Read Online Kathleen Valentine by My Last Romance, other passions - Free Book Online Page A

street in front and the harbor behind the shop—at least for as long as he can stand the cold. He wears the woolen sweater his wife knit him that last winter before he knew how sick she was. She’d been a sweet little woman. Sometimes now when he thinks about her he wonders what he actually felt for her all those years ago. They were only eighteen when they married—she’d never even been off-Cape. Their oldest, Sylvia, was two and Guy, Jr. was on the way before she crossed the canal to the mainland. And she hated it. Couldn’t wait to get back on Route 6 and wouldn’t stop fretting until they passed the windmills in Sandwich.

Poor Bonnie. She’d had such a little bit of life. Her old man, like most of the men in their Outer Cape town, had been a fisherman and, like too many of them, a drunk. Now Guy thinks he mostly felt sorry for her back then. Sorry—and happy when she let his eager young hands wander over her solid roundness. He feels sad and guilty sometimes if he lets himself think too long. He’d been a good enough husband and never let on that he probably wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t been pregnant. Not that it wasn’t his fault—he never doubted that. Even if he wasn’t sure that he was the only man she had ever been with, one look at Sylvie’s gray-green eyes and stubborn jaw would convince anyone who knew him.

In those days he hadn’t known enough about life to expect anything more than marrying Bonnie, playing with the babies—Sylvie who was now a nurse down in Providence, then Guy and Marie both of whom had married and moved to the West Coast where they visit each other regularly and sometimes remember to call him. And finally Hugh, who is out in the fog somewhere worrying him foolish.

Back then he only wanted to fish, make love to Bonnie, and get a little drunk now and then. God, he thinks, was he young in those days? What if he had met Lindy back then? Stupid thought considering she was three years old when he and Bonnie were married. Oh well, he thinks, she’s a big girl now alright.

A flash of blue passes the doorway and his head snaps up—just a little Honda. He checks his watch. It is only three-thirty and she likely won’t be leaving Boston for another hour or so. But when he knows she is coming he can’t help looking for her all day long.

The big question is what does a woman like her see in an old fart like him anyway? It’s his favorite question to torment himself with ever since the day she first walked into his shop and knocked him off his feet.

The first time—well, that was easy to understand. It was Spring and the air smelled like desire. She was indulging herself in a weekend getaway—meandering down the street in a loose white shirt that fluttered in the sea breeze. And those kind of strategically tight and faded jeans that made men glad to be alive. He noticed her first when she stood looking in the window of the batik shop across the street. He must have been impressed—he spilled iced tea down the front of his pants and was swabbing idiotically when she entered his shop. She looked at him sideways, smiled slightly, tossed her hair. Of course she tossed her hair—she had to have. Well, even if she didn’t, in his mind she tossed her hair and that was good enough for him.

"Pretty clumsy," he mumbled, "grown man and still spilling things all over myself."

She laughed but it was a sweet laugh. She was the sort of woman who knew how men reacted to her and loved them for it. He tried not to be too obvious watching her as she moved around the shop picking up seashells and turning them over, tracing the swirls of a nautilus shell with her finger, holding bits of coral up to the light. The breeze wafting through the harbor-side door carried the scent of jasmine and lilacs and female warmth to him—made him light-headed and giddy. When she reached up to tap the bronze wind chimes above the window the sunlight seeped through her blouse and the silhouette