Come Morning (8 page)

How, he wondered, had his father chosen this island a whole continent away from his former home in California? And how had he accumulated so much? All right so the paintings sold well. Now. But getting started as an artist, from everything Slade had heard, wasn’t easy nor did success usually happen overnight. Had he continued to work as a salesman until his work caught on?

So many unanswered questions whirling around in his brain, he thought. He finished as far as he could reach, then climbed down. Out of the blue, he’d been thrust back into his father’s life, only to find the man as enigmatic in death as he had been in life.

As he repositioned the ladder, Slade heard the familiar rumble of a large truck approaching. Moving to the front, hands on his hips, he watched a fire truck whiz by. Only one man in the jump seat and the engineer driving. Not on their way to a fire. Probably heading for a nearby fireplug to practice hose evolutions. No longer his problem, he reminded himself.

“Here’s your coffee,” Briana said at his elbow, her fingers brushing against his.

“Thanks.” Her touch, slight as it was, felt too welcome, her freshly bathed scent snaring him in. Or was it just that he’d been without the softness of a woman in way too long?

She stared after the speeding truck. “I hope they’re not rushing to a nearby fire.”

“More likely a practice run or an equipment check.” He took a swallow and noticed that she liked her coffee as strong as he did.

Turning, she squinted up at him. Lord, but he was tall. “Are you on leave from the fire department or did you quit?”

“On leave. I just haven’t gotten around to quitting.” But he would, and soon. Walking back, he drank more coffee, then set the mug on the windowsill.

Briana trailed after him. “You won’t miss the work?”

“No,” he said emphatically. He’d answered his last fire call.

Well, she thought, that was definite enough, and left little room for further discussion. Firefighting had to be a very stressful occupation. Perhaps that stress had gotten to him.

“You know, these shutters are only decorative,” Slade said, gazing up at the window, deliberately changing the subject. “The way they’re screwed in here, you could never release and swing them over to protect the window in a heavy storm.” He nodded his head toward his father’s house. “Those kind are better. Decorative
and
protective.”

Alongside him, Briana studied the shutters. “You think I should get rid of these and buy new ones?”

“Yeah, I do. You could get aluminum ones, heavy grade. Never need painting. They come in lots of colors.”

“All right, then. Let’s do it. If you can somehow manage to get these off all the windows, I’ll look into ordering the others. There’ll be that much less to paint.”

He raised a quizzical brow. “Are you always this decisive?”

Briana drained her coffee cup and set it on the ground. “Actually, I haven’t been too good in that department lately. But I’m working on it.”

Slade thought he knew the reason why, so he decided not to comment. The last thing he wanted was for her to break down again. Picking up his scraper, he angled his head to study the side of the house mat was almost ready for paint. “Looking good. Maybe you should take some before and after pictures. You got a camera?”

Scraping away beneath the window, Briana glanced up as he climbed the ladder. “Actually, I have several. I’m a professional photographer.”

“No kidding?” He hadn’t pegged her as a professional anything. He’d rather imagined she’d graduated from some Ivy League college with a degree in flower arranging or something useful like that before marrying an upwardly mobile type. Just full of surprises, was Briana Morgan. “How’d you get into that?”

Briana’s eyes clouded over, remembering how she’d loved staying home after Bobby was born and hadn’t thought about working again. He was a year old before she’d gotten restless and started fooling around with photography. Robert had insisted on buying a house in Cambridge and they needed money. He’d refused to accept anything from her trust fund. Commuting to her old job in Manhattan had been out of the question, if they’d even have taken her back. She felt lucky that her hobby had begun to pay off.

“Kind of by accident, I guess.”

“Do you have a studio?”

Briana sat down in the grass so she could reach the lowest section. The Boss was hitting the high notes on the radio, telling the world about Philadelphia. “Not that kind of photography. I do coffee-table books, working around a theme, like Manhattan at midnight, which would be night scenes in New York, or Boston by the bay, snapshots taken all around the bay area. Then I pick out the best, write blurbs for each, interspersed with some narrative. I send the package to my agent who then submits to my publisher.”

“Have you had any published yet?”

“One. I was working on my second until… until recently. I sort of got sidetracked.”

