“Sorry if I kept you waiting,” she said, lacking the typical New York City accent Kendall expected. Other than sounding clearly northern, there wasn’t much of an accent at all. “I needed to freshen up after the death-defying ride here.”
Ray glanced to Kendall with one gray brow arched high. “This girl is going to be a match for you.”
Kendall didn’t dignify that with a response.
“Come.” Ray withdrew a chair from the table. “Let’s eat.”
The writer took the offered seat with a nod of gratitude and shook out her napkin before spreading it across her lap. “The food smells wonderful. Reminds me of a dish my grandmother used to make.”
“Used to?” Ray queried as he shuffled around to his own chair.
The writer nodded. “Grandma Teller died five years ago. I still miss her, but she left me her apartment, and every now and then, I find some little treasure from her past.”
Their host sank into his chair.
“Ray?” Kendall set his beer on the table. “You okay?”
The older man dismissed his concern. “Yes, I’m fine. Just had a dizzy spell is all.”
The doc had advised Ray to slow down, but he wouldn’t listen. When they’d argued about it, the old man had tossed out a comment about slowing down when he was dead. Kendall hadn’t appreciated the joke.
“I forgot the wine.”
“I’ll get it.” Kendall moved into action before Ray could rise from his chair. The stubborn man was going to be the death of them both.
“Mr. Wallis, I appreciate your putting this meal together, but I don’t expect to be entertained,” the writer said. “I’m here to do a job, and there’s no need to exert yourself on my behalf.”
Ray waved her words away. “Don’t let my age fool you, Ms. Teller. I’m as spry as I ever was. A little cold last week weakened me a bit, but I’ll be back to full strength in no time.”
Kendall couldn’t remember the last time Ray had a cold, but loyalty kept him from saying so.
“Regardless”—she clasped her hands on the table as Kendall returned with the wine—“I don’t want any special treatment. And please, call me Liza.”
“And you must call me Ray. So the L in L. R. is for Liza? Can I ask what the R is for?”
“Ruth,” she replied. “A bit old-fashioned, but it’s another inheritance from my grandmother.”
“You two must have been close.”
Her expression faltered. “Sadly, no.” Sitting up straighter, she crossed her arms on the table. “The clams really do smell wonderful. Should we eat before they get cold?”
Disappointment shone in Ray’s eyes before he said, “You’re absolutely right. Let’s eat.” He swung the ladle around her way before setting his glass closer to Kendall. “Pour the wine, my boy.”
Kendall did as asked, surprised by the sudden tension hovering around the table. Ray wasn’t used to being shut down, nor did he take well to being rebuffed. In truth, the man was nosy to a fault, and most folks went along either out of deference to his age or because he simply charmed them into submission.
Liza did not seem affected by either of those options, making for an auspicious start to their impending professional relationship. Kendall smiled for the first time since learning the writer’s identity. At this rate, Ray would abandon this ridiculous book idea in no time at all.
Chapter 3
Navigating this visit was going to be tougher than she’d expected.
Liza longed to be one of those women who exuded confidence in any situation, but she wasn’t. In fact, throughout her entire life, she’d fought insecurity, which had sharpened her acting skills at an early age. Between her last name and her nose, there was no hiding her Jewish heritage, but she’d grown up with little knowledge of the religion or that side of her family.
Her Irish mother had been raised Catholic, and despite walking away from the faith long before Liza had come along, Mary O’Dowd had still put her daughter through twelve years of Catholic school. It hadn’t taken long for Liza to consider herself a fish out of water. She didn’t fit in with her classmates, nor did she belong with the family she rarely saw.
In essence, she’d been a book-loving, introverted child who’d honed the necessary coping skills to survive basic human interactions when necessary. As an adult, Liza had embraced the power to avoid social situations as much as possible. Then again, a lack of friends meant few social invitations. A fact that suited Liza just fine.
The remoteness of Haven Island had been a plus when she’d debated taking the job. No cars, stores, or restaurants had to mean no social requirements. That would leave her with the simple and peaceful task of typing up an old man’s story. If she was lucky, he’d hand over a stack of journals, and she could spend the monthlong visit huddled over her laptop, writing away.
Dinners that included her genial client and his surly sidekick, who’d made his objection to her presence abundantly clear, had not been part of the plan. Just smile and nod, she told herself. How hard could this be?
“Why don’t you have an accent?” Kendall asked as Liza sipped her white wine. She didn’t particularly like wine but hated to offend her host, who’d boasted of the vintage as Kendall had filled her glass.
“What accent did you expect?” Did he assume every northerner sounded like a Kennedy?
“New York City. That’s where you’re from, right?”
Ray stirred his clams but didn’t seem interested in eating them. In fact, his enthusiasm had dropped significantly since they’d sat down to dinner. Keeping an eye on her subject, she answered Kendall’s question. “That’s where I live now, but I grew up in Rochester.”
Pale-blue eyes met hers. “But you were born in the city.” A statement instead of a question. Liza had to wonder how much information her agent had shared with her new employer.
“Yes, I was born in New York City, but my mom moved us to Rochester when I was two. I didn’t move back to the city until eight years ago.” Why she’d moved back was her own business. “Ray, how long have you lived here on Haven Island?”
