Kissed a Sad Goodbye

business over to Annabelle, he’d begun building scale models of tea clippers. Since childhood he’d been fascinated by the intricacy and precision of the ships that had first brought tea to Britain.
    The dining room table served as his workbench, and he’d not only given up any pretense of using the room for its original function, he’d built special illuminated shelves to hold his creations.
    Jo picked up the half-completed model in her hands, running her fingers over the curve of the hull, searching for imperfections. Would his bits and pieces of wood be enough to compensate for the loss of a daughter he had valued above all else?
    He still lived on income from his interest in the firm—as did she, to some extent. The money from her shares supplemented her own business, allowing her to work from home, and to be there for the children. Would Hammond’s provide security for any of them, with Annabelle gone?
    Jo shook her head and went to the drinks cabinet. No point thinking that far ahead, yet. There was this evening to get through first; tomorrow she would think about the next thing. She’d learned that when her mother died. And that there was no harm in the occasional numbing drink. Pouring some of her father’s treasured Courvoisier into a snifter, she carried it to the sitting room and sank into the armchair by the empty fireplace. The windows stood open and the edges of the drapes moved fitfully in the night air.
    Green velvet; her mother’s choice. If Jo stood near them she thought she could smell the pipe tobacco her father had smoked when they were children. It had been Annabelle who had bullied him into giving it up. She’d claimed it made her feel sick, that she couldn’t bear to be in the room with him when he smoked; then she’d administered the coup de grace by refusing for weeks to kiss him good night. As a power play it had been brilliant, a harbinger of things to come.
    Jo’s hand jerked at the sound of a car coming up the lane and the brandy sloshed over the lip of the glass. She held her breath. How could she possibly do this? What preparation had she in her thirty-four years that would allow her to tell her father this terrible thing? For a brief moment she hoped that Reg Mortimer had phoned his parents, and that Peter and Helena had told him; then she cursed herself for a coward. Gravel crunched as the car turned into the drive. She heard the gears shift as it began to climb.
    Carefully, she set the glass on the end table and rose. Her limbs felt awkward, uncoordinated as a toddler’s, and once she had managed to unfold herself from the depths of the chair, she stood rooted to the spot. The car door slammed and a moment later she heard her father’s key in the door she had left unlocked.
    The door swung open. “Jo?”
    She found her voice. “In here, Dad.”
    “Good. I could have sworn I’d locked the door, and I’d hate to think I was becoming an absentminded old dodderer.” Coming into the sitting room, he offered his cheek for a kiss. He wore the light gray summer suit that set off his silver hair. In his late sixties, William Hammond was still a handsome man, and since Isabel’s death he’d had a time of it fighting off what Annabelle called “the widows’ club.”
    Had called, To reminded herself. She swallowed. “Dad—”
    “Peter and Helena send their regards. I see you’ve got a drink already. I think I’ll join you in a nightcap. Didn’t want to overdo and drive; you know how touchy they are these—”
    “Dad.” Jo touched his arm. Her hand was shaking. “I need you to sit down.”
    William peered at her face. “Are you feeling all right, Jo?”
    “Dad, please.” She saw his expression of mild concern turn to alarm.
    “What is it, Jo? Are the children all right?”
    “They’re fine. It’s—”
    “Is it Martin?”
    “Dad, please.” She pressed her hand against his chest so that he was forced to retreat a step. When the backs of his legs hit the edge of the sofa, he sat involuntarily. Jo dropped to her knees before him. “Dad, it’s Annabelle. She’s dead.”
    “What?” He stared at her, uncomprehending. “Annabelle’s dead.” Annabelle’s dead. The phrase echoed in Jo’s head like a children’s nursery rhyme.
    William drew his brows together. “Don’t be silly, Jo. Whatever is the matter with you?”
    Jo reached out and grasped his hands in hers. The skin on his knuckles felt like silk under her fingers. “The police came to my