Come Morning

by Pat Warren

  But he couldn’t just sit and be a beach bum at thirty-six. He’d been here a little over a week and all he’d managed had been two rather spectacular hangovers and to be bored out of his mind. Firefighting was what he’d done best, until that last fire.

  The key to firefighting or police work or even career soldiering was to keep your distance. You couldn’t be effective, couldn’t get the job done if you let the horror, the brutality, the sheer waste of human life get to you. The moment you made it personal, you were no longer useful.

  His last fire had been very personal. The idea of returning, of the emotional risks involved, was unthinkable.

  What, then? The island had more specialty shops than he’d ever seen in one setting. Maybe something would strike him and he could go into business, something he’d dreamed of a while back and … wait!

  What in hell was he thinking? Slade scrubbed a hand over his unshaven chin. What made him think this tight-knit community would accept him? Or that he could settle down to a sedentary occupation after years of physical jobs? Maybe he’d had too much booze or sun, to be thinking like this.

  He needed to get out of the house, to walk off some energy. Taking the stairs two at a time, he went into the guest room. He’d chosen it rather than the large master bedroom suite, feeling odd about taking over his father’s room. He pulled on a shirt and slipped on his Docksiders, and even ran a comb through his hair.

  Downstairs, he grabbed his keys and locked up. Maybe he’d stroll into town, talk to a few year-round residents, and see if he could learn more about his father. He hadn’t gone through all of Jeremy’s papers yet, putting that off until he could accept this new situation. There were many unanswered questions, things he needed to know.

  One thing was certain: He wasn’t going to be at peace until he figured out why the son Jeremy Slade had denied had inherited his entire estate.

  Briana was hot and harried, but pleased with her day so far. It was not yet high noon and all her self-assigned chores were done. She’d awakened early and attacked the house, dusting and vacuuming, scrubbing and cleaning. The faint lingering odor of illness and neglect had been replaced with the lemon waxy fragrance of wood polish and sea air, a noticeable change.

  That done, she’d taken a shower, grabbed her list, and set out to do some shopping. She’d found all the supplies she needed to begin painting tomorrow and set them in the trunk of Gramp’s eight-year-old Buick. Closing the lid with a thunk, Briana decided she’d done enough work for one day. She’d finish scraping the loose paint tomorrow. It was time to play.

  Gramp had always loved fishing off the dock. Often as not, when she’d sat with him, they hadn’t caught much. But that wasn’t the point. Daydreaming and dozing, chatting and laughing, eating the thick sandwiches her grandmother had packed along with cold lemonade. Those outings had been special.

  Occasionally, they’d gotten lucky and caught a small striped bass or a couple of bluefish. Permits weren’t required for residents who did recreational fishing. Possibly her old pole was still in the backyard shed. The thought of catching fresh fish for dinner had her jumping in the car and starting back.

  Briana turned left onto Beach Road heading north. Gazing toward Steamboat Wharf, she noticed that the sea was calm and the sun high in the sky on what promised to be a scorcher. Already, just running errands, she felt quite warm. It would be slightly cooler on the dock with the sea breezes.

  She’d just turned onto Easton and could see Brant Point Lighthouse way off in the distance when she happened to glance to the right. Up ahead just off the road, she saw a man with his feet planted in the sand, bent forward from the waist, his hands braced on his knees. Slowing the car, she saw that he was having difficulty catching his breath. Another jogger who’d likely overdone it in the heat.

  With no traffic behind her, Briana coasted along, wanting to make sure he wouldn’t keel over with a heatstroke. Almost alongside him, she thought she recognized that tall, broad-shouldered frame, the black hair falling forward.

  Her illustrious neighbor. Was he drunk again?

  With a glance in the rearview, she pulled off the road and stopped parallel to him. She pushed the button to lower the passenger window. “Hey, are you all right?”

  Slade heard the voice, though it sounded as if it came from a long way away. Slowly, he opened his eyes, but the black dots were still dancing, clouding his vision. His legs were trembling so badly he was afraid to take a step. With care, he turned his head, and even in his foggy state, recognized the woman in the car. Wouldn’t you just know it would be her?

