Kiss Me Hello (16 page)

“Is what?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Forget about it. You’re right,” Joss said. “I have no right to think of you this way. Maybe I’ll go find the light.”

He was gone. Sara was left with the birds cooing in the wisteria and Joss’s words lingering in her mind.
I have no right to think of you this way
.

And she had no right to be happy that he did.

- 17 -
The Opposite of Dying

B
ONNIE WAS PROUD OF
her little house on a cul-de-sac at the end of the peninsula. It was a dump when she bought it, but she’d turned it into a gem worthy of
Architectural Digest
. The front door opened into a foyer with a door to the guest bedroom on the left. Sliding pocket doors to the right led to a parlor. The hallway straight ahead divided the remainder of the cottage through the middle, guest bath, Bonnie’s office, then bedroom on the left; kitchen, dining area and living room on the right.

She led Bram through to the back of the cottage, where her bedroom and the living area both opened onto a wide deck that looked out over cliffs above the Pacific Ocean. “Otter Cottage is no Turtledove Hill,” she said, “but you can’t beat the view.”

“What do you mean? This place is fantastic.” Bram stretched out on one of the chaise lounges and laced his fingers behind his head. “The waves must sing you to sleep every night.”

“That’s what makes you such a good writer,” Bonnie said. “You’re a poet.”

“I’ll bet it’s been in your family forever.” His smile deepened the dimple in his cheek, and his blue eyes squinted in the afternoon sun. “I’m surrounded by heiresses.”

“No, nothing like that.” She unfurled the awning. “I got it the other old-fashioned way. Inside information. An old couple lived here before. When the wife died, I sold the husband a condo in Fort Bragg and made an offer before it hit the market.”

“Sweet.”

“It wasn’t so sweet when I bought it,” Bonnie said. “But I saw the potential.”

“And you did what was necessary to make it work.”

“When I want something, I always do what’s necessary to make it work.” She rested her hand on his shoulder. Lightly. Without meaning. “Stay there while I get the wine. I have a Napa Valley sauvignon blanc unless you’d like something made from your grapes.”

“The Napa.” Bram reached across his chest and touched her fingers. “And they aren’t my grapes. Not yet, as Sara keeps pointing out.”

And didn’t that sound just like
sour
grapes? Bonnie smiled inwardly on her way to the kitchen, relishing that he said
my grapes
instead of
our grapes
and the bitter vein that crept in when he said Sara’s name. Good sign.

Two bottles of the sauvignon blanc chilled in the refrigerator. She folded some asiago bread sticks in a cloth napkin and put them in a wicker basket with one bottle, the opener, and two crystal flutes.

“Everything you do is art,” she said to herself.
Including how you handle clients
. She texted Gracien:
With B Blakemore now. Working on him. Call you later.
She left her phone in the kitchen. For the next few hours, she wanted no interruptions.

On the deck, she handed Bram the wine and opener. “Would you do the honors?” It always helped to give a man some little task to make him feel useful and effective. When a man felt self-confident, he usually felt sexy too.

Not that Bram Blakemore needed help along those lines. On the second glass of wine, she offered to give him a tour of the cottage, ending in her bedroom. By the time they finished the bottle, he was in her bed, plunging into her desperately. Good thing she had condoms in the bedside table. The poor guy had been denied love far too long.

“Fucking is the opposite of dying,” he said as they collapsed together in a sweat. “God, Bonnie. You feel so damn good.”

“That’s an understatement.” She ran her fingernails lazily over his back.

“I just met you,” he said, “but it feels like you’ve known me all my life.”

“You make me sad,” she said. “It sounds like you’ve been lonely.”

“I think I’ve been lonely for a long time. I didn’t realize it until now.” He sat up and leaned against the headboard and gathered her into his arms. “I didn’t want to marry Sara. We were best friends for ages. Since high school. But there was never any grand passion. When she got pregnant, I tried to make it work. You know, be a man.”

“That’s admirable.”
But tell me how you feel about me.

“Then she miscarried. We said we’d start a family later, when we were more settled, but I knew even then it wasn’t right. All this time, it’s like I was in limbo. I didn’t want Sara. But I didn’t want anyone else either, and what would be the point in hurting her? I guess it was just easier to stay than to go.”

This is why you don’t get involved with married men. They talk about their wives all the time.

“She started hinting about getting pregnant again, just when I got furloughed. It freaked me out. I’ve been putting her off ever since.”

“If I had you in my bed every night, you’d never get away with putting me off.”

“If you had me in your bed every night…god, the thought is amazing.” He ran his fingers over her face and kissed her. Gently. Tenderly.

He was a good guy. He’d just made a mistake. He married the wrong person.

She wasn’t going to dis Sara, but she wasn’t going to defend her either. She ran her fingers through Bram’s wavy brown hair. “If I were Sara I wouldn’t let you leave Pelican Chase, not even to go back to work.”

“I’m not going back to work,” Bram said. “I haven’t told her yet, but I called in and quit this morning.”

“Good for you,” Bonnie said. “Now you can focus on your writing.”

He grinned and rolled over on top of her. “Right now, I just want to focus on you.”

Bram didn’t leave until after sunset. While Bonnie washed up the dishes in the kitchen, another call came in from Gracien.

“Sara Blakemore said she’d meet with Amelia’s lawyers in the morning,” Gracien said. “Find out what they tell her, if it’s probate or a trust, and how soon we can move.”

“Everything is in motion.”

“Just make sure you do it.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t get your panties in a wad. You already control the vineyards. Why such a hurry?”

