not tonight.”
“I bet you change your mind when you hear what Dustin Redall just spilled.”
“Dustin?”
“The cop I’ve been seeing? Blond hair, blue eyes?”
“They all have blond hair and blue eyes, Dally. What’s the scoop?”
“Just that the police have made an arrest in all these break-ins. Three little punks from the south side—imagine that. It’s hush-hush for right now, but it should hit the papers in a day or two, as soon as Breester figures out how to spin it. Which means Hope House is off the hook.”
Lane gripped the phone a little tighter. “Are you sure about this? I mean really sure?”
“I got it straight from the horse’s mouth, didn’t I?”
“Why would Dustin tell you something like that?”
“He wants me to think he’s a big deal, I guess. Anyway, I thought you’d want to know.”
She could hear the smile in Dally’s voice. She checked her watch—too late to call Callahan. It would have to wait until morning. “I always said you were better than a subscription to the Islander Dispatch, and you are. Dally, this is wonderful news.”
“So . . . do I still have a job?”
Lane eyed the tree balefully. “Barely.”
“Have you decorated it yet?”
“No.”
“Come on. Don’t be a grinch. It’ll be fun.”
Lane smothered another sigh, the shine of Dally’s news already beginning to dim. “It’s been . . . a bit of a day.”
“Let me guess—Professor McDreamy?”
“He’s gone.”
“As in . . . gone?”
“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”
“I could come over if you want. So you’re not alone.”
“Thanks, but no. Right now I’m thinking about getting good and drunk.”
“Wow, that bad?”
“Tomorrow, okay? But thanks for the update.”
“Okay, boss.”
Lane struggled to process the news as she ended the call. Under normal circumstances Dally’s bit of gossip would have left her giddy, but now, as she thought of the other news she would have to impart to Hannah, the news that her son was gone, she found her excitement severely curtailed. In fact, the prospect of such a conversation made her want to climb into bed and pull the covers over her head. Had he thought of that, she wondered, as he was heading out of town?
In the kitchen, she excavated a bottle of Pinot from the fridge and poured herself a hefty glass. She was halfway to the parlor when she decided to go back for the bottle. Not even she could get drunk on one glass of wine.
She just prayed Dally had been listening when she said she didn’t want company. It would be just like her to pop by with a box of Twinkies, an assortment of Ben & Jerry’s, and a bootleg copy of The Notebook. The girl had a heart of gold, but at times her gestures could be a bit overwhelming, as the eight-foot Fraser fir in her parlor would attest.
She eyed the green monstrosity now with a shake of the head. So much for the romantic Christmas for two. Not that it had ever been real. She’d always known that, hadn’t she? Then why did the sight of it, freshly cut and waiting to be trimmed, feel like such a taunt? For two cents she’d toss it, and all four boxes of decorations, out onto the lawn.
Instead, she sank down onto the hearth with her bottle and her glass, keenly aware of the silence that seemed suddenly to crowd the corners of the room. It had been enough once, this quiet existence. No expectations. No complications. Just a safe and solitary sameness. Then Michael had shown up, with his charming smile and his willingness to play house, and now she didn’t know how to go back. She would have to, though—somehow.
If anyone can help you forget Professor McDreamy, Harry can.
Well, they’d just see about that.
Diving into the cartons of decorations with a gusto that could only be fueled by the Pinot, Lane rummaged through strands of garland and boxes of fragile glass ornaments until she found what she was looking for at the bottom of box number three—Harry Connick Jr. staring up at her with his liquid eyes and that movie-star mouth.
Wrestling the CD from its shiny plastic, she slid it into the stereo and hit PLAY, then turned up the volume, letting the jazzy rendition of “Sleigh Ride” fill the room. She eyed the tree again dubiously, the decorations she had just heaped out onto the floor. Why the hell not? She had wine, twinkle lights, and Harry. She could do this. She could decorate Dally’s monster tree and pretend that everything was fine—that she was fine.
