Come Morning

by Pat Warren

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

After an accident takes the life of her young son, lovely photographer Brianna Morgan retreats to Nantucket to grieve. In the next house, handsome fireman Jeremy Slade is drowning his sorrows in liquor after blaming himself for the death of a young mother. When a brutal hurricane ravages the island and helps them come to terms with their pasts, Brianna and Jeremy must decide whether they can create a beautiful new future together.

Release date: October 15, 2007

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

Prologue

On the winding walkway of the Public Gardens on Charles Street across from the Boston Common, Briana Morgan snapped pictures of her seven-year-old son tossing chunks of bread to the sassy ducks in the pond. In the morning sunlight, the child’s blond hair shimmered with golden highlights as he watched an elegant swan regard him disdainfully before swimming off. A baby duck upended himself in the blue water, shaking his little tail, and Bobby giggled.

Briana smiled as she lowered her camera, then checked her watch. “It’s time to go. We don’t want to keep Dad waiting.” Every other Saturday since the divorce, her ex-husband picked up their son for the weekend. The arrangement was amicable.

Bobby tossed the rest of the bread at the ducks, then skipped along the walk, his mother following. They hadn’t gone far when he spotted a green balloon caught up in the branches of a tree. Without waiting for permission, he started climbing.

It wasn’t far up, Briana decided, so she let him go. He was a spontaneous child who loved life and she hated to squelch him in any way. Instead, she took more pictures of her son reaching out to the green balloon, finally freeing it, then carefully scampering back down and looping the string around his wrist. He sent her a triumphant glance, his blue eyes shining, then continued hopping and jumping because merely walking was boring.

They reached the street and Briana looked up and down the block, finally spotting her ex-husband at the corner of Beacon and Charles. He was in an animated conversation with a man whose back was to her. There was quite a lot of foot traffic along the Common, people blocking her view and making recognition of Robert’s companion impossible. So she busied herself snapping more pictures of Bobby studying a caterpillar and passersby hurrying to complete weekend errands and tourists enjoying a warm and lovely April morning.

When next she looked up, Robert Morgan was walking toward them with long, angry strides and a dark frown on his face. But when he saw his son running toward him, Robert’s smile was genuine and welcoming. Briana snapped father and son sharing a warm hug. She decided not to ask Robert why he’sd seemed angry, since he’d apparently put aside whatever had upset him. Instead, she bent down and kissed her son good-bye.

“I love you, Mom,” Bobby said, as he always did.

“I love you, too.” She watched him reach for his father’s hand as they crossed the street together on their way to visit the zoo. “Be careful,” she called after them, as she always did.

She’d planned to drive over to Chinatown to take more pictures for a book in the works, but she could find no better subject anywhere than her son. For the moment, she stood next to a lamppost and kept shooting frames, tilting this way and that for better angles. She switched from wide lens to zoom, capturing each small gesture, each nuance and smile, as Bobby chattered away to his father, the green balloon weaving along on a mild breeze.

She shot around a city bus, a yellow cab changing lanes, and a gray sedan barreling up the street in a rush of speed, nearly colliding with a blue van overflowing with children. Then she shifted her attention to a forsythia in full bloom, its golden blossoms a welcome sign that summer was near.

The crackling sounds didn’t register at first. Briana didn’t even pause in her picture taking, thinking the noise was a car backfiring. It wasn’t until she heard people screaming that she lowered her camera. Peering with ever increasing horror through the Charles Street traffic, she could see several people on the ground directly across from her, others scurrying for cover, and a few shouting for help.

No! It couldn’t be.

Disbelief clotted the scream in her throat. Terror was an ice-cold hand squeezing her heart. Dear God, no!

Dodging cars, Briana raced across the street, not for a moment considering her own safety as a convertible swerved and a Volkswagen screeched to a halt, narrowly missing her. People were gathered around two still figures on the ground, while others got warily to their feet, fear in their eyes. Shoving, she broke through the crowd, looked down, then shrieked as she fell to her knees.

Robert was on his side, not moving, one leg twisted under his body, a horrible gunshot wound in his cheek. And next to him, lying very still, was her son, his denim jacket soaked through with bright red blood. The green balloon, its string still tied around his wrist, flipped and flopped in a macabre dance.

Oh, Lord, not Bobby! Not her baby!

She gathered Bobby to her and held him close, a keening cry bubbling forth from deep inside. A voice behind her yelled for someone to call for an ambulance, quick.

