Just Look Up

by Courtney Walsh

  She picked up the phone. Miles McQuerry is acting project manager in your absence.

  Lane’s stomach rolled over. Seriously? Marshall put Miles in charge? Miles was the epitome of a cutthroat businessman, and it was Lane’s throat he was after.

  “Great,” she said into her phone, watching as the word magically appeared in the text box. “Watch him like a hawk.”

  Miles would make the most of these circumstances, and Lane knew it. She knew it because if the roles were reversed, she would do the same.

  She groaned as she stuck the phone back in the cup holder. Otis growled a response. She’d get to the hospital, make sure her brother was okay, and then she’d return to the city as soon as possible. She had to—or everything she’d been working for would go up in flames.

  Besides, Nate was invincible—Jeremy and her mom must’ve forgotten.

  Knowing he was in the ICU certainly made it easy to forget.

  After three hours of driving, Lane exited the highway for Harbor Pointe, Michigan. The signs promised “peace” and “quiet.” She supposed it was true for most people—it was hard for a town with so little to do to offer anything but peace and quiet. Growing up in a tourist town, she had a revolving door of summer friends. She’d come to realize she much preferred being in the city surrounded by busy go-getters than on the beaches of Lake Michigan surrounded by lazy vacationers.

  Even though it had been years since she’d been back, she could still recite the script from one of her more tolerable summer jobs—Harbor Pointe tour guide. Somehow standing up at the front of the harbor trolley and giving newcomers the rundown didn’t intimidate her at all. She just pretended she was someone else for a while as she narrated the trolley’s route toward the water. So many of the town’s activities revolved around the lake.

  “Vacationers love our water sports, boating charters, and lighthouse tours, but be careful after dark. Some say the old harbor lighthouse is haunted by the ghost of a lighthouse keeper who disappeared at sea during a storm in the spring of 1953.” She’d used her best newscaster’s voice as she delivered the script and tried her hardest to make the stories interesting.

  After the lake tour, they’d head toward town. “Of course, after a full day on the water, you’ll want to explore our thriving food industry. Harbor Pointe is home to thirty-two different locally owned eateries, including Summers Cheese, one of my personal favorites, which is the perfect stop after you visit one of the three beautiful wineries in the area.”

  Lane realized she’d been speaking out loud to no one but Otis and felt instantly embarrassed. Especially the way she’d added in the bit about Summers, plugging the family business like someone with a personal stake in it. She supposed some things would be with her forever, no matter how much time passed. After repeating those words numerous times a day for several summers, they were embedded in her memory, a permanent reminder of everything Harbor Pointe was supposed to be.

  She drove through downtown, which still looked a lot like a movie set that had been frozen in time. She turned onto Main Street and wondered how it was possible nobody had lobbied to repaint the brightly colored storefronts that lined either side of the street. The town was quiet this time of year—not quite tourist season—but unless everything had changed, the locals were gearing up for the influx of people who would join them for the summer.

  The cottages and vacation homes in and around Harbor Pointe would soon be rented out or occupied by those who spent their summers away from “real life,” lazing on the beaches and living what Lane’s mother referred to as a “simple life.”

  She always said people came to Harbor Pointe for days, maybe weeks, for a taste of what the Kelley family got to have all year long. She’d made it all sound so appealing, but Lane had never been convinced.

  Besides, for people like the Kelleys, summer was just a busier work season. While everyone else escaped from the demands of a stressful life, those who ran businesses in Harbor Pointe worked to make sure all their needs were met. The line drawn between the vacationers and the townies was a thick one, edged deep in the fabric of the town, the way the Berlin Wall split the capital of Germany in two. Only someone as naive as Lane had once been would ever think it didn’t matter, that friendships could withstand such a concrete separation.

  She knew better now.

  Only her siblings seemed able to bridge that gap—it had never been a gift Lane had possessed. Another way she was so different from the rest of them.

  Her phone buzzed. She picked it up as she turned down Sweetwater Lane toward Harbor Pointe Hospital.

  Told Mrs. Pim about your emergency. She asked if she could text you a few photos. I told her it might be good not to bother you right now, but you should probably expect her pictures.

  Mrs. Pim. Lane had been the point person on the rebranding of the woman’s restaurants throughout the city, and even though they’d technically finished the project months ago, the woman still called at least three times a week.

  Chloe was going above and beyond, and Lane knew it. She found the contact for her favorite spa in her phone and dialed it.

  “I’d like to make an appointment for my assist—my friend—to get a forty-five-minute massage with Ruby.”

  Ruby had magic fingers. At least that’s what she’d heard. Lane rarely had time to have someone work the knots out of her back anymore.

  She gave the girl on the other end Chloe’s name and told her to charge the credit card they had on file for Lane.

  “Can you call and tell her about the appointment?” Lane asked. “Just let her know it’s taken care of and her only instruction is to forget about everything for an hour.”

  “Of course. Will there be anything else? An appointment for yourself, maybe?”

  “No, that’s all.” Never mind that Lane would desperately love to forget about everything for an hour herself. But now, more than ever, she did not have time for that.

