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Every Time We Say Goodbye
Liz Flaherty
He had her at hello again…After the prom night accident that had stolen the innocence of his small lakeside hometown, Jack Llewellyn had run. The guilt—especially facing his high school sweetheart Arlie Gallagher—had been too much. Now he had no choice. He was back in town, and on Arlie’s radar.Arlie couldn’t believe that after all these years, she still had him under her skin. He was such a changed man…a responsible business owner, a single parent. Would he understand the changes she’d gone through, the secrets she lived with? She was ready to forgive him but was he ready to forgive himself? And did they have to say goodbye this time?
He had her at “hello again...”
After the prom night accident that had stolen the innocence of his small lakeside hometown, Jack Llewellyn had run. The guilt—especially facing his high school sweetheart, Arlie Gallagher—had been too much. Now he had no choice. He was back in town, and on Arlie’s radar.
Arlie couldn’t believe that after all these years, she still had him under her skin. He was such a changed man...a responsible business owner, a single parent. Would he understand the changes she’d gone through, the secrets she lived with? She was ready to forgive him but was he ready to forgive himself? And did they have to say goodbye this time?
He loved her face.
When he touched her, trailing his forefinger down the sweet line of her cheek, he was surprised at the strength of his emotional response. He wanted to be Rhett Butler or Mr. Darcy or at least one of Louis L’Amour’s Sacketts and take her in his arms. Maybe carry her up a flight of stairs since the Dower House had such a nice wide set. This wasn’t a book and he was definitely no hero, but he wanted to protect her from all harm, to lend peace to her soul tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
Regret worked its way inexorably into his thoughts. Regret because they didn’t have tomorrows.
But they did have now. He lowered his mouth to hers, keeping the kiss light, almost friendly. But more.
Dear Reader (#ulink_822d2949-67c9-5802-87aa-cd66d20e9f41),
I’ve never written with a partner, although I kind of envy those who do. How cool would it be to have someone cover for you on those days when every word you write needs to be unwritten as quickly as possible! However, when I started Every Time We Say Goodbye and I couldn’t seem to name anything, the then-mayor of a town near me, friends on Facebook and Cole Porter took care of that for me. I’d never been in flag corps, cheerleading or marching band, so more friends lent me some of their considerable knowledge. When it came time to choose a title, a genius in Marketing came up with Every Time We Say Goodbye. (I was completely torn between being in love with the title and being jealous because I didn’t think of it—love won. It always does.) My name is the only one on the cover, but a lot of other people helped “put music to my words.”
I hope you love Arlie and Jack’s story—and Miniagua and its residents—as much as I do.
Liz Flaherty
Every Time We Say Goodbye
Liz Flaherty
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LIZ FLAHERTY retired from the post office and promised to spend at least fifteen minutes a day on housework. Not wanting to overdo things, she’s since pared that down to ten. She spends nonwriting time sewing, quilting and doing whatever else she wants to. She and Duane, her husband of...oh, quite a while...are the parents of three and grandparents of the Magnificent Seven. They live in the old farmhouse in Indiana they moved to in 1977. They’ve talked about moving, but really...thirty-seven years’ worth of stuff? It’s not happening!
She’d love to hear from you at lizkflaherty@gmail.com.
Many thanks go to Jim Walker, who named Lake Miniagua, to the Facebook friends who named Wally and Caruso, and to songwriter Cole Porter, whose song titles made Miniagua such a fun place to write about. A special thanks to Joey Kubesch, who helped put the right names with the right businesses.
A few miles from our house, sitting smack in the middle of the cornfields, is a school campus containing grades K–12 plus preschool. It’s where my kids, some of my grandkids, and I all graduated from. It’s where my daughter and son-in-law teach. It is one of the safest, best, most loving places I know. It’s because of what I learned there that I grew up to write books—the best job in the world.
So it is to the past and present staff of North Miami Community Schools that this book, with my heartfelt gratitude, is dedicated. Go Warriors!
Contents
Cover (#u2bb9372b-8a01-5e9f-9420-c330a6089ece)
Back Cover Text (#u89a6b2c4-ed3e-51e9-a828-2e3ff25b3249)
Introduction (#u69c4a790-52bc-5213-b381-dfbb1f4f4fcc)
Dear Reader (#ulink_a6122f8a-4693-516d-bc7c-ba76a41a0aca)
Title Page (#u6802abdf-e112-5193-a7d7-5fd10b7dcc9f)
About the Author (#uc83b4e44-c656-51e8-aa40-b4d2d942064e)
Dedication (#uc6ea40e7-9a1d-5fdb-90ef-32628aef0830)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_102c5e1a-f0e0-5892-95e9-cd0b268a0ec8)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_62f30c7d-b696-52e2-b15b-9140e2f8cbf9)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_fcab4d27-ea03-5689-b47a-89b46fc1e430)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_42c2a28c-4279-525b-be3e-0c7a0edad250)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_23deaa2d-b8c1-5717-bda8-bbef3a770dd6)
IT HAD BEEN sixteen years since he’d seen Arlie Gallagher. And three months and four days. Not that he was counting.
