Happily Never After. Kathleen O'Brien

whole wall was ceiling-to-floor windows that overlooked a sunny bricked garden, and the ceiling was at least thirteen feet high.

      Upstairs, there were three bedrooms, three luxurious bathrooms and a billiard room—which would soon have become a nursery. And of course the kitchen was terrific, but most of the square footage of the house was found in this one gracious room.

      At the moment, though, it didn’t seem big enough. The minute Kelly recognized Tom at the door, she felt short of breath, as if the room didn’t hold enough air for the both of them.

      Samantha seemed a little taken aback, too. She paused just in front of Kelly. “He did come,” she breathed. “I can’t believe it.”

      But then something strange happened.

      Nothing happened.

      No one gasped, no one froze with shock, no one jumped from his seat and pointed at Tom, screaming, “There he is! He’s the one!”

      A couple of women glanced over toward the door—and then surreptitiously ran hands over their hair or adjusted their skirts more flatteringly around their knees. But, for the most part, Tom Beckham’s return to Cathedral Cove was a nonevent.

      Though Sophie Mellon’s jilting and the emotional breakdown that followed were legendary in the Cove, Kelly realized that very few people in the room had ever met Tom Beckham or knew what he looked like. In their minds, he probably looked like a movie pirate, or a highwayman—someone bigger than life and as cold as the last stroke of midnight.

      The kind of mythical man who could destroy a woman simply by not wanting her.

      Looking at him now, Kelly realized that, in her mind, too, the same thing had happened. Tom Beckham had become an idea, not a human being.

      She had forgotten real-life details, the little things that made him Tom, and not just the infamous runaway groom. Things like how long-waisted he was, which always made it look as if he were wearing his slacks low on his narrow hips. Like how the right side of his smile lifted slightly higher than the left. Or how he tried to keep his dark brown hair off his broad forehead, but never quite could.

      “Kelly,” Samantha said quietly. “I think I’m just going to slip out the back, if you don’t mind. It’s awkward. I mean, I didn’t think he—”

      “I understand,” Kelly said. Of course Samantha wasn’t eager to come face-to-face with Tom Beckham again. “I’ll tell Jacob goodbye for you.”

      “Thanks,” Samantha said. “I’ll—I’ll talk to you soon.”

      They both knew it wasn’t true. They had seen each other maybe half a dozen times in the past ten years. But it eased the moment, and Kelly appreciated it. She nodded, and watched as Sam set her plates down on a table, then retreated to the kitchen and, from there, presumably out the back door.

      Kelly began to circulate with her platter of deviled eggs. Watching Jacob and Tom from the corner of her eye, she tried to subtly wind her way over toward the piano, the spot farthest from the front door.

      But she wasn’t much of a strategist. When the room was this crowded, the large grand piano and the semicircular mauve silk sofa created a beautifully decorated dead end. She turned around and found herself staring at Tom, with no escape route in sight.

      Damn him for being even more attractive than ever.

      “Hi, Kelly.” His smile wasn’t big enough to be inappropriate at a funeral, but it still had that lopsided effect that always made him seem to be secretly laughing at everyone. “It’s been a long time. You look great.”

      Like hell she did. She had been crying for four days, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup, in case she started crying again. Besides, she was thirty-two now, not twenty-two, and women didn’t just keep on getting better the way men did.

      She was glad the half-empty deviled egg platter kept her from having to decide whether to shake his hand.

      “Hello, Tom,” she said. “I’m glad you could finally make it.”

      He obviously heard the implied criticism. He dropped the smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here for the funeral. I did try. But I was at the mercy of a very inconsiderate jury.”

      “It doesn’t matter,” she said briskly. “I’m sure Jacob understands.”

      Tom glanced back toward the center of the room, where Jacob was sitting on the edge of an armchair, talking to Lillith’s parents. Lillith’s mother had her purse in one hand and a mangled tissue in the other. They had to fly back to Ohio, and they must be saying goodbye to Jacob. All three of them looked exhausted.

      “He’s much worse than I expected,” Tom said. “I thought— He was always so tough.”

      Kelly gave Tom a look. Hadn’t he learned anything in the past ten years? Hadn’t he found anyone he could truly care about?

      “He’s still tough,” she said flatly. “But he loved Lillith. A lot. They had one of the happiest marriages I’ve ever seen.”

      Tom’s smile returned, just for a flash. “Ahh,” he said. “But is that really saying very much?”

      She chose not to respond to that. She wasn’t really shocked—he’d always had a cynical side. And life had a tendency to deepen cynicism, not eliminate it, especially when you weren’t even trying to fight back.

      No, she wasn’t shocked, but she was sorry. She didn’t remember many of the things they’d said to each other back then—most of it had been silly and inconsequential, all the deeper meanings and growing awareness lurking between the lines. On their last night, though, he’d spoken one line she would never forget.

      When he had finally accepted that they could never be lovers, not even once, he had looked at her with the bleakest face she’d ever seen, and he’d said, “I would have liked to know how it felt to make love to you—I might have built a soul out of a memory like that.”

      Through the years, she had sometimes felt generous enough to hope that some other woman would bring him a memory like that. One untainted with the guilt and shame theirs would have carried.

      “Have I offended you, belittling wedded bliss?” He arched an eyebrow. “Are you still such an idealist, Kelly? I heard you tried marriage out for a little while yourself. Was it all silver bells and scented bowers?”

      “No,” she said. “I’m sure you know that Brian and I divorced two years ago.”

      “Yes. Jacob mentioned it. I’m sorry.”

      “Don’t be. It was amicable. Brian and I are still friends.”

      “Good for you,” he said. “Very civilized.”

      She didn’t answer that, either. She couldn’t tell if he was making fun of her, or if that slightly snide tone was natural to him now. But there really wasn’t anything to say about getting into or out of a marriage that didn’t take them down a dangerous conversational road.

      She shifted the platter, which was starting to feel heavy. “I guess I’d better offer these around,” she said. “But it’s good to see you. I’m glad you could make it. I know Jacob would have been disappointed if you—”

      The murmur of subdued voices that had been softly pulsing through the room was broken suddenly by the jarring sound of musical notes. Four of them, played on the piano.

      Kelly and Tom both looked quickly. Jacob sat on the piano bench, his head lowered onto his arm, which was draped across the edge. With one finger, he stabbed at the piano keys. Four notes. Over and over.

      Kelly knew that tune. It was the refrain of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.” Lillith had loved its jazzy, upbeat charm. Kelly could almost see her now, dancing out of the kitchen with a platter of perfectly roasted Cornish hen, which she’d just whipped up for the dinner party, singing, “Come on and hear, Come on and hear…”

      Jacob