by Pat Warren
She couldn’t tell if he was listening or ignoring her, but she went on anyway. “Maybe he wanted you to know because it was his way of apologizing for the hurt he’d caused you. Maybe he hoped you’d understand, man to man. We can’t know what he was thinking. Yet there’s still one important unanswered question: Why did he leave not only these letters for you to find, but everything—his house, his paintings, his money—all to you, that boy he walked away from without another thought, as you say?”
“Damned if I know.” He ran long, agitated fingers through his hair.
“Because even though, right or wrong, his pride wouldn’t let him return to the family he’d left, he never forgot you. He couldn’t erase the love he felt for that boy.”
Slade thought of the boy on the pony in the painting over the fireplace. It seemed to have been painted with a lot of love. Or had Jeremy been incapable of feeling the real thing, but damn good at faking it on canvas?
Briana saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes and went on. “I believe that leaving you everything, after all the bitter, lonely years, was Jeremy’s way of telling you he’d loved you after all.”
But Slade wasn’t ready to buy into her theory. “Well, it comes a bit late now, doesn’t it?” Slade shoved to his feet and began gathering up the letters, shoving them into old, yellowed envelopes, straightening the pile. When he finished, he wound the blue ribbon around the packet and walked over to the counter, thrusting the bundle inside a drawer. His back to Briana, he stood looking out the window over the sink, letting his emotions settle. Hoping they would.
The sun was lowering, light and shadow dancing around the kitchen. Still seated, Briana watched the powerful muscles of Slade’s back bunch and clench as he struggled for control, his big hands clutching the counter’s edge. Then she saw a single tear slide down his cheek, but it disappeared so quickly she wasn’t certain if she’d imagined it. She wondered if he’d weep all the more if she weren’t there.
Tears or not, he was grieving, Briana realized, recognizing all the familiar signs. He hadn’t known the man he’d been named after, but Briana knew that Slade grieved for him now all the same, despite his words to the contrary. As he’d once told her, he’d tried all these years to hate Jeremy and could never quite pull it off. He grieved for his mother as well, as he’d probably been unable to do at her funeral, weighed down with sadness at how early her life had ended, and how alone her death had left him. Infidelity was a terrible thing, and discovering it about a parent was even worse. Yet Slade had to feel that his mother had paid a very high price for one mistake. And he was probably grieving for what might have been, for lost opportunities, for the high price of pride.
Rising slowly, she went over to him and slipped an arm around his waist, wondering if he would reject her.
With a deep sound from his throat, Slade turned and gathered her to him, holding her tightly. Very tightly.
God, how he’d love to take Briana upstairs into his bed and bury himself deep inside her. Or into that empty living room on the plush carpeting and ravish her right on the floor. She could make him forget all he’d read just now, everything he’d learned over the last hour. Making love to her, he would think of nothing but pleasing her and being pleased. There’d be no yesterdays, not even today, and no tomorrow.
Only, there was always tomorrow.
Easing back from her, Slade knew he couldn’t use her like that, couldn’t escape from his problems in her arms, though he was sorely tempted, as she’d been tempted that morning in her kitchen. But Briana wasn’t just some woman he’d picked up. She was his friend and his … his what? He didn’t know what else, didn’t want to put a name to any of his feelings right now. He only knew he felt better holding her.
“Thanks,” he said, his eyes on her hair, her lovely hair, her face. Anywhere but meeting her serious gaze.
“For what? Turnabout is fair play, wouldn’t you say?” She reached up, brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. “Are you okay?”
He tried for a smile he couldn’t quite pull off. “Yeah, for a bastard kid, I’m doing okay.”
Briana’s frown was swift and fierce. “Don’t! Don’t ever say that and don’t think it. You’re no different a man than you were before you read those letters. If Jeremy had been a bigger man and stuck around, he’d be proud of the man you’ve become. You served in the navy. You’ve put out fires and saved lives. You…” She saw his expression turn stricken and wondered what she’d said. “What is it?”
