“How old was he?”
“We were both twenty-four. We had dated for a year, got engaged, and lived together while we planned a big wedding. See, I was an idiot. It was all there—big red flag after big red flag. I even had a few people ask me if I knew what I was doing...”
“There had to be a reason you were determined to marry him.”
“He was handsome, had a great sense of humor, and was so sexy women stopped in midstride to look at him. Waitresses used to write their phone numbers on the bill. Plus, we had a lot of friends and we always had fun. He was very good at playing. Boating, paddle boarding, scuba diving, bowling, golf—you name it. We were busy every weekend. But...he was so childish and irresponsible. He was never on time, he stood people up when he got distracted. He dropped his underwear for me to pick up. And if he carried a dish to the vicinity of the sink, he expected a marching band. Plus he was arrogant. It was all about him, you know? He talked about himself constantly. I think he made up half his stories. He was immature.”
“He was twenty-four,” Landry pointed out.
“Were you like that at twenty-four?” she asked.
“Nah. I was too serious.”
She chuckled. “You got over that, I guess.”
“It took some doing. I, too, was married at twenty-four. And looking back on it, it probably shouldn’t have happened, either.”
“Um, lest we forget, you’re still married.”
“Yes and no,” he said. “I mean, yes, I didn’t get divorced because it really didn’t seem important. But we did have the talk. When I pointed out to her that we never saw each other and sometimes didn’t even talk for weeks, she said, ‘But when we are together it’s so wonderful and I love you!’ And I said if we’re not going to live like a married couple, why should we be married? It was a very emotional showdown and she said if I wanted to get divorced she wouldn’t try to stand in my way. That clearing of the air changed things. I moved up here from San Francisco and moved in with my dad. I had more room to work and when she did visit, which wasn’t often, she took the guest room.”
“Was your heart broken?” she asked.
“Sure. The thing I couldn’t get past was that she didn’t love me enough to make a sacrifice for our marriage. I offered to move, to change whatever had to change so we could be together, but she said our living in different places wouldn’t last forever. She was wrong—it did last forever. Eventually I got over being mad or hurt. She had a dream and she wanted it so bad, nothing was going to get in her way. So, I kind of let it go. I let her go.”
“But you didn’t get divorced,” she reminded him.
“First of all, I was busy, trying to make it in my little art world. I’ll never be world famous, but I do a good little business. Then my dad died suddenly. He hadn’t even had a chance to retire, the poor guy. That preoccupied me for a long time. Getting a divorce to make it official was the last thing on my mind.”
“But what are you going to do about the fact that she still loves you! It’s obvious.”
“Kaylee, I might be greedy, but that’s just not enough love to keep me going. A phone call every week or two, a little small talk, a visit two or three times a year? Once she came up here from LA to rest because she was exhausted from a really tough movie and she stayed in the guesthouse, your house, and got two weeks of rest. But she went back. She’s driven. There’s no room in her world for a husband.”
“Huh. Well, I’m very sorry that happened to you.”
“Thanks, but I’m all right. So, your ex? Is he still around?”
“Sort of. We have a lot of mutual friends so I get the occasional updates. Some have been good. He got married and had a couple of kids real fast and it looked like he found the right woman, one who could make it work. Then he got fired and I heard they’d fallen on hard times. Then he got back to work and I heard they were getting on their feet. Then they divorced and I actually felt bad. I mean, they had kids.
“But back to your original question. My mom brought me up here after my divorce so I could whimper and cry and lick my wounds. We borrowed the Templetons’ house and stayed ten days. It took me a lot longer than ten days, but I love it here. My mom loved it here.”
“Were you ever tempted again? To get married?”
“Not once. In the past ten years I’ve dated a few very nice guys. One was my boyfriend for a year! But I was busy with work, lots of travel with my job, I had my mom and her friends and my friends and besides, I liked living alone. And after Dixon, all I’d have to do is remember his rowing machine under the bed and his dirty clothes on the floor and I was over it.” She smiled at Landry. “I’ve seen your house and your guesthouse. I might marry you. You’re very tidy. And considerate.”
“And married.”
“Ah, yes and no.”
And they laughed and laughed.
“I saw Dixon last year,” she said. “He’s bald and has put on about forty pounds. He looks sloppy and pale. That made me so happy.”