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, his voice more shaky than he’d hoped it would be.

  Briana shifted into PARK, got out, and walked over to him. His face was dangerously red and she could see his pulse pounding in his neck. He hadn’t straightened and had closed his eyes again. She guessed he was trying to ignore her in the hope she’d go away. “Out for a little walk?”

  “Yeah,” he managed to huff out between heaving breaths.

  “I think you may have overdone your run. Let me give you a lift back.”

  Slade concentrated on his breathing, on tracking the sweat pouring down his face. Stupid. He’d been stupid, running so fast so far. But he hadn’t realized he was so badly out of shape. That’s what months of goofing off could do to a man. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Sure you will.” Briana opened the passenger door. “Get in the car.”

  Slowly, painfully, his rubbery legs quivering, Slade straightened and opened his eyes. He swiped at his damp face with the back of his hand. This woman was turning out to be his nemesis. “I’ll … be … okay.”

  She could hear the irritation and chose to ignore it. “I really hate this macho thing, you know. You’re at least five miles from your house and in no condition to walk back, much less run.” She stepped around so she was facing him, impatience strengthening her voice. “Get in the damn car.”

  Though he hated to admit it, Slade was too wiped out to argue. His movements slow, he climbed in and grimaced as she shut the door and walked around.

  Briana reached into the backseat for her water bottle. “Here. This’ll help.”

  Slade eyed the bottle. That’s what he should have brought along. He’d often run five miles, even more, in northern California, cooled down a bit, then turned around and run back. But it had never been this hot or this humid. And he’d been in top shape back then, as firefighters had to be. He took the bottle she offered and sipped, then drank more. The cold liquid tasted wonderful, better than anything he could think of.

  Briana watched the muscles of his throat work as he swallowed. His dark hair was damp, falling forward onto his wide forehead. His eyes were closed as he drank and she found herself envying those thick eyelashes she’d admired the day she’d run across him on the rocks. His lips as he lowered the bottle were generous, and looked to be the only soft thing about him. As his eyes opened and met hers, she averted her gaze, uncomfortably aware of him in an unnerving way.

  His fingers still curled around the bottle, Slade licked his parched lips. “Thanks,” he muttered, then leaned back to the headrest.

  “Don’t mention it.” Briana slipped into gear, checked her mirror, and eased back onto the coastal road.

  The ride home was short and quiet. When she pulled into Gramp’s garage, she turned to look at him. His face was no longer the color of smashed tomatoes and his breathing had normalized.

  “I guess I owe you one,” he finally said.

  “Consider it payment for your help with the shutters.” But she had more to say, remembering their recent encounter at the side of the house. “About yesterday. I owe you an apology. You were right. I have no business judging you.”

  She’d surprised him. Now that he’d cooled down and was breathing normally, Slade was in a forgiving mood. “Apology accepted” He climbed out of the car, grateful the shakiness had passed. “I probably should apologize, too. I was a little testy. I guess if you p
ass out on public beaches, people are bound to assume you’re a heavy drinker.”

  Briana opened the trunk and began unloading cans of paint, placing them on a garage shelf. “I shouldn’t have assumed. That’s generally a mistake.”

  He grabbed two cans and carried them over, catching her scent in passing. Damn, but she smelled good, while he probably radiated the aroma of week-old gym socks after his long run. “You know, I don’t even know your name.”

  “Briana Morgan.” She lifted out the final bag and closed the trunk.

  He wiped his damp hands on his shorts, then offered her one. “Slade.”

  She already knew that, but she shook his big hand anyway. Everything about him was oversized, it seemed, from his shoulders to his running shoes that looked to be at least a size twelve. Jeremy had been only a couple of inches taller than she. Both Robert and her father were of average height. She wasn’t used to looking up to well over six feet.

  “Now that we’re introduced, I have a favor to ask you.”

  Briana tensed. “What might that be?”