“It’ll be thirty years this fall,” her host replied, eyes locked on her face as if he were trying to memorize her features.
Liza tried not to squirm. “And where did you move from?”
“I’m a New Yorker, too.”
“Really?” she asked. “What part?”
“The Bronx. You say your family moved to Rochester?”
“My mom and I, yes. In what part of the Bronx did you live? My family has been there for decades.”
“Allerton,” Ray replied. “Did your father not move with you?”
Liza didn’t like sharing the details of her family, especially not with virtual strangers, but if she was going to learn the intimate details of Ray’s life, she supposed it couldn’t hurt for him to know a little of hers.
“No. My parents divorced shortly before the move. But my father’s family is from Allerton, and that’s where I live now. Did you know the Tellers? My great-uncle had a dry cleaning business right on Allerton Avenue.”
Ray gave a halfhearted smile. “The memory isn’t what it used to be.” A worrisome answer considering the task ahead. “I’m sorry to hear about your parents,” he added. “Did you get to see your dad often?”
“I didn’t, no.”
Her father had made little effort to remain in his daughter’s life, instead choosing to blame her mother for the separation, claiming the move kept them apart. Sometime during high school, Liza had realized the ridiculousness of that claim, but as he was the only parent she had left, she’d made the conscious choice to forget the past and build a new relationship with the man she hardly knew.
That didn’t mean she wanted to talk about him with strangers. Ephrem Teller hadn’t only neglected his daughter; he’d taken every opportunity to make her mother’s life miserable. One June while she was still in college, Liza had gone shopping with a couple of friends. During the excursion, they’d stoppe
d to buy Father’s Day cards.
The sentiments were all the same—sincere, sappy messages about how much he’d taught her and been there for her and how she hoped to find a man just like him. None of them ever fit Liza’s situation, so she did what she’d always done—edged down to the humorous section and bought a card with no sentimental meaning at all.
Eager to change the subject, Liza turned her attention to the silent guest to her right. “How about you, Mr. James? Where were you born?”
“Add me to the New York City group, but I’ve been down here since I was four.” He dropped a spoon into his nearly empty bowl and reached for his drink. “Why didn’t you get to see your dad? Rochester isn’t that far from the city.”
Anyone who said women were the nosy ones hadn’t met these two. “Distance wasn’t the only obstacle.” Liza didn’t elaborate and hoped her silence would deter further questions.
“We didn’t mean to pry, Ms. Teller,” Ray said, his voice heavy with regret.
Now she felt bad. “It’s fine, really. And please, do call me Liza.”
The conversation faded as Kendall grinned into his beer. What he found amusing, she didn’t know. To end the uncomfortable silence, she searched for a safer topic and chose their current location.
“I’ve been fascinated by this island since my agent told me where I was going. Are there really no cars?”
“There are trucks, but only the wildlife caretakers use them,” Kendall replied. “We also have a full-size fire engine. Just in case.”
A reality she hadn’t considered, but it was good to know that should there be a fire, emergency equipment was close by. Though who exactly manned this truck?
“Are there enough people on the island to operate something like that?”
Kendall shrugged. “We get by.”
Not the most reassuring answer. Liza opted to ignore Mr. Difficult and returned her attention to her host.
“Do all of the houses on the island come with apartments like the one upstairs?”
“Each house is unique. Mine was a Field of Dreams–type thing. I hoped that if I built it, they would come.”
“Who would come?” Liza asked, noticing Kendall’s confused expression.
Ray leaned back with his wine, the clams still untouched. “Whoever normally comes to visit.”
The answer told her nothing at all, and she once again wondered about his state of mind.
“Most of the other homes are rentals,” he said. “Some throughout the year and some limited to the main tourist season. Only a few of us live on the island year-round.”
Liza enjoyed her solitude, but even she couldn’t imagine living so remotely all the time. “That must keep things very quiet.”
“Quiet may be a bad thing to you city people,” Kendall cut in, “but we like it this way.”
Despite the thought that had just raced through her mind, Liza narrowed her eyes as she turned his way. “You’re good at making assumptions, Mr. James, but not every New Yorker thrives on noise and energy. Peace and quiet are high on my list. Right behind civility and kindness. You should try them sometime.”
Her rebuttal brought a grin to Ray’s face. “You’re going to work out just fine, Liza Ruth. Just fine, indeed.”
No one had called her Liza Ruth since Granny T had passed away, but she didn’t mind Ray doing so. The names sounded right together coming from his lips. Relieved she’d managed to turn things around, Liza ignored Kendall’s childish pouting and returned her host’s beaming smile. “Thank you, Ray. I’m glad you think so.”
Kendall could be civil. Dammit.
After scraping the last dish clean, he flipped on the faucet and sent water splashing across the front of his shirt. “Shit,” he mumbled, stepping back from the sink to survey the damage. A drop of water slipped from his shirt and landed between his feet on the mat. “Great.”
