“Yeah, it does. Thanks.” He smiled.
His face changed with that smile, Briana thought The worry lines disappeared and he looked more approachable, almost gentle. Slade was like the tip of an iceberg; a great deal more probably lay hidden behind those hooded gray eyes.
Jiggling her keys, she took a step toward the back door. “So, do you want to begin tomorrow? There’s still a lot of scraping to do before we can paint.”
“Sure. Are you an early riser?”
“Yes. I like to run on the beach at first sun, around six. I’ll be ready to start around seven-thirty. Is that all right?”
“Fine.” He watched her walk away, admiring the way her knit shirt clung to her curves. She was a very attractive woman. He let his eyes slip down to her long, shapely legs and to the white shorts that molded lovingly to her, and wondered if anyone had ever told her she had a great ass.
At his back door, Slade grinned. Hell, yes, they had. A woman who looked like that had had plenty of admirers, he was certain. He hadn’t seen a wedding ring and wondered if she was married. Probably not, or the guy would be here with her.
Inside, he let himself remember the way she smelled, like something sinful. He also remembered the way she tilted her head, her brown eyes growing serious as she studied him. Did she also find him attractive? Maybe working on her grandfather’s house together, she’d warm up to him. Maybe one thing would lead to another and they’d share a few laughs and a utile healthy sex. Something like that could make a man forget his troubles far better than booze.
Maybe he’d even forget the woman in California who haunted his nightmares.
Heading up the stairs, he decided a long shower was in order. Afterward, he’d turn on the fan and lie down, hopefully grab a few winks. The sleepless nights were taking their toll. Perhaps starting tomorrow, if he wore himself out working on Briana’s house, he’d be able to manage more than a couple of hours.
And maybe she’d remember more about his mysterious father.
Briana had a quick lunch, then stepped into the backyard carrying the ring of her grandfather’s keys, trying to decide which one fit the lock on the white aluminum storage shed where the fishing gear was kept. Even if she didn’t get a nibble, just being out on the dock in the sunshine would be enjoyable.
It took several tries before she found the right key. The old lock was rusty, but she finally managed to pop it open. Setting it aside, she pulled on the black metal handle. The door seemed stuck.
Tossing the keys on the grass, Briana took hold of the handle with both hands and pulled. She heard a slight squeak, but it didn’t open. Determined, she braced one foot on the shed and yanked again with two hands. Suddenly the door swung open and Briana went down on her rump in the grass, followed by an assortment of beach items that spilled out onto her.
She wasn’t hurt, not physically at least. But as she stared at the things scattered about on the grass, she felt a terrible pressure building in her chest. There they were, stark reminders all. The black inner tube Bobby used to love riding the waves in, now deflated. His blue snorkel mask. The striped beach ball, also out of air, as was the inflatable yellow raft they’d used on the freshwater pond near the bicycle path. And the red two-wheeler Gramp had gotten Bobby last summer was leaning drunkenly against the door frame, having broken loose from its constraints.
Her hand to her mouth, Briana staggered to her knees, gazing down at her son’s toys, the ones that she’d stored away at the end of their visit last Easter. She’d locked the storage shed then, assuring Bobby everything would wait right there for him to return during his summer vacation. How could she have forgotten? Laden with memories, his things mocked her now like so much shipwrecked flotsam and jetsam.
Her knees too wobbly to hold her, she sank to the grass, one hand landing on something rubbery. Blinking through her tears, Briana closed her fingers around a small swim fin in bright blue. Bobby’s, of course.
A pain like the thrust of a very sharp knife stabbed through her chest. She heard a heartwrenching sound, hardly realizing the deep sob had come from her. She bent forward, hugging the rubber fin to herself, rocking through her grief as scalding tears flowed down her cheeks. Overwhelmed, Briana gave in to the wracking spasms. Let it all out, the doctor had advised. It’s better than locking it all inside.
Better? She was never going to feel better. Didn’t the good doctor know that? Didn’t they
all
know that?
How long she sat there letting the tears run their course while she clutched the small, blue fin Briana couldn’t have said. Until the pain—that terrible, deep, inside pain—had subsided somewhat. Finally, feeling wrung out, she started to get up.
