Come Morning

by Pat Warren

  She’d get her car, take the papers over to Brad’s office, and leave them with his secretary, asking him to call her when his current case was over. Then she’d make a quick stop at her town house, pick up a few things she’d been wanting, and return to her parents’ place. She didn’t relish the thought of spending another night with her mother, but she preferred that to being alone in her condo. Too many memories and too much time to think about this new mess. And tomorrow morning, she’d fly back to Nantucket.

  Briana could hardly wait.

  Chapter Eleven

  It felt like coming home. How could that be? Briana wondered, as her Delta Air Lines Business Express jet broke through heavy afternoon clouds and landed at Nantucket Memorial Airport. All throughout her thirty-minute flight, she’d been eagerly looking forward to returning. In less than two months, the house she now owned on the island had begun to feel more like home than any other place.

  The visit to her town house yesterday had been brief and upsetting. She’d checked to make sure there hadn’t been any attempts at breaking in despite her new alarm system, listened to a few inconsequential messages on her answering machine, and deliberately avoided going into Bobby’s room. She’d packed a bag with some fall clothes and gone to her parents’ home.

  The evening hadn’t been terribly cheery, either. An old navy friend of her father’s had just arrived in town so he’d left before Briana had returned, annoying her. Aware now of his lusty needs, she wondered if his old friend was female. Her mother irritated her even more by defending his actions, then criticizing Briana for planning to go back to Nantucket the next day. Conversation between them was strained after Martha’s confession. Briana hadn’t told either of them about the cloud that now hung over Robert’s memory. She hadn’t felt up to it.

  As she’d packed her things earlier today, her mother had brought out yet another camera case, the one Briana had used the day that Bobby had been shot She’d apparently had it with her at the hospital and Martha Gifford had taken it home for safekeeping. The Pentax inside was an older camera, one she’d bought used from a professional photographer the week she’d decided to get serious about photography. Maybe now, all these months after that dreadful afternoon, she’d have the strength to look at those snapshots, the last she’d ever take of both Robert and Bobby.

  Just being on the ground in Nantucket lifted Briana’s spirits. Even though she hadn’t let anyone, including Slade, know when she’d be returning, she couldn’t help but scan the faces of the small crowd waiting for arriving passengers at the gate. Of course, no one was there for her.

  Waiting for her luggage, she wondered if Slade would be glad to see her. She’d wager he hadn’t thought about her nearly as often as she’d thought about him. The fact that she thought about him at all worried her.

  He was a wounded man, one a woman should be cautious in getting involved with, as he himself had warned her. Not for the same reasons though. He thought he “wasn’t a nice man” and that he’d “done terrible things.” But Briana felt he was much too harsh a judge of himself.

  Still, there were reasons to be wary, like the fact that he hadn’t come to grips with his parentage since learning that Jeremy Slade wasn’t his biological father. Nor even with his inheritance, which seemed to upset more than please him. He was making strides in that department, though, giving away the furniture he disliked and beginning to do over the house to suit himself.

  The other thing worried her far more, the fact that he blamed himself for the death of a child and the ruination of her mother. Somehow, he’d have to learn to forgive himself for his imagined sin before he could get on with his life. He no longer trusted his instincts nor trusted too many people, for that matter. An awful way to live. But how to overcome it was the question.

  Finally, the bags came and Briana found a cab. The late-afternoon sky was darkening and a distant rumble of thunder could be heard as the cab wended its way northwest along Old South Road. Off to the right, the harbor waters were already choppy. The smell of rain was in the air, drifting in through the open windows, but even that couldn’t dampen Briana’s mood.

  She paid the driver and tipped him generously for hauling her heavy bags onto the porch. As he drove off, she glanced over at Slade’s house. No lights on, but then, it was only five. He could be inside napping or out walking or in town shopping.

  Or somewhere hurt and in need of help.

  Stop that! she told herself. She wasn’t his mother or his keeper.