Slade pulled back, turning away, rubbing the back of his neck. “I need some air.” He waved a hand at the dining room table, at the oven where potatoes were baking, and the refrigerator where a salad was cooling and a bottle of wine chilling. “Can I have a rain check? I don’t feel up to this dinner tonight.”
“Of course. Can I do anything?” She’d inadvertently said something, but what? What else was bothering him?
“No, I’ll be all right.” He headed for the door. “I need to take a walk. Lock up when you leave, will you?” Almost at a run, he left the house, jogged across the narrow street, and headed down the beach toward the lighthouse.
Stunned and confused, Briana stood looking after him for long minutes, wondering what on earth had happened here tonight. She understood his shock over learning his mother had cheated on Jeremy, which had caused the man he’d known as his father to leave them both. But he’d been all right in her arms until she’d tried to bolster his trampled ego.
What words had triggered such a sudden exit? Or had it all just become too much for him? Information overload, perhaps.
Fixing the lock on the door, Briana closed it behind her and slowly walked back home. This hadn’t exactly been the evening she’d envisioned when she’d dressed so carefully. She could have had on a sackcloth for all Slade had noticed tonight. Not that she blamed him.
There was a brooding nature to Slade that she’d spotted the very first day they’d talked. He tended to be introspective, to overthink things too much, yet he accused her of that very thing. In that way, he was more like Jeremy than he knew, though they apparently hadn’t been related.
Stepping onto her porch, she decided to sit in the rocker and gaze out to sea for a while. Her appetite had fled and she still had trouble concentrating on reading for very long. Inhaling the salty air, she drew up her legs and hugged them, aware of the chill moving in. Still, she didn’t go inside, content to let her thoughts wander.
It was a good night for thinking.
Two miles down the beach, Slade slowed his steps gradually and flung himself onto a small sand dune, breathing hard. The waves were rolling in and out in their tireless rhythm. The night sky was inky with only a sliver of a moon but dotted with a myriad of stars. There was a faint lingering smell of fish out this way where a dock trailed into the frothy water. He lay back on the cool sand, propping his hands behind his head.
What must Briana think of him now? Too damn bad he hadn’t stumbled on that pot when she wasn’t due over. Too late. Damage done. Now she thought of him as the son of a drunken, faithless mother and a judgmental, unforgiving father. Stepfather, he corrected. Or was that even right? Whoever the hell his real father was would always be Barbara’s little dirty secret that she took to her grave.
But at least none of that shoddy past was of his doing. If Brie knew the rest, the sorrow he’d caused, the pain he’d brought to others, she’d never darken his door again.
Poor Barbara. Yes, she’d broken her marriage vows. One time, according to the letters. And ten years later, she’d spit the truth in Jeremy’s face. Why, mother, couldn’t you have kept still?
He was undoubtedly a hypocrite, Slade decided. He was ready to forgive infidelity but not a breach of etiquette, such as the revelation of the deed. Which was worse, screwing around or blabbing about it? Hell, he didn’t know.
For one long minute, he tried to put himself in his father’s shoes, to picture the scenario. He’s a hardworking man, devoted (for all anyone knew) hu
sband and father, and one day during a quarrel, he learns his wife cheated on him, that his son was the result of a one-night stand with a man whose name Barbara probably couldn’t even remember. Would he react as Jeremy had? Would he hate the wife? Would he turn away from a boy he’d loved for ten years?
Slade didn’t think he’d do either. To be fair, a person should consider all sides of a question. So why had Barbara cheated on Jeremy? There surely had to have been a good reason. Had Jeremy been a cold fish, indifferent to her sexually? As a child, he’d witnessed affection between them, but what did a kid know about what really went on in the bedroom? To her credit, not in a single letter—and Slade had painstakingly read them all—had Barbara defended herself. She’d given no excuses, no reasons, no alibis. She’d merely asked Jeremy’s forgiveness, saying she loved him and that she was desperately sorry.
