Briana stood aside as he walked past her with his heavy load, then waited while he went back for the others. She was about to close the door after he finished, but he reached past her and pulled it shut himself. Apparently, he thought her not only clumsy but totally inept to boot. “Thanks, I appreciate the help.”
“No problem.” Slade started back toward her porch, the pain in his stomach a sharp reminder of his antacid. “I left my glass in there.”
Following him, she glanced at the solid brick house next door. “Where’s Jeremy? I haven’t seen him around.”
Slade paused at the porch steps. “Jeremy died about a month ago. He left his house and everything in it to me.” Hearing himself say the words out loud still shocked him. He stepped onto her porch and picked up his glass, came back out.
“Died? I’m so sorry to hear that.” Briana remembered the last time she’d seen Jeremy. It was on Easter week. He’d been teaching Bobby to play chess on his porch, their two heads bent over the board, one gray-haired, the other so very blond. “How’d it happen? Had he been ill?”
“Heart attack, so they tell me. His lawyer phoned with the news.” Uncomfortable with the conversation and with being here, he shifted his weight to the other foot. He wanted to go lie down, try to get rid of his headache. But he found it difficult to turn his back on her stricken look. “Did you know him well?”
“Since I was a little girl. He was a real gentleman, unfailingly kind and very talented.”
Everything he wasn’t, Slade thought without rancor. Maybe if Jeremy Slade had stuck around and helped raise his son, things would have turned out a lot differently.
He
would be different.
“Forgive me for prying, but we never heard Jeremy mention anyone other than his Nantucket friends. You must have known him in another life.”
So his father hadn’t told his closest neighbor about him, not in all those years. Slade wished the knowledge didn’t hurt so damn much. “You could say that. I’m his son, though I haven’t seen him since I was ten.”
Ten. There had to be a story there, Briana thought, but it was none of her affair. A private person who disliked personal questions from near strangers, she decided to drop the whole thing. If Jeremy’s son wanted her to know more, he’d tell her himself. Instead, she glanced at the glass he held, the inside stained with some thick white liquid. “I see you’ve switched drinks.”
About to walk away, Slade turned back. “How’s that?”
“From beer. I ran across you yesterday while I was walking on the beach by the lighthouse. You were … napping on some rocks.”
Terrific. Didn’t she have anything better to do than to track his movements? “Yeah, I went there to think, to be alone. Guess it didn’t work, since you found me.”
Chagrined, she nodded. “Point taken. I’ll butt out.”
“Good idea.” Angrier than the incident called for, Slade marched up onto his father’s porch and went inside, closing the door with a resounding thud.
So much for neighborliness, Briana thought as she walked to the front yard. From outward appearances, Jeremy’s son had inherited none of the older man’s gentle ways. Or good manners. However, she hadn’t come here to make new friends, which was a good thing, since she’d just struck out on her first attempt.
She was here instead to let this tranquil island heal her, Briana reminded herself. As she looked around the familiar yard, memories washed over her. There was the picket fence she’d painted the summer she’d turned fourteen. That had been half her lifetime ago, back when her grand-mother had still been alive. How Briana had loved spending her school vacations on Nantucket. Even as a college student, she’d come often; then later as a new bride, she’d brought her husband to meet the grandparents she adored. Only, Robert had been too restless to enjoy the peaceful island. After that first visit, she’d left him home and come with Bobby.
But now her grandmother was gone and they’d finally had to put Gramp in a nursing home last month, as Alzheimer’s robbed him of his precious memories along with his dignity. And Robert and Bobby were gone, too.
So much sadness, Briana thought as she gazed at the drooping daffodils that her grandmother had taken such pride in. The porch steps were wobbly, the door didn’t close quite right, and the lovely gray paint was peeling off the wood shingles, the white off the shutters. Inside, there was a shabby, neglected feel to the house that once had been a proud and happy place. It seemed that with the loss of its occupants, the home had lost its heart.
Briana knew just how that felt.
She let the sea breeze ruffle her hair and breathed in the clean, salty air. Her eyes were shadowed, her heart heavy, and her smiles still infrequent. But yes, she’d made the right decision in coming here to the house her grandfather had built so long ago. The house where she’d always felt safe.
