Kissed a Sad Goodbye

possible.”
    Watching him, Kincaid felt a tingle of suspicion. It wouldn’t do to take this latest declaration of intent entirely at face value. In his experience with Ian, anything was indeed possible.
     
    * * *
     
    WILLIAM HAMMOND WOKE SUDDENLY, HIS HEART hammering painfully in his chest. For a moment he wondered where he was, then the shapes in the dim room reasserted their familiarity. He lay in the high, old tester bed where he had slept with Isabel, his outstretched hand brushing against the hangings. She had loved the maize-colored satin, but the fabric was faded now, and stained.
    The dressing table, there... the nightstand, there... and the pale oblongs on the right were the windows, admitting a faint light from Hyde Vale at the top of the lane. The curtains moved in the breeze and William pulled the duvet up to his chin, shivering.
    In his dream it had been ripe summer, green and golden. He and Lewis stood knee-deep in the stream that ran through the bottom of the old pasture, picking watercress for Cook. They were laughing, their nut-brown faces turned up to the sun, but his feet and calves were cold as ice in the clear, running water....
    He had spent so many years forgetting, and yet it might have been yesterday, so real had the experience seemed for those few moments. Now the images began to dissolve, slipping away with the elusiveness of dreams, and William squeezed his eyes tight shut against the slow, leaking tears.
     

CHAPTER 10
     
Another favorite haunt of Island children for their outdoor games was Island Gardens, a small park on the riverbank opposite Greenwich, created by the London County Council in 1895.
Eve Hostettler. from
Memories of Childhood
on the Isle of Dogs, 1870-1970
     
     
     
    Gemma was awakened from a disjointed, early morning dream by Toby’s voice. Opening her eyes, she made out his small form standing beside her bed, silhouetted by the dim light from the garden windows.
    “Mummy, I had a bad dream.”
    “Did you, darling?” She sat up, pushing her hair from her face. The pale blue plush carousel horse her son clutched to his chest had lost most of its felt saddle, and its white mane and tail were worn away to stubble, but its black glass eyes were still bright and Toby loved it with fierce loyalty. “Did Horsey have a bad dream, too?” she asked, feeling the soft skin of her son’s neck for signs of fever. “Was it monsters again?”
    Toby nodded vigorously, and she made a vow to stop reading him Where the Wild Things Are at bedtime. “Climb in with Mummy, then, lovey, and go back to sleep.” As she tucked him in between her body and the wall, she held her cheek to his for a moment and savored the sweet scent of » him. He might look more like a little boy every day, but when he was warm and damp with sleep, he still smelled like a baby.
    She lay quietly, listening as his breathing slowed with sleep. But she felt increasingly restless, aware of a nagging sense of disquiet, and after half an hour she slipped out of bed and went to the window. Opening the blinds, she stood for a while, watching the pale light creep across the garden and listening to the birds greet the day with revolting cheerfulness. Her head ached dully, a symptom she assessed as a mild hangover.
    Last night, while waiting for Kincaid to ring after his meeting with Ian McClellan, she’d had a glass more than the two glasses of wine she normally considered her limit. But Duncan had not called, and at last she’d given up and crawled into bed, already regretting her overindulgence.
    Surely Kincaid wasn’t still cross with her over the business with Gordon Finch, she thought as she moved from the window to her tiny cupboard of a kitchen, where she filled the kettle. It was unlike him to hold a grudge, either personal or professional, but since Vic’s death his moods and his temper had been unpredictable.
    The kettle whistled as she finished grinding the handful of coffee beans she’d taken from the fridge, and as she poured the hot water into the cafetière, she thought about Annabelle Hammond. What secret had she possessed that had compelled others to accept life on her terms? It had been more than beauty, that much was becoming clear, and for an instant Gemma wished she could have known her—could have judged for herself whether she was saint or sinner.
     
    AN HOUR LATER, AS SHE LISTENED to Toby singing happily over his cornflakes, she dressed carefully—camel trousers, a white cotton