by Pat Warren
He nodded, then glanced up at the sky. “What are you planning to do after you clean up?” Now, why had he asked her that?
She studied her paint-spattered hands and arms. “That may be hours from now. Why? What’d you have in mind?” Without Briana’s permission, her heart picked up its rhythm.
“Nothing too strenuous. Maybe a walk on the beach. If you’re up to it.” He saw her skeptical look. “Never mind,” he said, backtracking. What was wrong with him? Talk about crowding someone. He’d been with her since ten and now the sun was setting, slowly slipping into the sea. Hadn’t he been the one who wanted to steer clear of involvements? He started to walk away. “See you tomorrow.”
“How long before you’ll be ready?”
Slade turned back slowly. “An hour?”
“An hour and a half and you buy dinner.” She’d insisted on paying for lunch since he was the one helping her. But this was different. This was evening and besides, she reminded herself, he could afford one small dinner. “I mean, if we’re going to work this hard, we need to keep up our strength, right?”
He didn’t smile, his look thoughtful. He should speak up now, say he was too tired or that he’d simply changed his mind. “I’ll knock on your front door.”
Briana smiled all the way inside, all the while she stripped and threw her paint-covered clothes and the rags into the washer, and well after her sprint into the bathroom. It was only when she met her own eyes in the medicine chest mirror that the smile slipped.
What in holy hell was she doing?
Chapter Seven
Vitting cross-legged on the plaid blanket spread on the sand, Slade looked over at Briana. “I know you’re not much of a drinker, but a cold beer just seems to go with fish and chips, don’t you think?” He was still trying to explain away or justify or whatever his short but memorable drinking binge. The fact that he felt it necessary annoyed him.
Briana lowered the brown bottle she’d been sipping from and nodded. “I agree.” She glanced into the carry-out basket they’d gotten from the Fog Island Cafe and saw that only one roll and a few straggly fries remained. “I can’t believe we polished off all that food.”
They’d strolled into town, but vetoed a restaurant in favor of fast food, then walked to a fairly deserted strip of beach to have their picnic. It had been Slade’s suggestion and he’d been glad she’d gone along with it. He simply hadn’t felt like sitting at a table where every other diner knew Briana or recognized him, and felt it their duty to stop to chat. “How is it that you know nearly everyone on this island?”
Briana nibbled on a final fry. “I don’t, but most of them knew my grandparents because they’d lived here most of their lives. And they’ve seen me visiting on and off. I recognize their faces, though I can’t always remember names.” She sighed, then leaned back on her elbows, staring out to sea where the sun had all but disappeared from sight. “It’s hard for me to imagine living in the same place, even the same house, for that many years. Yet I envy the stability, that one constant in life—the home. There’s a lot to be said for the familiar, for lifelong friends.”
Slade wrapped up their trash and stuffed it into the large brown sack before finishing off his beer. “I wouldn’t know what that feels like, either. Even before my father left, we’d moved three times, always to a better house, probably because his income went up. I find it hard to believe he came to Nantucket and stayed put for nearly thirty years.”
She shifted her gaze to him. “Do you think you’ll stay here in his house?”
“I haven’t decided,” he said, giving her the same answer she’d given him. His eyes narrowed, skimming the horizon, the restless sea, the pristine sand, then back to the woman watching him. “Nantucket’s got a lot going for it It’s just that I don’t feel as if I fit in here. Work has always defined me, and I’m not working at anything.”
“You could find something. Start a business, open a shop. What is it you want? What do you like to do?”
A good question. “Mostly I like to work with my hands. And I like to fly.”
“There are several charter airlines operating out of here. Or you could start your own construction company. And there’s always just kicking back and being a man of leisure.” She’d seen the restlessness in his eyes and doubted that last suggestion held much appeal, but she wanted to know what he’d say.
“I couldn’t handle a steady diet of leisure. I’ve already had too much. Sitting around makes me nervous. Especially in Jeremy’s perfect house.”
