by Pat Warren
He wasn’t a drinker in any real sense of the word, hadn’t had more than the occasional beer since his late teens when he’d joined the navy. Most young sailors got drunk on shore leave. It had seemed almost un-American not to. However, most guys outgrew those experimental years. Slade had.
But yesterday, he’d wanted to turn off his brain, wanted a distraction for a few hours, wanted to forget all that coming here had brought to mind. Even so, he wasn’t sure that feeling like hell this morning was worth the short respite. And the memory loss worried him. He’d lost whole snatches of yesterday. He had no idea how he’d gotten up on the rocks and had very little recollection of climbing down. Somehow he’d managed to get himself back here and into bed. He’d even had the good sense to lock up.
Good sense. That was a laugh. His was in mighty short supply lately. Unanswered questions had haunted him ever since the letter from the attorney had found him in California. The curt message had advised him to fly to Nantucket without delay. His good sense had cautioned him that answering that directive would probably complicate his already confused life. But as usual, he’d ignored the warning and come anyway. Sure enough, the things he’d learned had brought up more questions than they answered.
Straightening slowly, Slade reached to rub his forehead where most of the pain lingered. How had his mother managed to drink herself into a stupor repeatedly, recuperate the next day, yet decide to do it all over again every evening? The pain of abandonment, of lost love, of gradually losing the ability to cope with a growing son full of questions she couldn’t or wouldn’t answer had caused her downslide, Slade was certain. Barbara had been a great mother until his father had left them both one sunny California afternoon. After that, the bottle had become her constant companion in a love-hate tug-of-war. In the end, the bottle had won.
Slade glanced down at the half-empty can of beer. Should he or shouldn’t he? He’d hated his mother’s drinking, had even been ashamed of her as a boy. Was it in the genes, maybe—like mother, like son, each reaching for a drink to soften the harsh realities of problems too difficult to face? Had his father turned to alcohol after leaving them? There were no signs of it around the house, with the exception of an extensive wine collection. Even now, living in his father’s home, he sure as hell didn’t know much about Jeremy Slade.
Slade contemplated the can again. What the hell. Who was there to care one way or the other? Closing his eyes, he drank the rest, then tossed the can into the tin waste-basket in the corner. The racket echoed through his aching head, but he felt better.
Better, but there was still that burning sensation in his stomach. Slade ground his fist into the spot, but it didn’t help. Probably needed some good food. First, though, he needed to ease the pain. He seemed to remember seeing a bottle of Maalox in the bathroom medicine chest. Still somewhat unsteady, he got to his feet slowly and went in search of relief.
Who’d have believed that old wooden porch shutters would be so heavy? Briana thought, as she struggled to remove the third one. Taking several steps backward to keep from toppling over from the shutter’s weight, she finally managed to place it alongside the other two. Blowing her bangs out of her eyes, she paused a moment to catch her breath.
Much as she hated to admit it, there were times when a strong man really would come in handy. However, finding a handy man was easier said than done. So she’d learned to manage on her own.
Briana took a long swallow of her bottled water, then glanced over at the house next door. Gramp’s neighbor, Jeremy Slade, had lived there as long as she could remember. Somewhere in his sixties now, Jeremy was one of her favorite people, an artist whose work hung in many a Nantucket home as well as being extremely popular with tourists. Watercolors, mostly seascapes, predominantly pastels, peaceful scenes of Nantucket. His home, a sturdy two-story brick house complete with widow’s walk and well-tended garden, beautifully decorated inside, was a lovely reflection of the gentle man himself.
Yet, although Jeremy’s white Ford pickup was in his driveway, she hadn’t seen him around. There’d been no lights on in his house last night, so she’d assumed he’d gone to the mainland on one of his infrequent trips. Then this morning, just as she’d removed the first shutter, she’d seen a man step out onto Jeremy’s porch. He’d knocked over Jeremy’s rocker, then cursed the chair, the bright sunshine, and the fates in general. Moving closer to the screen for a better look, she’d recognized the man she’d seen on the rocks by the lighthouse yesterday.
