Free Come Morning by Pat Warren Page A

the best, write blurbs for each, interspersed with some narrative. I send the package to my agent who then submits to my publisher.”
    “Have you had any published yet?”
    “One. I was working on my second until… until recently. I sort of got sidetracked.”
    Like he’d gotten sidetracked. Funny, viewing the two of them, most people wouldn’t think they had much in common. Briana Morgan was upper-crust, educated and sophisticated, someone who looked as if she belonged in a fashion magazine even in her so-called work clothes. He, on the other hand, had spent his life chasing a buck, living in tiny apartments above seedy storefronts, finally earning a diploma after attending nine schools and a college degree attending night school for two years, then finishing in the navy. Yet they’d both been thrown curve balls recently that had changed their lives.
    “I’d like to see your book sometime. Is it anything like the art books in my father’s house? I tried looking through one of them yesterday. I realized I know very little about art.”
    “Frankly, I don’t know much about art, either. Did Jeremy paint when you lived with him?”
    “Not paint, but he used to do pencil sketches occasionally. I don’t know what ever happened to those.” He remembered his father watching from the sidelines when he’d been in Little League, always with a sketch pad in his hands. He hadn’t thought about that in years.
    Finishing her spot, she got to her feet, brushing off the back of her jeans. “I spent some time watching Jeremy work. I really liked most of his stuff. His paintings are soothing and peaceful.”
    “He’s got stacks of ‘em in his studio and even more in that storage room upstairs. Did you know it’s climate-controlled in there so nothing’ll happen to the paintings? He even did most of his own framing.” Climbing down, Slade shook his head. “The man sure was prolific.”
    Briana nodded. “And smart. He knew that an artist can’t afford to flood the market with too many pieces at once, they’ll drop in value that way. He very carefully offered his works to the gallery when he figured the time was right. I don’t know how he chose which paintings to sell, but he only took in a few at a time.” As Slade stepped off the last rung, she noticed that he was closer than she’d thought. His size was intimidating, the aroma of his sun-drenched skin so very male. She took a step back. “How about a refill on the coffee?”
    “No, thanks. I’m going to get some tools and start taking down the shutters. Who knows how long they’ve been up there or what the shingles beneath look like.”
    Briana brushed paint flecks from her hair. “I think I’ll get a bottle of cold water. Want some?”
    “Sure.” Slade started toward his father’s garage on the other side of the house.
    Rounding the bend, he came in view of the driveway just as a tan Ford turned in. Pausing, Slade saw a tall, angular man with a pencil-thin mustache, his summer suit quite wrinkled, step out and come around, a smile on his face.
    “Are you J.D. Slade?”
    Cautiously, Slade nodded.
    The man’s smile widened. “I’m Nathaniel Evans from the Fern Brokawer Art Gallery downtown. Fern sent me over to introduce myself. You might recall meeting her at your father’s funeral. We’ve represented his work for years.” Reaching over, Evans pumped Slade’s hand enthusiastically. “So good to meet you finally. We kept hoping you’d drop in.”
    “I’ve been a little busy around the house.”
    “Have you run across our contract with Mr. Slade?” Nathaniel stroked his mustache, his small eyes hopeful.
    “No, but then I haven’t looked through all my father’s papers yet. His attorney mentioned your gallery to me.” Slade shuffled his feet impatiently, wondering what this terminally cheerful man wanted and wishing he’d get to the point.
    “Good, good.” More toothy smile. “We were wondering, Fern and I, when you’d like to bring