“I could recommend a couple of handymen. Fix the place right up while you supervise from the porch.” Irma got up to pour boiling water into her favorite Royal Doulton teapot. Through the years, she’d collected lovely things, not to be admired but to be used daily. After all, who did she have to save them for?
Letting the tea steep, she returned to the table. “I heard Andy say a dozen times that if something happened to him, the house belonged to you because you always loved the place as much as he.”
Briana sighed, still touched by her grandfather’s generosity. “Yes, Tom Richmond sent me the documents. Gramp drew up the paperwork a while back. He has a life estate until his death, and afterward, it’s officially mine. I doubt he’ll ever come home again, poor soul.” The attorney’s notice had jarred her, not because of its message, but seeing it in writing somehow made it seem so final, as if to say that her grandfather wouldn’t be around much longer, a fact she didn’t want to face.
“Do you know what you want to do? Perhaps fix up the place and move here? Or are you thinking of maybe selling the house?” Irma waited, hoping Briana’s answer wouldn’t disappoint her.
“Oh, I couldn’t sell that house. I’d feel like I was cutting off my right arm.”
Irma let out a relieved breath, pleased her assessment had been on the money. “Maybe, under the circumstances, living here away from all the memories in Boston would be a good thing for you right now.”
Slowly, Briana set her spoon down. “I have memories of Bobby here, too. No matter where I go, he’s with me.”
The words were said so softly, so sadly, that Irma took a moment to swallow the sudden lump in her throat before reaching over and grasping Briana’s hand. She’d been waiting for an opening, knowing from personal experience that a parent who loses a child wants to talk about it, yet doesn’t. She’d walk carefully here, and let Briana lead the way. “He always will be,” Irma said. “My Timothy was two when meningitis took him. That’s fifty-two years ago, and I still think of him.” The grieving and working two jobs to make ends meet had killed her first husband shortly after their son’s death. The double sorrow had nearly finished Irma.
Briana squeezed the older woman’s hand as her eyes, brimming with tears, met Irma’s equally damp gaze. “Tell me, does it ever get better?”
“The sense of loss never,
ever
goes away. It’s like an open wound that scabs over, but never quite heals. Yet the pain does ease in time.” Irma cleared her throat. “And work, physical work like fixing up that house, can help a great deal.”
Briana dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I’m sorry. I get like this several times a day, and I can’t seem to control it.”
“That, too, will let up, honey. I’m living proof that a strong woman can get through a very difficult time.”
Briana tried a smile. “I don’t think I’m as strong as you.”
“Sure you are. Just give it time, and strength will come to you. You’re a survivor, Briana. There are two kinds of people in this world, the quitters and the survivors. And it’s been my experience you can pretty much tell early on which way a body’s going to go.” This was turning into a pity party, the last thing her young friend needed. Rising, Irma cleared the soup bowls and busied herself with the tea things. “Just wait until you see what I have for dessert.”
“Not for me, thanks. The chowder was just enough.”
“You can’t turn this down.” Irma brought forth a cake dish, setting it on the table. “Chocolate with double fudge frosting. Sinfully delicious. And honey,” she added with a wink, “ain’t nothing wrong with a little sin now and then.”
Knowing when she was defeated, Briana accepted a piece large enough to feed a lumberjack. “Wow, you are generous with that knife.”
Irma brought over the teapot, then placed her hands on her hips and stood at an angle in front of Briana. “Well, what do you think? See anything different about me?”
Briana examined her from head to toe and couldn’t imagine what Irma had in mind. “Uh, not really.”
The older woman patted her rump. “Look, I’ve got curves back here.” She thrust out her rear, then gave an exaggerated bump and grind. “The damnable thing is that after fifty or sixty, you get flat back here. No man wants to pinch a woman who’s flat. I remember vacationing in Italy before you were born. Got pinched everywhere I went. Glorious trip. So, last weekend, they had a flea market going on over at the Wharf. I found these padded panties. Don’t you think they’re wonderful?”
Briana squelched a laugh, somehow managing to turn it into an approving smile. “I see it now. Looks great.”
