Читать книгу You Had Me At Goodbye - Jane Blackwood - Страница 5

Kat Taylor always stood at the bow of the Martha’s Vineyard ferry, no matter what the sea was doing that day. She loved the sea air, the way it felt against her face, the way it made her hair move in a wild way—as if she were wild, as if she could still fly off and be…something. She was a girl from New Hampshire who only made it to the seaside maybe twice a summer, so she’d come to appreciate that buffeting wind. It was cleansing, somehow, and God knew, she needed to be cleansed.

It was a brilliantly sunny day, and the Atlantic between Woods Hole and Oak Bluffs was unusually calm. Kat wished it was raining, storming, gusts lashing at her, stinging her skin. Instead, a seagull followed the ferry on the gentle breeze as if somehow suspended from the sky on an invisible string. She could take that, too. Kat knew she could take anything but what she had left behind her in Keene. Heck, she supposed she could even take that, too.

Just not right now.

She squeezed her dark brown eyes shut and pictured the house in Oak Bluffs that she hoped was her savior. The house was built in 1880, complete with the ornate gingerbread details that made Oak Bluffs such a unique New England town. A huge wraparound porch hugged the white house: two large rockers, also white, always sat on the porch’s wide-planked floor. At the top of a roof filled with peaks and dormers was a widow’s walk that had one of the most spectacular views of the island. Like many homes on the island, it had a name—Sunrise—because it faced the east and the rising sun. Kat figured it wasn’t the most original name, but it fit the romantic nature of the home and the island. The story was that a sea captain built the house, but then again, most people who owned old Victorians on the waterfront claimed that a sea captain built their house. Kat could believe it though, because the house had a tower and widow’s walk and because she wanted with all her heart to believe in something.

The house was hers for the summer, a respite from a life that had somehow taken a wrong turn when she was about ten and her mother finally told her the identity of her father. Her mother had never married, but that certainly hadn’t meant she’d been lonely. “Cal, your father, was a good man. Good in bed, anyway.” Betty Taylor had laughed because nothing was so serious that you couldn’t laugh about it. And that’s how Kat found out her father was Cal the water meter reader. Good in bed. Gotcha, Mom.

The ferry plowed through the wake of a cruise ship heading to New York, and a bit of sea spray splashed on the group of ferry passengers who liked the bite of the Atlantic as much as she did. She licked her lips and tasted the salt and smiled for the first time in weeks. God, she needed this holiday. She’d have to call her Aunt Lila and tell her again how she’d saved her niece’s sanity. Two months in Sunrise. Two months with nothing to do but sit on that huge wraparound front porch and sip cheap wine, pretending it was something fancy and French, and gaze out at the cold Atlantic.

Long before the ferry docked, she could see the house, looking lost and forlorn. Kat had a terrible and dangerous habit of putting human emotions to inanimate objects, particularly houses. She loved houses, loved to imagine what they looked like inside. She wondered who lived there, who had died there. When they were filled with kids, they were happy or at least content in their mission. And when they were left empty like Sunrise had been this season, they were tragic. A house left empty always seemed so sad to Kat.

“I’m coming, girl,” she said softly and found her smile again.

Twenty minutes later, Kat stood in front of the house, two huge rolling suitcases beside her. She felt a sudden pang for Carl, Lila’s late husband. If it hadn’t been for his generosity, she never would have known how wonderful the Vineyard was. She certainly could never have afforded a month-long vacation on the island, never mind in a waterfront house.

Of all her aunts—Kat had six of them—she loved Lila best. She was more like a sister than an aunt because they were so close in age. Lila had a heart as big as her double-D breasts, and she had a particular soft spot for older men. Much older, rich men. Kat’s mother claimed because their father was so old when Lila was born, Lila had simply been looking for a replacement ever since. Lila was a miracle baby, born when her mother was forty-eight and her closest sister was already in her twenties. She had been her father’s particular favorite, and the two of them were inseparable. But Tony was sixty-five when Lila was born, and even though he lived to the ripe old age of eighty-three, their time together was far too short.

Lila’s first husband, who she married when she was twenty, was seventy-two years old. She loved him until his death two years later. When she was twenty-five, she married Harold. He was eighty. He died six months after their wedding. Lila was alone for two years before she met and married Carl, whom she claimed was the love of her life. Unfortunately, he was seventy-six. Still, they had five wonderful years together before he died, leaving Lila heartbroken once again.