It had been a while but she still remembered her tree-trimming basics as she unraveled the first strand of tiny white bulbs and plugged them in. They flicked to life, warm and white, then blurred into tiny prisms as the tears finally came. With a muffled sob she sank back down onto the hearth. She couldn’t do this. And she sure as hell wasn’t fine.
The sound of the front door opening brought her head up with a jerk. Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she stood, trailing Christmas lights behind her as she headed for the foyer.
“I thought I told you I didn’t want—oh.”
“My key was still under the mat.”
Michael had the good grace to look sheepish as he stood in the doorway, holding up the key in question. He seemed about to say more when he closed his mouth and ran his eyes around the room, taking in the blaring stereo and decoration-strewn floor, the wine bottle and glass on the hearth. Finally, he pointed to the strand of lights dangling from her hand. “Are you having a party?”
Dropping the lights, she stepped past him to turn off the stereo. “As I matter of fact, I am,” she answered coolly as she turned back to face him. “It’s a going-away party.”
“Lane—”
“Did you forget something?” she asked, not caring that she sounded petulant. “No, I doubt that. You were very thorough.”
“Let me explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain. You lied, and then you left. I guess I should have listened. You said you’d hurt me, and you did.”
“I told you I couldn’t stay, and I told you why.”
“You didn’t say you were clearing out today, though, did you? And without so much as a good-bye.”
“I didn’t know. I—” He stopped abruptly, and raked a hand through his hair. “No. That’s a lie. I did know. Or at least I was pretty sure I was leaving.”
It was all she could do to keep her face blank as she absorbed this frank admission. Honesty was supposed to be refreshing, but this didn’t feel refreshing at all. “Were you even going to see Callahan? Or was the bit about saving Hope House a lie, too?”
“No. That part was true. I was going to Raleigh. In fact, I was almost there when I turned around.”
“Because you realized you’d forgotten to leave a note?”
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“Well, I’m not sure what this is, but no, I’m not inclined to make anything easy for you at the moment.”
Michael sighed. “Fair enough. The reason I turned around was that I realized I was going the wrong way. For a long time now I’ve known something’s been missing. I just didn’t know what it was. Now I do.”
Lane swallowed the lump in her throat but could still find no words.
“It took me a while to get out of my own way, but I finally get that this is where I’m supposed to be. Everything that’s happened—Hannah, you, the letter from my father—all of it was meant to show me the way home.”
“To Starry Point?”
“To you.”
He took a step toward her then, slow, cautious, as if he were afraid she might bolt. “I don’t want to relive my father’s mistakes, Lane. I don’t want to hurt the people I care about, and I don’t want to run away from what’s hard. I’d rather stay and fight for the life I want.”
Hannah’s words. He had been listening.
“You left—no note, no good-bye. You just left.” Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away. “How do I know you won’t do it again?”
“Because I’m done being an idiot. I was afraid to let myself love you, afraid it would mean being tied to this place, to always living in the past. I didn’t realize that’s exactly what I was already doing. I’ve been stuck, but not anymore. Somewhere between here and Raleigh I finally figured out the only way to stop living in the past is to make a future.”
“A future . . . with me?”
Michael closed the distance between them with a single step. Cupping her face in both hands, he bent to brush a kiss against her forehead, then one across her mouth, his lips whisper-soft. “Yes, with you.”
A fresh set of tears welled before she could check them. “I missed you,” she whispered as she blinked them away.
“I was only gone seven hours.”
“I know.” Standing on tiptoe, she matched his kiss, the barest of touches, then angled her head to look up at him. “Don’t do it again.”
He nodded, his eyes never wavering from hers.
Lane felt her heart quicken as the gaze lingered and stretched. It was a look she would happily have drowned in, smoldering and smoky gray, but it was what lay behind it that finally made her heart sing: love, need, and for the first time—a promise.