Like he’d gotten sidetracked. Funny, viewing the two of them, most people wouldn’t think they had much in common. Briana Morgan was upper-crust, educated and sophisticated, someone who looked as if she belonged in a fashion magazine even in her so-called work clothes. He, on the other hand, had spent his life chasing a buck, living in tiny apartments above seedy storefronts, finally earning a diploma after attending nine schools and a college degree attending night school for two years, then finishing in the navy. Yet they’d both been thrown curve balls recently that had changed their lives.

“I’d like to see your book sometime. Is it anything like the art books in my father’s house? I tried looking through one of them yesterday. I realized I know very little about art.”

“Frankly, I don’t know much about art, either. Did Jeremy paint when you lived with him?”

“Not paint, but he used to do pencil sketches occasionally. I don’t know what ever happened to those.” He remembered his father watching from the sidelines when he’d been in Little League, always with a sketch pad in his hands. He hadn’t thought about that in years.

Finishing her spot, she got to her feet, brushing off the back of her jeans. “I spent some time watching Jeremy work. I really liked most of his stuff. His paintings are soothing and peaceful.”

“He’s got stacks of ‘em in his studio and even more in that storage room upstairs. Did you know it’s climate-controlled in there so nothing’ll happen to the paintings? He even did most of his own framing.” Climbing down, Slade shook his head. “The man sure was prolific.”

Briana nodded. “And smart. He knew that an artist can’t afford to flood the market with too many pieces at once, they’ll drop in value that way. He very carefully offered his works to the gallery when he figured the time was right. I don’t know how he chose which paintings to sell, but he only took in a few at a time.” As Slade stepped off the last rung, she noticed that he was closer than she’d thought. His size was intimidating, the aroma of his sun-drenched skin so very male. She took a step back. “How about a refill on the coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m going to get some tools and start taking down the shutters. Who knows how long they’ve been up there or what the shingles beneath look like.”

Briana brushed paint flecks from her hair. “I think I’ll get a bottle of cold water. Want some?”

“Sure.” Slade started toward his father’s garage on the other side of the house.

Rounding the bend, he came in view of the driveway just as a tan Ford turned in. Pausing, Slade saw a tall, angular man with a pencil-thin mustache, his summer suit quite wrinkled, step out and come around, a smile on his face.

“Are you J.D. Slade?”

Cautiously, Slade nodded.

The man’s smile widened. “I’m Nathaniel Evans from the Fern Brokawer Art Gallery downtown. Fern sent me over to introduce myself. You might recall meeting her at your father’s funeral. We’ve represented his work for years.” Reaching over, Evans pumped Slade’s hand enthusiastically. “So good to meet you finally. We kept hoping you’d drop in.”

“I’ve been a little busy around the house.”

“Have you run across our contract with Mr. Slade?” Nathaniel stroked his mustache, his small eyes hopeful.

“No, but then I haven’t looked through all my father’s papers yet. His attorney mentioned your gallery to me.” Slade shuffled his feet impatiently, wondering what this terminally cheerful man wanted and wishing he’d get to the point.

“Good, good.” More toothy smile. “We were wondering, Fern and I, when you’d like to bring over the next batch of your father’s work. The news of his death has stunned the art world, of course.” Then, as if suddenly remembering his manners, his rubbery face sobered. “Please accept my deepest sympathy.”

“Thank you, but I haven’t gone through the paintings, either. I’ll get around to that soon.”

Straightening his skinny tie with long fingers, Nathaniel resumed his salesman’s smile. “Certainly. We need to make hay while the sun shines, though, you know.” He let out a quick chuckle. “We don’t want to wait until the market cools. Now, we’re down to half a dozen of Jeremy’s paintings and…”

Slade had had enough. “Look, Mr. Evans, tins isn’t the best time for this conversation. I’m busy right now, but I’ll get back to you.” Walking around the man, he headed for the open garage. “Thanks for stopping by.”

His expression a mixture of surprise and annoyance, Nathaniel sighed. Jeremy Slade had been polite to a fault, yet his son bordered on rude. “All right. Do call us soon, will you?”

