Come Morning

by Pat Warren

  Craig wanted to end their day with a walk on the beach near her house, so Briana led the way, snapping more pictures as they strolled. The sunset was dripping reds and golds through a deep azure sky as seagulls dipped into the water for their fish dinners. Two lovers on a blanket sat with arms around each other, oblivious to the few stragglers left on the beach.

  “The shoreline’s sure different here than along Hyannis or the coast of Maine,” Craig said, gazing toward the west. “Do you ever go over to Martha’s Vineyard?”

  “I have a friend who lives in Edgartown so I’ve been there, but not frequently. There’s air service and lots of charter boats if you want to check it out.”

  “Maybe next visit. That is, if I’m invited back.”

  She hadn’t invited him this time, Briana thought, then decided she was being uncharitable. Craig wasn’t such bad company, she supposed. He’d entertained her throughout a delicious lobster dinner with funny tales about some of his clients. He’d been gracious and attentive. However, despite mat, she wasn’t anxious to spend more time with him. “Oh, I’ll probably be back in Boston before you think about another trip.”

  Turning, she gazed toward Brant Point and narrowed her eyes as she noticed a man sitting on the rocks. As they strolled closer, she was certain she recognized him.

  “What’s that fool doing up there?” Craig asked, following her gaze. “That’s quite a fall if he loses his balance.”

  Briana didn’t comment, just kept watching Slade as he sat staring out to sea, his black hair shifting in the breeze. She couldn’t help wondering what he was thinking, how long he’d been there. And if he’d taken along a six-pack for company.

  “Looks like your neighbor,” Craig went on. “Is he a beach bum who does odd jobs for a living?”

  Annoyed, she frowned at him. “Why would you think that? Actually, he just inherited one of the best houses on the island and a great deal of money, plus a fortune in art.” Ordinarily, she wouldn’t reveal the extent of someone’s assets to anyone, although Slade’s inheritance was common knowledge on the island, but Craig’s assumption had raised her hackles.

  “Inherited, eh? That’s getting there the easy way.” Oblivious to her irritation, he pointed to her camera. “Any left on that roll?”

  “No, I took the last one of you wading in the surf.” He’d actually taken off his shoes and socks, turning up his pant legs. Briana decided that was probably as informal as he ever got.

  “I’ll get some more film for tomorrow, if you’re free.”

  “I’m afraid not I’ve made plans. If I’d known you were coming …” She’d just decided that instant that she’d had enough sightseeing and enough of Craig.

  “Hey, that’s all right. Maybe I’ll go fishing.”

  She couldn’t picture the fastidious Craig Walker on a boat hauling in smelly fish, but she didn’t really know the man all that well. The sun was nearly gone, sinking slowly at the horizon. “I think we should head back.” One last glance toward the rocks and she saw that Slade had turned in their direction and was now watching them. She had the feeling Slade hadn’t thought much of Craig, and vice versa.

  Back at the house, Craig sat down to put on his shoes and socks. “If that roll’s done, I’ll take it in for you tomorrow and get doubles made. There’s a camera shop near the inn.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll get around to it and mail you copies.”

  He stood, putting on his charming smile. “I insist. It’s the least I can do after you gave up most of your day for me.

  Briana had a feeling he was looking for another excuse to come by the house, but to refuse again would be rude. She’d already rewound the film and now popped it out and handed it to him. “Leave my copies with Ned Farrell at Island Camera and I’ll pick them up later.” She noticed a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, and then it was gone.

  “I’ll do that.” He leaned close and placed a very chaste kiss on her cheek. “Thanks for the tour.”

  “And thank you for dinner. Would you like me to drive you back to the inn?”

  Craig licked his lips, a nervous habit he’d been trying to break. Another one was Briana Morgan. He hadn’t actively pursued a woman in years. Hadn’t had to. But this was different. There was more here than a roll in the hay, not that he’d turn that down, either.

  But even a man as stubborn as he could see that he was getting nowhere this trip. “I like to walk. Bye, Briana.” He started off undaunted, thinking there was always next time.

