“I had asked if you’ve seen Kinsey around here, while youwere waiting.”
“What? Kinsey?”
Kate nodded. “Yeah, my sister Kinsey. You remember her?”She said it with the old teasing tone I had gotten to know so well during theyears of my youth. The voice she used when she’d catch us kissing on the oldswing set in the back yard, when she’d catch us closing her bedroom door, whenshe … “Patrick?”
There I went again. “Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “So,Kinsey ishere?”
I caught the upward twitch of Kate’s cheek, just above thecorner of her mouth. “Yes, she is, but I’m telling you right now, she doesnotwant to see you.”
“Were those herexplicitinstructions?” I asked,glancing around me in the waiting room, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
“Something like that,” she said with a smirk, but then shestepped toward me, dropping her voice to a whisper. “But between you and me, Ionly promised to keep you away from her until after the surgery.”
“Ah, Kate. I could kissya.”
She rolled her eyes. “You better not be kissinganybodybut your wife, Patrick Kinney. You’restill married.”
“Watch how fast I get divorced,” I said, crossing my armsand raising an eyebrow.
“Patrick,” she hissed. I had heard that before, somany times.
I relaxed my face, smiling softly. “I’m onlykiddin’, Kate. But listen, it’s getting late, and I reallyshould get home. Keep me posted on your dad, willya?And tell Kinsey I said hi.” She nodded, stepping forward to give me anothertight hug, and I turned to leave.
And the thing was, I had lied to Kate McKenna. Kinsey wasback, and if I saw her, if I felt there was any chance of us getting backtogether, any chance at all, Iwouldfile for a divorce. I would unpackall ofthose memories I kept tucked away in my heart, Iwould hang them on a wall and display them on a shelf, and Iwouldmakeher remember.
Because ten years had gone by. Ten whole years, and nothingwas getting better. Nothing was hurting less, and nothing was getting thatwoman out of my head.
CHAPTER 1 |
Irish Bastards & PeanutButter
River Canyon, Connecticut.
Population: 1,828.
And me.
The little slice of waterfront suburbia sat comfortablyalong the south shore, and if you squinted hard enough, with a great pair of binoculars,you could see the Orient Point Lighthouse across the Sound.
As a kid, I’d look out there, across the water, and wonderwhat it would be like to get the hell out of that town, away from historicConnecticut and old whaling ships. Away from Fall Harvest Festivals andRevolutionary War reenactments. Far away from tiny towns where everybody knowsmy name.
And then, I did get away. Reluctantly at first, until I hadthe motivation to stay away, and I was successful for all of ten years. Tengloriously lonely years, spent secluded on Long Island. Holidays, birthdays, parties?They were in New York, or I didn’t go at all, and it wasn’t because Iparticularly loved Billy Joel and the Long Island Expressway. It wasn’t that Ihad an amazingly important job that required my undivided attention everywaking moment of my day.
No, my reason was a guy, as clichés go, and he was onceagain invading my space.
“Kinsey McKenna.”
The voice was a contradiction of itself—graveled andsmooth, like water over rock. That voice had the power to turn my insides tojelly and my skin to stone.
“So, the divorce was finalized today.”
My eyes rolled up from the cash register buttons to stareat the shiny badge pinned to the barreled chest, not exhuming the energy requiredto roll them up higher to stare him in the face. Screw that. He’d only assume Iwas flirting with him.
Hell, I didn’t need to do anything for him to assume I wasflirting with him.
“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled, rolling them back down with a slow,impartial blink.
Patrick Kinney.
