by Pat Warren
Slade had a better suggestion. “I saw some boards in Jeremy’s garage. I’ll nail this window shut and we’ll both go. How’s that?”
“Are you sure? You must have things to do and …”
“I’m sure. Sweep up. I’ll be right back.”
She swept, the work occupying her hands but not her mind. The break-in worried her, yet something else now tangled her thoughts as well. She’d run over to Slade’s at the first hint of trouble as if she’d been doing it all her life. That instinctive act had her frowning.
She hadn’t leaned on a man in years. Or had she ever, really? Her father hadn’t been home enough to count on during her early years. Robert had been too impatient, too occupied, too unsympathetic to even listen to any fears or problems she might have had. No, she’d never leaned on anyone, and she preferred it that way. An independent woman of the nineties, able to care for herself, make her own decisions, take her own lumps.
Except this time, she’d acted on pure instinct. It felt strange, and not at all as unpleasant as she’d feared, to have had Slade come running down, calming her, taking over. Then, while they’d waited for the police, she’d had a delayed reaction and begun to tremble ever so slightly. She’d struggled with an alarming need to be held, just simply to be held.
And somehow, he’d known.
He’d put those strong firefighter’s arms around her, eased her close to that solid chest, and put his big hands on her back, stroking her gently. His touch hadn’t been in the least sexual in nature, but rather like a big brother might comfort. It had lasted but a few moments, yet she remembered in vivid detail the earthy male scent of him, the feeling of strength he conveyed.
Bending to the trash can, Briana dropped the debris in and put away the broom and dustpan. Her life was in a state of upheaval, she assured herself. That was the reason for her actions and reactions. It was nothing more than that.
Trying to believe that thought, she went to change from shorts to jeans.
In his garage after getting his shoes, Slade was struggling with some concerns of his own. Frowning, he carried boards, nails, and hammer around back to Briana’s window. True, the break-in was a mystery and made him uneasy to think she might have walked in on whoever the hell had broken the window and let himself in. But other feelings vied for his attention, feelings that didn’t please him.
Having been forced to worry so much about his mother as a boy, he’d shied away from relationships and even friendships that would cause him concern, with one notable and disastrous exception. After Rachel, he’d decided he’d spend time only with lighthearted women, problem-free friends, folks who weren’t needy. He’d had no pets, not even plants in his sparse apartment in California. Responsible for no one but himself was the way Slade liked his life. Which was why he was so rattled to find himself suddenly worrying about Briana Morgan.
Was she inside that small house sleeping or crying for her son? Was she eating enough—she was too thin. And now, was she safe in there?
Shit! Slade dropped the hammer and popped the tip of his index finger into his mouth. That hurt. Not paying attention to what he was doing, obviously. He picked up the hammer, found the nail again, and went back to work.
He knew she’d been married, divorced, had a child, buried a child. Yet she had such an air of innocence, of vulnerability about her. Almost from the first day he’d met her, she’d had him wishing he could do things for her. Like chase the sadness from her eyes, make her smile more, hear her laugh out loud. Not once had he ever heard her laugh. He felt the challenge of doing something, anything, just to hear her laugh.
Get over it! he commanded himself. Because not only did she resemble Rachel, but in her own way, Briana was just as needy. And that spelled trouble.
He was just pounding in the last nail when the back door opened and Briana stepped out Tipping her head, she examined his work. “That looks sturdy enough.”
“It’ll hold. Besides, I agree with the chief on one thing: I doubt the thief will return, not after two cop cars came rushing over.”
“You know, maybe we shouldn’t be calling him a thief. I checked again and nothing’s missing.” However, she’d noticed that drawers had been searched, closet items shifted, things on shelves rearranged. Even food in the refrigerator had been moved around.
Involuntarily, Briana shuddered. The very thought of someone—a stranger—touching her gowns and underwear gave her an unwelcome sense of violation. What on earth had the creep been looking for?