Last evening, concerned for his safety, she’d strolled along the boardwalk to check on him after her grocery run, and found him curled up and still sleeping it off. She’d even felt sorry for him, thinking he’d be stiff as a board and really hungover this morning. That is, until she’d seen him come out onto the porch, pop the tab on a can of beer, and drink half down without stopping. A little hair of the dog that bit you, apparently. Some people never learn.
Reaching up to unhook the fourth and last shutter, Briana wondered who the drinking fool making himself at home in Jeremy’s house was. He didn’t seem at all the sort of guest Jeremy would invite in. Actually, in all the years she’d been on Nantucket staying with her grandparents, she’d never once seen anyone visiting Jeremy. It wasn’t that the man was reclusive, for he had a lot of friends on the island. He’d often wandered over and sat alongside Gramp on this very porch, both of them smoking a pipe, conversation at a minimum, as was the habit with many New Englanders. She’d never heard Jeremy speak of family or even mainland friends, and found it difficult to connect the drunken stranger to the gentle man she knew.
None of her business, Briana decided as she freed one hook. Steadying that side, she worked on the other hook, trying to dislodge it so the shutter would release. But the metal was slightly rusty and being stubborn. One-handed, she pushed and poked at it, growing ever more frustrated as she balanced the heavy shutter with her other hand.
Annoyed, she gave the hook a mighty punch and it slipped free. But she lost her balance at the sudden shift of weight and the shutter slipped from her grasp. “Oh!” she yelled as she slammed onto the painted boards of the porch floor, quickly rolling sideways to keep from being hit by the unwieldy shutter as it fell.
Seated once more on the open porch next door, nursing a small glass of Maalox, Slade couldn’t help hearing what sounded like a cry for help followed by a loud crash. He felt shaky and decidedly unneighborly; still, his training was too deeply ingrained to allow him to ignore the possibility of someone in distress. Sipping the chalky antacid, he slowly made his way over and entered the enclosed porch.
The woman rubbing her hip looked more embarrassed than hurt, Slade thought as he set his glass on a corner table before picking up the fallen shutter and setting it out of the way. “You all right?” he asked, offering her a hand up.
“I think so.” His hand was big, calloused, and strong, Briana noticed as he helped her up. She found herself looking into bloodshot gray eyes. “Thanks. I managed the first three, but this one got away from me.”
Face-to-face with her, Slade did a double take. The resemblance was remarkable and quite startling. She was small and slender, but so were millions of women. But this one had the same honey-colored, shoulder-length hair and her face was oval-shaped, just like the one that haunted his dreams. Yet it was the eyes that bore the most resemblance. They were a rich brown, flecked with gold, filled with pain and brimming over with sadness. Intellectually, Slade knew he was looking at a stranger, yet he felt an emotional jolt nonetheless.
Uncomfortable under his intense examination, Briana frowned. “Is something wrong?” She was infinitely more comfortable behind the camera studying people rather than as the subject being scrutinized.
“You remind me of someone.” With no small effort, he turned aside. “These are too heavy for a woman as small as you.” He began stacking all four of the shutters near the door.
“Yes, well, my grandfather always took them down in early spring and put th
em back up in late fall. I arrived yesterday and decided to air out the place. The house has been closed up since he moved to Boston.”
Just what his pounding head needed, a chatterbox neighbor. “I’m sure he appreciates you taking care of his place.” He swung around, unable to resist studying her again. Of all the luck, flying three thousand miles and running into someone who’s the spitting image of the woman he couldn’t seem to forget.
“Actually, he’s in a nursing home now and …” Briana’s voice trailed off as she remembered her last visit here in the spring. Gramp had already been slipping, having memory lapses, but he’d so enjoyed fishing with Bobby and strolling on the beach after dinner.
A sick grandfather was undoubtedly the reason there was such a sorrowful look about her, Slade decided. “Where do you want these?”
