Her withheld breath released against Brett’s neck, reassured by his confident tone. She should struggle. This wasn’t right—them being so close, but she was too weak to fight, and had little inclination to do so.
So safe. She felt so safe.
Serena closed her eyes and fell asleep.
Groggy, Brett squinted against the sun filtering through the windows. On the other side of the wall he heard Serena start the shower. At least she had made it through the night with only a minimal amount of agitation discernable from across the hall.
Brett dropped his feet to the floor and rubbed his hands over his face, fingers digging into gritty eyes. He stood up and caught a glimpse of his haggard expression in the mirror and flinched at the image. Hell, if he greeted Serena this way, she would surely flee in terror. Grabbing the black sweater he had tossed at the foot of the bed last night, he hoisted it over his head.
The front door was empty. No boisterous morning visitors.
"You look like you had a rough night."
The voice itself sounded rough, hoarse from spent tears and emotion, yet there was a hint of affection mingled in Serena’s words.
Brett turned to look at the fresh vision whose hair was a shade darker from dampness. Void of makeup, Serena’s skin bore a healthy glow that enhanced the jade flecks in her eyes. She was barefoot in thick wool socks, her jeans faded from years of washing. The New England Patriots jersey, judging by its old logo, had definitely seen its prime. She was beautiful. And he felt as awkward and awestruck as when he stood before her on her wedding day.
Muttering an ambiguous reply, he turned his back and addressed the switch on the coffee maker.
"Brett." Her voice brought him around again. "Thank you."
Brett nodded gruffly. "I didn’t do anything."
That was the truth. He felt discouraged because he hadn’t found a trace of Serena’s enemy.
Serena slid onto one of the long picnic benches and rested her elbows on the table, cupping the side of her head in her hand.
"Well−" She seemed uncomfortable at first, and then looked at him so frankly that he felt his heart stammer.
"I hadn’t cried for Alan yet," She admitted. "I still have a hard time believing he’s gone—I keep looking for him—"
"Your sea vigils at night?"
"Yes," she chuckled awkwardly. "I guess you thought I was crazy?"
"Initially." Brett smiled and slid onto the bench across from her.
"But me being here, isn’t that my own vigil?" He didn’t wait for her to answer. "Serena," he breathed in. "The baby. I’m so sorry about the baby. If I could take back the things I’ve said—"
Her upheld hand cut him off as Brett sullenly acknowledged the simple gold band on her ring finger.
"You helped me more than you can imagine," she said. "If you weren’t here last night−if I were to continue believing that the ghost of my child haunted me," Serena shrugged, but the gesture was not casual. "I don’t know if I’d even be coherent right now. And—" her hand thumped against the floral tablecloth. "I’m not working the lunch crowd today."
"Good for you, it’s about time you took some time off."
"Don’t be so hasty in your approval. I took the day off because I’m coming with you to review that list you got from the sheriff."
The cup Brett held came back down.
"Now wait a minute, Serena. I mean it. You should be resting, not antagonizing yourself by talking with Alan’s—"
"Business partners, accomplices, enemies," she sighed. "I don’t romanticize my husband. I accept what he was and hope to someday not blame myself for his downfall."
His scowl increased. "Alan was destined for trouble. I tried to keep him out of it during our school years, but when he became an adult it was almost impossible. The day of your wedding," he met her gaze. "I tried to," he hesitated. "I wanted to warn you—warn you about what you were getting yourself into." The words wrenched from him. "If only I did."
Serena stared.
He would have given anything to know what she was thinking.
"It’s in the past," she declared. "And if I’m going to truly put Alan to rest, I need to know what happened to him."
Brett rubbed a hand over his eyes, swiping at the lingering traces of fatigue. "You said you cried for Alan last night. If he hurt you so much—then why?"
A ray of sunshine darted through the front window and trailed off down the hallway. Serena tilted her head to catch a trace of its warmth and then sighed.
"He was young, he was troubled, and he was my husband. As infrequently as he played the role, Alan was still my husband."