  “That you let me help with your painting. I’m pretty good with a roller and brush.” He desperately needed something to work on until he could decide what it was he wanted to do, so he’d decided to take another shot at convincing her. “See, I’m a firefighter. Well, used to be. Small town just outside Sacramento. Twenty-four on, twenty-four off. Left me with a lot of free hours. Several of us used to moonlight by painting homes in the neighborhood. We made a few bucks and it was good PR.”

  She couldn’t figure out why he was persisting in this, but she saw no real reason to refuse him. And maybe it would keep him from thinking about what had driven him to drink. “All right. Actually, I could use a hand, especially with the top half. I’m not nuts about heights. As a fireman, you must have done your share of climbing ladders.”

  “Yeah, I did.” He watched her close the garage door, and together, they strolled toward the front. “Do you happen to know Ambrose Whitmore?”

  “Sure. He and Jake McGrath are good friends of my grandfather. Did he come by? Ambrose and your father used to play chess together.”

  “So he said. I ran into him and his friend in town yesterday. They recognized me from the funeral home and stopped to talk.” Slade ran a hand-along the back of his neck, kneading the taut muscles, an habitual gesture. “They wanted to know all about me and I wanted them to tell me about my father. I don’t think anyone walked away satisfied.”

  He didn’t strike her as the type who’d launch into his life story readily, especially to strangers. “Ambrose and Jake mean well, but they’re a bit on the gossipy side.” Which was an understatement.

  “Did you know Jeremy well?” He’d managed to get into three other conversations yesterday in his stroll through town, and each time, the talk inevitably had gotten around to his father. Yet no one had really said much except that they liked and admired him.

  Briana adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag thoughtfully. “I’m not sure anyone knew Jeremy Slade well. New Englanders, as you probably know, are reticent by nature, and he fit right in, though he wasn’t born here. Your father could talk for hours about paintings or books or gardening. But never a personal word about his past or people he’d known or future plans.”

  “So I gather.” Slade knew he sounded frustrated, which was exactly how he felt.

  It must be awful, not knowing someone as important as a father. Briana searched her memory for something more to tell him. “Jeremy was a very generous man. I’ve been told by several people in town that he’d helped them out, very privately and quietly, when they were in a financial bind. And he was great with kids.” She remembered the very adult way Jeremy used to sit with Bobby and explain things, like plant pollination through the bees that hovered around his flowers. “A very patient man. I never heard him raise his voice. And I never heard him say a bad thing about anyone.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if that helps any.”

  “Yeah, it does. Thanks.” He smiled.

  His face changed with that smile, Briana thought The worry lines disappeared and he looked more approachable, almost gentle. Slade was like the tip of an iceberg; a great deal more probably lay hidden behind those hooded gray eyes.

  Jiggling her keys, she took a step toward the back door. “So, do you want to begin tomorrow? There’s still a lot of scraping to do before we can paint.”

  “Sure. Are you an early riser?”

  “Yes. I like to run on the beach at first sun, around six. I’ll be ready to start around seven-thirty. Is that all right?”

  “Fine.” He watched her walk away, admiring the way her knit shirt clung to her curves. She was a very attractive woman. He let his eyes slip down to her long, shapely legs and to the white shorts that molded lovingly to her, and wondered if anyone had ever told her she had a great ass.

  At his back door, Slade grinned. Hell, yes, they had. A woman who looked like that had had plenty of admirers, he was certain. He hadn’t seen a wedding ring and wondered if she was married. Probably not, or the guy would be here with her.

  Inside, he let himself remember the way she smelled, like something sinful. He also remembered the way she tilted her head, her brown eyes growing serious as she studied him. Did she also find him attractive? Maybe working on her grandfather’s house together, she’d warm up to him. Maybe one thing would lead to another and they’d share a few laughs and a utile healthy sex. Something like that could make a man forget his troubles far better than booze.

  Maybe he’d even forget the woman in California who haunted his nightmares.