Pleased with herself that she had her friend smiling, Irma sat down and squeezed lemon in her tea. “You better take good care of your parts, honey, ‘cause they have a way of disappearing.” She patted her chest. “The boobs are the first to go. You dry up and wither away to practically nothing. I’ve got pads here, too. Why do you think I always wear these busy little blouses? I’d look like a young boy in that lovely little knit thing you have on, even with a little stuffing.” She sighed dramatically, picking up her cup. “What nature’s forgotten, we take care of with cotton. Or,” she went on, pausing to stroke her cheeks, calling attention to her second face-lift, “what nature changes drastically, we correct plastically.” She chuckled at her own joke.
Briana shook her head, gazing at the older woman with affection. “I’ve missed you, Irma. You’re one in a million.”
The widow sobered. “I’ve missed you, too. I know I’m being selfish, but I’ll say it anyhow. I hope you’re here to stay.”
“I’ll be around awhile.” She needed the time to sort out her options. “I think I’ll enjoy redoing Gramp’s house.” Irma was right A few weeks of hard physical work couldn’t hurt. “I’ve always loved it here.” Her grandparents’ home had been the one constant in her life, with her parents continually moving while she’d been growing up. After their marriage, she and Robert had lived first in Manhattan, then in an apartment in Boston, followed by a house in Cambridge. And finally, after the divorce, she’d bought the Boston town house that had never truly felt like home, especially now, filled with memories of the son she’d never see again.
Her only real roots had been here in Nantucket. A part of Briana longed for permanence, a place she felt she belonged, where she felt safe. Perhaps after fixing up Gramp’s house, she’d know what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.
“It’s even better around here when all the tourists go home, you remember? No need to make reservations at the best restaurants. Hell, they practically give meals away, too. And the traffic slows down to a comfortable crawl.”
“I remember. And winters are so beautiful.”
Irma picked up her fork, indicating their dessert. “As I recall, chocolate’s your favorite, so have at it.” She’d baked the cake this morning after hearing via the grapevine that Briana was back. If she hadn’t stopped in, Irma had planned to take it over later.
Briana gave in to temptation. “Mmm, this is delicious.”
They ate in silence for a bit before Irma began again. “Did you hear about Jeremy dying? That man was a real class act. If I’d have been twenty years younger, I’d have set my cap for him long ago. You know, in the near thirty years I knew Jeremy Slade, I never once saw him with a woman romantically, though there were a few who tried to catch his interest.”
“Nor did I. I was very fond of him. When I was a child, he used to let me sit and watch him paint, if I promised to be very, very quiet. Afterward, he’d reward me with a lemon drop from the bowl he always kept on his table. He even let me go with him in his truck when he took his paintings to the gallery.” She took another couple of bites, then pushed her plate aside. After eating so little for weeks, she couldn’t manage more. “Have you met Jeremy’s son?” If anyone knew anything about her new neighbor, it would be Irma, who was privy to everything that went on in the island.
“Oh, yes. I’d heard he was coming because Tom Richmond was Jeremy’s attorney, too. At the funeral, he seemed more ill at ease than grief stricken, standing in the back, watching everything, hardly saying a word. Once I ran into him in the market. He bought milk, bologna, catsup, bread, and beer. Lots of beer. Odd, since Jeremy was a gourmet of sorts and an expert on wines. But then, Slade doesn’t look anything like his father, either.”
“Slade? He goes by his last name?”
“Apparently so. Tom said that Jeremy referred to him as J.D. in the will, but as a grown man, he goes by Slade.”
“Do you know anything about him, where he’s been all these years, why Jeremy never even mentioned having a son?” Briana couldn’t say why Slade aroused her curiosity so. Probably because she hated seeing anyone ruin his life with drink, and naturally wondered what drove him to the bottle.
“Well, you know how closemouthed Jeremy was. Never said much about himself except he’d been a traveling salesman in California, and that he’d walked away from that life and moved here to paint. Tom had quite a time finding the son since he’d moved around a lot. Finally located him in Sacramento, where he’s a fireman. After the funeral, he came back about a week ago, but he keeps to himself, hardly ever leaving the house. In that way, at least, he’s like his father.”
“What about his mother?”
“Tom told me Jeremy never mentioned her. He did say that Slade spent some time in the navy.”