"Okay," Brett yielded. "We’ll go together. But give me a couple minutes," he muttered. "I sure as hell need a shower."
He rose and felt Serena’s eyes on his back. Just before he shut the bathroom door, she called out his name.
"Hmmm?" His hand was on the doorframe, his head crooked around the corner.
"Brett," Serena began in such a soft voice that he had to strain to make out the words.
"Everything is such a blur from last night. I don’t think I’ve ever been so—so distraught. But I fell asleep afterward, and I only fell asleep because I felt safe.” She took a deep breath. “Brett, I have to ask−did you kiss me last night?"
Oh God.
He was thirty-six years old. An intimidating figure on the New York Stock Exchange. A cunning broker that firms sought out for his expertise. Yet now he was just a man fumbling for a reply.
"Well—I—" he cleared his throat, "you were bordering on hysteria. I didn’t know what to do to bring you back—I—"
Amusement tickled the corners of Serena’s lips. She put an end to his misery. "It worked."
Brett cleared his throat and nodded. As he turned around, he caught a glimpse of his grin in the bathroom mirror.
Murphy, you better watch yourself.
Within a half hour they were out on the coastal highway, winding downhill towards the seaboard settlement of Victory Cove. The high cliffs that were a staple near O’Flanagans tapered down to a horseshoe inlet. An elevated road, fortified by rocks separated the Atlantic from quaint wooden shops and seafood restaurants.
"John Morse lives just past town." Serena pointed through the windshield. "It’s a nasty little shack near the water. I’ve never been in it, but I’ve seen Alan’s car parked there."
Even the bright autumn sun did little to enhance the weary establishment settled on a crag of rock. Brett pulled down a rutted driveway and eyed the old pickup truck with one tire lodged in a slick of mud. He shot a doubtful glance at her.
"Will it do me any good to ask you to stay here?"
Her hand was already on the door, one leg slipped out, searching for a dry place to set down. "Of course not."
They heard the television before they reached the steps. Several planks were missing on the porch, and so was any indication of hospitality. A familiar commercial, loud and invasive camouflaged the shriek of decaying timber as they reached the door.
Brett wished Serena had stayed in the car. His apprehension was escalating. He cast one last skeptical glance in her direction, and pounded his fist against the screen frame. By the third rap, the door swung inward.
John Morse was a burly character, with straight black hair pulled back into a ponytail that leaked dark strands around high, pitted cheekbones. Ebony eyes narrowed until a glint of recognition sparked at the sight of Serena. The man sneered.
On instinct, Brett positioned himself in front of Serena.
"What do you want?" Morse snarled.
"A few minutes of your time." Brett began, sensing a battle. "We have some questions."
"And why the hell would I answer any of your questions?" His glare swerved to Serena. "Your husband isn’t even gone a month and already you’re whoring yourself out to the first man you see."
Brett moved so fast that everyone was startled, most particularly John Morse when he found himself pinned against the wa
ll.
"Let me clarify," Brett continued in a steely voice that matched his grip. "You are going to answer a few questions for us. You are going to tell us what happened to my brother the day he disappeared, and you are going to tell me exactly what Alan was involved in."
Morse managed a brief nod before Brett released him.
Rubbing at the pain in his throat, Morse reassessed Brett.
"Well isn’t this just special," Morse’s voice was slightly off. "The brother who never gave a damn, along with the wife who never gave a damn—and now you’re all acting downright concerned. It does the heart good to see the love of family."
Brett held back from throwing the man against the wall again. It didn’t help that he was sensitive to the accusations, a sensitivity that only broadened his anger.
"Your opinion of me means squat." He said in a tight voice. "I know you and Alan were in trouble with the government. Why don’t you elaborate?"
"Why don’t you—" John’s words were arrested by Brett’s threatening step forward.
Morse cleared his throat and shrugged his shoulders. "It was Al’s idea. He thought we could beat the system—con the government out of some federal aid," he snorted. "He had grand ideas of building a casino on tribal land."