“I can manage from here, really.” She hated being thought a helpless, hapless female.
“Where do they go?” he asked again, his patience straining.
Far be it from her to interfere with his need to be macho, Briana decided. “In the garage, if you don’t mind.” She held the porch door open for him as he picked up two shutters, then led the way around back, yanking up the garage door. “Over there will be fine,” she told him, indicating a space in front of Gramp’s blue Buick Riviera.
Briana stood aside as he walked past her with his heavy load, then waited while he went back for the others. She was about to close the door after he finished, but he reached past her and pulled it shut himself. Apparently, he thought her not only clumsy but totally inept to boot. “Thanks, I appreciate the help.”
“No problem.” Slade started back toward her porch, the pain in his stomach a sharp reminder of his antacid. “I left my glass in there.”
Following him, she glanced at the solid brick house next door. “Where’s Jeremy? I haven’t seen him around.”
Slade paused at the porch steps. “Jeremy died about a month ago. He left his house and everything in it to me.” Hearing himself say the words out loud still shocked him. He stepped onto her porch and picked up his glass, came back out.
“Died? I’m so sorry to hear that.” Briana remembered the last time she’d seen Jeremy. It was on Easter week. He’d been teaching Bobby to play chess on his porch, their two heads bent over the board, one gray-haired, the other so very blond. “How’d it happen? Had he been ill?”
“Heart attack, so they tell me. His lawyer phoned with the news.” Uncomfortable with the conversation and with being here, he shifted his weight to the other foot. He wanted to go lie down, try to get rid of his headache. But he found it difficult to turn his back on her stricken look. “Did you know him well?”
“Since I was a little girl. He was a real gentleman, unfailingly kind and very talented.”
Everything he wasn’t, Slade thought without rancor. Maybe if Jeremy Slade had stuck around and helped raise his son, things would have turned out a lot differently. He would be different.
“Forgive me for prying, but we never heard Jeremy mention anyone other than his Nantucket friends. You must have known him in another life.”
So his father hadn’t told his closest neighbor about him, not in all those years. Slade wished the knowledge didn’t hurt so damn much. “You could say that. I’m his son, though I haven’t seen him since I was ten.”
Ten. There had to be a story there, Briana thought, but it was none of her affair. A private person who disliked personal questions from near strangers, she decided to drop the whole thing. If Jeremy’s son wanted her to know more, he’d tell her himself. Instead, she glanced at the glass he held, the inside stained with some thick white liquid. “I see you’ve switched drinks.”
About to walk away, Slade turned back. “How’s that?”
“From beer. I ran across you yesterday while I was walking on the beach by the lighthouse. You were … napping on some rocks.”
Terrific. Didn’t she have anything better to do than to track his movements? “Yeah, I went there to think, to be alone. Guess it didn’t work, since you found me.”
Chagrined, she nodded. “Point taken. I’ll butt out.”
“Good idea.” Angrier than the incident called for, Slade marched up onto his father’s porch and went inside, closing the door with a resounding thud.
So much for neighborliness, Briana thought as she walked to the front yard. From outward appearances, Jeremy’s son had inherited none of the older man’s gentle ways. Or good manners. However, she hadn’t come here to make new friends, which was a good thing, since she’d just struck out on her first attempt.
She was here instead to let this tranquil island heal her, Briana reminded herself. As she looked around the familiar yard, memories washed over her. There was the picket fence she’d painted the summer she’d turned fourteen. That had been half her lifetime ago, back when her grand-mother had still been alive. How Briana had loved spending her school vacations on Nantucket. Even as a college student, she’d come often; then later as a new bride, she’d brought her husband to meet the grandparents she adored. Only, Robert had been too restless to enjoy the peaceful island. After that first visit, she’d left him home and come with Bobby.
But now her grandmother was gone and they’d finally had to put Gramp in a nursing home last month, as Alzheimer’s robbed him of his precious memories along with his dignity. And Robert and Bobby were gone, too.
