You Had Me At Goodbye. Jane Blackwood
be the wrong Kendall,” she said as she waited for the page to appear on her laptop. But no, there he was in all his glory, wearing a swimsuit and standing aboard what Kat would call a yacht, not a boat. “Whoa.” The “whoa” was not for the boat but for the man standing on the boat. Of course she knew he had a nice body—she’d seen it firsthand last night—but this glistening Greek god she was staring at was a pumped up version. Kat had never thought of herself as an ogler, but here she was practically drooling at the man she saw smiling rakishly at the camera. He was beautiful, all lean muscle and tanned skin, his hair wind-tousled, his eyes sparkling with humor. Kat glanced at the date: it had been taken five years before, and she could see how time had changed him. He was bigger, more filled out, more man—less carefree, Kat supposed. Once Kat was able to, she dragged her eyes off his body and took in the beautiful blonde draped around him. He had one hand casually resting on her tiny, tanned waist, and Kat frowned.
“Lawrence Kendall, one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors, got in another spot of trouble over the weekend when his sixty-foot yacht, “My Pleasure,” ran aground on a small island near Crete.”
Kat clicked back to Google and selected another item. “Lawrence Kendall has been selected chairman of the London Society for Literacy.” It was a picture of Kendall wearing a tuxedo, standing next to a couple of elderly people. He looked stunning in formal wear, nearly as stunning as he had in his swimsuit.
Kat clicked to Google and selected item after item, most of which were newspaper articles of events where, inevitably, he had on his arm another beautiful blonde and he was described as one of Britain’s most eligible bachelors.
He was rich, she realized. Someone who went to events like those described in the articles was the kind of filthy rich she’d seen only on television. And he wanted her to leave? He could probably buy ten houses like this one. Boy, did he have another thing coming to him—and it sure as hell wasn’t a summer fling. Larry could afford to go anywhere; she could barely afford to buy herself the needed groceries for this summer hiatus.
Kat shut down her computer, more determined than ever to make Larry go away. She went out on the porch wishing Larry and his British charm would simply disappear. Roy was next door, sweeping his porch as he did every day. He looked up and nodded, and Kat could tell he didn’t recognize her immediately.
“Hey, Roy. It’s Kat, Lila’s niece.”
“You here for the summer?” he called over, propping his hand on the broom handle.
“You bet. ’Til Labor Day.”
He paused a minute as if he was going to ask her something, probably about Larry, but instead said, “Why don’t you come on over tonight at five.”
“Just as long as you don’t make me drink one of your martinis,” Kat said, wrinkling her nose. She’d tried to like martinis because they seemed sophisticated, but Kat was a simple girl, and she always stuck to cheap wine and beer.
“I’ll see you later then,” Roy said and disappeared into his bed and breakfast.
At five o’clock, Roy Baxter carefully measured the vodka and poured it into the shaker, then strained enough for two martini glasses. He dropped a single green olive into one and two olives and an onion into the other. Every time he made martinis, he thought of his wife, how she had enjoyed a good martini as much as he did. Each evening at six o’clock, she’d make them both a drink, then bring it to him out on their front porch facing the Atlantic and curl up in the big rocker without a word and take a sip. God, he loved to watch the way her mouth touched the delicate rim, the way her tongue would dart out, the relaxed sound she’d make when she tasted it. One drink each night, and man, did he enjoy that drink.
Twenty years after her death, he could still picture her sitting in the rocking chair next to him. She would tuck her bare feet under her and face him, never the sea, the glow of the late-day sun making her strawberry blond hair seem a soft, burnished gold. She had freckles and bright blue eyes, and he’d loved her to distraction and wondered how a small-town boy could have managed to make this beautiful woman fall in love with him. They would talk and laugh and sometimes argue and sometimes cry. It had been just the two of them for years, and that was not okay, not for Sara. And not for him either. By the time they figured out why Sara couldn’t get pregnant, her cancer was so advanced all they could talk about was how to say goodbye. She’d only been thirty-two. He couldn’t wrap his mind around that now, twenty years later, having lived all those years without her; she’d been so damned young.
Two years after she’d gone, he’d turned their house into a bed and breakfast because he couldn’t bear to sell it and he couldn’t bear to be alone all the time. Most people thought he rented out rooms because he had to financially, but Roy did it for the company. He couldn’t stand to be alone for long stretches of time, wandering around the rambling seaside cottage his great grandfather had built. He’d made good friends over the years, people who’d stayed at his place every summer for years. They’d sit out on the porch with him and talk or not. But they were warm bodies moving about his old place, and he liked it that way.
As alone as he felt, Roy never remarried. He just couldn’t find a way to fall in love with anyone the way he’d fallen in love with Sara. He wasn’t a maudlin man with pictures of his dead wife in every room. He had no real objections to remarrying—God knew the local single women had tried for years to get him down the aisle. He just wanted to love someone, if not in the same way as Sara, at least as much. It never happened, and he figured it never would. He was fifty-five years old and not quite the looker he’d once been. He was starting to get a little bit of a belly, and his hair wasn’t nearly as thick as it used to be. One long-ago girlfriend said he had Paul Newman eyes, so he supposed he wouldn’t break any mirrors.
Roy picked up the martinis and headed out to the porch to the only other man he’d ever met who valued the taste of a good martini as much as he did.
“Here you go, Lawrence.”
“Thank you, Roy. I need it.”
Roy chuckled. “Another great day at the keyboard, I take it?”
Lawrence gave him a short nod. “Not that, though I still haven’t written anything worth a damn. Apparently I’ve acquired a temporary roommate. Lila’s niece.”
“Ah, yes. I saw her on the porch today.”
“Anyway, my hopes for any solitude or privacy have flown out the window.” He took a sip of his martini, closing his eyes briefly to enjoy the moment.
“Tell her to leave.”
“I did. She won’t. Besides, Lila didn’t know I’d be here and promised the house to her. We’re at a stalemate at the moment.”
Roy nodded. “If she’s like her aunt, she’ll win.” They sat in companionable silence for a minute. “I wonder if Lila is coming here this summer.”
Lawrence, recalling the large portrait of Lila in the living room, gave Roy a shrewd look. “I don’t believe so. At least, nothing was mentioned. But you can see a whole lot of her any time you want,” he said, with obvious reference to the portrait.
“God, the picture. Still can’t believe they put it in the living room,” Roy said with a chuckle. “How long is—what’s the niece’s name again?”
“Katherine.”
Roy frowned briefly, then his expression cleared. “Kat. She’s come over every summer for a week or so since Lila and Carl married. She had a boyfriend.” He leaned over, glancing at the house next door. “Boring as hell.”
“Don’t tell me he didn’t appreciate your martinis,” Lawrence joked.
“He drank beer,” Roy said with disgust. “Budweiser.”
The screen door opened next door, and Roy hoped Kat hadn’t heard what he’d said. “Kat, why don’t you join us?”
She looked over at the pair of them and smiled, lifting up what appeared to be