You Had Me At Goodbye. Jane Blackwood

painful right now,” Lila said, her soft voice breaking. “It’s a shame for the cottage to be closed up all summer. It makes me so sad to think of it like that. Please go, Kat. It will be good for you and good for the cottage. Carl loved that old place, and I know he’d want you to use it. Please.”

      And so here she was, standing outside the house she loved, savoring the moment, the anticipation of the beginning of an end—the end of failure, the end of the girl whose father was the water meter reader.

      She grabbed her suitcases and waited for a clear spot in the summer traffic on Sea View Avenue and…stopped. Someone or something had moved in the tower room. The window was shut, but she could have sworn the curtain had moved a bit, that a shadow had crossed by. Lila and Carl had never mentioned a ghost, Kat thought, half excited and half frightened by the idea. She stared a good while longer before convincing herself she was a complete idiot.

      The house had virtually no front yard to speak of, so Kat heaved her bags up the porch steps, reached inside a fish-shaped wind chime, and smiled when she found the key. Roy, who ran a bed and breakfast next door, had a spare key, but Kat was glad not to have to bother him. She let herself in and stared at the abandoned house, furniture still covered with dust sheets. For a moment, she felt a tingle of fear and listened for a sound from the tower, but there was nothing but the noise of the traffic and, beyond that, the surf pounding the beach. Then she saw it: the large portrait of her aunt lying nude on a pile of what looked like polar bear rugs and covered with discreetly placed white feather boas. This was definitely not a sad house, not a haunted house. And for the next eight weeks, it was going to be her house.

      Immediately, Kat went around the first floor and opened every window. Then she made short work of the dust covers, smiling in satisfaction when the living room began to look more lived in. She decided to take the bedroom on the first floor, which had absolutely nothing to do with the ghost walking around the tower room. Besides, it was the guest room, and she still was a guest in this house, and it happened to be one of her favorite rooms.

      A large wrought-iron bed dominated the room, which contained only an antique wardrobe and two shabby-chic bedside tables with chipped white paint. Kat pulled out linens that felt and looked expensive and a cheerful yellow and white comforter and made the bed, feeling happier than she’d felt in weeks. She sat down on the bed and watched as the sheer white curtain surrounding a window that faced the sea blew gently, bringing with it the unmistakable scents of summer: mowed grass, ocean air, and a hint of honeysuckle. I could be happy here, she thought even as her heart squeezed painfully in her chest.

      After a quick walk to the small grocery store in the town’s center for essentials—some frozen burritos and coffee for the morning—Kat did something she hadn’t done in years: she took a nap, idly hoping her ghost stayed put in the tower room while she was sleeping.

      It was dusk when Kat awoke, feeling slightly groggy but immensely happy. The only thing she had planned for that evening was curling up on the living room couch and reading a book. Tomorrow she’d go over to see Roy and reminisce about Carl and their summers together, but tonight was hers and hers alone.

      She got up, stretching, loving the feel of the cool hardwood floors beneath her feet. She’d have to remind her aunt never to put carpeting in this house. Scruffing up her matted hair, she headed hungrily toward the kitchen, knowing a frozen chicken burrito awaited her. Frozen chicken burritos were one of several weaknesses Kat was willing to admit to. Her friends wrinkled their noses every time she bit into the gooey mass that held some unknown but delicious filling. She didn’t want to know what was in the thing; she only knew it tasted good.

      Feeling wonderfully sleepy, she padded into the dark kitchen and directly into something tall and hard and hairy. They both screamed—Kat and whatever it was that was backing away from her—three times. In unison. And then, “Bloody hell,” followed by a succession of swears, all uttered in a cultured male, British accent.

      “I have a gun,” Kat said, staring at the shadow of what was obviously a man, a tall, half-naked, hairy man standing in the middle of the kitchen. This was no ghost. He was way too big and solid for a ghost.

      “You do not,” he said, sounding far more calm than she did. He almost sounded…amused.

      “A knife, then.”

      And he laughed, letting out a low chuckle that Kat found slightly comforting. A madman or rapist wouldn’t laugh like that, would he?

      “I know karate,” she said, knowing she was being ridiculous. She was rewarded with another chuckle.

      “I’m turning on the light,” he said with a voice a person uses when approaching a snarling dog. He did, putting the room into such instant brightness Kat was momentarily blinded, and she backed into a corner as if that would save her if he were indeed a madman.

      “Now do you mind telling me what you are doing in my house?” he asked with utter calm.

      Kat squinted toward him and wished she hadn’t. He was, indeed, half naked and tall; beefy arms folded over his hairy chest. Out of a face filled with dark facial hair glinted two brown eyes that looked at her as if she were the one trespassing. He wasn’t exactly hostile; his expression was more curious than angry.

      “This is my house. My aunt promised it to me,” she said, sounding about as assertive as a three-year-old.

      “The aunt of the picture?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in a way Kat didn’t at all appreciate. Sure, the portrait was ridiculous, but Lila was her aunt, and Kat was fiercely loyal to her. She couldn’t count the number of times people had either hinted at or blatantly suggested Lila was nothing but a gold digger. And this guy’s eyebrows seemed to be saying just that.

      “Who are you?” Kat asked, suddenly more angry than afraid.

      “I am Lawrence Kendall.” He paused as if his name should mean something to her. Maybe he was a duke; he sure sounded like one. She stared at him hard and wondered if he was some British actor she was supposed to recognize. “And you are?” he asked, raising his bearded chin a bit.

      “Kat Taylor.”

      He stared at her as if searching some inner data bank to see if he could place her. “Kat?”

      “Short for Katherine,” she said.

      “Well, Katherine, it seems as if we’ve both been promised the same house.”

      Oh, God, no. No. No. “My aunt said I could stay here until Labor Day.”

      “Ah.” He made a funny little clicking noise with his tongue. “I’m very sorry, but Carl promised the place to me months ago.”

      “You know Carl?” she asked suspiciously, knowing that if someone truly knew Carl, they’d also know he’d been dead for more than a month.

      “He was much more my father’s friend, but yes, of course I knew Carl. He knew he was ill and wouldn’t be using the place and said he wouldn’t mind if I used it. So you see, I was promised first.”

      Kat blinked. Was this guy actually suggesting that she leave? “I’m sorry, too. But Lila owns this house now, and she promised it to me.”

      He rubbed his jaw in what seemed a practiced way. “Quite a quandary,” he said, and somehow, with his accent, that didn’t come out sounding ridiculous. He stood in front her wearing nothing but a pair of rolled up khakis and seemed completely at ease. Maybe he was a male stripper; he certainly had the body for one, Kat thought, and she was faintly shocked when she realized she’d let her mind wander like that.

      “I have a copy of an e-mail Carl sent me giving me details on how to get here. It’s dated in April. I hadn’t planned on taking him up on his offer, but here I am.”

      “And here I am,” Kat said miserably, feeling her summer dissolving beneath her feet. She would not give this up. She needed this house more than he did. She’d spent time here; she wasn’t some stranger camping out for a few months. She had emotion invested in this house, a history. Memories. “I’m not leaving,”