"That’s ridiculous," Brett argued. "Do you know what it takes to obtain sanction for a casino? And besides, Alan’s white. That’s a tribal issue."
"You seem pretty informed."
"I’m in a business to be informed." Brett said.
"Alright, so you’re right. But Alan had the backing of many Pasamaquoddy. I believe he could have done it—if someone hadn’t of killed him." Black eyes swerved suspiciously towards Serena as she crossed her arms and glared back.
"What makes you think he was killed?" Serena challenged.
"Come on lady, don’t be naïve." Morse barked. "If he wasn’t already an enemy of the government, he was surely an enemy of several other tribes. The Penobscot didn’t like the trouble Alan stirred up. They were vying for the same grant. Surely you can imagine he wasn’t too popular."
"Well you seem to look unscathed," Brett mused. "Aren’t you worried?"
"I wasn’t, until somebody just assaulted me on my doorstep. Kinda odd that Alan disappears and you suddenly surface, don’t you think?"
"Kind of." Brett clenched his fist. "What do you know about that day? When did you see Alan last?"
"I already talked to the police. Ask them."
"I’m asking you, because I know damn well you didn’t tell them anything."
Morse heaved a sigh. "I don’t know. Alan came over here in a huff. Something happened, but he was too mad to even get into it." Tossing his head towards a three-legged kitchen table propped against the windowsill, Morse muttered. "Broke my damn table—kicked the leg right off of it. Said somebody was gonna pay, but didn’t go into what was bugging him. I was well into a bottle of whisky, so I just ignored him," he rolled his eyes. "I mean if you know Alan, his tantrums are pretty common."
"Did Alan say where he was going?"
Morse shook his head. "Didn’t say, but I guess it’s not too hard to figure out he went to his boat, now is it?"
Brett cupped Serena’s elbow and said, “Come on, we’re not getting anything here."
Before stepping off the porch, Brett turned to Morse. "If I were you, I’d lay low for awhile."
Tipping up his chin, Morse smirked. "If I were you, I’d watch out for the little missus. Whoever did this to Alan might believe that he confided too much information to his wife, and—"
There was no need to continue. The point was made.
"You’re awfully quiet," Brett observed. "Are you okay?"
Serena seemed absorbed by the pattern of the windshield wipers. "Umm hmm."
It had been a long day, and the Alan battering had apparently taken its toll on her. Brett glanced over again and studied Serena’s silhouette in the glow of the dashboard. Her chin was set, but a slight quiver at the corner of her mouth indicated that she toyed with speaking.
"There was nothing you could do," he tried to reassure. "Don’t take everything he said seriously."
Serena tipped her head back against the headrest. "Do you think it’s true? Do you think Alan could have been in so much trouble he was killed because of it? My God—"
Silent in his own deliberation, he considered Serena’s question and squeezed the steering wheel.
It was pointless for them to sit and swap self-condemnation tales. They were both guilty of ignorance when it came to Alan, but both were by design and self-preservation. Now, his primary concern was John Morse’s haunting advice that someone may be after Serena. The ghosts that plagued the loft at night validated that.
"What do I have to do to get you out of working in the tavern tonight?"
Brett wanted Serena close to him, and not with a group of strangers, amongst which a murderer could easily blend. "How about if I offer to cook dinner?"
Serena’s laugh was pleasant, but it did not make it to her eyes. "What can you cook?”
“If it comes in a box,” he nodded, “I can make it.”
Serena glanced at her watch. "I’ll tell you what, I have to check in downstairs, but my curiosity is piqued enough to consider your offer—that is if you can wait till later to eat?"
Brooding over the decision to remain in the restaurant with Serena and monitor its patrons, or to scour the apartment in search of audio mechanisms—it finally registered that she had accepted his invitation.
Suddenly, Brett felt awkward. He knew Serena wasn’t looking for a romantic candlelit dinner—more likely a summit to discuss today’s events, and devise a game plan. When she looked at him, she saw only Alan’s older brother.