  Inside, she found that her plants had been watered, a fact that cheered her, and her mail neatly stacked. She scanned the small pile of bills and ads, deciding it could all wait The message light was blinking on the new answering machine she’d bought only a week ago. She pushed the button and heard Tom Richmond’s voice. Gramp’s attorney told her he was sorry to hear that Andy Gifford had died and asked her to call his office when she returned for a reading of the will. The next call was a hang-up. No other messages.

  Feeling foolish, Briana glanced around, but saw no note from Slade, no message of any sort. She shouldn’t have expected any, she supposed.

  It took her very little time to unpack, put things away, and change into jeans, a short-sleeved sweatshirt, and sneakers. Before she could change her mind, she ran next door and knocked.

  Two repeats and still no stirring inside. Well, he had no idea when she’d be returning, because she hadn’t known herself. She’d tried to get on the earlier flight, but it had been booked solid. She’d briefly considered calling him from Boston last night, then decided that might be misinterpreted. Suppose by now he’d had time to think things over and decided he wanted to back away from her? The last thing she wanted was to be looking forward to seeing a man like some overeager puppy when he preferred she’d go away.

  Giving up, Brie went back home and wondered what to do next. She wasn’t hungry. She was too restless to read or sit and stare out at the sea. Needing an outlet for her energy, she grabbed the camera bag she’d brought over, rewound the film inside the Pentax even though it had two frames left, and jumped into Gramp’s Buick. Her Buick now, she supposed.

  Setting out for town, she thought about Tom Richmond’s message. No surprises in Gramp’s will awaited her, since she’d already seen a copy of it. A couple of years ago Gramp had shown it to her, feeling a need to explain why he’d left most everything to her and not Toni or his own son. Briana wondered if this would give Toni still another reason to avoid her family. Probably. Would her father have a reaction? Probably not, since neither of her parents shared her love of Nantucket.

  Briana angle-parked in front of the Island Camera Shop and saw that it was just a few minutes before six. The street-lamps were already on and she wondered if Ned Farrell had closed up. Getting out, she spotted him behind the counter and went inside.

  Minutes later, she was back in the car, pocketing her receipt. Perhaps this would be the last roll of film she’d take in. Slade had said he’d build her a darkroom in the large walk-in closet between the lavatory off the kitchen and her laundry room. She’d planned on taking him up on his offer, just hadn’t gotten around to drawing up a design. She wondered if the offer still held.

  While she was in town, she popped into the market and picked up a few perishables before heading back, asking herself all the while why she was such a skeptic, why she thought that four days away and Slade would surely have lost all interest in her.

  Because any interest he had in her was reluctant at best, came the answer. Okay, so maybe he wanted her physically. Maybe he even liked her somewhat. But there it probably ended. A man with an unresolved past who didn’t trust his own instincts nor most people would naturally want to avoid committing to someone.

  Briana wheeled the Buick around the bend and heard a distinct knock-knock from under the hood. A tune-up would likely be in order, she decided.

  There was yet another problem with Slade, this thing he had about people moving on. All his life, everyone he’d eve
r cared about had abandoned him, walked away, left him alone. Jeremy, his mother, even Rachel had shoved him out. He didn’t believe anyone would stay for the long haul.

  Turning onto Cliffside Road, Briana slowed. Did she want to stay for the long haul with this man? She’d certainly acted like it the last evening they’d spent together. And she’d been acting like it since leaving for Boston, thinking about him every spare moment, even since returning.

  Did she love him, then? Slowly, she pulled into the garage, killed the engine, and sat there.

  She hadn’t thought she’d love again. Love was such an enormous responsibility. Many things about it wound up hurting too much. The thing was, sometimes you didn’t have a choice. She hadn’t intended to get involved, hadn’t set out looking. Yet something inside her had clicked, something had softened, something had reached out.

  Was it merely physical? she wondered. As a married woman, she’d enjoyed sex, but once that relationship had ended, she hadn’t thought overly much about making love, since she knew no one she wanted to go to bed with. She knew any number of men she thought of as friends. Yet recently her heart had zeroed in on one who was troubled, insecure, and didn’t want to get involved. When the heart made the choice, when the body yearned, the head seemed to be outvoted.