No one ever suggested to Lila that perhaps she ought to look for someone younger, maybe a man in his sixties, for Lila truly loved older men. “They’re so appreciative of everything I do,” she said. “They make me feel like a queen. Queen Lila.”

No one was more different from Lila than Kat, but somehow they loved each other and understood one another. When Kat needed it most, Lila was there for her. “Go to our cottage on Martha’s Vineyard. Go and heal. I’d go there myself, but it’s just too painful right now,” Lila said, her soft voice breaking. “It’s a shame for the cottage to be closed up all summer. It makes me so sad to think of it like that. Please go, Kat. It will be good for you and good for the cottage. Carl loved that old place, and I know he’d want you to use it. Please.”

And so here she was, standing outside the house she loved, savoring the moment, the anticipation of the beginning of an end—the end of failure, the end of the girl whose father was the water meter reader.

She grabbed her suitcases and waited for a clear spot in the summer traffic on Sea View Avenue and…stopped. Someone or something had moved in the tower room. The window was shut, but she could have sworn the curtain had moved a bit, that a shadow had crossed by. Lila and Carl had never mentioned a ghost, Kat thought, half excited and half frightened by the idea. She stared a good while longer before convincing herself she was a complete idiot.

The house had virtually no front yard to speak of, so Kat heaved her bags up the porch steps, reached inside a fish-shaped wind chime, and smiled when she found the key. Roy, who ran a bed and breakfast next door, had a spare key, but Kat was glad not to have to bother him. She let herself in and stared at the abandoned house, furniture still covered with dust sheets. For a moment, she felt a tingle of fear and listened for a sound from the tower, but there was nothing but the noise of the traffic and, beyond that, the surf pounding the beach. Then she saw it: the large portrait of her aunt lying nude on a pile of what looked like polar bear rugs and covered with discreetly placed white feather boas. This was definitely not a sad house, not a haunted house. And for the next eight weeks, it was going to be her house.

Immediately, Kat went around the first floor and opened every window. Then she made short work of the dust covers, smiling in satisfaction when the living room began to look more lived in. She decided to take the bedroom on the first floor, which had absolutely nothing to do with the ghost walking around the tower room. Besides, it was the guest room, and she still was a guest in this house, and it happened to be one of her favorite rooms.

A large wrought-iron bed dominated the room, which contained only an antique wardrobe and two shabby-chic bedside tables with chipped white paint. Kat pulled out linens that felt and looked expensive and a cheerful yellow and white comforter and made the bed, feeling happier than she’d felt in weeks. She sat down on the bed and watched as the sheer white curtain surrounding a window that faced the sea blew gently, bringing with it the unmistakable scents of summer: mowed grass, ocean air, and a hint of honeysuckle. I could be happy here, she thought even as her heart squeezed painfully in her chest.

After a quick walk to the small grocery store in the town’s center for essentials—some frozen burritos and coffee for the morning—Kat did something she hadn’t done in years: she took a nap, idly hoping her ghost stayed put in the tower room while she was sleeping.

It was dusk when Kat awoke, feeling slightly groggy but immensely happy. The only thing she had planned for that evening was curling up on the living room couch and reading a book. Tomorrow she’d go over to see Roy and reminisce about Carl and their summers together, but tonight was hers and hers alone.

She got up, stretching, loving the feel of the cool hardwood floors beneath her feet. She’d have to remind her aunt never to put carpeting in this house. Scruffing up her matted hair, she headed hungrily toward the kitchen, knowing a frozen chicken burrito awaited her. Frozen chicken burritos were one of several weaknesses Kat was willing to admit to. Her friends wrinkled their noses every time she bit into the gooey mass that held some unknown but delicious filling. She didn’t want to know what was in the thing; she only knew it tasted good.

Feeling wonderfully sleepy, she padded into the dark kitchen and directly into something tall and hard and hairy. They both screamed—Kat and whatever it was that was backing away from her—three times. In unison. And then, “Bloody hell,” followed by a succession of swears, all uttered in a cultured male, British accent.

“I have a gun,” Kat said, staring at the shadow of what was obviously a man, a tall, half-naked, hairy man standing in the middle of the kitchen. This was no ghost. He was way too big and solid for a ghost.