  Heading up the stairs, he decided a long shower was in order. Afterward, he’d turn on the fan and lie down, hopefully grab a few winks. The sleepless nights were taking their toll. Perhaps starting tomorrow, if he wore himself out working on Briana’s house, he’d be able to manage more than a couple of hours.

  And maybe she’d remember more about his mysterious father.

  Briana had a quick lunch, then stepped into the backyard carrying the ring of her grandfather’s keys, trying to decide which one fit the lock on the white aluminum storage shed where the fishing gear was kept. Even if she didn’t get a nibble, just being out on the dock in the sunshine would be enjoyable.

  It took several tries before she found the right key. The old lock was rusty, but she finally managed to pop it open. Setting it aside, she pulled on the black metal handle. The door seemed stuck.

  Tossing the keys on the grass, Briana took hold of the handle with both hands and pulled. She heard a slight squeak, but it didn’t open. Determined, she braced one foot on the shed and yanked again with two hands. Suddenly the door swung open and Briana went down on her rump in the grass, followed by an assortment of beach items that spilled out onto her.

  She wasn’t hurt, not physically at least. But as she stared at the things scattered about on the grass, she felt a terrible pressure building in her chest. There they were, stark reminders all. The black inner tube Bobby used to love riding the waves in, now deflated. His blue snorkel mask. The striped beach ball, also out of air, as was the inflatable yellow raft they’d used on the freshwater pond near the bicycle path. And the red two-wheeler Gramp had gotten Bobby last summer was leaning drunkenly against the door frame, having broken loose from its constraints.

  Her hand to her mouth, Briana staggered to her knees, gazing down at her son’s toys, the ones that she’d stored away at the end of their visit last Easter. She’d locked the storage shed then, assuring Bobby everything would wait right there for him to return during his summer vacation. How could she have forgotten? Laden with memories, his things mocked her now like so much shipwrecked flotsam and jetsam.

  Her knees too wobbly to hold her, she sank to the grass, one hand landing on something rubbery. Blinking through her tears, Briana closed her fingers around a small swim fin in bright blue. Bobby’s, of course.

  A pain like the thrust of a very sharp knife stabbed through her chest. She heard
a heartwrenching sound, hardly realizing the deep sob had come from her. She bent forward, hugging the rubber fin to herself, rocking through her grief as scalding tears flowed down her cheeks. Overwhelmed, Briana gave in to the wracking spasms. Let it all out, the doctor had advised. It’s better than locking it all inside.

  Better? She was never going to feel better. Didn’t the good doctor know that? Didn’t they all know that?

  How long she sat there letting the tears run their course while she clutched the small, blue fin Briana couldn’t have said. Until the pain—that terrible, deep, inside pain—had subsided somewhat. Finally, feeling wrung out, she started to get up.

  “Briana?” said a small, hesitant voice behind her. “Are you okay?”

  Drawing in an uneven breath, Briana slowly turned around. Staring at her, her little brow wrinkled with concern, was Annie Reed, the six-year-old daughter of the couple who lived in the house behind her grandfather’s place. Gramp had trimmed the shrubbery fence so there’d be a two-foot opening, a pass-through so Annie could come visit him because he enjoyed chatting with her.

  Swiping at her streaked face with the back of her hand, Briana nodded. “I’m okay, honey.” She glanced down at the scattered toys. “I’m just sad, that’s all.”

  “Oh.” Feeling less uncertain now that Briana was talking, Annie hunkered down beside her. “I get sad sometimes, too. Mommy says it’s okay to cry when you’re sad.”

  “I guess your mommy’s right.” Briana found a tissue in the pocket of her shorts and wiped her face.

  “Where’s Bobby? I want him to come over and meet my new kitten. Her name’s Rascal and…” Confused anew because Briana had squeezed her eyes tightly shut and bent her head back, Annie frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  How to tell a child that her playmate’s gone forever. Briana pressed her lips together as she searched for the right words. “Bobby won’t be coming back here, Annie. He … he died.” She felt the knife inside slice deeper, deeper. God, how she hated saying those words.