Waiting until Kayana was belted in, Graeme backed out of the parking lot and headed in the direction of the road and bridge leading to the mainland. Sitting next to Kayana and enjoying the sensual scent of her perfume, Graeme was suddenly struck with the realization that he’d become his fictional character’s alter ego. When Zack wasn’t playing superhero, he’d become a recluse, existing in a world where he got up and went to bed whenever he wanted and controlled who he interacted with. And, like Zack, there was no woman in his life, and he wondered if Kayana would become his Aviva.
* * *
“How did you survive our mini monsoon?” Kayana asked after a comfortable silence. She’d taken a surreptitious glance at Graeme as he drove, wondering what he was thinking about when she noticed a hint of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Other than his eyes, she’d found his mouth to be his most attractive feature. It wasn’t too full or thin, but strong and what she thought of as masculine—if a man’s mouth could be considered masculine or feminine.
“Just barely,” Graeme said when his smirk became a full smile. “I ran out of perishables and nearly depleted my pantry.”
“Why didn’t you come into the restaurant? We hadn’t closed because of the weather.”
“The rain gave me an excuse to stay in and work on a project.”
“Is the project work-related?”
Graeme shrugged a shoulder under a pale-blue shirt he’d paired with navy-blue linen slacks and black leather slip-ons. “Somewhat.”
Kayana shifted on her seat, until she was able to look directly at him. “Can you define somewhat?”
“I am attempting to write and complete a novel.”
“Do you find it difficult?” She didn’t want to ask him what it was about because aspiring writers tended to be secretive and protective about their works in progress.
“Yes and no. I’m able to get the words down, but there are times when the characters fight with me because they refuse to do what I’d planned for them.”
She nodded. “I’ve met a few people who are aspiring writers, and they tell me it’s very frustrating to be faced with writer’s block; there were times when they’d wanted to give up completely.”
“Are any of them published?” Graeme asked her.
“Only one. And she self-published her book because she couldn’t get a publisher to accept her manuscript.”
“I know you love books, but have you ever considered writing one?”
Kayana laughed. “Thank goodness, no. I don’t have the patience or temperament to be a writer.”
“Talking about patience. I’ve watched you interact with a few very difficult customers, and you always seem to defuse what could blow up into something that could become quite ugly.”
“That’s when I go into psychiatric social worker mode.”
“You’re a social worker?”
“Why does that shock you?” she asked him.
Graeme met her eyes when he stopped at a four-way flashing red light. “I don’t know. Somehow I figured you for a teacher.”
Kayana smiled. “My younger sister is the teacher in the family. But if I’d remained in social work for another ten years, I probably would’ve considered teaching a few courses as an adjunct.”
“Do you mind if I ask what made you give it up?”
“No, I don’t mind.” She paused. “My husband and I worked at the same hospital, so once our divorce was finalized, I decided to move back here and help my brother run the restaurant.”
“Where did you live before?”
“Atlanta.”
“I like the city, but I don’t believe I could ever get used to the downtown traffic.”
“It is quite challenging, and I must admit that I don’t miss it.”
* * *
Graeme wanted to ask Kayana if she missed being married, but decided it was too personal and sensitive a subject for her. And given that she and her ex-husband worked at the same hospital, it must have been very uncomfortable for her.
“Traffic jams are definitely not a problem here on the island,” he said instead.
“They would be if tourists were able to drive their cars. There was a time before I left to attend college that vacationers were able to drive on the local roads. But a single incident changed everything when a vehicular accident escalated into road rage. The drivers refused to move their cars off the road until sheriff deputies arrived. Curses and fists were thrown, and both drivers were arrested for disorderly conduct. The locals were enraged they had to wait for tow trucks to come, hook the cars up, and drive them away before they had access to their homes on the dead-end street. The city officials got an earful at the next city council meeting, and that’s when they instituted the law banning driving on local roads for vacationers during the summer season.”
Nodding his head, Graeme smiled. “As a first-year local, I really appreciate not having to deal with getting stuck in traffic.”
“What about when you go back north?”
“I rarely encounter a lot of traffic in Newburyport. I have less than a ten-minute drive from my house to the high school.”
“You don’t live in Boston?”
Graeme waited for the light to change from red to green before turning onto the road leading to Shelby. “No. I grew up in Boston but spent my summers in Newburyport.”
“How far is it from Boston?”
“It’s about thirty-five miles away. There’s something about Coates Island that reminds me of Newburyport; it’s a historic seaport with a bustling tourist industry.”
“Why come here when you could stay home?” Kayana asked.
“Spending the summers in Newburyport is not what I think of as a vacation. I know most of the people who’ve lived there all their lives, and I know practically every kid who attended the high school. Here I have the anonymity I need to come and go and work without someone recognizing me.”
“Have you met any of your neighbors?”
“Only Miss Donaldson. And that’s because she wanted her Jack Russell bitch to mate with my dog, but I had to disappoint her when I told her Barley has been neutered.”
