Kissed a Sad Goodbye

“He—” Kincaid shook his head. “He was furious. Accused me of lying to him, and told me to bugger off, more or less.”

Hazel nodded. “That’s not surprising. Remember how shocked you were at first? And you’ve turned Kit’s world on end without warning. Not even his mother’s death will have made him doubt his perception of things in the same way.”

Frowning, Kincaid said, “I don’t understand.”

“You’ve made a lie of his life, his image of who he is and how he came to be. Especially now, with Vic gone, that image is all he’s had to sustain him.”

“You’re saying I shouldn’t have told him at all?”

“No.” She touched his arm for emphasis. “Only that you need to understand the depth of the charge you’ve planted. What started the argument?”

“Work. A case came up this weekend—Gemma will have told you—and I couldn’t do what I’d promised. Kit felt I’d let him down. And I had.” He moved restlessly in his chair. “I’d thought that having him live with me was the obvious solution, once he’d had a bit of time to adjust. Now I’m beginning to wonder if my seeing him at all is doing more harm than good.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. But I don’t think you realized the extent of the commitment you made,” Hazel added, sighing. She reached for a box of matches and lit the citronella candle in the center of the table. “You haven’t any experience with that sort of responsibility, and your job makes it doubly difficult.”

“I know. But I still can’t see any alternative to having Kit with me. He can’t stay with the Millers indefinitely, as kind as they’ve been to have him through the school term.”

“No word from Ian McClellan?”

Vic’s ex-husband had returned to Cambridge just long enough to agree to Kincaid’s arrangements for Kit, then he had hightailed it back to his lover. “Not a peep. I assume he’s still enjoying the south of France with his nubile graduate student. But Kit hasn’t given up hoping Ian will send for him.” Kincaid shook his head. “I thought that if Kit learned I was his father, not Ian, it might make Ian’s desertion a bit more bearable.”

“It may, in time. But you’re asking Kit for belief based on nothing but your word. You have no proof.”

He thought of the day of Vic’s funeral, when his mother had taken him aside and told him he was blind not to have seen the resemblance the boy bore to him, or to have calculated the number of months between the time Vic left him and Kit’s birth. His first reaction had been denial; his second, panic; it was only the fear of losing Kit altogether that had made him realize how much he wanted it to be true.

Inside the house the kitchen light flicked on, and he heard the rattle of crockery clearly through the open window. “Kit has more to accept than the fact that he’s my son,” he said slowly. “He blames me for Vic’s death.”

“Duncan, Kit’s a child. He has no other way of resolving what’s happened to him, unless the trial—”

“That’s no help. It may be two years before Vic’s murder comes before the courts. And what if Kit’s right—and I did fail her?”

Leaning forward so that the light shining from the kitchen window illuminated her face, Hazel said forcefully, “You know that’s not reasonable. You did all anyone could have done for Vic.”

Had he? Since Vic’s death he had tried to convince himself of it, but now his nagging doubts leapt out like reaching shadows. “What matters now is Kit,” he said, pushing the thoughts aside. “How can I salvage the mess I’ve made of things?”

Hazel gave him a searching look. “The important thing is not to give up on him. Make him see that you aren’t going to reject him, no matter how he behaves.” Frowning, she thought for a moment, then added, “I’d say he’s testing you—and protecting himself. If he drives you away now, he doesn’t have to worry that you’ll run off and leave him the first time he’s not perfect.”

“Like Ian did.”

“Yes. If you have to break a promise, make it up to him in some way, as soon as you can. It’s the only way he’ll learn to trust you. And Duncan—be patient with him.”

“That doesn’t seem to be my strong suit these days.” Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion swept through him, as if the adrenaline that had carried him through his row with Kit had drained away. With an effort, he finished his lemonade and stood, looking out across the garden. Gemma’s windows were still dark.

“You’re not going to wait?” Hazel asked. “I’ve a quiche in the fridge, and some white wine chilled.”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I think I need some time on my own tonight. But thanks, Hazel. Will you tell Gemma I came by?”

“Of course.” Hazel got up and gave him a brief hug. “I’d better see if I can make up to Holly with a half hour of Winnie the Pooh.”

If only it were that easy, he thought as he let himself out the garden gate and unlocked the Rover. But he and Kit had no comforting rituals to mend the rifts between them.

As the car’s interior lights came on, he noticed that the center console contained only some peppermints and pocket change. Surely Kit had dropped his old photo there, the one his mum had sent of an eleven-year-old Duncan in scouting uniform, sporting a toothy grin.

When a quick search between the seats and on the floor yielded nothing, he remembered leaving Kit alone in the car for a moment at the station, while he fetched his bag from the boot.

If Kit had changed his mind and taken the photo with him, perhaps there was hope he might come to terms with the idea of their relationship. Kincaid felt his throat tighten with unexpected hope.

A BIT OF SALAD WITH THE first tomato and cucumber from his vegetable plot, peas, two potatoes roasted in their jackets, and two lovely chops from the butcher along Manchester Road. George Brent surveyed this bounty with pleasure and a certain anticipation, for it was the first time he’d prepared supper for Mrs. Singh.

He was quite proud of his developing culinary skills, as the wife had done most of the cooking in the more than