Kissed a Sad Goodbye

eyes were deep-set under the winged brows, his hair stuck up on the crown of his head in unruly spikes, there were hollows under his cheekbones and creases at the corners of his mouth that bespoke hard years. “So you remade yourself as far from his image as you could get: a street musician, an unconventional activist—”
    “I found out what happened to the people who could no longer afford to live in their old neighborhoods,” he protested.
    “You could have gone anywhere. No one would have known who you were. But you came back to the Island.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Because you care about what happens here. You’re your father’s son, whether you like it or not. And I think that’s why Annabelle sought you out.”
    “That’s rubbish,” Gordon said hotly. “She didn’t even know my name in the beginning.”
    “I think she did. I think she was already seeing your father, and she became curious about you. So she came to listen to you play. Maybe that’s all she meant to do at first, and it turned into more than she bargained for.”
    “But why? What could she possibly have wanted?”
    “I don’t know.” Gemma plucked a blade of the soft grass under her hand. “But there is a connection between your families—your fathers were evacuated together during the war.”
    He stared at her. “I’d no idea.”
    “And you never heard that there was some sort of feud between your father and William Hammond?”
    “No. And the idea’s absurd.”
    “Annabelle’s sister Jo says their father warned them away from your father and his family.”
    Gordon seemed about to reply, then stopped, his expression puzzled. “It is strange, now that you mention it. Annabelle was always asking questions about my family. I thought it was just ordinary curiosity until—”
    “Until what?”
    “Oh, it was nothing, really.” He scratched Sam’s ear for a moment. “One day I realized she wasn’t curious about other things—you know, who my mates were, what I did when I wasn’t with her, the usual female stuff.”
    Gemma gathered from the swift glance he gave her that he meant to get her dander up, so she let the remark ride.
    “I...” Frowning, Gordon looked out at the river. “How very odd. You’re sure my father knew Annabelle’s when they were young?”
    “They’ve both confirmed it.”
    “My father never talked about his childhood, and I certainly don’t remember him mentioning knowing William Hammond. My mother, though... she always told stories about life here before the war. They used to come here, to Island Gardens, on summer evenings, and watch the pleasure boats on the Thames. The boats were strung with colored lights, and music would drift from them over the water. Sometimes people would dance, and my mother always wished she were old enough to dance, too. But it never happened. Everything had changed, after the war.”
    “Maybe that’s where you got your love of music, from your mum.”
    He shrugged, his gaze still far away. “Maybe.”
    The band had stopped playing, but now the music started again. First, a swingy beat, then the clarinet picked up the melody line with a hint of melancholy. Gordon reached out and, grasping her hand, pulled her to her feet.
    “What—” she started to say, but he had placed his right hand in the small of her back, guiding her firmly.
    “You mean they didn’t teach you to dance in police school?” he said in her ear.
    “Of course not. This is...” She had been going to say “absurd,” but the grass felt cool and springy beneath her bare feet, and the weight of his hand on her back and the rhythm of the song seemed suddenly irresistible. “What is this?” she asked, fighting the temptation to close her eyes. “It seems so familiar, but I can’t quite...”
    “Rodgers and Hart.” Pulling her a little closer, he hummed along with the melody. “‘Where or When,’ it’s called,” he added, with a trace of amusement in his voice.
    The breeze lifted the hair on Gemma’s neck, and for a moment she felt herself floating, suspended between the music and his touch. “I’d not have picked you for a dancer,” she whispered.
    “My secret ambition was to be Gene Kelly....”
    She felt his breath against her cheek, then she was aware only of the music and the harmony of their steps.
    The last flourish of the clarinet caught them in midstep. They came to an awkward halt, hands still clasped. Gemma felt the pulse beating in her throat, then the