“Is Barley a Jack Russell?”
“No. He’s a toy poodle mix. I got him nine months ago. He’s a rescue from a puppy mill.” Graeme hid a grin when he heard a gasp slip past Kayana’s parted lips.
“I love poodles.”
Kayana had just given Graeme the opening he needed to see her beyond going to the movies. “Maybe one of these days you can come over and meet the spoiled little pup.”
“Do you have a photo of him?”
“No.”
“What kind of puppy parent are you, Graeme? You’re supposed to take pictures of Barley and use it as a screen saver on your phone and computer.”
Graeme chuckled under his breath. “You can tell that I don’t have any children.”
“That’s why you should have photos of your dog.”
“I’m totally inept when it comes to using my camera phone.”
“Maybe one of these days when I meet Barley, I’ll take the photos for you so you can upload them to your computer.”
“You have to let me know beforehand when you want to photograph him, because I’d like to take him to be groomed.”
Kayana gave him an incredulous stare. “You’re really something.”
Graeme met her eyes for a brief moment. “What are you talking about?”
“First, you don’t have photos of your dog, and now you’re acting like a proud pet parent who wants to make certain his puppy doesn’t come off looking scruffy during a photo shoot.”
“I can’t have my boy not looking his best.”
“He’s probably adorable with or without a cut.”
“He is,” Graeme said in agreement. “The movie ends at nine-thirty, and we should get back to the island before ten. If it’s not a problem for you, I’ll stop by the house, where you can meet Barley Ogden before I drop you home.”
“I’d lo
ve to meet him.”
Graeme felt as if he’d hit a walk-off home run. Not only had he gotten Kayana to go to the movies with him, but she’d also agreed to come to his home to meet his pet. He’d heard stories about men attracting women when walking dogs, yet that hadn’t been his intent.
He was much too old to play games or use ulterior motives when interacting with a woman to whom he was attracted. And if he did approach her and she did not seem remotely interested in engaging in conversation, then he would retreat without a blow to his ego.
Graeme would be the first to admit that he wasn’t perfect, that he had personality flaws, but he was cognizant of his shortcomings and sought to overcome them. He’d walked away from Kayana rather than stay and verbally spar with her. That would not have happened before he’d become a widower. It wasn’t that he was argumentative by nature; he simply believed in verbalizing his beliefs.
Graeme knew he had to be careful—very, very careful—with Kayana not to become confrontational; he did not want anything to impact what he hoped would become an easygoing friendship. He knew they would not agree on everything, yet he was willing to hear her out and, if necessary, also compromise.
Chapter 9
Kayana stared out the windshield at the passing landscape. She was trying to understand why she’d agreed to go with Graeme to his home; it was something she would never have done with any man in the past when going out with him for the first time. Even as a college student, she’d made it a practice never to find herself alone with a boy in his dorm room, and even before dating and marrying James, she still resisted going to his home until she’d felt she could trust him.
She knew her reluctance had come from a high school incident when a boy in her study group invited her to his house. She’d been unaware that his parents weren’t home for the weekend. Within minutes of walking through the door, he’d attempted to sexually assault her. Kayana managed to escape by kneeing him in the groin; she got into her car and drove as if the hounds were chasing her back to Coates Island. He didn’t attend classes the following week, and when he did show up, he avoided her as if she were carrying a communicable disease. And judging from his gait, Kayana knew her kneeing him had caused him obvious discomfort.
“How was your book club discussion?”
Graeme’s question broke into her musings. “It was very thought-provoking because of the subject matter.”
“Slavery in America is never an easy subject to talk about.”
“You’re right, because not only did our discussion get rather heated, it also became personal. I have to admit the novel was masterfully written to have evoked so many different reactions from the three of us.”
“Pride and Prejudice will probably be less controversial.”
“Yes and no,” Kayana countered. “It depends if you’re looking at it based on societal mores or a behavioral analysis.”
Graeme whistled softly. “That sounds heavy.”
“Maybe since you’re a mathematician and you deal with what can be proven, you view things differently from the women in our group. Leah is an English lit teacher, so she’s really the expert when it comes to analyzing books and authors, and Cherie has a degree in early-childhood development.”
“I’m glad I declined your invitation to join the group because there’s no way I’d be able to hold my own against you intellectual heavyweights.”
Kayana gave him a You’ve got to be kidding me look. “Don’t play yourself, Graeme. If you teach high school math and economics, then you’re definitely no slouch when it comes to intelligence.”
“I just happen to be good with numbers.”
“Yeah, right,” she drawled. “I’m willing to bet you can compute equations in your head. The only thing I remember about math is the quadratic equation, and not much beyond that.”
“How about science courses?” he asked.
“I managed to get high marks in biology, but I did not do as well with chemistry. Having to memorize the periodic table kept me up more nights than I care to remember.”
“It sounds as if you were an overachiever.”