But he knew, as he stepped out of the rental SUV he’d parked in front of the Come On In hardware store, that the woman standing in front of the tearoom across the street was indeed Arlie. She was dressed in turquoise scrubs and wearing sunglasses that covered half her small, heart-shaped face, but he recognized her compact build, riot of red curls and hey-world-it’s-me movements as though he’d seen her only yesterday. He thought the woman with her, whose dark hair was a perfect foil for the rich copper of Arlie’s, was her stepsister, Holly. He couldn’t look away long enough to be sure.
The coward in him urged him to hustle into the hardware before Arlie looked across Miniagua’s gravelly Main Street and saw him. But that would have meant looking away.
Which he couldn’t have done under penalty of, well, death, he guessed, because that was something he knew. He’d looked away from her once, actually walked away from her, and dying would have been a whole lot easier.
He closed the car door firmly. Sounds carried on the breeze from the lake, and Arlie looked up, meeting his eyes. She raised her arm, then dropped it with the wave unfinished. Her smile, that wide, generous expression that grew like one of those sped-up videos of a rose blooming, started but faded before the rose made it out of bud stage.
He still couldn’t look away. He couldn’t breathe, either, so he just drank in the sight of her. This must be what a person would feel like if he came in from the desert after not having anything to drink for, say, sixteen years. That first glass of water would be wonderful. It would be life-affirming and fresh and would end way too soon.
The brunette, whose brisk, loose walk didn’t give away the fact that her left foot was prosthetic, nodded in his direction. She didn’t smile, though, and he didn’t either, just lifted his chin and let it drop. When the women went into the Seven Pillars Tearoom, he was finally able to turn and walk toward the hardware store’s front door. Mostly without seeing where he was going.
He and his half brother, Tucker, had been raised on the estate that filled a chunk of the frontage property on the south end of Lake Miniagua’s six hundred acres, but Jack Llewellyn seldom came back. When he did, he paid his stiff respects to his grandmother and stood silent and stoic sentinel for an hour in the cemetery beside the Miniagua Community Church. He’d learned to move quickly on these visits, making it on the afternoon flight home so that by midnight, he’d be relaxing in front of the TV with a beer. He wouldn’t have seen anyone but Margaret Llewellyn and her household staff.
This time, he didn’t get off that easily. Not only would he not get back to Vermont today, he wouldn’t make it tomorrow, either. From the looks of his grandmother’s will and her estate, he’d be in Indiana for a good long time settling the estate.
That meant he’d have to see all those people whose lives had been irrevocably changed the night his father drove drunk and failed to stay to the outside on one of the tight curves on Country Club Road. Jack might have to try to explain things for which he had no justification. Things like why he’d left.
He’d known he would see Arlie, whose heart he had broken, but he had wanted—no, needed—time to prepare himself. Sometimes if he was ready, if he tightened his jaw and focused on other matters—any other matters—he could think about her with barely a twinge of the hurt he’d caused them both. Sometimes.
But that was before he saw her across the street. More than a twinge, the pain that ripped sharp and unexpected down the center of him nearly brought him to his knees.
The bell over the hardware store’s door rang when he stepped inside. Sam Phillipy’s voice, the deepest, truest bass the high school choir had ever heard, came from the back of the hardware store. “Can I help you?”
Jack had to catch his breath yet again. Why hadn’t he thought about it longer before coming into the store? Before coming down to Miniagua’s two-block business district at all? He should have known Sam would be here, should have been ready to face the only man who’d ever been as close to him as his brother. There had never been a better friend than Sam Phillipy. Or a worse one than Jack Llewellyn.
“I’ll need a remodeling crew. I figured this would be a good place to start looking.” Jack sauntered back, striving for casual. Hard to do on legs that still felt shaky.
The old wooden floors echoed with the same hollow sound as they had in high school days. He could almost hear the dribbling of basketballs on the boards. It was an indicator of just how small Miniagua was, he reflected, that teenage boys had hung out in the hardware store.
Sam met him in the middle of the store beside the endcap of paint colors. They sized each other up much as they had more than twenty years ago. Sam looked good even with a patch over his left eye. Lasting damage from the prom-night wreck. Jack had to stop himself from flinching. “Sam.”
“Jack.” Sam nodded, not offering his hand. “My condolences on your family’s loss.” If there was a sneer in his voice, Jack couldn’t hear it, but there was no warmth in his old friend’s expression, either. Nor even a hint of welcome.
“Thank you.” Jack shuffled his feet on the worn floor, feeling as he had that first day he’d come to school at Lake Miniagua, the only eighth grader in high-dollar khakis and Italian loafers. Sam had greeted him then, walking through a gaggle of lakers with an outstretched hand and an offer to share his locker. The move had been both curiously adult and a harbinger of what was to come—they’d shared a locker until the day they graduated.
