Come Morning (2 page)

Then she spotted a brown paper bag alongside his hip. Checking, she found that it contained half a dozen empty beer cans. Not merely asleep, Briana realized, straightening. Passed-out drunk.

The sun was most decidedly not over the yardarm, yet here he was, an able-bodied man somewhere in his mid-thirties, drunk as a skunk. What a waste.

She was about to turn away when something made her glance back at him. Even in a deep sleep, his forehead seemed drawn into a frown. There were tiny lines near the corners of his eyes, lines that seemed to her to have been put there more by worry than laughter. There was no relaxation in the way he held his mouth; rather, there was tension evident even in his alcoholic slumber.

Briana sighed. Who was she to judge this stranger? Perhaps he carried burdens as heavy as hers. If she’d thought she could find an answer in alcohol, she might have tried it herself. She had a feeling that, whoever he was, he was going to discover soon that drinking only made things worse. And he was going to have a whopping headache when he finally woke up.

Not her problem, Briana thought, scrambling down. Studying him from the ground up, she decided he was firmly entrenched in his crevice and out of harm’s way, with no likelihood of falling off. Even the tide rolling in wouldn’t reach him. It wouldn’t be dark for another couple of hours and he’d probably awaken before then. Later, after she’d unpacked and returned from getting her supplies, she’d check on him again. Just to be sure.

However, she felt certain that God looked after fools and drunks with equal ease.

She’d almost reached Gramp’s house when a high-flying beach ball came out of nowhere and whacked her on the shoulder. Turning, she caught it on the bounce and swung around. A towhead around seven or eight with two front teeth missing stood several yards from her, grinning his apology. For a long moment, Briana just stared at him, at the beautiful young boy gazing up at her, so full of life.

“Hey, lady,” he finally called out impatiently. “I’m sorry. Can I have my ball back?”

With trembling hands, Briana tossed him the ball, then turned and hurried into her grandfather’s yard and up the stairs. Inside, she leaned against the door, breathing hard. Tears trailed down her cheeks as she swallowed a sob and waited out yet another storm.

Slade had one hell of a headache. Three aspirin washed down with two glasses of water and a hot shower followed by an ice-cold drenching hadn’t helped much. The man who stared back at him through the steamy bathroom mirror had bloodshot eyes and foul breath. He’d brushed his teeth twice and still tasted beer.

Moving slowly, like he was eighty-six instead of thirty-six, he pulled on clean jeans and a white tee shirt, then slipped his feet into tan Docksiders. Where his black sneakers were was anyone’s guess. He’d been wearing them yesterday when he’d set out for a stroll, carrying along a little liquid refreshment, but he’d awakened sometime in the wee small hours of the morning out by the lighthouse. His beer had disappeared and so had his sneakers.

Slade walked into the kitchen, blinking at the bright sun pouring in through the windows. His sunglasses had to be around here somewhere, but he felt too shaky to look for them just now. He reached up to slant the louvered blinds, but the movement cost him as his whole body protested. Hours spent sleeping it off on a pile of rocks could do that to a man. Suppressing a groan, he opened the refrigerator and gazed inside. Not a lot of choices, but then, he’d only been in Nantucket a week, mostly eating out. He’d have to do something about groceries real soon.

There was milk, but even the thought had his stomach roiling. Juice would have tasted good, but he’d forgotten to buy some. “Oh, well,” he muttered, and grabbed a can of beer, of which there was plenty.

Carefully, he made his way out to the front porch, mindful of his head, afraid to jar it unnecessarily. It felt like a percussion band had set up residence inside his brain. Moving closer to the porch railing, he managed to bump his head on a hanging pot filled with nauseatingly cheerful red geraniums. The drumbeat in his brain picked up the tempo. Stepping back, he stumbled into the lone rocker and it went over with a noisy crash. He swore inventively.

Grimacing, Slade righted the chair and eased his aching body into it. Even the popping sound as he pulled the tab on the can had him moaning. He studied the can a moment, some vague memory insisting that beer wasn’t the best remedy for a hangover. But he’d already had water and there was nothing else fit to drink. Tipping his head back with care, he drank deeply.

Blinking, he sat waiting for the explosion, sure he’d detonate with the addition of more alcohol to his system. All he could hear was someone banging around something solid and heavy on the enclosed porch next door. Praying his stomach would settle, he set the can onto the floor, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.

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 them 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.