Come Morning Read Free

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,