The Jeep rolled to a halt beside the stairwell, and he yanked the emergency brake, inhaling the scent of honeysuckle and warmth, knowing both emanated from the woman by his side.
Slanting a glance at her, he managed a husky, "Late is fine. It’ll take me that long to figure out what the hell I’m going to cook that can come anything close to the food downstairs."
Serena climbed out the door and then smiled at him over the hood of the vehicle. "Well, you’re in luck. Everything I have upstairs comes from a box. Cookies, some macaroni and cheese, and cereal. Lots of cereal."
"What type?"
"Wheaties."
Serena walked alongside Brett and darted a glimpse at his profile, misted by the rain. Beside him she felt small. It was a pleasant sensation and it reminded her of how she had felt in his embrace.
"Is the milk fresh?" Brett asked with a wry grin.
She focused on his lips.
"No," she whispered.
Brett reached the door and paused a moment to make room for her to step alongside him under the awning. The vinyl flap sheltered them from the rain.
"If you let me borrow some from downstairs, I think Wheaties sound perfect for a late night meal."
In the tight alcove, Serena had no room to maneuver, and to keep from getting wet, she moved up close to Brett, close enough to brush against the front of his jacket. He still did not turn and open the door.
"That would be letting you off too easy." She teased and tipped her head back to look into his eyes.
The rain was an afterthought as she felt the heat of his body and the heaviness of his stare. She was aware of his hand slipping around her back, and in response hers landed on his chest. His head lowered close enough that his breath tickled her lips and warded off the raw chill around them.
At that moment, someone thrust open the door behind them and Brett crashed into her.
“Excuse me." A middle aged woman apologized as she yanked the hood of her jacket over her head and hastened out into the rain.
Holding onto one of the metal poles that supported the awning, Brett sought balance and loomed over Serena.
"Get inside," he whispered.
Trapped in the open folds of his raincoat, Serena raised another hand to his chest, telling he
rself that it was only to steady him. Her fingers settled on solid muscle beneath his sweater, where she could feel his heart beat a quickened pace to match her own. It stimulated and unnerved her−so much so that she yanked her hand back.
Left uneasy by the brief spell, Serena slipped past Brett into the glowing haven of O’Flanagans. Inside, she felt the heat of the dining room fireplace assault her flushed cheeks. She dipped beneath the service panel, and emerged behind the bar where confidence returned.
CHAPTER VIX
"You had to stay down there till closing, didn’t you?" Brett scolded. “I made you dinner. Wheaties.”
Serena pulled off her sweater and hung it from a wooden coat rack near the front door. She stood before him in a black turtleneck and jeans, with her cheeks red from the cold, and her hair mussed from the wind. She eyed the two cereal bowls and rubbed her hands together, either for warmth or the prospect of food. Then she wrinkled her nose at him in response to the reprimand.
Brett laughed. "It’s a good thing I didn’t pour the milk two hours ago when I thought you were coming upstairs."
"Soggy wheaties turn me on," she teased.
"Well hell, if I had known that, I could have filled up the bathtub—"
Serena’s hand curtailed him. "Alright, alright, just give me a spoon will you, I’m starved."
Brett grabbed two spoons out of the drawer, and rounded the counter to settle on the picnic bench across from her.
Serena delved into the cereal, until three spoonfuls later she realized that she was the only one eating.
"Arrren yuu wungry?" With a forceful gulp she swallowed the rest and repeated, "Aren’t you hungry?" Then she considered the stark look in his eyes. "Did you find something?" she asked. "A recorder?"
Brett cleared his throat and forced an affable expression back on his face. If he didn’t stop lusting after his sister in-law, he was going to get into a lot of trouble.
Truth be told, his search wasn’t lucrative. Instinctively, he glanced at the clock to see how much longer until their ghost returned. As much as he enjoyed Serena’s newfound comfort around him, it was time to put frivolous repartee behind and prepare for their nightly caller.
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