The Kissing Game by Suzanne Brockmann

their outdated clothing. It was a window to the past. She loved the picture of a young, laughing Alice, her face wrinkle free as she stood arm in arm with her handsome husband.
    Alice kept the photo albums in chronological order on the shelf, always adding a new one every three or four years or so. Frankie found the latest and pulled it free. The top was covered with dust and she carefully wiped it clean as she carried it to the sofa. She set it on her lap as she sat down and opened it.
    Alice, standing outside, next to her garden. Frankie had taken that picture. Alice's face may not have been smooth, but her smile was still young and her eyes sparkled with girlish pleasure.
    Frankie flipped back a few pages, and there, carefully glued to the black paper of the book, was a photograph of Alice, Frankie, and Jazz.
    Jazz's stepfather—the man Frankie believed was the mysterious John—had taken the photo.
    Dear Lord, Frankie had been so young back then. She'd been barely eighteen, and the world had seemed so full of promise. Her future had seemed so crystal-clear. Jazz had said he loved her, and she had no reason to believe that their love wouldn't last until the end of time—until they both were even older and wiser than Alice Winfield.
    Boy, had she been wrong. Jazz had left Sunrise Key, never to return. Alice Winfield had disappeared some years later, kept by her poor health from ever again returning to her beloved house on the island. Frankie's eyes filled with tears.
    Eight years. Alice had been alive for eight years, and nobody had bothered to tell Frankie.
    She would have written. She would have sent pictures of the ocean and the sky. She would have come to this house and done battle with the dirt and dust. She even would have traveled up to Michigan to visit the old woman.
    She turned the page to a picture of Alice standing at the gas grill on the back porch, waving atthe camera—waving at Frankie, who had taken the picture, and her tears overflowed.
    Alice had probably thought Frankie hadn't cared.
    “Hey, Frankie, are you okay?”
    Simon sat down on the sofa next to her, his eyes dark with concern.
    She hastily tried to wipe her face, but the tears wouldn't stop. She swore, closing the photo album, afraid of getting it wet, afraid of Simon's gentle pity. “I'm fine.”
    He knew she wasn't. He reached out, gently touching the back of her head, softly stroking her hair. His hand was warm, and when she glanced up at him, his eyes were soft.
    “I'm not fine,” she admitted. “Alice Winfield was special to me.”
    Simon nodded. There was nothing mocking in his gaze, nothing but gentleness in his slight smile. “That's what I like about you, Francine,” he said quietly. “You know every single person who lives on this island—and everyone who's ever lived on this island. And to you, each of them is special in some way.”
    He glanced away from her, out the dirt-streaked windows at the brilliant blue of the sky. “Alice Winfield was no angel,” he continued. “She was outspoken and blunt to the point of rudeness. She was also pretty damn miserly. But you focused on her good side.”
    “She was
careful
with her money. When she was growing up—”
    Simon cut her off with a smile. “Hey, I'm not attacking her.” He shifted toward her on the couch, reaching out to touch her hair again. “I'm just marveling at the way you can overlook the negative and always find some redeeming quality in just about anyone.”
    Frankie had to look away. The sensation of his fingers in her hair and the quiet warmth in his eyes was nearly overwhelming. But she couldn't pull away. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to enjoy the gentleness of his touch.
    “How about me, Francine,” Simon said softly. “What do you see when you look at me?”
    He was leaning in, closer to her, his breath warm against her ear. If she turned her head, his lips would be a whisper away from hers. If she turned her head, he would kiss her, and