“The navy,” Briana said. “That’s why he moved around a lot, like we did because of Dad’s navy position.”
“Have you met him?” Finishing every crumb of her cake, Irma sipped tea.
“Sort of. I was taking down the shutters on the porch and having a hard time. He came over and helped. But he was less than cordial, especially when I mentioned I’d gone walking on the beach and run across him yesterday passed out drunk over by the lighthouse. I think he was nursing a monumental hangover.”
Irma shook her head. “Damn fool inherits one of the best houses on the island and probably a hefty bank account, to say nothing of a stack of unsold paintings worth a bundle, and he sits around the house eating bologna sandwiches and getting soused all day. Jeremy’s probably whirling around in his grave.”
“You know, Slade told me he hadn’t seen his father since he was ten, and yet Jeremy left everything to him. That seems odd.”
“Maybe that’s why he drinks so much. Those who lose their parents one way or another when they’re young never quite get over it. Still, the man’s going to kill himself with all that boozing.”
Briana glanced up as the old-fashioned Seth Thomas clock hanging on Irma’s fireplace chimed the hour of one. She’d managed to fritter away the whole morning and then some. But she did feel better after her visit. Rising, she carried her teacup and half-empty plate to the sink counter. “This has been lovely and I’m stuffed.”
Irma bustled about, finding a covered dish and cutting a large chunk of cake. “You can have some of this with your dinner or tomorrow. And I’m sending some chowder home with you, too.”
“That’s nice of you, but not necessary. I went to the market and stocked up yesterday.”
Irma shoved the first container into Briana’s hands. “Yes, it is necessary. I want to see you regain that weight and … and I want to see you smile again.”
Briana pulled the older woman into a hug. “I’m working on it.”
The phone was ringing as Briana unlocked the front door. Only her folks knew where she was, or even knew the number. She dumped her packages on the kitchen table and answered somewhat breathlessly.
“You sound like you’re in training for the Boston marathon,” the man said.
“Craig? Is that you?” Briana pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Sure is. I got your number from your mother. I wanted to know how you’re doing. Like I’ve said, I worry about you, Brie.”
“Well, you needn’t. I’m fine.” Which wasn’t exactly the truth, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “How are things with you?”
“Great. The market’s high so things are perking.”
Briana pictured Craig Walker, Robert’s best friend, leaning back in his swivel chair at Fidelity Mutual Savings, the bank where they’d shared adjacent cubicles. His Armani suit coat would be hanging on his elaborately carved clothes tree and his Ferragamo loafers would be propped on an open desk drawer. A single man, Craig could afford expensive clothes. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said.
“You didn’t tell me you were going to Nantucket. I could have taken off a couple days and gone with you.”
She’d known for some time that Craig was interested in her. He’d asked her out several times even before the ink had dried on her divorce papers. But Briana had told him she didn’t want to ruin their friendship by trying to make something more of their relationship. Craig had accepted that good-naturedly and they’d remained casual friends.
It had been Craig who’d somehow learned of the shooting and been there at the hospital during those horrible hours. He’d been wonderful, taking care of notifying people and making the arrangements she’d been too shattered to handle. In the four months since, he’d called frequently, as a friend might, to check on her. However, recently he’d resumed what could only be a more dogged personal pursuit. In coming to Nantucket, she’d hoped to put some distance between them so he’d get the message that she simply wasn’t interested. He’d been kind and helpful and she didn’t want to hurt him with a blunt rejection, but she also knew they had no romantic future together.
“Coming here was kind of a quick decision. Mom probably told you that my grandfather has Alzheimer’s and had to go into a nursing home. He needed someone to look after his house and I felt I needed some time alone. So here I am.” That should be clear enough, Briana thought.
“I’ve never been to Nantucket, but I hear it’s a great place to visit.”
If he was fishing for an invitation, he would be disappointed. “Yes, it is, but it’s really crowded during the summer. I much prefer the off-season, the fall and winter.”
“Surely you’ll be back before the leaves fall.”
Briana found herself frowning. “I really don’t have any definite plans, Craig. I have to take things one day at a time.”
“Of course you do. Are you sure you’re all right? You don’t sound like yourself.”