She might as well have been whistling in the wind.
A sudden possibility occurred to Slade. Had perhaps Jeremy been the typical traveling salesman with a woman in every port, so to speak, and had Barbara learned of his affairs, and thrown out a zinger of her own to hurt him back? Had her story even been true? Both dead, no blood tests here, no DNA testing available. He’d never know all the truth.
Slowly, Slade sat up. What did it all matter anyway? The bitter truth was, his parents had both been human, and being such, they’d both made mistakes. But whose had been the greater, the wandering wife or the deserter husband?
His head was beginning to hurt with all the unanswered questions whirling around inside. He stumbled to his feet and started back, walking this time. Another disturbing thought. Would history repeat itself? Would he wind up alone, as Jeremy had? As Barbara had?
Two days ago, while finishing up painting the walls in Briana’s living room, the phone had rung and he’d had no choice but to listen to her end of the conversation. The caller had been her agent in Manhattan asking how she was doing, when she thought she’d be able to finish the book in progress. The book that involved photos around Boston bay. Which meant she’d of course have to return to shoot the rest, mount them, do the story line, and whatever else was involved.
Briana’s answers had been vague, but he’d seen a spark in her eyes for a moment. Renewed interest in returning to work. And why not? She was probably very talented. Anxious to get back to family and friends. Where she belonged.
He’d known she’d be leaving one day. Just not which day. As well she should. He was hardly someone to pin her future hopes on. She was young, not yet thirty. She undoubtedly wanted to remarry and possibly have more children. Why would she want to stay around a sorry wreck like him?
You’re a good man. You’ve saved lives, she’d told him tonight. If she only knew. Slade felt the guilt of the masquerader rise like bile in his throat. He’d always hated deception. Perhaps in that way at least, he was like Jeremy. Yet here he was, a living, breathing deception.
His guilt followed him around like a stray dog scenting a meaty bone. Always close, always waiting.
He lived in fear that Briana would find out, that others in Nantucket would know his secret sin. Of course, the story could be glossed over, but inside, he knew. He knew he was guilty as sin.
Gazing out at churning waves, Slade recalled the legend of Mayberry House and the shattered young man who’d walked into the sea because he couldn’t stand living without his wife and unborn child. There was a time he’d have thought only cowards took their own lives.
Lately, he wasn’t all that certain.
Chapter Nine
The weekend of the Artists’ Association Members Exhibition arrived with plenty of sunshine cooled down by balmy ocean breezes, not unusual for mid-September. Briana had taken eight photos to Ned Farrell at his Island Camera Shop for matting and display preparation. He’d told her at the time that so far Slade hadn’t shown up with the paintings he’d promised, but Ned hoped he would before the big day. To all intents and purposes, she should have been happy and looking forward to the annual show she’d never before attended or exhibited in.
Instead, she was worried.
She hadn’t seen Slade for two days, not since the evening he’d hurried out and left her in his house after reading the letters he’d found. His doors had remained closed and she hadn’t seen him coming or going. It troubled her, especially since he hadn’t been by Ned’s place yet. She considered Slade to be a man of his word and wondered if he’d found something more that had upset him further.
Was he hiding out inside that fortress of a house, brooding over the discovery of his tangled parentage, rereading the letters and cursing both Barbara and Jeremy? Or was he hurt and trying to cope, perhaps turning to booze again for consolation? Briana was well aware he’d told her he wasn’t really a drinker, but she couldn’t dislodge the image from her mind of Slade passed out on the beach rocks at midday.
If none of those things, then what was he doing? she wondered, as she fastened her hair with a gold clip at the nape of her neck. Grabbing her navy blazer, she walked to the front, checking her watch. It was quarter to four. She’d promised Irma she’d pick her up around four so they could stroll the North Wharf area where the exhibit was being held this year.