She sat up, angling toward him. “You know, that’s the second time you’ve said that. If you don’t like the way the house is, why don’t you change it?”
He shrugged, watching his hand trace the design on the blanket. “It seems such a waste to mess with his House Beautiful decor.”
“But a house should reflect the owner’s personality and taste. Whether I go or stay, I intend to redo the inside of Gramp’s house from top to bottom. I might live in Boston and use this place as a summer home. But even for a few months of the year, what suited my grandparents doesn’t appeal to me at all.”
“Yeah, but that house needs redecorating and modernizing. Jeremy’s is the kind most people would kill to live in.”
“That doesn’t matter if it doesn’t please you.” She adjusted her position, really getting into the idea now. “Think about what you would want in your ideal house. What would it be like?”
His eyes thoughtful, Slade let his mind wander and imagine. “I like California casual. Tiled floors in the kitchen, light wood cabinets instead of all that dark walnut. I’d have terrazzo in the front of the house, or maybe plank flooring, with lots of colorful area rugs. His white carpeting and white painted brick fireplace are too antiseptic for me. I’d use some rich wood paneling, get rid of all that period furniture, and get some big, comfortable couches and chairs. I like sturdy, serviceable tables, maybe in pine, something you can put your feet up on if you like. Everything in the house looks like it’s too delicate to touch for fear it’ll break. I’ve never sat in the living room, not once. I feel like a bull in a china shop in there.”
“You’re a much bigger man than your father was. He liked French provincial furniture, cut glass, and bone china. That doesn’t mean you have to. You’ve got the money. Why not change things so you’re comfortable?” The things he had in mind would be quite a change, she thought, but whose business was it, anyway?
He frowned, considering. “I don’t know. It seems like such a waste to get rid of perfectly fine, hardly used furniture.”
“You can donate it Lots of places, like homes for abused women and children, need things always. It wouldn’t go to waste.”
He turned to her, his expression serious. “I guess I’ve been putting off any changes because once I start, it’ll be like a commitment to remain. And I’m not sure I should.”
“I know how you feel. I seem to be having a hard time making up my own mind. In my case, I don’t have much I want to go back to. Of course, my family’s in the Boston area, and some lifelong friends. Still, I just don’t know.”
Slade braced his arms on his bent knees. “Me, either.”
“It feels strange, starting over yet again. I did that when we moved from Manhattan, then after the divorce, and now this time. And countless times with my parents. I wonder how many times I’m going to have to regroup before I can finally feel I have a permanent home.”
“My feelings exactly. I’m so sick of bouncing from place to place. Yet that house, his house, doesn’t feel like home to me.”
Briana was aware that he never referred to Jeremy as his father or dad, always by name or by the pronouns his or him. On one level, she understood the sense of abandonment that still lingered after all these years. On the other hand, she wondered if he could truly get on with his life until he let go of all that pent-up resentment and anger. “Maybe if you thoroughly search through your father’s things, if you find some answers, you’ll be able to come
to grips with your feelings about Jeremy. Putting that to rest might make you more comfortable in that house. And redecorating it might make it feel like it’s yours, not Jeremy’s.”
“Maybe.” Squinting off into the distance, he spotted what looked like a bonfire. “I didn’t know they’d allow fires on the beach. Pretty dangerous with the wind changing so frequently here on this side of the island.”
She followed his gaze. “Actually, they don’t. That’s probably some kids hoping they don’t get caught.”
Slade yawned, realizing he was more tired than he’d thought. “Are you ready to head back?”
“Sure.” She added their empty bottles to their trash bag and tossed the whole thing into a nearby container while Slade shook out the light blanket and draped it over his shoulder.
They walked along in companionable silence, both lost in their thoughts. The sand kept oozing into her sandals so Briana bent to remove her shoes, carrying them as they strolled.