“You do not,” he said, sounding far more calm than she did. He almost sounded…amused.

“A knife, then.”

And he laughed, letting out a low chuckle that Kat found slightly comforting. A madman or rapist wouldn’t laugh like that, would he?

“I know karate,” she said, knowing she was being ridiculous. She was rewarded with another chuckle.

“I’m turning on the light,” he said with a voice a person uses when approaching a snarling dog. He did, putting the room into such instant brightness Kat was momentarily blinded, and she backed into a corner as if that would save her if he were indeed a madman.

“Now do you mind telling me what you are doing in my house?” he asked with utter calm.

Kat squinted toward him and wished she hadn’t. He was, indeed, half naked and tall; beefy arms folded over his hairy chest. Out of a face filled with dark facial hair glinted two brown eyes that looked at her as if she were the one trespassing. He wasn’t exactly hostile; his expression was more curious than angry.

“This is my house. My aunt promised it to me,” she said, sounding about as assertive as a three-year-old.

“The aunt of the picture?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in a way Kat didn’t at all appreciate. Sure, the portrait was ridiculous, but Lila was her aunt, and Kat was fiercely loyal to her. She couldn’t count the number of times people had either hinted at or blatantly suggested Lila was nothing but a gold digger. And this guy’s eyebrows seemed to be saying just that.

“Who are you?” Kat asked, suddenly more angry than afraid.

“I am Lawrence Kendall.” He paused as if his name should mean something to her. Maybe he was a duke; he sure sounded like one. She stared at him hard and wondered if he was some British actor she was supposed to recognize. “And you are?” he asked, raising his bearded chin a bit.

“Kat Taylor.”

He stared at her as if searching some inner data bank to see if he could place her. “Kat?”

“Short for Katherine,” she said.

“Well, Katherine, it seems as if we’ve both been promised the same house.”

Oh, God, no. No. No. “My aunt said I could stay here until Labor Day.”

“Ah.” He made a funny little clicking noise with his tongue. “I’m very sorry, but Carl promised the place to me months ago.”

“You know Carl?” she asked suspiciously, knowing that if someone truly knew Carl, they’d also know he’d been dead for more than a month.

“He was much more my father’s friend, but yes, of course I knew Carl. He knew he was ill and wouldn’t be using the place and said he wouldn’t mind if I used it. So you see, I was promised first.”

Kat blinked. Was this guy actually suggesting that she leave? “I’m sorry, too. But Lila owns this house now, and she promised it to me.”

He rubbed his jaw in what seemed a practiced way. “Quite a quandary,” he said, and somehow, with his accent, that didn’t come out sounding ridiculous. He stood in front her wearing nothing but a pair of rolled up khakis and seemed completely at ease. Maybe he was a male stripper; he certainly had the body for one, Kat thought, and she was faintly shocked when she realized she’d let her mind wander like that.

“I have a copy of an e-mail Carl sent me giving me details on how to get here. It’s dated in April. I hadn’t planned on taking him up on his offer, but here I am.”

“And here I am,” Kat said miserably, feeling her summer dissolving beneath her feet. She would not give this up. She needed this house more than he did. She’d spent time here; she wasn’t some stranger camping out for a few months. She had emotion invested in this house, a history. Memories. “I’m not leaving,” she said firmly.

“I’m afraid you’ve no choice. I have to be alone.”

“So. Do. I.”

“You’re angry,” he said, sounding like one of those Discovery Channel narrators describing with no emotion a lion eating a gazelle. Note how the lion tears into the still living beast. It has no chance to survive this killer of the jungle.

“I’m not angry,” she said through gritted teeth in a tone that, even to her own ears, sounded angry. Kat let out a puff of air. “Okay, I am angry. I’ve been looking forward to this vacation for a long time. I’m sorry that Carl promised it to you, but he’s dead. My aunt owns this house. I’m a blood relative, so I should get the house.”

He raised one eyebrow. “That’s your argument? I take it you’re not a lawyer,” he said lightly.

If she was a cartoon character, steam would have been whistling out of her ears. He must have sensed it because he put his hands out as if to ward her off. “This is a difficult situation, and we’re not going to resolve it tonight.” He put on what looked like a fake smile and clapped his hands together like a person who’s used to being obeyed without question.

“I’ve resolved it,” Kat said stubbornly.