Kendall stripped off the shirt to wring it out over the sink. Once it stopped dripping, he hung it over the back of a chair and returned to finish the dishes. On an island like Haven, water came at a premium, which meant running the dishwasher only happened on rare occasions. Kendall had insisted Ray sit while he cleaned up. The writer offered to help, but Ray had dragged her off for the promised tour of the house. Fine by Kendall. She’d probably lecture him on how to properly do the dishes anyway.
As he put the last glass away, Liza stepped in from the back deck where she and Ray had ended the tour. “Two more glasses,” she said before coming to a stop at the edge of the kitchen. “Oh. I’m . . . Ray wanted me to . . .” As she hovered with two wineglasses in her hands, her eyes lingered on Kendall’s torso. “Where’s your shirt?”
A heat he hadn’t experienced in far too long simmered to life in Kendall’s gut. “I got it wet.”
Blonde curls swayed as she nodded. “I see.” She continued to stare, and against his better judgment, he let her. One pearly-white tooth sank into her bottom lip as she slowly crossed the room to set the glasses on the counter. Not until they stood a foot apart did she finally meet his eyes. “There are the glasses.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, voice heavy as her scent surrounded him. She must have splashed on something sweet before dinner. “Did you want anything else?”
Blue eyes darkened, and he knew exactly what she wanted. He may have been out of the game for longer than he liked to admit, but Kendall recognized raw desire when he saw it. Sadist that he was, he held his ground, waiting. For what, he didn’t know. His brain said to back the hell off, but his brain was no longer in charge.
“I should go back outside.” She didn’t move.
“Yeah, you should.” His grip tightened on the towel to keep from reaching for her.
“Sorry about your shirt.” She was a terrible liar. “Ray said you should come outside when you’re finished.”
Kendall leaned a hip on the counter and crossed his arms. “I’ll do that.”
A sigh escaped her lips as her gaze dropped to his chest. At a breaking point, he said, “Walk away, Liza.”
As if the words had snapped her back to reality, she blinked several times, blushed a pretty pink, and hurried from the room. Muscles tight, Kendall turned to brace his hands on the edge of the sink, needing the cool porcelain against his palms. He’d never been set on fire by a look before. If the woman ever actually touched him, he might go up in flames.
No one will be touching anyone, he told himself, but his body still simmered. If Liza had been a tourist passing through, he’d have taken her up on the unspoken offer. But she wasn’t passing through. She was there for Ray, to do a job Kendall didn’t approve of, and her sudden flare of desire didn’t negate the fact that she didn’t even like him.
Annoyed by his lack of control, Kendall left the glasses where she’d set them and charged off to fetch a jacket from his cart. When Amos leaped up from his spot near the fireplace, his owner held up a hand. “I’m not leaving, buddy. Go back to sleep.”
Amos whimpered but followed the order. The cool breeze hit Kendall in the chest as he stepped onto the front porch, but it did little to cool his body. A quick jaunt down the stairs and he snagged an old sweat jacket from beneath his back seat. Zipping it up, he cast his eyes to the star-filled sky.
“Forget it, James. You don’t need that kind of trouble.”
A few deep breaths and he headed back upstairs to say a quick good night, ignoring the voice in his head that argued a little trouble might be just what he needed.
Liza was grateful for the darkness that prevented Ray from seeing her face. Her cheeks were hot, as were other parts of her body. Parts neglected for far too long if she could be so thoroughly turned on by a bare chest. And sculpted abs. Shoulders that went on forever and a jagged scar above his left nipple that made her fingers itch to touch it.
Not helping. Not helping at all.
To be fair, she’d never seen a man like Kendall James in the flesh. There had been athletes in college, but Liza’s nose had been too buried in her b
ooks to notice them, clothed or otherwise. The few men she’d dated over the years had run lanky to svelte. Academics who lifted little more than a leather briefcase and a latte. Which made her wonder what Kendall lifted. Tree trunks, perhaps?
“Don’t worry,” Ray said. “Kendall will warm up to you.”
He’d warmed up all right. And warmed her up in the process.
“Maybe,” she replied, hoping Ray wouldn’t notice the tremor in her voice.
“Give him time. He isn’t happy that I’m doing this book, and he’s taking that out on you. He’ll come around.”
Again, what could be so bad about Ray telling his story? Liza wouldn’t normally pry, but considering her reason for being there, she needed to know why Kendall would be working against her. “Why doesn’t he want you to do the book?”
Ray turned her way, the fedora shading his eyes from the porch light. “That answer is better left until later in the story.”
When presenting the project to Liza, Vanessa had provided the few minor details that Ray had shared. He had been born in the 1920s, served in World War II, and afterward cashed in his GI Bill before meeting his wife shortly after college. That’s where the information had stopped. If she were being honest, Liza had to admit that the questions left unanswered were what drew her to the project. Other than the money, of course.
Having grown up without grandparents—Granny Teller hadn’t been very talkative during the few years Liza had had with her—she’d often longed for the opportunity to hear stories of yesteryear. Not just in books and movies, but real-life accounts from the people who were there. That had been a big reason she’d pursued a degree in journalism with a minor in history. Liza felt no draw to report on the present or what might happen tomorrow, but give her a good story involving a sprawling steamliner or the first transatlantic flight, and she was happy.
Ask me to Stay Page 3