by Pat Warren
Her brown eyes huge, Annie tilted her head. “How did he die?”
Briana swallowed hard. “An accident. A terrible accident.”
“You mean like a car ran over him?” Annie asked, trying to understand.
What did it matter? A random bullet had killed her seven-year-old son, her life, her hopes and dreams. Nothing, nothing would ever be the same again.
“Something like that” She couldn’t tell this little girl the truth. No child should have to deal with violence. Children were innocent victims of either careless or evil adults. And their mothers were left to try to put their suddenly meaningless lives back together.
“Is his daddy sad, too? My daddy would be.” Annie’s lower lip quivered in sympathy.
“His daddy’s gone, too.” A fresh wave of tears flooded Briana’s eyes. For all his faults, Robert Morgan surely hadn’t deserved to die with a bullet to the head on a sunny Saturday morning.
Annie stood and slipped one arm along Briana’s shoulder. “Please don’t cry.” Big, fat tears dropped from her own eyes as it all became too much for the little girl to take in. “Bobby’s in heaven, you know.”
Nothing could have stopped Briana’s torrent of tears more effectively than realizing she’d upset Bobby’s little friend. She swung about and pulled Annie into a hug, a hug so like the many she’d shared with her son, loving the feel of the small, warm body in her arms. Then she straightened and slowly got to her feet.
Finding another tissue, she dabbed at Annie’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.” She had no business doing this, sobbing out here, she who took pride in controlling herself, most especially in public. Chris and Pam Reed, Annie’s parents, wouldn’t be pleased to know she’d upset their daughter.
“It’s okay,” Annie said. “Do you feel better now?”
“Yes, I do.” From somewhere, Briana dredged up a smile for the little girl’s sake. “Thank you for helping me.” She glanced toward the opening in the back shrubs, realizing it was somewhat overgrown and needed trimming. She’d get to it soon. Meanwhile, there was enough room to scoot through and she had some explaining to do. “Is your mommy home?”
“Uh-huh. She’s hanging up the wash.”
Briana hurriedly stuffed Bobby’s things back into the shed, locked the door, then held out her hand. “Let’s go talk to her, why don’t we?”
“Okay.” Holding hands, they walked toward the shrub opening.
In the upstairs bedroom of his father’s house, Slade stood at the open window that overlooked Briana’s backyard. Through the screen, he watched her walk hand in hand with the little girl. As they disappeared from sight, he let out a long breath.
During his years as a firefighter, he’d seen a lot of people in despair, people who’d lost their loved ones, their homes, their future. There were one or two who stood out in his memory, especially the recent incident. He immediately recognized Briana’s pain—it was as soul-deep as any he’d seen.
He’d been lying down trying to sleep when he’d heard her come outside and start fussing around with the shed, pushing and pulling to get it open. He’d almost gotten up to give her a hand when he’d heard her crash-land. The woman seemed prone to falling. Then, almost immediately, he’d heard her wrenching sobs.
He’d risen and looked out the window. She’d been bent over double with toys scattered all around her. For a moment, he’d thought she’d hurt herself on something. But while he was deciding whether or not to go down to her, he realized from the sounds she made that she was hurting, all right, the kind of hurt that came from deep down inside. Something in the shed had apparently triggered her anguish.
Then the little girl had arrived and he’d unabashedly listened to their conversation.
Slade reached for the glass on his nightstand and drank, tasting bitterness that had nothing to do with the orange juice. Now he knew why she’d been critical of him yesterday about wallowing in self-pity and drinking away his troubles. Briana Morgan had lost both her son and husband, if he’d heard correctly. All the while he’d been wandering around his father’s house and all over town feeling sorry for himself, she’d been struggling with far better reasons to weep and complain and seek escape in a bottle than he had.