But Briana Morgan knew it was already too late.

Chapter One

Four months later…

It was half a mile from Gramp’s house to Brant Point Lighthouse on Nantucket Island, a walk Briana Morgan had taken countless times. There were fewer tourists up that way, the sand not quite so pure, with clumps of grass growing sporadically along the slight incline. The lighthouse itself sported a new coat of white paint and the walkway leading to the front door looked recently renovated. Leisurely strolling along the beach, she noticed a young couple maneuvering a bicycle built for two along the boardwalk, laughing as they struggled for balance. Probably honeymooners, she decided.

She and Robert had never had an actual honeymoon. She didn’t count a long weekend at Manhattan’s Plaza Hotel as such. They’d vaguely promised each other they’d make the time one day for a really special trip. But he’d been intent on climbing the corporate ladder at his bank and she’d just begun her job at the advertising agency the month before they’d married. The time had never seemed right, and suddenly, they were sitting on opposite sides of the aisle in divorce court.

Briana lifted her face to the warmth of the August sun. She’d flown over from Boston via Hyannis, arriving bag and baggage a mere hour ago, glad to have left behind a chilly three-day rain. It seemed to Briana that she’d been cold a very long time.

It also seemed as if the disturbing memories outnumbered the good ones lately. If only she could turn off her mind, she thought as she trudged along. Dr. Alexander Davis, the physician her mother had insisted she see when her weight loss and sleepless nights had become noticeable, had told her in his best bedside manner to get plenty of rest, eat right, and that time healed all wounds. Perhaps that old adage would apply to most everything except the death of one’s child. Seven years old was too young to die.

Maybe some things in life couldn’t be healed by time or sleep or good food, by magic potions or even fervent prayer. Maybe there were times when the best a person could hope for was to learn to cope with the ugly hand they were dealt. Maybe just making it through another twenty-four hours without jumping off the Longfellow Bridge was all the victory one could manage. One day at a time, as the saying went.

Briana stopped, squinting up at a cloudless blue sky, feeling warm from her walk. She swiped at her feathery bangs, slightly damp now, and wished she’d brought along a scrunchy so she could twist-tie her shoulder-length hair off her neck. She wished she’d brought along some cold bottled water as well. She kept on going.

Her eyes skimmed the horizon, then drifted to the weathered rocks at the water’s edge just this side of the lighthouse, only a short distance away now. She could see a man sitting on one of the higher boulders where she’d daydreamed away many an hour as a teenager. It was one of her favorite spots.

For a brief moment, her hands itched for her camera, her mind setting up the picturesque scene, considering angles. Then she dismissed the thought She hadn’t held a camera in four months.

She noticed that the man was barefoot, wearing jeans and an unbuttoned blue shirt, its open flaps blowing about. His black hair shifted in a playful breeze as he stared out to sea, seemingly lost in his thoughts. Over the years, Briana had come to know almost all the permanent residents, by sight if not personally. She didn’t recognize the man, who was likely a summer visitor.

Slowing her steps, she kept watching him, wishing he’d chosen to sit elsewhere. She’d have liked to climb up the steep rocks, carefully avoiding the green moss clinging to the sides, and spent an hour emptying her mind as she gazed at the ever changing sea. But someone had beaten her to it.

As she neared, the man started to rise, then teetered on the slippery rocks for several seconds, and finally toppled backwards. He lay very still exactly where he’d fallen. He might have hit his head, Briana decided as she rushed over, both curious and concerned. Carefully, she climbed up the familiar formation and reached his side.

He was on his back, wedged into a crevice in a semi-seated position, eyes closed. Leaning forward, she pressed two fingers to the pulse point of his neck and felt a strong heartbeat. She slipped her hand to the back of his head, searching for a bump or a cut, but found nothing. Easing back, she stared down into his face.

He had the kind of looks that drew a woman’s eye— lean, lanky, athletic. At least two days’ worth of dark beard shadowed his square jaw. Ruggedly handsome, most people would call him, with thick eyelashes and a small, interesting scar just above his left brow giving his face a dangerous slant. Unaware of her, he sighed heavily and began to snore lightly. Not injured, but sound asleep. An odd place for a nap, in broad daylight on a pile of uncomfortable rocks decorated with seaweed alongside a fairly remote lighthouse.

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.

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 neig. . .