* * *
Landry was taken with Kaylee and he’d known that almost immediately. She caught a man’s eye, for one thing, but he was no longer twenty-four and it took a lot more than that to interest him. Despite her admitted vulnerability, still grieving her mother’s death, she was solid. Or maybe the fact that she knew she was vulnerable was a strength. He loved hearing her talk, explain things, describe things. She was articulate and intelligent. There didn’t seem to be a wishy-washy bone in her body even though she had a lot to work out. She was late turning in a book for which she’d been paid, for one thing. She was worried about it, but she was powering through. That took strength and determination. He knew only too well, as he often made contracts on art that was not yet created.
After they had dinner they were back on the porch. He asked her to tell him about the book.
“A couple of models are murdered and the suspicion is that there’s a killer stalking beautiful young women. There are many links between the deceased women, their boyfriends, family members, colleagues, etc. Then an attempt is made on a third model, also linked to the first two, and she not only escapes, she steps up to try to solve the murders before it happens to her. You know, eat or be eaten. Our killer gets by with a couple more signature murders, always putting her closer to danger. And of course she makes friends with a sexy detective who not only wants to protect her, he wants to help her figure it out. And there’s an elderly forensics expert also on the case.”
“Hm. Sounds interesting. Is it almost done?”
“It’s getting closer but it’s weeks from done. I’m writing another book at the same time, one that I don’t have a contract for, one that I’m more interested in writing. So I’m forcing myself to write six pages a day of the suspense, and then I find myself sitting up very late writing the one I enjoy writing. This is just coping; my ability to concentrate and think creatively took a giant hit when my mom died.”
“Tell me about the one you enjoy,” he said.
“It’s a fictionalized version of me, the character often growing in directions that make her stronger and more together than I really am. It’s not unusual to write about characters I admire or wish I was more like. It’s about a woman who runs off to the mountains to reclaim her confidence and strength after her husband dies. I decided it should be a husband, not a mother. But as I’m writing, I know the truth. And as I write, I figure things out.”
“Is that something you do to get closure?”
“No, it’s something I do to understand what I’m feeling. See, when I hear of a problem or have an issue that needs to be resolved, I often don’t really know how it should work out until I write about it. Sometimes I interview my characters, asking them key questions about themselves. Sometimes I’ll write about situations that confound me. I’ll start out writing about how it was and finish up writing about how it should be.”
“It must be cathartic.”
“Sometimes. I’ve written a few terrible husbands named Dick or Richard or Rick or Dax.” She beamed. “Once he was Zach.”
“I bet they had some familiar qualities...”
“Oh yes. Sometimes they died, depending on how I was feeling about him at the time. They always got tripped up by their arrogance and self-centeredness. And it makes me better somehow. Once I write about it, I develop some understanding.”
“Does your ex-husband ever redeem himself?” Landry asked.
“Sadly, no. Thus he is forever punished.”
“Remind me never to piss you off,” he said, laughing.
“Oh, I honestly don’t personalize those quirks of plot. If you piss me off, I might name a very bad doctor Dr. Landry. Or maybe just an incompetent pilot. Not an evil person, just a stupid one.”
“And I might make an ugly pot shaped like your head.”
She laughed happily. “Talk like that and you could end up a serial killer!”
“How long have you been writing these books about killers?” he asked.
“Since I started. It was my favorite genre when I was learning and you should always write what you want to read. I like the edginess of a great suspense novel, like a really good J.T. Ellison.”
“Who?”
She shook her head. “You have homework to do.”
“I might just read a few Kaylee Sloans.”
“There you go. If I’m worth my salt, you’ll sleep with one eye open while I’m renting your little house. Oh, by the way, Jack’s having a Halloween party on the thirty-first. I’m planning to go. Are you?”
“I’ve stopped by a few town parties. I’ll probably go.”
“I suppose you know everyone.”
“I did grow up here.”
“What was it like, growing up here?”
“It was good,” he said. “I had fun. I had friends, although like I said, I was a little too serious. I played ball, went to school things, got good grades. But almost every kid who grows up in a quiet small town can’t wait to get to the real life in the city, and that was me. I went away to college, missed my dad and my friends, came home when I could. Then after Laura went to Hollywood and hardly came back, I gave up the city and moved back here and had a whole new appreciation for it. I think it’s the people. The air, the quiet and the people who stand up for each other.”