He stared out the window for long minutes, feeling regret—for her, for himself, for all the sad, lonely people in the world. Despite his earlier annoyance with Briana Morgan, his encounter with her today, and watching her weep, had shifted things for Slade. He was impressed with the way she’d apologized to him—a relative stranger—when she needn’t have. And he greatly admired the way she’d pulled herself together for the sake of the little neighbor girl. She was quite a woman and he regretted that he couldn’t allow himself to get to know her better.
Briana Morgan needed understanding and support, someone’s undivided attention, someone who had his life together and could offer her hope and help. Instinctively, Slade knew that he wasn’t that person. Hell, he couldn’t help himself, so how could he help her through something as devastating as the loss of her entire family? Besides, after that business in California, he could no longer trust his own instincts.
The last thing she needed was a relationship now, even a purely physical one. She had a lot of healing to do.
As attractive as she was, as vulnerable as he now knew her to be, what made him think he could work alongside her daily and not get sucked in? No, he’d have to back off.
He’d help her with the house for a while. After all, he’d told her he would and he was a man of his word. But after that, he’d find an excuse to stay away. Something, anything.
Because if he didn’t, if he let himself care deeply, if he let her snare him in with her needs, like someone had before, this time he might never recover.
Chapter Four
As Briana slowed down from her morning run and went through her front gate, she saw a tall ladder leaning against the side of the house. Standing near the top, Slade was already scraping away. Aretha Franklin was belting it out on the portable wedged into a comer. “Starting off with a little early morning soul, eh?”
“Trying to beat the heat,” he answered, glancing down. “I found this ladder in my garage.” He had to school himself not to call it his father’s garage. When, he wondered, would he be comfortable with the transition? “I think it’ll work better than yours.”
“Great. I’ll be back as soon as I grab a quick shower. Can I bring you out some coffee?” It seemed the least she could do in exchange for his work, though helping her had been his suggestion. Briana still wasn’t sure it was the best idea, but when she thought of herself standing on that tall ladder, her stomach became slightly queasy.
“Sure. Black. Take your time.” Peering through his sun-glasses, he watched her flap the hem of her damp T-shirt in an effort to cool off as she walked around front. How was it that women managed to look good even when hot and disheveled while men just looked sweaty and tired? he wondered. He sincerely hoped she’d cover those long, distracting legs while they worked.
Tipping his head, he returned to chipping paint from the underside of the overhang. With all this sea and sun exposure, he’d be willing to bet that a lot of area homes needed regular painting. Maybe he’d look into starring a handyman service, working outside in season and indoors in winter. Through the years, he’d acquired enough knowledge about carpentry, plumbing, even electrical and heating, to do a variety of repairs, if not major replacement jobs.
Or perhaps he could buy up homes in disrepair, now that he had some capital, refurbish and resell them. The idea of being his own boss held a lot of appeal. Something to think about.
The sound of an inbound plane heading for Nantucket Memorial Airport had him looking up to admire the sleek charter aircraft skimming through the morning sky. That was yet another idea. He had his pilot’s license and could apply for a job with one of the four or five private carriers he’d noticed coming and going. There were plenty of possibilities in Nantucket.
The question was, did he want to stay here?
How, he wondered, had his father chosen this island a whole continent away from his former home in California? And how had he accumulated so much? All right so the paintings sold well. Now. But getting started as an artist, from everything Slade had heard, wasn’t easy nor did success usually happen overnight. Had he continued to work as a salesman until his work caught on?
So many unanswered questions whirling around in his brain, he thought. He finished as far as he could reach, then climbed down. Out of the blue, he’d been thrust back into his father’s life, only to find the man as enigmatic in death as he had been in life.
As he repositioned the ladder, Slade heard the familiar rumble of a large truck approaching. Moving to the front, hands on his hips, he watched a fire truck whiz by. Only one man in the jump seat and the engineer driving. Not on their way to a fire. Probably heading for a nearby fireplug to practice hose evolutions. No longer his problem, he reminded himself.