“When is your grandmother’s funeral?” Sam poured coffee for them both, handed Jack a cup and lifted the pot in invitation to the pair of Amish farmers who were examining the harness that hung across the back wall. They came forward for refills, then went back to the wall.
Jack wasn’t sure why Sam had given him the drink but was grateful nonetheless. Maybe the motivation had been pity because Jack was once again wearing designer clothing in a Levi’s-and-T-shirt kind of place. It had been bad enough being the overdressed new kid at thirteen—it was worse at thirty-four. But he’d gone from a business meeting straight to the airport. His assistant had met him there with a suitcase. “Tomorrow at two.”
“Will you be staying on? How about Tuck?”
“Looks like we both will.” Jack drank deeply. Sam definitely knew his way around a coffeepot. “At least until we can sell the plant and figure out what to do with the Hall.” He smiled without humor. “Know anyone who wants a ten-thousand-square-foot albatross?”
Sam shook his head. “So, you’re selling the plant?” His face was tight, his knuckles white on the curve of his cup.
Jack nodded, then remembered that Sam’s father, Paul, was the production supervisor and had been since the boys had been kids. “Your father’s job will be safe, unless he’s ready to retire. There’s no need to worry about that.”
“I’m not worried. He won’t be, either, I imagine, but those other fifty-some people who work there—they might have some concern.” Sam’s voice was mild, but the look in his good eye was anything but.
Irritation crawled along Jack’s hairline, and he tightened his jaw. He’d bought and sold a handful of businesses since he’d graduated from Notre Dame. He’d made himself a success by flipping companies the way those guys on television flipped houses, and he hadn’t done it by causing irreparable harm to labor. Didn’t Sam know that?
No, of course he didn’t. Why would he?
“We’ll do what we can to protect all the jobs.”
“Well.” Sam nodded abruptly. “That’s good. Did you say you were looking for a remodeling crew?”
“A couple of them, probably. If we are going to sell the alba...the house, it needs to become more like a home and less like a museum.”
“Are you and Tucker living in it?”
“Tuck is. I’m in the Dower House.” He looked at his watch. Not that he cared what time it was, but it was hard maintaining eye contact with Sam, as hard as it had been seeing the redhead across the street. “I’ll check back with you, all right?” He set down his cup and headed toward the front door of the store, needing air, needing something to ease the grief of being back in this place he’d loved so much and being completely alone.
Sam’s voice followed him. “I’ll check around.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll see you at the funeral.”
Jack stopped, turning around to meet Sam’s gaze. “That’s very kind of you.” He knew the words were stilted, but he meant them.
“Your grandmother was a customer. Not that she ever came in the store, but she’d call and tell me what she wanted and I’d take it out there. And she was your grandmother. We were best friends in high school—all the way through. You walked away and the truth is I don’t like you very much right now, but on some level we’re still best friends.”
Jack smiled, but the expression felt cold on his face. He doubted if it looked any warmer than it felt. “Really.”
“Yup.” Sam sketched him a wave. “When you drive down Country Club Road, those little crosses that are all rough and the paint’s worn off? They’re the only sign that the accident ever happened. The road’s been repaved, even widened a little. They couldn’t do anything to straighten out the curves, but it’s a lot safer than it was then. Other than those of us who were in the wreck and our families, people have forgotten. The scars have healed. I don’t know why you saw fit to leave the way you did. I may never know why. But you’re back now, at least for a while, and it’s time for the exile to end. It’s been long enough.”
“Long enough?” Jack kept his voice mild, maintained the smile, but everything inside him tightened. “For the Gallaghers and the Benteens? The Worths and Linda Saylors’s parents? For you, Sam?”
Sam hesitated, lifting his free hand to straighten the patch that suited his face so well it was as though it had always been there. “Maybe not. I don’t know.” He sighed. “The accident wasn’t your fault. No one blames you for it.”
“I know.” Not that he believed it for a New York minute, but maybe if he said it often enough, he would. Maybe.
* * *
“SERIOUSLY. RENT-A-WIFE IS cleaning the Dower House and I drew the short straw? No one will be there while I’m working, right?” Arlie Gallagher filled her plate with a little more spaghetti than was probably good for her, but her stepmother was the best cook on the lake. “You told them that everyone should be out of the house so I can get the job done quickly?”
“Yes, I told them that.” Holly, her six-months-younger stepsister, followed her, filling her own plate as full as Arlie’s.
Gianna Gallagher topped off their wineglasses and waited for the daughters she’d raised more alone than not to join her at the table. “I’m glad you girls are here.” She swirled the liquid in her glass and took a drink. “I don’t get lonely much—there’s no time—but mealtime’s when I miss your dad the most.”