On the edge of the sea on a spit of land just ahead, Slade spotted a large gray two-story house with a widow’s walk like Jeremy’s place had. Not a single light glowed from its many windows. There was a deserted air about the home, yet it appeared to be in good repair. “I wonder who lives there,” he commented.
“No one. Not anymore. That’s Mayberry House.” They drew closer and Briana stopped to stare up at the building, eerie in the moonlight. Half a dozen scrub pines stood to each side, swaying in a slight sea breeze. Rocks barely visible in the surf shimmered, beckoning dangerously. “There’s a legend about that place. Everyone on the island knows it.”
“A legend. You mean like a folk yarn?” His dubious expression told her what he thought of legends.
“Sort of, although the longtime residents swear there’s truth to the story. They say that if you listen to the legend with your heart and soul, you’ll become a believer.” Her look challenged him.
“Listen with my heart and soul, eh?” He tossed down the blanket. “All right. Let’s hear it.”
“If you insist. It seems that Josh Mayberry and his father, Ira, owned a whaling ship named the Winston. They were on their return trip when a huge storm came up. Josh’s wife, Annabel, always waited for her husband on the roofwalk on days he was due home. She never missed one, even this time when she was pregnant. There’s a bell in that tower up there, though you can barely see it from this direction.” She pointed as they strolled closer. “See?”
“I think so.”
“Annabel would ring that bell the moment she spotted the Winston heading for the dock. Only this time, she waited all day and into the night wearing a hooded raincoat unmindful of the rain.”
Slade watched Briana as she gazed up at the big old house, his expression one of amusement. She actually believed all this.
“By the next morning,” Briana went on, “another ship, the Algonquin, hobbled in. The owner, Ethan Quish, rushed over to tell Annabel that he and his crew saw the Winston go down. There were no survivors.”
“I had a feeling that would be the case.”
She ignored the mockery in his voice. “Josh’s mother, grieving for her son and husband, tried to persuade Annabel to come down, fearful for the baby as well as her daughter-in-law. But Annabel stayed, pacing and praying. The next night, the rain slowed and finally stopped, but still she kept her vigil. However, just before dawn, finally admitting that Josh was lost, Annabel flung herself onto the rocks below, where they found her the next morning. It was two days later when another ship limped back to port, carrying Josh, who’d managed to stay afloat until rescued. When he heard of Annabel’s death, he quietly walked into the sea the following night”
“Cheery little tale.”
“Now, on rainy nights, you can hear Annabel’s cries and Josh moaning. No one’s lived in Mayberry House since.”
“Who maintains it?”
“The Nantucket Historical Society. It used to be on the list of tourist attractions, but because of its age and the proximity to the sea, they decided it was dangerous to let people wander around inside and climb up to the roofwalk. They only let visitors walk about outside while a guide tells the legend.”
“Do you believe that story?” Surely she was too intelligent to put much stock into such an obviously fictionalized romantic yam.
Briana turned to look up at him. “I’ve walked out here on rainy nights and I’ve heard the cries and moans. Yes, I believe the story. Like all good legends, it’s more truth than fiction.”
“Uh-huh. Spoken like a true romantic.”
“Sometimes you have to suspend reality and go with the flow, as the saying goes.”
“I’ve spent my life facing reality and its grimmer aspects. I’m not sure I can make the switch.”
“Sure you can. Think about how you wish things were instead of how they really are, for a moment. Then put a pretty spin on them. Imagine how Annabel felt, loving Josh so much that she didn’t want to live without him, even sacrificing her baby to be with him.”
“Pretty selfish, I call it.”
Briana dropped her shoes. “You’re not concentrating. In her anxiety, she felt as if she and the baby were joining Josh for eternity, that the three of them would be together for all time. And when Josh came back and found her gone, he felt the same way and hurried to join them. That’s what the legend teaches us, mat love can be strong enough to overcome anything, even death.”
Slade had the feeling they were no longer talking about the legend. “Do you believe there is a love that strong?”