“Briana?” said a small, hesitant voice behind her. “Are you okay?”
Drawing in an uneven breath, Briana slowly turned around. Staring at her, her little brow wrinkled with concern, was Annie Reed, the six-year-old daughter of the couple who lived in the house behind her grandfather’s place. Gramp had trimmed the shrubbery fence so there’d be a two-foot opening, a pass-through so Annie could come visit him because he enjoyed chatting with her.
Swiping at her streaked face with the back of her hand, Briana nodded. “I’m okay, honey.” She glanced down at the scattered toys. “I’m just sad, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Feeling less uncertain now that Briana was talking, Annie hunkered down beside her. “I get sad sometimes, too. Mommy says it’s okay to cry when you’re sad.”
“I guess your mommy’s right.” Briana found a tissue in the pocket of her shorts and wiped her face.
“Where’s Bobby? I want him to come over and meet my new kitten. Her name’s Rascal and…” Confused anew because Briana had squeezed her eyes tightly shut and bent her head back, Annie frowned. “What’s wrong?”
How to tell a child that her playmate’s gone forever. Briana pressed her lips together as she searched for the right words. “Bobby won’t be coming back here, Annie. He … he died.” She felt the knife inside slice deeper, deeper. God, how she hated saying those words.
Her brown eyes huge, Annie tilted her head. “How did he die?”
Briana swallowed hard. “An accident. A terrible accident.”
“You mean like a car ran over him?” Annie asked, trying to understand.
What did it matter? A random bullet had killed her seven-year-old son, her life, her hopes and dreams. Nothing, nothing would ever be the same again.
“Something like that” She couldn’t tell this little girl the truth. No child should have to deal with violence. Children were innocent victims of either careless or evil adults. And their mothers were left to try to put their suddenly meaningless lives back together.
“Is his daddy sad, too? My daddy would be.” Annie’s lower lip quivered in sympathy.
“His daddy’s gone, too.” A fresh wave of tears flooded Briana’s eyes. For all his faults, Robert Morgan surely hadn’t deserved to die with a bullet to the head on a sunny Saturday morning.
Annie stood and slipped one arm along Briana’s shoulder. “Please don’t cry.” Big, fat tears dropped from her own eyes as it all became too much for the little girl to take in. “Bobby’s in heaven, you know.”
Nothing could have stopped Briana’s torrent of tears more effectively than realizing she’d upset Bobby’s little friend. She swung about and pulled Annie into a hug, a hug so like the many she’d shared with her son, loving the feel of the small, warm body in her arms. Then she straightened and slowly got to her feet.
Finding another tissue, she dabbed at Annie’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.” She had no business doing this, sobbing out here, she who took pride in controlling herself, most especially in public. Chris and Pam Reed, Annie’s parents, wouldn’t be pleased to know she’d upset their daughter.
“It’s okay,” Annie said. “Do you feel better now?”
“Yes, I do.” From somewhere, Briana dredged up a smile for the little girl’s sake. “Thank you for helping me.” She glanced toward the opening in the back shrubs, realizing it was somewhat overgrown and needed trimming. She’d get to it soon. Meanwhile, there was enough room to scoot through and she had some explaining to do. “Is your mommy home?”
“Uh-huh. She’s hanging up the wash.”
Briana hurriedly stuffed Bobby’s things back into the shed, locked the door, then held out her hand. “Let’s go talk to her, why don’t we?”
“Okay.” Holding hands, they walked toward the shrub opening.
In the upstairs bedroom of his father’s house, Slade stood at the open window that overlooked Briana’s backyard. Through the screen, he watched her walk hand in hand with the little girl. As they disappeared from sight, he let out a long breath.
During his years as a firefighter, he’d seen a lot of people in despair, people who’d lost their loved ones, their homes, their future. There were one or two who stood out in his memory, especially the recent incident. He immediately recognized Briana’s pain—it was as soul-deep as any he’d seen.
He’d been lying down trying to sleep when he’d heard her come outside and start fussing around with the shed, pushing and pulling to get it open. He’d almost gotten up to give her a hand when he’d heard her crash-land. The woman seemed prone to falling. Then, almost immediately, he’d heard her wrenching sobs.