“I was,” Kayana admitted, “until I realized I could never compete with my brother. Derrick was a straight-A student, even without studying.”
“I think you’re being modest, Kayana. Average students don’t become psychiatric social workers.”
“Average students have to study hard in order not to be categorized as average.”
“Where did you attend college?”
A beat passed. “I went to Spelman as an undergraduate and the University of Georgia for grad school.”
* * *
Graeme wanted to ask Kayana why she tended to downplay her intelligence when she’d graduated from a historically black liberal arts college for women. “That’s quite impressive.”
“And where did you go?” she asked, as if he hadn’t commented on her being accepted into the elite college.
“Harvard.”
“All right, Mr. Ivy Leaguer.”
“I wanted to go to MIT, but chose Harvard because my father was a professor and alumnus.”
“Was your father also a mathematician?”
“No. He taught bioengineering.”
“And your mother?”
“Mom was a linguistics professor at Boston College.”
“How was it growing up in a family of intellectual heavyweights?”
“They were exceptional parents, and I still miss them. Once they left the classroom or lecture hall, they were like kids at the circus. Dad once confessed that he always wanted to be a standup comedian, while my mother believed she was the second coming of Julia Child.”
Kayana laughed. “Did she teach you to cook?”
“Nah. Mom’s kitchen was off-limits to everyone. I know if she’d allowed me to watch her, I’d know much more than just how to boil eggs, grill steaks and corn, and bake potatoes.”
“What about chicken?”
Graeme slowly shook his head. “I’ve tried roasting chicken, and each time it ends up in the garbage.”
“It’s not that difficult, Graeme.”
“It’s not difficult because you’re an expert. I love chicken, and would eat a lot more of it if I knew how to prepare it without coming down with salmonella.”
“Have you thought about using a meat thermometer?”
Graeme slowed as he neared Shelby’s downtown business district. “No, because I’m done with trying to cook chicken.”
“What if I write out a recipe, step-by-step, which will include how to truss the wings and legs, and send it to you.”
He shook his head again. “No. I’ve followed a number of recipes, and the result is always the same.”
“Would you agree to me walking you through the entire process?”
Graeme smiled as he pulled into the parking lot behind a row of stores. “That will definitely work. What size chicken should I buy?”
“Look for a three- to four-pound roaster. Not only will it have more meat, but you’ll be able to use the leftovers for soup and salads. Is there anything else you want to learn to cook?”
“Rice.”
“I can also walk you through that,” Kayana volunteered.
He found an empty space, maneuvered into it, and shut off the engine. Resting his right arm over the back of Kayana’s seat, he met her eyes. “What if I paid you for cooking lessons?”
Kayana undid her seat belt. “You don’t have to pay me, Graeme. Let me know what you want to prepare, and I’ll let you know when I’ll be able to make time for you.”
“No pressure. After all, I’m the one with nothing but time on my hands,” Graeme half-lied.
He could not reveal to Kayana that he was New York Times best-selling author Brendan Andersen, and if she did elect to give him lessons, he would have to rearrange his writing schedule. He also didn’t tell her that learning to cook was on his bucket list, along with penning a nonfiction book on the definitive history of music. After
teaching for twenty years, he now had the luxury of indulging in whatever he chose.
Graeme knew if he hadn’t been financially solvent, he would’ve continued to teach until he was at least sixty-five. He still could recall the look on the principal’s face when he’d submitted his resignation letter the day before the end of the school year. Despite making the decision months before, Graeme had waited because he didn’t want a retirement party or his colleagues questioning his reason for giving up his teaching career; most of them believed he was still grieving the loss of his wife.
He released his seat belt. “Don’t move. I’ll help you down.”
* * *
Kayana moved closer to Graeme when he reached for her hand as he led her out of the Bijou des Artes. The theater’s seating capacity of one hundred and eight had been sold out, and she discovered that Graeme had purchased their tickets in advance online and just had to scan them at the box office. A crowd had gathered in front of the theater for the late-night showing. The warm nighttime air felt good on her exposed skin after sitting for two hours in the air-cooled building.
“Did you like it?” she asked him.
“Very much.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “Watching it has me thinking about reading the book again.”
Graeme released her hand and put his arm around her waist as they navigated their way through the throng lingering in the parking lot. “When was the last time you read it?”
“It had to be high school, because I don’t remember reading it in college.”
“I also read it in high school, which now seems like another lifetime.” Graeme stopped beside the Range Rover and opened the passenger-side door for Kayana.
“I think I’m going to recommend it for our book club,” Kayana said when he slipped behind the wheel beside her.”
Graeme punched the START ENGINE button. “Now that discussion should be very interesting, with all the themes of treachery, vengeance, self-indulgence, jealousy, and infidelity.”
“It sounds as if Dumas wanted to highlight some of the deadly sins,” Graeme remarked, checking the side mirrors before shifting into reverse.
The Seaside Café Page 11
