Kissed a Sad Goodbye

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 forty years they’d had together. Never too late to learn, his old dad had been fond of saying.
    It was never too late for some other things, either, he thought with a sly smile. A clean shirt after his bath, a liberal splash of aftershave on his newly shaven neck and jaw—he was undoubtedly as irresistible as one of those young studs on the telly, although when he’d been that age he’d have thought it daft to bathe more than once a week.
    When he was a lad, before the war, the Saturday bath had been an occasion. They’d heated water for the big, old tin tub in the scullery, and they’d each had their bit of Sunlight soap. And on fine days, they’d taken their bit of soap down to the river. The water had been clean, then, and the great ships had been as familiar to them as the furniture in their parlors.
    The thought of the war reminded him that he’d meant to listen to that program on the wireless again, the one about the Blitz he’d heard on Radio Four the other evening. The events of the previous day had driven it from his mind—that and his daughter Brenda’s fussing, which had only served to remind him of the dead girl every time he turned round. He’d even seen her face in his dreams.
    In an effort to put it out of his mind, George imagined Mrs. Singh on the other side of the small table, her knees touching his under the cloth. And the little table did look inviting with two places set on the oilcloth and the jug of bright flowers he’d picked from the garden—a perfect setting for a bit of romance.
    As he peeked at the potatoes in the oven and turned the chops over in the