Lord only knew she hadn’t been doing well lately in her Boston town house. Most days, she paced the rooms, restless and fidgety, unable to concentrate on even her photography, the second career she’d grown to love. Nights she pounded the pillows, fighting sleep, afraid her dreams would replay her worst nightmares. Dad had suggested a change of scenery, knowing how Briana loved Nantucket, and she’d reluctantly agreed. Perhaps here she’d find peace again. Perhaps here she could come to terms with all that had happened, if that even was possible.
Maybe a walk into town would be good, past Brant Point Lighthouse to South Beach and on to Main Street. She’d clean up and change clothes, take a leisurely stroll, stopping in to reacquaint herself with some of the shop-keepers she’d visited often over the years. Perhaps she’d pop in for lunch at that charming little inn overlooking the ocean, the one that served tiny tea sandwiches and scones with clotted cream.
And, please God, perhaps the people and places along the way would distract her from the pain in her heart that was a living, breathing thing.
B
riana had always enjoyed the shops at the west end of Main Street near North Wharf. She walked slowly, stopping at the Fudge Factory for a bag of candy and at the Nantucket Vineyard to buy a bottle of chardonnay.
Next, she strolled to the Needle Pointe, the little shop her grandmother had opened and operated until her death two years ago. Helen Jaworski, the woman who’d bought the place, said she’d heard rumors but wanted details about the state of Gramp’s health. Briana updated her, then hurriedly accepted condolences about the tragedy and moved on.
Farther down, she checked out the window displays at the florist shop and went inside the new Island Book Store, finally choosing the latest Sue Grafton mystery, hoping she could once more concentrate on reading. In recent months, she’d barely gotten through the daily paper.
As she left there, Angelique, the owner of the Cheese Board, stepped outside and spotted Briana. The tiny French woman motioned her in, slipped an arm around her waist, and led her to the back, murmuring all the way.
“Oh, my dear, it’s so good to see you back with us. Gaylord and me, we feel so terrible about your tragedies.” Her small face wrinkled in empathy. “First the accident, and now your
grandpÈre.
It is too much.”
Briana felt her eyes fill as she looked down at the floor. “Thank you. You’re very kind.” Oddly, the kindest sentiments always started her weeping when she should feel grateful that people cared. She glanced around, desperate to change the subject. “I see you’ve remodeled since I was here last. I like that center display.”
Before Angelique could reply, her husband came bustling over, his dark eyes sympathetic. “If there’s anything we can do, Briana, you have only to ask.”
Briana accepted Gaylord’s hug. The two shopkeepers had known her since childhood and were friendly with her whole family. “I know,” she acknowledged.
“How are you really doing,
chÈrie?”
he asked.
“Better. Each day, a little progress.” Briana wasn’t sure that was so, but it sounded good.
Gaylord’s smile was tinged with sadness. “Ah, like it was yesterday, I see Bobby coming in here with you, asking for a sample of the cheese with the holes.”
She couldn’t do this, Briana thought, nearly panicking. She couldn’t be drawn into yet another stroll down memory lane today. She’d been wrong to think she could handle these conversations. She simply wasn’t strong enough yet. “Listen, I really must go.” She broke away from them, from their good intentions and probing questions, from their puzzled looks and worried faces. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” she called over her shoulder.
Outside, she hurried past the shop, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. How could she forget her pain when everything and everyone reminded her of her loss? What kind of person would even
want
to forget the best part of her life? Yet how could she go on with these tortured memories haunting her every step of the way?
The walk wasn’t helping, Briana decided, and turned around, heading back. But she’d scarcely gone a block when she ran into two of her grandfather’s old friends, Jake McGrath and Ambrose Whitmore. Both elderly retirees and widowers, they were lifetime residents of Nantucket. Naturally, they’d heard about Gramp moving to the Boston nursing home near Briana’s folks, and they had a dozen questions. Shifting from one foot to the other, she answered politely, then begged off, saying she had to get back.
At least they hadn’t brought up the tragedy that had changed her life forever, Briana thought as she turned onto Cliffside Road at last. Rounding the bend, she glanced up at the corner house painted Wedgwood blue, the home of one of her favorite people. Irma Tatum’s age was a secret she’d likely take to her grave, though Briana knew she was hovering around eighty. She admired the fact that the woman’s mind was quick, her humor bordered on the bawdy, and her sense of style was girlishly bizarre.