He set his jaw. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave in the morning. I won’t be so callous as to send you out alone at night. I’m certain you’ll find other accommodations on the island.”

“If I can, so can you.”

He looked at her as if she were a strange species, something he didn’t quite understand. “The house is mine,” he said, slightly exasperated. “I’ve been living here for nearly two weeks already. You’re going to have to leave in the morning.” He really was an awfully intimidating-looking guy with all that beef and dark hair—a cultured mountain man.

Kat quickly weighed her options, factoring in the fact he was a big guy, probably more than six feet, who didn’t look very happy at the moment, and decided, foolishly she was sure, that she wasn’t going anywhere. “Make me,” she said, crossing her arms over her own chest and not meaning a single syllable.

He stared at her for a moment, then let out a laugh so sudden and violent it nearly frightened her. His booming laughter filled the silent house, and Kat watched through narrowed eyes as he bent at the waist as if unable to stand due to his state of utter glee. “Oh, God,” he said when he’d gotten control of himself. “You are funny. I have a feeling you’re trying to look fierce, but I’m afraid you’re failing miserably.” He wiped at his eyes, and when he was finally able to focus on her, Kat tried very hard not to let him see she was fighting a smile.

He looked sheepish and charming all of a sudden, and in that moment, Kat realized that maybe he wasn’t pretty but he certainly was handsome. In a scruffy, charming, English way. If he were cast in a movie, he’d be the villain, the gorgeous evil guy that you hope turns out to be a good guy in the end. But who usually didn’t. “We’ll resolve this in the morning. Maybe one of us will have a change of heart.”

“Listen, Larry…”

“I prefer Lawrence,” he said, smiling politely.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not leaving. Morning is not going to change my mind.”

“Morning may not, but perhaps I can persuade you.” He opened the refrigerator and pulled open the vegetable bin to retrieve what looked like one of those supermarket prepackaged sandwiches. She hadn’t noticed it when she was putting her few items in the fridge because she’d been planning to go to the small farmer’s market to get fresh vegetables and hadn’t opened the bin.

“I’m dining in this evening,” he said, shaking the sandwich toward her. “Good night.”

“Good night,” she mumbled. Then, “Wait a minute. If you’ve been here two weeks, why did the place look deserted? And why wasn’t there any food in the fridge?”

“I eat out ninety percent of the time, and I haven’t used the main floor. I’ve spent my time in the tower room and didn’t see the point in uncovering the furniture down here. Anything else, madam?”

“I’ll let you know,” she said, smiling good-naturedly. When he disappeared up the stairs, Kat sagged to the kitchen floor. “Damn, damn, double damn,” she said softly. Kat was pretty good at acting tough, even at telling herself she was tough, but she knew deep down inside she was a big ol’ wimp. Standing up to Sir Larry had not come easy, though he’d never know it. All her life she’d heard people tell her she was tough, resilient, that she could take what life dished out. No one knew how scared she was half the time. Hell, most of the time.

Kat pushed herself up, sliding her back against the wall. She was not going to have this taken away. Kat pressed the heel of her hands against her eyes so hard it hurt. “Do not cry,” she said low and fierce. “Don’t you cry.” When she pulled her hands down, she smiled because there wasn’t a salty tear on them. Not even one.

Lawrence closed the door to his room with a soft snick. “Bloody, bloody hell,” he said. All he needed was a woman skulking about the house, disturbing him, interrupting his work.

He stopped at that thought and stared at his laptop, a machine the devil himself had taken over. Work, he thought. What work? He hadn’t written more than a few paragraphs in months. He’d heard of so-called writer’s block and had always figured it was for other poor slobs, those writers who weren’t very good and never would be. His editor said to write through it, that his gift would come back. But it hadn’t, and Lawrence was terrified that it never would.

“There are no stories in my head,” he’d told William Goodall, his editor at Thorpes Publishing, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “I don’t know where the hell they went because I never know where the hell they come from.”

“They’ll come back, Lawrence. Trust me.”

That had been when he’d still been in England, when Carl had still been alive. Carl was one of his father’s favorite people…and one of Lawrence’s, too. He hadn’t thought much about his marrying a woman far less than half his age, and he’d never met the woman. His mother had called her trash, her nose so high in the air even Lawrence, a confirmed and self-proclaimed snob, had to laugh.

“If the old man got lucky enough to find a young wife, then good for him.”