  She hung up the phone, wishing she could see Chloe’s face when she got the call from the salon. Marshall might not give Lane the accolades she deserved, but Lane had come to appreciate people who did their jobs well. She’d learned how very rare it was.

  The hospital came into view and she quickly found a parking place near a patch of grass for Otis’s sake. She attached a leash to his collar and led him outside, checking her Twitter feed as she let him do his business. Miles’s most recent tweet popped up as she scrolled.

  Never waste an opportunity.

  Frustration snapped within her, giving her insides a tight squeeze. Something about it felt personal, like he had posted it just for Lane’s benefit, flaunting the fact that he fully intended to steal that promotion right out from under her.

  Lane started back for the car, still staring at her phone. She shouldn’t be thinking about work. She glanced at the hospital building, willing her heart to focus on why she was here.

  She began to text Chloe as she walked toward her car, trying to decide how to say thank you to her assistant without giving away the surprise she’d arranged. She reached the sidewalk and was nearly to her car when a man’s voice pulled her attention.

  “Look up!” he called out. Lane jerked her head up just in time to realize she’d stepped straight into the path of an oncoming biker, who, judging by his tone, wasn’t happy about it. “Watch where you’re going!”

  “Sorry!” she called after him, but he didn’t respond.

  That was the other thing about Harbor Pointe. The foot and bike traffic.

  “Downtown Harbor Pointe is what’s known as a walking village, with many residents and visitors opting not to drive motorized vehicles for the duration of summer. This gives the village a calm, relaxed vibe that hearkens back to simpler times, the times we’re all trying to capture as life threatens to pass us by.”

  The words from her tour-guide days had invaded her memory, unwelcome but oh, so true. She hadn’t known it then; she’d simply been reciting a script. But now she had a better understand
ing of the contrast between her hometown and the fast-paced professional world.

  Still, there were far too many ghosts here for Lane to ever find peace—and that didn’t even include the one in the harbor lighthouse.

  She tucked her phone away and got Otis situated in the backseat, cracking the windows as she did. She was thankful the early May weather was cool. Otherwise she’d have to bring her dog into the hospital, and something told her he wouldn’t be welcome.

  She turned toward the hospital. Perhaps she’d been dreading this more than she wanted to admit. The uncomfortable reunion, the clashing personalities, the too-loud banter, the guilt trip her mom would lay on, the embarrassing way her family would have taken over the waiting room, the snide comments about how she couldn’t extract herself from the city even for a weekend or Christmas—“and you know how your mother loves Christmas.”

  And Lindsay. She absolutely dreaded coming face-to-face with Lindsay.

  But even more than all those things, she was terrified of seeing for herself just how badly her brother had been hurt. The tone of Jeremy’s voice when he told her to drop everything and get there—it was urgent. It spoke volumes.

  Sunlight streamed in through the large windows at the front of the hospital lobby, a contradiction mixing bright light and happiness with the dark worry and sadness that seeped down the corridors.

  A stop at the front desk told Lane that Nate was in room 352. He could only have two visitors at a time, and the front desk volunteer was fairly certain he’d had a steady stream since he was first brought in last night.

  “I’m sure,” Lane said.

  “Seems like that boy is quite popular.” The woman smiled. “We’re praying for him.”

  Yes, Nate always was the popular one. Everyone loved him and he knew it. The image of his grin invaded the corners of her mind. She missed that smile, that charming “Yes, I do know how good-looking I am and you’re powerless to turn away until I’ve gotten what I want” smile. With that expression on his face, Nate could convince anyone to do anything for him—it was like a superpower. She remembered countless times he’d used his powers to stay up past bedtime, turn in homework after the due date, go to school late, get access to the community swimming pool after hours. . . . She almost laughed thinking about it. Almost.

  She found herself standing outside the elevator, though she had little memory of getting herself there.

  She pressed the button with the 3 on it, bracing herself for what came next. Her social anxiety was at an all-time high as the doors to the elevator snapped shut. A hollowness seemed to have been carved out of the center of her chest, leaving it open and exposed. She leaned against the wall of the elevator and drew in a very deep breath.

  “Maybe you could help me with this? I mean, if we’re still okay. . . .”

  Her prayer was fast and fleeting, as most of her prayers were these days. Another thing she didn’t really have time for. She had to believe God understood. He knew how important her job was, after all. And God liked hard work. Right?

  She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her Twitter feed—out of habit more than interest.

  The elevator stopped, then shifted. Maybe it’ll get stuck and I’ll be locked in here all day.

  But the bell dinged and the car righted itself. No such luck.

  Lane clicked the phone’s screen off and wished she could teleport to Nate’s bedside.

  She smoothed her blouse, pulling her suit jacket around her a little tighter. Then her eyes fell to her pointed black heels. The doors started to open and the sound of voices infiltrated the silence of the little box where she stood. Slowly the doors slid out of the way, landing her directly in front of one of the two people she would’ve been content never to see again. Lindsay.

  Just breathe.

  CHAPTER

  5

  LANE INHALED the kind of breath she imagined a woman in labor would breathe, slow and deep, meant to steady wobbly knees and nerves that didn’t stand a chance against the situation in front of her. A breath that would have to carry her through until she was finally able to walk out of the hospital—whenever that was.