“Here’s your coffee,” Briana said at his elbow, her fingers brushing against his.
“Thanks.” Her touch, slight as it was, felt too welcome, her freshly bathed scent snaring him in. Or was it just that he’d been without the softness of a woman in way too long?
She stared after the speeding truck. “I hope they’re not rushing to a nearby fire.”
“More likely a practice run or an equipment check.” He took a swallow and noticed that she liked her coffee as strong as he did.
Turning, she squinted up at him. Lord, but he was tall. “Are you on leave from the fire department or did you quit?”
“On leave. I just haven’t gotten around to quitting.” But he would, and soon. Walking back, he drank more coffee, then set the mug on the windowsill.
Briana trailed after him. “You won’t miss the work?”
“No,” he said emphatically. He’d answered his last fire call.
Well, she thought, that was definite enough, and left little room for further discussion. Firefighting had to be a very stressful occupation. Perhaps that stress had gotten to him.
“You know, these shutters are only decorative,” Slade said, gazing up at the window, deliberately changing the subject. “The way they’re screwed in here, you could never release and swing them over to protect the window in a heavy storm.” He nodded his head toward his father’s house. “Those kind are better. Decorative and protective.”
Alongside him, Briana studied the shutters. “You think I should get rid of these and buy new ones?”
“Yeah, I do. You could get aluminum ones, heavy grade. Never need painting. They come in lots of colors.”
“All right, then. Let’s do it. If you can somehow manage to get these off all the windows, I’ll look into ordering the others. There’ll be that much less to paint.”
He raised a quizzical brow. “Are you always this decisive?”
Briana drained her coffee cup and set it on the ground. “Actually, I haven’t been too good in that department lately. But I’m working on it.”
Slade thought he knew the reason why, so he decided not to comment. The last thing he wanted was for her to break down again. Picking up his scraper, he angled his head to study the side of the house mat was almost ready for paint. “Looking good. Maybe you should take some before and after pictures. You got a camera?”
Scraping away beneath the window, Briana glanced up as he climbed the ladder. “Actually, I have several. I’m a professional photographer.”
“No kidding?” He hadn’t pegged her as a professional anything. He’d rather imagined she’d graduated from some Ivy League college with a degree in flower arranging or something useful like that before marrying an upwardly mobile type. Just full of surprises, was Briana Morgan. “How’d you get into that?”
Briana’s eyes clouded over, remembering how she’d loved staying home after Bobby was born and hadn’t thought about working again. He was a year old before she’d gotten restless and started fooling around with photography. Robert had insisted on buying a house in Cambridge and they needed money. He’d refused to accept anything from her trust fund. Commuting to her old job in Manhattan had been out of the question, if they’d even have taken her back. She felt lucky that her hobby had begun to pay off.
“Kind of by accident, I guess.”
“Do you have a studio?”
Briana sat down in the grass so she could reach the lowest section. The Boss was hitting the high notes on the radio, telling the world about Philadelphia. “Not that kind of photography. I do coffee-table books, working around a theme, like Manhattan at midnight, which would be night scenes in New York, or Boston by the bay, snapshots taken all around the bay area. Then I pick out the best, write blurbs for each, interspersed with some narrative. I send the package to my agent who then submits to my publisher.”
“Have you had any published yet?”
“One. I was working on my second until… until recently. I sort of got sidetracked.”
Like he’d gotten sidetracked. Funny, viewing the two of them, most people wouldn’t think they had much in common. Briana Morgan was upper-crust, educated and sophisticated, someone who looked as if she belonged in a fashion magazine even in her so-called work clothes. He, on the other hand, had spent his life chasing a buck, living in tiny apartments above seedy storefronts, finally earning a diploma after attending nine schools and a college degree attending night school for two years, then finishing in the navy. Yet they’d both been thrown curve balls recently that had changed their lives.
“I’d like to see your book sometime. Is it anything like the art books in my father’s house? I tried looking through one of them yesterday. I realized I know very little about art.”