Briana met his eyes, silvery in the moonlight. The night was heavy with humidity, with sudden sensual tension. “I’d like to think there is.”
Slade saw the wind blow her hair around her face, watched her reach up to try to tame it. “It’s an interesting story,” he said, suddenly wanting desperately to touch that lovely hair, to shove his hands into its thickness, to bury his face in its feminine fragrance. “But I still prefer reality.”
Looking up at him, Briana saw his eyes change, darken, grow heated. Or was it just a trick of moonlight? Emotions, so close to the surface lately, swirled around inside her, all tangled together, needs and longings and desire, thickening her voice. “What is reality?”
Slowly, he placed his hands on her shoulders, his eyes on hers. “This.” Lowering his head, he pressed his lips to hers.
Though he’d kissed her before, this was really the first time. In her kitchen that day, she’d been an overwrought, grieving woman latching on to someone handy, not caring who, reaching out to the only one there. But not this time.
This time, Slade knew she was fully aware of who was kissing her. His touch was light, his lips gentle, letting her decide, giving her ample time to pull back.
Only, she didn’t. She let his lips caress hers slowly, seemingly suspended in time, perhaps waiting for her own reaction. She had to have seen the kiss corning yet hadn’t stepped away. He dared to increase the pressure ever so slightly. Then he heard a low sound from deep in her throat and it was like a signal, a go-ahead sign. His arms slipped around her and his hands urged her closer.
Briana did what she’d advised him to do, suspended reality for this one special moment. Her arms encircled him, her hands fisting in the material of his shirt as her mouth opened to him, inviting easier access. She could no longer deny, could even finally admit to herself, that ever since those feverish kisses in her kitchen, she’d been wanting to kiss him again. Wanting to find out if the feelings he’d stirred inside her had been because of her emotions that day or simply because it was Slade’s mouth on hers.
Pressed close to him, his breath mingling with hers, his tongue sparring with hers, she finally had her answer.
Passion. It was what had been missing from her life, even with Robert. She’d acknowledged the absence of it then, as she now recognized its very real presence. And she reached out with both hands for more.
She hadn’t wanted to need again, the very thing she’d schooled herself to live
without for three long years, Briana thought. But the chemistry between Slade and her was too obvious to ignore, too real to question, too volatile to disregard. A mere look from him sent awareness shimmering through her. The more she denied that fact, the stronger her reaction.
Slade shifted, slanting his mouth across hers, taking her deeper, and Briana felt her stomach muscles clench. How long had it been since a man had held her like this, had wanted her so obviously, had made her feel so much? Almost more important, how long since she’d looked at a man and felt desire awaken inside? How long since she’d wanted to touch and be touched like this? Months, years. Maybe since forever.
She forgot that she was on a public beach where anyone could come strolling by, in a town where hundreds knew her by sight, although it was quite dark. She forgot she’d considered living a solitary life because wanting someone inevitably led to disappointments. She forgot she’d known this man less than a week and she was kissing him as hungrily as if they’d been lovers for years. She filled her arms with the reality of him and emptied her mind of everything but this wondrous feeling.
Slade knew he should stop. Even as his hands slid along her rib cage, then slipped between their bodies until his fingers found her breasts, sweetly heavy, unbearably exciting, he told himself he should back off. He felt her draw in a sharp breath and swallowed her soft moan as he caressed the soft flesh straining into his touch.
Maybe she was as physically needy as he. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been with a woman. Perhaps she was as ready for sex as he, divorced for years and only occasionally seeing the creep in the suit who was “just a friend.” Maybe she’d be willing to take this little experiment down the beach to her house, her soft bed, and invite him in.
The hell she would.
The cold voice of reason intruded on Slade’s thoughts and had him pulling back, breathing hard, buying time. Opening his eyes, he saw that hers were hazy with passion, her cheeks in the moonlight flushed, her breathing uneven.