  Earlier, she’d thought of Slade as wounded. She, too, was wounded. Was that what had drawn them to each other?

  Getting out of the car, she walked slowly, lost in her thoughts. She closed the garage door and pocketed the keys. Strolling past his house, she saw that it was still dark. Out by the picket fence, she gazed up and down the deserted beach, then out to a restless sea. She could almost smell some sort of change in the air—rain or a storm, something, although the rumbling had stopped.

  Brie didn’t want to go inside. The fact was, she didn’t know what she did want. She also didn’t want to ask herself more questions she didn’t have answers to. Leaving the yard, she crossed the road and started down the beach toward the lighthouse.

  Perhaps a walk would clear the cobwebs.

  Slade was in his favorite spot atop the rocks near Brant Point Lighthouse. In California, he hadn’t lived right on the ocean, so he’d never had the opportunity to study the sea up close as he had over the past few weeks. In all its stages, it fascinated him.

  He loved the mornings best, with the sun seemingly rising out of the sea on the horizon, pinkening the sky, then spreading the pale blue canvas with streaks of yellow and gold while the water turned from black to dusky gray and finally to brilliant blue. He loved watching the gulls soar and dive, skim the waves, balancing on foam, then sailing off to impossible heights. Down this way, he’d often spotted pelicans strutting along in their comical web-footed gait, then suddenly swooping into the sea and capturing a complacent fish with one gulp of a big bill, sliding it into that odd drooping pouch.

  Afternoons, he enjoyed strolling the hard-packed sand, bending to examine shells in all sizes and shapes with the heat of the midday sun warming his back. The days were cooler now but there was much to see still. He hadn’t visited the cranberry bogs yet or toured the candle-making factories or strolled the north end of the island. Closer to home, he liked watching the local recreational fishermen seated companionably on the docks, dangling their legs, poles suspended in the shifting waters, buckets by their sides along with coolers. Slade had never fished, but he’d been thinking about getting a pole. He’d found none in Jeremy’s garage.

  But the sea was most fascinating with night approaching, like now with a storm moving in, heavy clouds jockeying for position in a murky sky, the wind picking up. The moon was there, but mostly shadowed, and the stars were hidden from view. It was a good thing the beam from the lighthouse cast a white glow or he might have trouble climbing down from the slippery rocks.

  He couldn’t make out the time on his watch, but knew it had to be somewhere between seven and eight. The past few mornings he’d spent reinforcing Irma’s front porch. She’d snagged him on one of his walks. It was easy work. What had been difficult was fencing with the sharp old lady, who asked a million questions. But basically, Slade liked her and hadn’t minded helping. He’d spent a few hours exploring the island, riding his bicycle and hiking. He’d seen quite a bit, learned a little, and by evening was pleasantly tired if not sleepy. Which had been one of his goals.

  He’d even bought a camera, an uncomplicated Minolta that a child of six could operate, or so chatty Ned Farrell had told him. He’d never owned a camera before, either. A lot of things he’d missed out on in his early years that now he finally had the time and money to try. He took pleasure in catching up, in spending Jeremy’s money, and wondered if that was what the man had had in mind.

  He’d found more papers in a lockbox in Jeremy’s desk. Apparently, the company he’d worked for in California had had a retirement plan that matched any money the employee put into it, which was what Jeremy had cashed out when he’d moved to Nantucket. At first, he’d rented the house that was now Slade’s, then taken out a mortgage on it with the sale of his first few paintings, finally paying it off only five years later. Had he left all that information there for Slade to find, and if so, why? A puzzle.

  The wind was picking up and Slade felt the first few drops of rain. Raising his arms and rolling his shoulders, he stretched, then climbed down. Hands in the pockets of his khakis, he began strolling back, unconcerned about getting wet. It was a fairly warm evening and a little rain never hurt anyone.