  “Have a safe trip home, if I don’t see you before you leave.” And she sincerely hoped she wouldn’t. Perhaps she was turning reclusive, Briana thought.

  Inside, she slipped off her sandals and set down the camera. Maybe it was because Craig reminded her too much of a time in life when she’d been much happier. Maybe it was his aggressive manner, showing up when she’d made it clear he shouldn’t, and then that annoying kiss.

  Kissing, she’d always maintained, was such a personal act that one ought to be able to choose one’s partner. She definitely wouldn’t have chosen Craig. Though he’d tried, his kiss had left her cold.

  Unlike the stunning kisses she’d shared with Slade.

  He had been the unwilling partner that time. At first. Then he’d responded and even taken over. Perhaps he wouldn’t have initiated a kiss just then, but he’d nonetheless participated wholeheartedly.

  Or was it just because she’d been all over him and he was, after all, a man? She’d probably never know.

  Briana poured herself a glass of iced tea and carried it out to the screened-in porch, sitting down in Gramp’s rocker. It was something she’d taken to doing most every evening, gazing out at the water, listening to the surf, letting the soothing sounds relax her. Such a peaceful place, she thought, sipping.

  A movement to the right caught her attention. She saw Slade climbing the steps to his porch. She waited to see what he’d do, knowing he could see her in the glow of the streetlamp.

  Slowly, he looked over and stared for a long minute. “Your company gone?”

  “Yes. You want to get back to work tomorrow?”

  “Maybe. I’ll see how my day goes.” With that, he went inside.

  Well, fine, Briana thought. Now, why on earth was his nose out of joint? And why should she care? Rising, she went inside and locked her door.

  By ten the next morning, Briana had put in two hours scraping paint and sanding around the enclosed porch, yet she still hadn’t seen a sign of life next door. Silly to worry, she supposed. Slade was a grown man. A grown man who’d been known to drink his troubles away, whatever they were. Why she should care was a good question, one Briana didn’t want to consider for long. Simple human compassion for a neighbor, she finally decided.

  Finished, she washed her hands, rinsed off her warm face with cool water, and tied back her hair. After taking a long drink from her bottle of water, she strolled outside. All right, so she’d make a fool of herself yet again, go over and ask him if he felt like painting today since the house was pretty well ready. If he rebuffed her, so be it. At least she’d know.

  After all, he’d asked her if he could help. It would be rude to start painting without him, wouldn’t it? Of course, something could have come up, an appointment he’d forgotten. It wasn’t as if she needed his help. Well, only at the top of the house.

  Then again, what if he’d tripped and fallen down the stairs, was even now lying there in desperate need? Briana smiled at her rationalizations. The curse of an overactive imagination.

  Oh, to hell with it!

  The sun was very hot as she stood on the porch and rang his doorbell. She could hear the echo through the rooms, but no footsteps. Fine. He wasn’t home. She’d manage just fine without him. She was just about to leave when she heard sounds inside. Then the door swung open and Slade stood there.

  For a moment, her breath caught. He was shirtless and shoeless, wearing only gray knit shorts that advertised his sex more enticingly than if he�
��d been naked. Dark, curly hair was in evidence on his strong legs, his wide, muscular chest, and even his square chin since he hadn’t shaved. He was rousingly male this morning, causing her to take a step backward and clear her throat.

  “Hi. I was wondering if you were still interested in painting.” For a moment there, she’d forgotten why she’d come over.

  Slade glanced out and saw that the sun was high in the sky. “I didn’t realize it was so late. Time got away from me. Yeah, I want to paint, but first, maybe you can help me with something.” He held open the screen. “Have you got a minute?”

  Briana hesitated for a heartbeat, then decided she was being foolish. “Sure.” She stepped inside, wishing he’d put on a shirt. Why was it that if they’d been out on the beach, she’d think nothing of his outfit, but here, in such close quarters, she found his lack of clothes unnerving? And oddly exciting.