He’d risen and looked out the window. She’d been bent over double with toys scattered all around her. For a moment, he’d thought she’d hurt herself on something. But while he was deciding whether or not to go down to her, he realized from the sounds she made that she was hurting, all right, the kind of hurt that came from deep down inside. Something in the shed had apparently triggered her anguish.
Then the little girl had arrived and he’d unabashedly listened to their conversation.
Slade reached for the glass on his nightstand and drank, tasting bitterness that had nothing to do with the orange juice. Now he knew why she’d been critical of him yesterday about wallowing in self-pity and drinking away his troubles. Briana Morgan had lost both her son and husband, if he’d heard correctly. All the while he’d been wandering around his father’s house and all over town feeling sorry for himself, she’d been struggling with far better reasons to weep and complain and seek escape in a bottle than he had.
He stared out the window for long minutes, feeling regret—for her, for himself, for all the sad, lonely people in the world. Despite his earlier annoyance with Briana Morgan, his encounter with her today, and watching her weep, had shifted things for Slade. He was impressed with the way she’d apologized to him—a relative stranger—when she needn’t have. And he greatly admired the way she’d pulled herself together for the sake of the little neighbor girl. She was quite a woman and he regretted that he couldn’t allow himself to get to know her better.
Briana Morgan needed understanding and support, someone’s undivided attention, someone who had his life together and could offer her hope and help. Instinctively, Slade knew that he wasn’t that person. Hell, he couldn’t help himself, so how could he help her through something as devastating as the loss of her entire family? Besides, after that business in California, he could no longer trust his own instincts.
The last thing she needed was a relationship now, even a purely physical one. She had a lot of healing to do.
As attractive as she was, as vulnerable as he now knew her to be, what made him think he could work alongside her daily and not get sucked in? No, he’d have to back off.
He’d help her with the house for a while. After all, he’d told her he would and he was a man of his word. But after that, he’d find an excuse to stay away. Something, anything.
Because if he didn’t, if he let himself care deeply, if he let her snare him in with her needs, like someone had before, this time he might never recover.
A
s Briana slowed down from her morning run and went through her front gate, she saw a tall ladder leaning against the side of the house. Standing near the top, Slade was already scraping away. Aretha Franklin was belting it out on the portable wedged into a comer. “Starting off with a little early morning soul, eh?”
“Trying to beat the heat,” he answered, glancing down. “I found this ladder in my garage.” He had to school himself not to call it his father’s garage. When, he wondered, would he be comfortable with the transition? “I think it’ll work better than yours.”
“Great. I’ll be back as soon as I grab a quick shower. Can I bring you out some coffee?” It seemed the least she could do in exchange for his work, though helping her had been his suggestion. Briana still wasn’t sure it was the best idea, but when she thought of herself standing on that tall ladder, her stomach became slightly queasy.
“Sure. Black. Take your time.” Peering through his sun-glasses, he watched her flap the hem of her damp T-shirt in an effort to cool off as she walked around front. How was it that women managed to look good even when hot and disheveled while men just looked sweaty and tired? he wondered. He sincerely hoped she’d cover those long, distracting legs while they worked.
Tipping his head, he returned to chipping paint from the underside of the overhang. With all this sea and sun exposure, he’d be willing to bet that a lot of area homes needed regular painting. Maybe he’d look into starring a handyman service, working outside in season and indoors in winter. Through the years, he’d acquired enough knowledge about carpentry, plumbing, even electrical and heating, to do a variety of repairs, if not major replacement jobs.
Or perhaps he could buy up homes in disrepair, now that he had some capital, refurbish and resell them. The idea of being his own boss held a lot of appeal. Something to think about.
The sound of an inbound plane heading for Nantucket Memorial Airport had him looking up to admire the sleek charter aircraft skimming through the morning sky. That was yet another idea. He had his pilot’s license and could apply for a job with one of the four or five private carriers he’d noticed coming and going. There were plenty of possibilities in Nantucket.
The question was, did he want to stay here?