  The onslaught of unwanted—and unwelcome—emotions all attached to memories she’d done very well to bury wound up and punched her squarely in the jaw. She knew Lindsay would be here, some part of her knew, but she’d hoped she could get by without having to face her. At least not first thing.

  “Are you getting out?” Lindsay’s brow twitched and Lane stepped out of the elevator and into the hallway. Her phone buzzed.

  Can you e-mail me the market research on Solar’s competition? Need to find a couple of statistics JB asked for.

  Marshall’s text couldn’t have come in five minutes earlier? Lane glanced at Lindsay, who stood in the center of the hallway like an out-of-place freshman at her first high school dance.

  Lane almost excused herself, then remembered she didn’t owe Lindsay the same common courtesy she would’ve given any other human being on the planet. She didn’t owe Lindsay anything.

  She stepped off to the side and did a quick search of her e-mail, found the one Marshall wanted—which she’d already sent him, complete with the market research—and forwarded it to him.

  “Lane?”

  Even before she glanced up, she recognized her mother’s voice behind her. She turned and saw the older woman walking toward her with outstretched arms. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here. Lindsay, why didn’t you tell me your sister had arrived?”

  Lindsay turned away.

  Before she knew it, Lane was wrapped in a tight hug. Her hands found her mother’s back, and they rested there lamely until Lane counted to three and pulled away.

  “Let me look at you,” her mom said.

  Dottie Kelley had always worn her dark hair short, but now flecks of gray showed her age, and while her skin had held up remarkably well, there were slight rainbow-shaped wrinkles framing her eyes—eyes that seemed to glimmer a bit as she took in the sight of her daughter.

  “You look so professional.”

  Lane glanced down at her black dress pants and pin-striped blouse. Her heels made her considerably taller than her mom, who seemed smaller somehow, her larger-than-life personality lying dormant, most likely because of the accident.

  “And thin. Lindsay, isn’t she thin?”

  Lane cringed. Don’t ask Lindsay anything about how I look. Don’t remind me that she is the pretty one and I’m the smart one. Don’t remind me of what that cost me.

  “How’s Nate?” Lane asked, switching her oversize bag from one shoulder to the other.

  “About the same.” Her mom’s eyes filled with tears.

  A pair of reading glasses hung on a chain around her mother’s neck, and despite the nice temperature outside, she wore a loose shawl around her shoulders. In fact, everything her mom wore was loose, as if she had something against clothing that touched her skin.

  Mom had always been small—slight, even. Lane could still remember praying that somehow, miraculously, her much sturdier frame would magically transform into her mother’s. But she had her dad’s genes too, and there was nothing delicate about those.

  “He’s going to be okay,” Lane said, aware that she had absolutely no proof to back up her statement.

  Mom nodded as if Lane’s ignorance didn’t matter. They were choosing to believe Nate would be all right. “Why are we standing in the hallway?” Her mom tossed Lindsay a glance.

  “I’m waiting on . . .” Lindsay’s voice trailed off.

  Mom’s face froze for a second as if someone hit the Pause button on a video image of her.

  Lane looked away. Lindsay was at the elevator waiting on someone. It didn’t take a genius to figure out whom.

  “Come into the waiting room, Lane.” Mom motioned for Lane to follow her down the quiet hallway toward the noisier waiting room. “You can say hi to everyone and then I’ll take you to see Nate.”

  Lane watched her own feet as each one
moved forward involuntarily, methodically obeying her mother’s words. Seeing Lindsay had rattled loose all the boxes she’d stuffed at the back of the closet of her mind.

  She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to make small talk with family members she didn’t really know. She didn’t want to pretend she was fine sitting in the same room with Lindsay. She didn’t want to spend another minute disappointing her mother for being too busy, too focused, and now, apparently too thin.

  And even though she hated herself for it, she didn’t want to see Nate. Not in a hospital bed with tubes breathing for him. She wanted to go on believing he was out there happily pushing his own boundaries, riding his motorcycle or bungee jumping or traveling the world. That was the life she’d invented for him, pieced together by what little she’d gathered from social media and their few sparse conversations over the years.

  She didn’t want to see that things had taken a turn for him, landing him broken and bruised in a medically induced coma.

  “Everyone’s been here since we first got word,” Mom was saying and Lane forced herself to listen. “Jer has hardly left Nate’s side—you know how he looks up to both of the boys.”

  Lane knew. Everyone looked up to Nate and Noah—especially Jeremy.

  Before they reached the waiting room, Lane heard her family. They’d never adopted the idea of “inside voices.” Her mom laced her arm through Lane’s and squeezed. “I’m glad you’re finally home.”

  She hadn’t lingered on the finally, but Lane’s own guilt emphasized the word. Harmless in theory, and yet it said so much.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out with her free hand just as they crossed the threshold into the waiting room.

  Lane, was really hoping you would make it out today. The tile they delivered is just not right. Wanted you to see it in person. Sending a picture so you can see for yourself.

  Mrs. Pim.