“Maybe the kitten came bouncing in and knocked something over, the noise spooking the guy before he found anything of value. Let’s not overthink it. I’ll drive.” He headed for the truck. “After we get the stuff, I’ll buy you lunch at one of those shrimp stands along the wharf. I’m starving. How about you?”
Her mind hadn’t been on food. “I guess I could eat.”
“Such enthusiasm.”
He was right. She was being a pain. Deliberately, Briana put on a smile. “Okay, upbeat all the way. Better?”
Slade smiled back. “A definite improvement.”
Lunch had been eaten, supplies purchased, the window repaired, and new locks installed before Slade opened the bucket of gray paint and stirred the thick contents. Pouring a generous amount into the roller pan, he handed that to Briana. Next, he carefully placed the ladder at the far end of the side facing Jeremy’s house and climbed up, the other bucket and brush in hand, to begin the white trim. She’d said she didn’t like heights so he’d offered to do the top half. Glancing down, he saw that she was quite contentedly rolling away a short distance over. The old shingles were soaking in the paint.
“You ever paint before?” Slade asked her.
“I did that picket fence out front when I was a teenager. And I painted all the rooms of my town house after the divorce before we moved in. I remember I let Bobby help me and he wound up splattered with paint from his blond head to his sneakers.” There, she’d said her son’s name out loud without her eyes filling. A definite milestone.
“You’re an old pro then, eh?” Looking up, Slade stroked the brush along the boards under the eaves.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that. I did the work in the town house as kind of a rebellious thing. I wanted everything in there to be my way. My color choices, my taste, and no one else’s.”
“I suppose everyone wants to decorate a place their way at least once.” Although he never had, mostly because the places he’d lived had never really mattered to him.
“I know I did, mostly because when Robert and I bought the house in Cambridge, he had very definite ideas and he hired the work done a certain way without checking with me.” Briana brushed the back of her hand across her cheek where she’d felt spray from the roller splash. Good thing this paint was water soluble, she couldn’t help thinking.
“That must have gone over well.”
“Yeah, right. We had some serious words over that and he refrained from dictating quite so strongly again.”
“Did you disagree a lot?” The only marriage he’d seen up close had been his parents’ union. And that had appar-ently been a lie if it could fall apart so suddenly. He’d never been one to accept invitations to the homes of his married friends, so he was curious in a general way, not just interested in this particular marriage, he told himself.
Thinking, Briana let a minute go by before answering. “Yes, I guess we did. Mostly about his job, his all-fired ambition.” In Robert’s defense, she felt she should explain that statement. “Robert’s father was a state senator from upstate New York, a very successful man everyone looked up to. Robert had badly wanted his father’s approval, the same financial rewards his father had, the respect. He felt the way to go about that was to work harder, longer, to climb the ladder, and eventually become a vice president”
“How’d you feel about that?”
“At first, I admired his desire to excel. But each time he got a promotion or achieved another level, he enjoyed it for perha
ps a day, then started scrambling for the next mountain to climb. He was rarely home, hardly knew his son, and when he was with us, he was exhausted. In the five years of our marriage, we never once went away together, took a vacation or even a long weekend, not even a honeymoon. I told him his ambition was killing our marriage. He didn’t believe me until I filed for divorce.”
“So basically you left him because he was a workaholic?”
Briana watched the roller as she swished it in the paint in the pan. “Oh, it’s never that simple. There were other things, but that was the crux of it. I didn’t go into marriage on a whim, nor did I divorce on impulse. I thought about both long and hard, but looking back, I don’t think either of us realized that we didn’t really know the other person. We grew apart because we didn’t have the same goals. We ignored the signs and never really talked about our problems. A good marriage takes two people working together to succeed. Or so I’m told.”
Slade needed to move the ladder, so he climbed down. “Think you’ll ever marry again?”