She’d buried three husbands, Irma was fond of saying, and survived the Great Depression and several smaller ones. Yet she was still here, as solid a fixture as Nantucket’s cobblestone streets. She was the kind of person who always made you feel better for having talked with her, and Briana badly needed to feel better.
Before she could knock, the widow was at the door, opening the screen, drawing Briana in for a long look and a comforting hug. Irma was every inch as tall as Briana’s five-seven, her back straight and her figure quite slim. Today’s outfit was a long, maroon broomstick skirt, a multicolored floral blouse, and silver dangle earrings that nearly reached her shoulders. A bout with cancer and chemo had thinned her hair to near baldness so she’d purchased an assortment of wigs in various colors and styles. This morning’s version was an outrageous shade of red, twisted and gathered at the back of her head and anchored with a large mother-of-pearl comb. She owned almost as many pairs of glasses, wearing bright turquoise frames at the moment.
“I’m so glad you’re here, honey,” Irma said, her throaty voice unable to disguise her sudden emotion. “You look like you could use a good meal. Let’s go into the kitchen. My clam chowder should be ready. We’ll have a nice lunch.”
Dropping her packages on a nearby chair, Briana followed Irma into her big, inviting kitchen. “I’d planned to stop at the inn for lunch, but after walking around the shops, I didn’t have the energy.” She settled in one of the maple captain’s chairs at the round table, feeling at home, remembering how often she’d shared a cup of tea or homemade pastry here with Irma. This room was the heart of her home, with its plank flooring, large oval braided rug, and corner brick fireplace. Even though it was a warm day, there was a fire going. Briana stretched her hands toward the flames and felt herself relaxing.
Irma squinted through her glasses as she reached for two Franciscanware soup bowls. “Did one of those shopkeepers say something they shouldn’t? Bunch of nosy busybodies. I hope you didn’t let them upset you.” She moved to the stove and began spooning chowder.
“Everyone’s been very kind. I realize they want to know about Gramp, a few even want to fly over and visit him. It’s so hard, telling people that on a good day, he may recognize them. But most of the time…”
“Folks should know that. Don’t they read? There’re articles in the paper constantly about Alzheimer’s.” The disease was like a festering fear that hovered over every senior citizen. Two of Irma’s lady friends had it, and now Andy Gifford, Briana’s grandfather.
She set the steaming bowls on the table along with napkins and silverware, then put the kettle on for tea. “Jake and Ambrose came by last week, wanted to know if I knew anything. Couple of old coots. Once they plop down on your porch, you can’t get rid of ‘em. ‘Specially that Ambrose.”
“Maybe he was here for more than information, Irma.” Knowing how much the older woman enjoyed men and loved to flirt, Briana felt a smile forming, the first in a long while. It felt good.
“Pshaw! I can do better than either one of those two.” Arranging crackers in a dainty Limoges dish, Irma returned to the table.
“Well, you can relax. I ran into them on Main Street and brought them up to date.” She inhaled the marvelous aroma of the chowder. “This smells wonderful.”
“Dig in, kid. We’ve got to put some pounds back on you.” Irma would have chided her more for not taking better care of herself, but she knew exactly why Briana had lost weight, why she had dark circles under her eyes. Irma didn’t have the heart to go on about it. Who could blame the poor thing for her loss of appetite? She bent to taste her own soup, found the chowder to be quite tasty, if she did think so herself. “How’s the house looking these days? Your grandfather hadn’t done much in months, though we can scarcely blame him. Andy’s been ill longer than any of us knew.”
Briana let a spoonful of chowder slide down her throat, enjoying the wonderful flavor. “No, we certainly can’t blame him, but the house has been neglected for longer than a few months. When I was here last Easter, I did a thorough cleaning but there’s so much more that needs doing. The whole place could use a fresh coat of paint, a roof inspection, possibly a furnace check before winter. And the garden! What a mess.” She bent to her soup, feeling overwhelmed by such a big project right now. Perhaps if she weren’t so preoccupied and restless.