So much sadness, Briana thought as she gazed at the drooping daffodils that her grandmother had taken such pride in. The porch steps were wobbly, the door didn’t close quite right, and the lovely gray paint was peeling off the wood shingles, the white off the shutters. Inside, there was a shabby, neglected feel to the house that once had been a proud and happy place. It seemed that with the loss of its occupants, the home had lost its heart.
Briana knew just how that felt.
She let the sea breeze ruffle her hair and breathed in the clean, salty air. Her eyes were shadowed, her heart heavy, and her smiles still infrequent. But yes, she’d made the right decision in coming here to the house her grandfather had built so long ago. The house where she’d always felt safe.
Lord only knew she hadn’t been doing well lately in her Boston town house. Most days, she paced the rooms, restless and fidgety, unable to concentrate on even her photography, the second career she’d grown to love. Nights she pounded the pillows, fighting sleep, afraid her dreams would replay her worst nightmares. Dad had suggested a change of scenery, knowing how Briana loved Nantucket, and she’d reluctantly agreed. Perhaps here she’d find peace again. Perhaps here she could come to terms with all that had happened, if that even was possible.
Maybe a walk into town would be good, past Brant Point Lighthouse to South Beach and on to Main Street. She’d clean up and change clothes, take a leisurely stroll, stopping in to reacquaint herself with some of the shop-keepers she’d visited often over the years. Perhaps she’d pop in for lunch at that charming little inn overlooking the ocean, the one that served tiny tea sandwiches and scones with clotted cream.
And, please God, perhaps the people and places along the way would distract her from the pain in her heart that was a living, breathing thing.
Chapter Two
Briana had always enjoyed the shops at the west end of Main Street near North Wharf. She walked slowly, stopping at the Fudge Factory for a bag of candy and at the Nantucket Vineyard to buy a bottle of chardonnay.
Next, she strolled to the Needle Pointe, the little shop her grandmother had opened and operated until her death two years ago. Helen Jaworski, the woman who’d bought the place, said she’d heard rumors but wanted details about the state of Gramp’s health. Briana updated her, then hurriedly accepted condolences about the tragedy and moved on.
Farther down, she checked out the window displays at the florist shop and went inside the new Island Book Store, finally choosing the latest Sue Grafton mystery, hoping she could once more concentrate on reading. In recent months, she’d barely gotten through
the daily paper.
As she left there, Angelique, the owner of the Cheese Board, stepped outside and spotted Briana. The tiny French woman motioned her in, slipped an arm around her waist, and led her to the back, murmuring all the way.
“Oh, my dear, it’s so good to see you back with us. Gaylord and me, we feel so terrible about your tragedies.” Her small face wrinkled in empathy. “First the accident, and now your grandpÈre. It is too much.”
Briana felt her eyes fill as she looked down at the floor. “Thank you. You’re very kind.” Oddly, the kindest sentiments always started her weeping when she should feel grateful that people cared. She glanced around, desperate to change the subject. “I see you’ve remodeled since I was here last. I like that center display.”
Before Angelique could reply, her husband came bustling over, his dark eyes sympathetic. “If there’s anything we can do, Briana, you have only to ask.”
Briana accepted Gaylord’s hug. The two shopkeepers had known her since childhood and were friendly with her whole family. “I know,” she acknowledged.
“How are you really doing, chÈrie?” he asked.
“Better. Each day, a little progress.” Briana wasn’t sure that was so, but it sounded good.
Gaylord’s smile was tinged with sadness. “Ah, like it was yesterday, I see Bobby coming in here with you, asking for a sample of the cheese with the holes.”
She couldn’t do this, Briana thought, nearly panicking. She couldn’t be drawn into yet another stroll down memory lane today. She’d been wrong to think she could handle these conversations. She simply wasn’t strong enough yet. “Listen, I really must go.” She broke away from them, from their good intentions and probing questions, from their puzzled looks and worried faces. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” she called over her shoulder.