He looked the same, Briana thought, studying him. The same pewter-gray eyes, the wind-tossed dark hair, that rakish scar, the stubborn chin shadowed with two-days’ growth. Yet somehow different. Was it because this morning in his father’s house, he’d allowed her a glimpse into his past, into what made him the man he’d become? Or was it this odd protectiveness he seemed to feel for her, a kind of shielding she’d never known before?
Tugging her gaze from him, she resumed her painting. “I haven’t given it much thought, to tell you the truth.”
Slade was considering that when a car turned into the driveway, drawing their attention. Peering around him, Briana recognized their visitor and set down the roller and pan. Wiping her hands on a cloth, she spoke to Slade. “That’s Ned Farrell from the Island Camera Shop.” She walked toward the short, stout man wearing a white shirt and black slacks held up by bright red suspenders. “Ned, good to see you.”
“Hi, Brie. How’s Gramp doing?” Carrying a yellow envelope, Ned met her halfway.
“About the same, I guess. What brings you out this way?” Though a lot of friends and neighbors had been stopping by to ask about Gramp, she didn’t think the shopkeeper would have driven over just for that.
“A couple of things.” He held the envelope out for her. “Young fellow by the name of Craig Walker was waiting at the shop early this morning when I opened up. He had me print two copies of this roll of film and told me to give you one on account of he had to fly back home kind of sudden like. Some minor emergency, he said.”
“Really? Well, thank you, but you didn’t have to deliver it There’s no rush.”
Ned pulled a snow-white handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped at his damp brow. “I know, but I got something else I want to ask you. Guess you know the Artists’ Association Members Exhibition’s coming up in September. I’ve heard rumors you may be staying on through the fall. I’d sure be flattered to display some of your work, if you have any photos available. It’s not for another month, so there’s time. I’ll mat ‘em for you and hang ‘em. Shucks, it ain’t every day we have someone famous in our midst who’s published a book.”
Briana smiled. “I don’t know about famous, but I thank you for the invitation.”
“Think you’ll have time to get me a few?”
“Let me think about it, okay, Ned? I want to get Gramp’s house in shape before the fall rains. I’ll look through some I have on hand, though.”
“That’d be super.” He peeked around Briana at the tall man climbing the ladder he’d finished repositioning. “That wouldn’t be Jeremy’s son, would it? Heard tell he was here.”
“Yes. Would you like to meet him?”
“Sure would. Maybe I can talk him into loaning us a couple of his father’s paintings for the exhibit.”
Briana introduced the two men and let them discuss the upcoming event. Looking hopeful, Ned left, though Briana noticed that Slade had been about as noncommital as she. She studied the envelope of snapshots. No, not now. She didn’t particularly want to see copies of all the pictures she’d taken of Craig, and she had no idea what the photos she’d taken on the beginning of the roll might be of.
Even more than for her work, since Bobby had been born, she’d always kept a loaded camera handy so she could take pictures of his every new accomplishment, each new tooth, all the holidays. She had literally hundreds of pictures, but she hadn’t looked at the many albums since that fateful day. She couldn’t face seeing any new ones just now, snapshots that undoubtedly would have been taken weeks, perhaps mere days, before he died. Perhaps when she was stronger.
Briana placed the envelope on the grass at the corner and resumed her painting.
Slade had been watching her carefully without seeming to, and had noticed the way she’d studied the envelope of pictures before she’d set it aside. He remembered seeing her and Craig walking on the beach last evening, with Briana taking pictures of him. Why, he wondered, didn’t she want to see them?
“So your friend took off in a hurry this morning?” he asked.
“I guess so. Can’t imagine what kind of emergency he’d have on a Saturday. Not work connected. Maybe it’s his mother. She’s got a weak heart.”
Or was it just that Craig hadn’t gotten to first base with Briana so he’d decided to back off for now and try again later? Slade wondered. Craig seemed like a man who wouldn’t give up even against tough odds. Still, Briana had seemed adamant that they were just friends.