“That’s my business,” Gracien said. “Get me that deed. I’ll make it worth your effort.”

“Will do,
jefe
,” Bonnie said. “It’s all pink icing on a chocolate cupcake.”

The light was on in the courtyard, shining on the wisteria outside Sara’s open window. She wasn’t sure if she’d heard a vehicle drive in or dreamed it. Bram wasn’t home yet. At least, he wasn’t with her in bed. She heard it again, a shuffling noise, coming from outside. She went to the window. Bram was back. His truck was in the courtyard, parked by her car. The barn door opened. He came out, tossing that spike knife in the air, higher each time.

He took the steps on the back porch lightly and closed the kitchen door without a sound. She got back under the covers and waited, listening to him come up the creaking master stairs. Down the hall, the shower in Aunt Amelia’s bathroom turned on. She fell asleep listening to the water.

- 18 -
The Things We Think We Have

“M
ILLIONAIRE.” SARA CHOKED ON
the word. She gripped the arms of the hard oak chair at the offices of Briggs & Mason, Aunt Amelia’s estate lawyers. Across the massive desk the no-nonsense Jerrod Mason looked perfectly serious. “You’re telling me I’m a millionaire.”

“Multimillionaire, to be precise.” Mr. Mason tapped a document in front of him on the desk. “But only on paper, Ms. Lyndon. I don’t advise going on a mad spending tear.”

“And there is income, right? From the vineyards?”

Bram was going to be thrilled. She didn’t wake him this morning before she left. It wasn’t his fault his internal clock was messed up. All that could be over now. With this inheritance, he could give notice anytime. Their schedules could finally get back into synch.

It was what exactly she wanted—wasn’t it?

“A substantial income,” Mr. Mason said. “The lease payments from Gracien Poole—Poole Haven Wines, to be precise. Now let’s see here. Poole Haven’s current lease will be up at the end of this season. Briggs & Mason will be happy to assist you in negotiating terms of a new one, if that’s your wish.”

“Why wouldn’t it be, Mr. Mason? I don’t mean to sound rude, but this is all new to me.”

“Of course. I understand Gracien Poole is anxious to purchase the vineyards. If you want to sell, of course it’s your right. But I would urge caution, Ms. Lyndon. It’s not a good idea to make quick decisions about an inheritance.”

“We were thinking of selling the vineyards to Mr. Poole but keeping the house,” Sara said. “But I suppose you’re right. It’s best not to be hasty.”

“We?” Mr. Mason said.

“My husband and I,” Sara said. “It’s not Lyndon, actually. I’m Mrs. Blakemore.”

“I see.” He pushed the document over to her. “Please sign on the lines beside the Post-its, and I’ll file the probate papers for you today.
Sara Lyndon Blakemore
will do.”

Aunt Amelia had made Sara executor as well as heir, but Mr. Mason would carry out the details. She signed her full name on the necessary lines.

“So you’re fully informed, Mrs. Blakemore, let me explain. In California, inherited property is considered separate property. To be precise, Turtledove Hill belongs to you. But the income derived during your marriage is considered community property.”

“But if anything ever happened to me, it would go to Bram, right?”

“Absent any children, yes. And once probate is settled, we can make an appointment to discuss your estate thoroughly. I’d be more than happy to advise you on the matter.”

Your estate.
Not a term Sara had ever imagined in reference to herself.

“Can you advise me on this now?” She dug Gracien’s check out of her purse. “Mr. Poole gave me an advance on his next lease payment.”

“Very good,” Mr. Mason said.

Sara suppressed a smile. He spoke and dressed with such formality, but he didn’t seem much older than thirty. But then, dealing with millions of dollars’ worth of property had to be sobering at any age.

“I’ll make a copy of this for the files,” he said, “and you can deposit it.”

“And I can put it in my account with Bram?”

“As income, it’s community property, so yes. Also—and not being impertinent—but it might be seen as a gesture of good will to open an account in a local bank, but that’s for you to decide.” Mr. Mason smiled, and for a moment he looked young and cute.

“That’s an excellent suggestion, Mr. Mason. I will do it.”

“You’ve inherited the vast majority of Ms. Lyndon’s estate, the land, the house and its contents, a stock portfolio—everything but two small separate bequests. One is inconsequential, as far as I can tell. She’s left an Oxford Study Bible to George Lyndon.”

Sara felt sick hearing the name. “That’s my father.”

“She wanted it to be clear he would receive nothing else.” Mr. Mason looked up; apparently Sara’s uneasiness was obvious. “I can take care of the details, if you like. It’s merely a matter of informing him of the bequest and sending the item. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mason.”

Sara exhaled with relief. Dad would hate her taking anything from Aunt Amelia, and she didn’t want to give him a chance to lecture her. She suspected the study Bible was Aunt Amelia’s way of having the last word, pun intended. The edition wasn’t likely based on the King James Version.

“You said there were two bequests?”

“The other is to Victoria Carly Byrne.”

“Peekie? Oh, I’m glad,” Sara said. “Peekie liked my aunt very much.”

“She’s about to like her more. For years Ms. Byrne’s been paying on a loan Amelia made to her. Unbeknownst to Ms. Byrne, Amelia had been putting the money aside in a trust account.”

Mr. Mason was growing on Sara. He said
unbeknownst
with flair. She could imagine him telling a story at a murder mystery party.

“Amelia intended to return all the money three years from now after the final payment. With her demise, the remainder of the loan is forgiven and the trust account goes to Ms. Byrne immediately.”