“Oh, really, Lawrence, he’s making a fool of himself. I wish your father could have talked some sense into him.”

Lawrence had bit his tongue, for he was fairly certain his father not only approved of the marriage, but he was also likely a bit envious. The old dog.

He’d talked to Carl about his difficulties getting started with his next novel, and the old man had offered him the cottage. A change of scenery might be just what he needed, he’d said.

Lawrence looked out the window and grimaced. Martha’s Vineyard—at least this part of the island—was not what he had been expecting at all. He was expecting the Bill Clinton secret hideaway Martha’s Vineyard where cultured people discussed world events and the literary scene and had charming lawn parties and enlightened conversation. Instead, he’d found himself in the middle of a tourist Mecca where fine art consisted of a painting of a lighthouse on a seashell and culture was watching men gut large sharks.

He hadn’t realized he was such a snob until he came to this island. These Americans seemed to be fascinated by the strangest things. He’d actually become part of a large crowd of people gathered around a fisherman gutting fish. Their faces were rapt, as if they were watching great art or something thrilling that had never been done before. Frankly, the knife slicing into the fish’s white belly had nearly made him ill, but for reasons he even refused to acknowledge. It was almost comical that watching a fish being gutted should bring back the moment of his worst failing.

Instead of escaping his life in this foreign place, he found himself with too much time to relive it, every agonizing, humiliating moment. Because he couldn’t write, he could hardly even think. He couldn’t return to England empty-handed, with nothing to show for the past weeks but a pathetic story about how he couldn’t write. He’d already asked his brother for a loan, and he’d be damned if he did it again. His agent, very funny man, had also suggested he might have to get a real job. Writing was a real job—just not one that paid very well.

“Lawrence, if you’re so worried about money, you’ve got to write and write quickly. And you’ve got to write something that appeals to a broader audience. I’m not saying sacrifice your ideals, not all of them, but if you want to make money in this business, you’ve got to sell more books. Way more. I’m hearing some rumblings from your house.”

“Rumblings?”

“You’re up for a new contract after this book. Rumblings, Lawrence. Think about it.”

It was all he could think of. His agent was subtly telling him to write for the masses and he just couldn’t do it. He didn’t know the masses; didn’t have the slightest idea how they ticked, what they thought, what they wanted to read. He’d been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, grown up in privilege, attended cricket and polo matches, and gone to England’s finest private schools. He’d made his parents proud, then ended it all in a crushingly enduring way that left everyone in his family wounded. So what in God’s name did he know about the huddled masses?

“They’re the ones who buy books, Lawrence,” his agent had said.

It wasn’t enough to get published; he had to sell, and Lawrence just didn’t know if he had it in him to write a book the so-called masses would want to read.

He knew what his older brother John would say then, could hear the disappointment, the pity. “Perhaps you should put aside your writing and do something more suited to a man with your education. Certainly, you can do something more than you’re doing.”

But he couldn’t, and he didn’t know if he ever would.

Lately though, his brother’s pity and concern had turned to disapproval and resentment. Lawrence had found he wasn’t very good at handling adversity. He’d always thought he would be. Hell, he’d been trained to handle the best God could throw at him. But he’d failed, and when he had, he’d wasted a very expensive education, then blown his inheritance in such a grand, mature way on beautiful women, expensive cars, and endless holidays at luxury resorts. At least he knew how to have fun. Before the money went dry, he’d take two or three months off and write something fabulous to keep his brother happy. Now the money was nearly gone, and he’d lost any real desire for expensive cars and luxury resorts. The women? Well, one couldn’t get a gorgeous woman without money, could one?

He pushed his hair off his forehead and idly stroked his beard, wondering if he should shave and knowing the only reason he wondered that was because of the woman downstairs. He shouldn’t care what she thought of him, but no matter how low his life had gotten—and God knew he’d been pretty damn low—he’d never let his appearance go.

Lawrence walked to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and looked at his reflection. “Good God,” he muttered, taking in his rather fiendish look. Then he smiled. He was a big man in pretty good shape, an intimidating guy at any time. But she’d stood there in the dark and threatened him with imaginary weapons. And when she had gotten a look at him with his wild, uncombed hair and his dark, two-week unkempt beard, she had stood her ground, even challenged him.

“Damn,” he said aloud, staring hard at his reflection. He knew she wasn’t going anywhere.