Why the hell was he pondering that relationship? Slade asked himself, swiping the brush overhead almost viciously. It didn’t matter one bit to him whether she sent that geek in the linen suit packing or married him. Did it?
Time to switch the focus. “Hey, boss, how long do we have to work in this broiling heat? Do we get combat pay for sunburns?”
“What a baby! Want me to get you some sunblock?” She’d smeared some on her face and arms before coming out. Fair as she was, the sun was rarely kind to her, even after she’d built up a season’s tan, which she hadn’t managed to do this year.
“Nah, I’d rather complain.” He never burned, just got tanner. Must have been some Mediterranean ancestors in the old family tree, Slade had always thought. Neither of his parents had been as dark as he, not their skin or hair. A small piece of biological luck, but he’d take it.
“Complain away. This was your idea, helping me, you know. You want to quit, you certainly can. The pay doesn’t get any better.” Only after she’d said the words did she realize she hoped he wouldn’t take her up on her impulsive offer. It was hot out and slow going. She just might quit herself if he did.
“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Dipping his brush into the bucket, his arm twitched just as he reached to tap off the excess. A healthy dollop fell straight downward right onto Briana’s head. “Whoops!”
“Hey!” She’d wrapped a scarf she’d found in a drawer around most of her hair, but as luck would have it, the blob of paint fell on a section uncovered. She scowled at the sticky mess. “This may mean war, Mr. Slade.”
His lips twitching, he climbed down. “Here, let me get that off for you.”
“How do you plan to do that, exactly?” Head angled to the side, she held the lock of hair soaked in white paint out from her shoulder. “So this is how I’ll look in another twenty years, eh? Maybe sooner.” She gave him a mock frown as he stood looking down at her, trying not to smile. “Maybe in the next hour, if you have your way. Perhaps we should switch places and I can drip down on you.”
Slade had a clean corner of his rag in his hand. “Here, just hold still.”
She pulled away out of reach. “Never mind. You’ll just rub more in. I’ll wash it out when we’re finished.”
“Then at least let me wipe off this smudge that’s near your eye before you manage to smear it in.” Holding her steady with one hand on her shoulder, he bent to the task, concentrating on the spot, moving carefully so as not t
o rub too hard on her soft skin.
For a heartbeat, two at the most, time stood still for Briana and suddenly she was engulfed in feelings. Everything was magnified, exaggerated, making her aware. His touch, surprisingly gentle. The smell of paint rising between them in the hot sun. Streaks of perspiration sliding down her back beneath her shirt. His tan skin shiny and damp and utterly masculine. The tiny gold flecks in the depths of his gray eyes that she’d not noticed before. And the heat that slimmered between them that had nothing to do with the temperature of the summer day and everything to do with the way he looked at her as he slowly lowered his hand.
Then it was over, and she stepped back, swallowing hard. She’d probably imagined the moment, Briana decided, bending down to add more paint from the bucket to her roller pan. She’d always been highly imaginative, her mother had said.
But when she rose and glanced over her shoulder, she saw that he was studying her with an intensity she couldn’t mistake, and she knew she hadn’t imagined what she’d felt. She knew Slade had felt it, too.
Slade whacked the lid onto the can three times with the heel of his hand and carried the paint bucket into Briana’s garage. The brushes, pan, and rollers had been washed and were drying in the yard. Briana gathered up the rags and gave him a weary smile.
“Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.” From the corner of the yard, she gazed up at both sides of the house. “I can’t believe we did so much in just, what? Six hours?”
“Teamwork,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “I used to work twenty-four- hour shifts and not get this tired. I’m really out of shape.”
Watching his powerful muscles moving in perfect rhythm, she didn’t think so, but wisely kept quiet. “I think I need a very long, very hot shower.” She glanced at the clump of painted hair. “And a thorough shampoo.”
He grinned. “Occupational hazard. Happens to all good painters.”
“Uh huh.” Almost moaning out loud as her muscles protested, she walked to her back door. “Tomorrow?” she asked.