“Frankly, I don’t know much about art, either. Did Jeremy paint when you lived with him?”
“Not paint, but he used to do pencil sketches occasionally. I don’t know what ever happened to those.” He remembered his father watching from the sidelines when he’d been in Little League, always with a sketch pad in his hands. He hadn’t thought about that in years.
Finishing her spot, she got to her feet, brushing off the back of her jeans. “I spent some time watching Jeremy work. I really liked most of his stuff. His paintings are soothing and peaceful.”
“He’s got stacks of ‘em in his studio and even more in that storage room upstairs. Did you know it’s climate-controlled in there so nothing’ll happen to the paintings? He even did most of his own framing.” Climbing down, Slade shook his head. “The man sure was prolific.”
Briana nodded. “And smart. He knew that an artist can’t afford to flood the market with too many pieces at once, they’ll drop in value that way. He very carefully offered his works to the gallery when he figured the time was right. I don’t know how he chose which paintings to sell, but he only took in a few at a time.” As Slade stepped off the last rung, she noticed that he was closer than she’d thought. His size was intimidating, the aroma of his sun-drenched skin so very male. She took a step back. “How about a refill on the coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’m going to get some tools and start taking down the shutters. Who knows how long they’ve been up there or what the shingles beneath look like.”
Briana brushed paint flecks from her hair. “I think I’ll get a bottle of cold water. Want some?”
“Sure.” Slade started toward his father’s garage on the other side of the house.
Rounding the bend, he came in view of the driveway just as a tan Ford turned in. Pausing, Slade saw a tall, angular man with a pencil-thin mustache, his summer suit quite wrinkled, step out and come around, a smile on his face.
“Are you J.D. Slade?”
Cautiously, Slade nodded.
The man’s smile widened. “I’m Nathaniel Evans from the Fern Brokawer Art Gallery downtown. Fern sent me over to introduce myself. You might recall meeting her at your father’s funeral. We’ve represented his work for years.” Reaching over, Evans pumped S
lade’s hand enthusiastically. “So good to meet you finally. We kept hoping you’d drop in.”
“I’ve been a little busy around the house.”
“Have you run across our contract with Mr. Slade?” Nathaniel stroked his mustache, his small eyes hopeful.
“No, but then I haven’t looked through all my father’s papers yet. His attorney mentioned your gallery to me.” Slade shuffled his feet impatiently, wondering what this terminally cheerful man wanted and wishing he’d get to the point.
“Good, good.” More toothy smile. “We were wondering, Fern and I, when you’d like to bring over the next batch of your father’s work. The news of his death has stunned the art world, of course.” Then, as if suddenly remembering his manners, his rubbery face sobered. “Please accept my deepest sympathy.”
“Thank you, but I haven’t gone through the paintings, either. I’ll get around to that soon.”
Straightening his skinny tie with long fingers, Nathaniel resumed his salesman’s smile. “Certainly. We need to make hay while the sun shines, though, you know.” He let out a quick chuckle. “We don’t want to wait until the market cools. Now, we’re down to half a dozen of Jeremy’s paintings and…”
Slade had had enough. “Look, Mr. Evans, tins isn’t the best time for this conversation. I’m busy right now, but I’ll get back to you.” Walking around the man, he headed for the open garage. “Thanks for stopping by.”
His expression a mixture of surprise and annoyance, Nathaniel sighed. Jeremy Slade had been polite to a fault, yet his son bordered on rude. “All right. Do call us soon, will you?”
His back to Evans, Slade sent him a careless wave. He found Jeremy’s toolbox in short order, but waited until Nathaniel left to walk out to where Briana was leaning against the side of her house, watching Evans drive away. “Do you know him?”
She’d overheard most of the conversation. “Not really, but I’ve known Fern for years. I used to go to the gallery with your dad when I was a kid. I loved riding in his truck.”