  “I’ve been up in Jeremy’s storage room looking over his paintings. Have you ever been in there?”

  “No.” Glad for the distraction, she gazed around the gracious living room. “Actually, I haven’t been inside this house since I was a teenager. Jeremy rarely had guests. It’s even more lovely than I remember.” Through the archway, she spotted the cut glass bowl on the dining room table and strolled over. “Lemon drops. He always carried some in his pocket, too.”

  Slade tipped his head thoughtfully. “It’s quite possible you have more memories of my father than I do.”

  His words were said without pity, more as an observance. Yet she wished she hadn’t reminded him of the years he’d missed knowing Jeremy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Not your fault. It’s just that every day in this house—in his house—I learn something more about him. Yet I don’t feel I’m any closer to knowing him.” He ran a hand through his hair. He wasn’t a man who verbalized his feelings easily, especially to women. Yet, since witnessing that episode in her backyard and then yesterday when she’d reached out for comfort in the only way she could think of at the moment, he felt he could say things to her he wouldn’t have under normal circumstances, and that she just might understand. “Does that make any sense?”

  “Yes, it does. There are times when I’ve wondered if we ever really know anyone.” She trailed her fingers along the rim of the lovely bowl, her eyes downcast. “I knew Robert for three years before we married, even lived with him awhile before the wedding. Yet within the year, I knew I’d made a mistake, that I hadn’t looked closely enough, that I hardly knew him at all. But by then, I was pregnant with Bobby.”

  “So you stuck it out.”

  She turned to him, met his eyes. “For a while. But things got worse and I divorced him three years ago.”

  That was it, the thing he hadn’t guessed, the something that explained her behavior. A woman who’d loved her husband and lost him a few short months ago wouldn’t have reached out for another man as Briana had yesterday. At least not the kind of woman he felt Briana Morgan was. “That explains it.” When he saw her puzzled look, he stumbled about for another explanation. “Your visitor, Craig Walker. You’ve obviously been together awhile.”

  Briana shook her head. “No, nothing like that. Craig was Robert’s best friend going way back. He was there for me that terrible day, helping with the arrangements. I don’t know if I could have gotten through the funeral without him. But we’re just friends.”

  She could tell he didn’t believe her and wondered why she wanted him to. Her relationship with Craig was none of Slade’s business. Yet knowing he’d witnessed that kiss bothered her. She disliked having given the wrong impression. “I discouraged him from visiting me here, but he came anyhow. I don’t know why, since I’ve told him repeatedly that there can’t be anything between us but friendship.”

  “Why can’t there be?” Slade had been watching her closely, wondering if she, too, felt she could somehow say things to him that she might not have before yesterday, when her defenses had been stripped raw. He doubted that she saw Craig Walker the way he did, as a man intent on moving in on a beautiful, vulnerable woman.

  Briana shrugged. “Because he was Robert’s friend, not mine. And because the last thing I need in this world is to get involved with anyone, much less someone I feel nothing for except gratitude.”

  Slade’s expression relaxed. Maybe she did see through Craig. “I admire a woman who knows her own mind.”

  She couldn’t take credit for that. “I wish that described me. On the subject of Craig I do, but on very little else lately, it seems. Half the time, I feel as if I’m floundering, uncertain which choice is the right one.”

  Slade nodded. “I understand that perfectly, which brings me to my problem. The owner of that art gallery in town called earlier today. She claims she’s got people clamoring for Jeremy’s paintings. I’ve been trying to sort through them, but I don’t know which ones to take in. Will you come upstairs and have a look?”

  “Sure, although I don’t know how much help I’ll be.” She followed him up the stairs, her eyes straying to muscular legs, her thoughts again giving her pause. Annoyed with herself, Briana walked into Jeremy’s storage room, intent on concentrating on paintings.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered, gazing about the large cool room as Slade turned on the lights. Jeremy had had it customized so that three of the four walls were filled with narrow cubicles, each containing a painting that slid into its own slot and stood upright on the edge of the canvas. Glass doors closed off each section, preventing dust from harming the art. “There have to be over a hundred paintings in here,” she commented, awestruck anew by Jeremy’s output.