His back to Evans, Slade sent him a careless wave. He found Jeremy’s toolbox in short order, but waited until Nathaniel left to walk out to where Briana was leaning against the side of her house, watching Evans drive away. “Do you know him?”

She’d overheard most of the conversation. “Not really, but I’ve known Fern for years. I used to go to the gallery with your dad when I was a kid. I loved riding in his truck.”

“He wants me to take in more paintings. They’re down to six.” He took the water bottle she held out to him. “I’m not sure if I should.” Minutes ago, she’d mentioned that his father had been cagey about releasing his paintings in a timely fashion. Was six an inadequate number at one gallery? If so, how many should he take in? He didn’t know one damn thing about the selling of art.

“If you like, I can make a couple of calls. I know someone who owns a gallery in Boston. I trust Doug’s advice.”

Slade looked thoughtful, then shook his head. “Thanks, but I think I’ll look into it myself.” He was used to doing things on his own, not relying on others. He’d check at the library and visit a couple of art galleries, learn what he needed to know somehow. At the window, he set down the tool kit and found a screwdriver.

“Okay.” Briana watched him for a few minutes, then walked on past him. They’d be finished with this side shortly and ready to start prepping the back. She’d just moved beyond the shrubs when something caught her eye. There on the grass was a beach thong, size one, in seafoam green. Apparently, she’d overlooked it when she’d repacked the shed. As she bent to pick up the small, forlorn shoe that had belonged to her son, she felt a wrenching sob escape from deep within her.

Dear God, not again.
How long before she could look at his things or say his name out loud without weeping?

On the side of the house, Slade was climbing down the ladder when he heard an odd sound. Walking around back, he saw Briana standing with her eyes closed, clutching something in both hands. Recalling how she’d lost control yesterday, he debated about whether to get involved or give her privacy. Finally, he stepped closer. “Can I help?”

“No. No one can help.” Slowly, her face pale, Briana straightened, remembering everything she’d been trying desperately to forget.

“I have to go in,” she managed, then ran into the house, the screen door banging shut behind her.

As Slade turned, he heard a muffled sound through the kitchen screen. Frowning, he ran a hand through his hair. Damn, but he wasn’t good at times like this. He hated seeing a woman cry. He moved closer to the house, trying to decide what to do. Coming to a decision, one he might regret, he discarded his good sense and walked in after her.

She was leaning against the kitchen archway leading into the dining room, small and slender, looking for all the world as if she’d crumble without the support. Acting instinctively, he went to her and patted her back clumsily. A huge sob escaped from her. Feeling out of his element, Slade put his hands on her shoulders, then found himself turning her around, offering a tentative hug. The least he could do was give her a small measure of comfort.

She resisted minimally at first, then released a hiccupy breath and buried her face in his chest, her arms going around him. Slade held her somewhat awkwardly, wishing he had the words that would make her feel better. He had none. Perhaps, with the enormity of her loss, there were none she would believe anyhow.

Briana wept silently, her shoulders shaking, her hands bunched in his shirt. She clung to him, letting wave after wave buffet her. She had to get it out, all out. Oh, God, if only she could get it all out once and for all.

Slade found himself smoothing her hair, brushing back the damp strands, his other hand gently massaging her back. He didn’t have words of comfort, but he could show her by touching and holding that he understood. She’d probably never believe how well he understood.

She couldn’t keep doing this, a part of Briana’s brain told her. She couldn’t spend the rest of her days falling into a heap of tears every time she ran across something else that reminded her of Bobby. Burrowing into Slade’s chest, she tried to focus on him, on distracting herself from the pain inside herself. She concentrated on the feel of him, the hard muscles of his back where her hands roamed restlessly. The gentleness of his touch on her hair. The steady drumbeat of his heart beneath her ear. The powerful musky smells as she drew in a deep breath.

He represented relief from her pain, escape from her anguished thoughts, an interlude from her ongoing nightmare. Shifting slightly, she moved her face into his throat, wanting to feel that pounding pulse with her lips. She felt his arms tighten around her and closed her eyes, absorbing the comfort he offered. It had been so very long since she’d been held like this, been touched by a man. She’d missed the feel of strong arms and big hands and the scent of musk. Feeling like a desert walker who’d stumbled in and found rain, she slowly raised her head and reached for more.