  Finally, after all his rambling thoughts, he allowed himself to think of the one person he’d been trying not to dwell on: Brie. The truth was, he missed her far more than he’d have imagined.

  When had he gone from enjoying her company to looking forward to the next glimpse of her? he asked himself. When had he begun waiting for her smiles like a storm walker searches for the sun? When had he started needing her in his life?

  No! Slade felt the air back up in his lungs. Hadn’t he seen what caring deeply for someone had done to his mother? His father? Ruined both their lives, that’s what. More than half the guys he’d served with in the navy years ago had either been divorced already or had marriages so troubled they’d had no compunction about cheating on their wives. Captain Steve Romero, a man he’d looked up to at the station more than any other, had recently separated from his second wife. Even Irma Tatum had made her way through a few husbands.

  Quicksand. He was definitely stepping into quicksand, thinking forever thoughts. Yet, if ever there was a woman he’d even consider such a thing with, Briana Morgan was the one.

  A flash of lightning out over the sea caught his attention and he waited for the answering boom of the thunder. It appeared as if Mother Nature were going to put on a show. Slade picked up his pace.

  Funny thing about being on this island, about having so much time on his hands to think and ponder and reflect He’d asked himself countless questions he’d avoided for years, about his puzzling past this unforeseen present he’d been thrust into, and about his hazy future. He hadn’t come up with every answer, but he’d found a few.

  What did he want? Briana had asked him on this very beach the night of their picnic. Well, he supposed he wanted what most everyone wanted. Though he’d never admitted it out loud, he wanted acceptance and respect and… and love. He wanted to be loved for who and what he was, for his good points and bad, for his strengths and weaknesses.

  But he was deathly afraid he’d blown it.

  His defenses down their last evening together, he’d told Briana the truth about Megan and Rachel. She’d been wonderfully understanding that night maybe too understanding. She’d wanted to erase his pain by offering herself to him. And he’d been well on his way to taking her up on it before the ringing phone had put a stop to things.

  Maybe it was just as well. She’d left early the next morning and been gone four days now. Four days in which she’d had time to think and rethink and reconsider. Undoubtedly she’d realized in the cold tight of day, and the o
nes that followed, back on her home turf with close family and friends surrounding her, that that phone call had saved her from making a terrible mistake.

  Briana was too young, too beautiful, too intelligent to throw herself away on a misfit like himself. She had talent, for he’d seen the few photos she’d displayed at the exhibition, and money, and a rock-solid family background to draw strength and support from. She didn’t need him, never would.

  And he wanted no part of a one-sided love affair. He didn’t want her pity and that, he’d begun to believe, was why she’d reached out to him that night. She’d felt sorry for him. God, what a terrible basis for a relationship.

  The light drizzle had turned into a steady rainfall, not yet a deluge, but corning down pretty hard. The beach was deserted for as far as he could see, with no one else foolish enough to go walking in the rain when a storm was brewing. Slade walked on, already quite wet, unconcerned about getting soaked. What difference did it make? He had no one waiting for Mm, no one who cared if he caught cold or lived to see another day. Lord, now he was moving into self-pity!

  No matter. He’d survive. Others had walked away and he’d survived. Briana would return in her own sweet time and be unable to meet his eyes as she’d explain that she’d thought things over and decided to sell her grandfather’s house after all because she was moving back to the mainland permanently. And he’d put on a smile if it killed him, and wish her well. Damned if he wouldn’t.

  Love was for fools, Slade reminded himself as his Dock-siders sprayed wet sand with each step. For a moment, he’d forgotten that, and he desperately wished he hadn’t. She’d snuck in during that brief moment, but he’d squeeze her back out. Because loving, needing someone, was the thing that brought a man to his knees.

  Slade stopped in his tracks when he heard an unfamiliar sound. Like moaning or sobbing. Glancing around, he realized he was almost upon Mayberry House. He remembered vividly Brie telling him about the tortured ghosts of Josh and Annabel Mayberry, who often cried out for each other on stormy nights.