  “A hundred eighty to be exact,” he told her. “And another fifty or sixty in his studio downstairs where he did his actual painting and framing.” Hands on his hips, he gazed around the room. “You see my dilemma?”

  “Yes, I certainly do.” She walked over to the far end and opened that glass door. “Maybe they’re stored according to subject matter or perhaps by date. Did he sign and date all of them, I hope?”

  “From what I’ve checked, yes, he did. Does that make a difference?”

  “It sure does.” She eased out a large canvas depicting a seascape resplendent with colorful sailboats. “This looks as if it might be a scene he painted right out front here.”

  “Every one I’ve looked at randomly appears to be painted around Nantucket.” He walked to the opposite wall. “Except for this small group.” Opening the glass door, he pulled out a canvas no bigger than nine-by-twelve. “Portraits. Do you know who this fellow might be?”

  A soft smile on her lips, Briana walked over and stood gazing at the white-haired man with the craggy, tanned face, a pipe stuck in his mouth, laugh lines crinkling the corners of his blue eyes. “That’s Gramp,” she said, swallowing around a sudden lump in her throat. “That’s how he looked, oh, even last year, before the awareness slipped from his eyes.”

  Slade put it in her hands. “It’s yours.”

  “Oh, no.” She continued looking at the portrait, her admiration for Jeremy’s talent evident. “I can’t accept this, Slade. It’s worth a great deal.”

  “That isn’t the point. It’s mine to give, apparently, and I want you to have it.”

  “Look, I’d like to have this because I believe paintings should reside with people who love them, and I love this. But I’ll pay you for it.”

  “I’ll tell you what. We’ll arm wrestle for it. Winner gets his way.” Slade watched another of her infrequent smiles form, and felt he’d done the right thing. He bent to pull out another canvas of an old man, this one tall and thin, slightly stooped, walking along a tree-lined street using a bentwood cane, a white cap with a dark bill on his head. “Do you recognize him?”

  Reluctantly taking her eyes from Gramp’s painting, she shifted her gaze. “That’s Sailor Bob, a character if ever there was one. He rented boats to tourists as far back as I can remember and told stories about how he used to sail the hi
gh seas in his younger days. He died about five years ago. I had no idea Jeremy did portraits, too.”

  “Do you know if Sailor Bob has family here? They might like to have this.”

  Setting down the painting she still held, she stared at him. “Are you going to methodically give all these away?”

  Slade straightened, gesturing around the room with one hand. “Look at this room, Briana. According to Fern Brokawer, some sell for five thousand, more as high as ten, and a few of the smaller ones go for two or three thousand. And that was before Jeremy died. She claims she’ll be able to get more for each now. Don’t you think I can afford to give away a few?”

  “Yes, I guess you can.” She had to remind herself that he had no sentimental ties to Jeremy Slade, and the reminder saddened her. “Would it bother you to tell me what happened to estrange you and your father?”

  In a way, he supposed it would bother him. But hadn’t she opened to him, showed a far more vulnerable side? He rarely talked about Jeremy, but what could it hurt?

  He considered her question. “I wish I knew what happened back all those years ago.” He returned Sailor Bob to his cubicle. “I’m not trying to be cagey because I honestly don’t know.” There was only one window in the room, covered with wooden blinds kept closed to keep the light to a minimum. Beneath it were two navy canvas boat chairs. Slade strolled over, lifted a wooden slat, and gazed out. But instead of seeing blue sky and tumbling waves, he was remembering another time as if it were yesterday.

  “I’d just come home from school and there was my father, back from one of his almost weekly trips. He was a traveling salesman. Only instead of his usual smiling greeting, he walked past me all tight-lipped and angry, carrying his bags out and loading them in his car. I knew something was terribly wrong. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t answer me, so I went inside to get an explanation from my mother. She was sitting by the window crying, and she wouldn’t talk to me, either. The next day was my tenth birthday.”