Stepping out onto the porch, she wondered how much longer these fall days would last before she’d have to think about putting up the heavy storm windows again. With the thought came a picture of Slade that first day when he’d reluctantly come to her aid while nursing a hangover. Five weeks had passed since then. Five weeks on the island, healing, working on Gramp’s house, trying to make decisions about her uncertain future.
Irma had been right. Her memories of Bobby came just as frequently, saddened her constantly, and the tears still flowed occasionally, but the pain wasn’t quite so sharp these days. Keeping busy helped. The house was corning along nicely, with the kitchen almost completed, the tile floor laid, and all the new carpeting in place. There was still much she wanted to do, but she welcomed each chore. It gave her a reason to get out of bed each morning.
What she was going to do when the house was finished Briana still wasn’t certain. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
She’d even toyed with the idea of returning to work. Her agent had called with a gentle reminder, prompting her to give serious consideration to fulfilling her commitment. Her publishers had been both kind and patient, but they wouldn’t be forever. Soon, Briana decided.
Shrugging into her jacket, she stepped out into the front yard and studied Slade’s place. All unusually quiet, blinds closed, the track in the driveway. Should she just let him be, or dare she intrude where she probably wasn’t wanted? A while back, he’d said he would go with her to the exhibit. But that had been before his little family shocker.
Coming to a decision, Briana walked over. What could he do except tell her to get lost? She knocked several times quite loudly. It was a full minute before she heard footsteps, then the door swung open.
He stood there clean-shaven, dressed in a white cable-knit sweater, khaki slacks, and Docksiders, with a welcoming smile on his face. “Hey, I was wondering if you still wanted to go to the exhibit?”
More surprised than anything after her worrisome thoughts, Briana knew her concern must be evident. “I was wondering the same about you.”
He stepped out. “I said I would go, didn’t I?” He finished locking the door and turned to face her, noticing her frown, the shadows in her eyes. “What is it?”
“I haven’t seen you since… in several days. I was worried about you.”
Different emotions vied for attention inside Slade. Worried? About him? He couldn’t honestly remember the last time anyone had worried about him.
“I’m sorry if I worried you. It never occurred to me that you would. I mean, I’ve been on my own so long that… well, never mind. Is Irma going with us?”
“I told her we’d pick her up.” Actually, she’d told Irma that she’d pick her up, but she knew that her friend would roll with the punc
hes. “I can drive.” There was more room in her car.
“I’ve got Jeremy’s paintings wrapped and in the truck. Do you think Irma’ll mind?”
She’d probably love climbing up into the high cab, Briana thought, and told him so as she followed him to the driveway.
Slade started the engine, then paused. “I want to thank you for being so understanding the other night. As you discovered, I don’t respond well to shock. I hope I didn’t freak you out.”
So he wasn’t just going to ignore that evening. Good. “No, but I have been concerned.”
“Yeah, well, my way of coping with startling pieces of news is just to sleep a lot, spend some time thinking things through, and not foist myself on others until I’ve come to grips with things.”
“And have you?”
Slade shrugged. “More or less. I think both my mother and Jeremy made some heavy-duty mistakes, but they each in their own way paid for those errors in judgment. God knows, I’ve made more than my share. I don’t want to be as judgmental as Jeremy was. Whatever happened happened. I just have to learn to let it go.”
The complete about-face from his anger two evenings ago was surprising, but she welcomed the change. “I think that’s wise.”
He shifted into reverse. “Don’t go handing me any prizes. It’s self-preservation and nothing more. Blaming two people who’re no longer with us for things they did years ago would be pretty stupid.” He shot out into the street.
“A lot of people do it. I’m glad you decided not to. They can no longer be hurt by anything you might do, but you can be.”
Enough talk. It was a beautiful day and Slade wanted to put all troubling thoughts aside. “You know another reason I wanted to take the truck?”
“No, why?”
He pulled up in front of Irma’s house and saw the older woman waiting on her porch. “Because you’ll have to scoot over real close to me in order to give Irma room to sit.” His grin was wicked.