Free Come Morning by Pat Warren Page B

over the next batch of your father’s work. The news of his death has stunned the art world, of course.” Then, as if suddenly remembering his manners, his rubbery face sobered. “Please accept my deepest sympathy.”
    “Thank you, but I haven’t gone through the paintings, either. I’ll get around to that soon.”
    Straightening his skinny tie with long fingers, Nathaniel resumed his salesman’s smile. “Certainly. We need to make hay while the sun shines, though, you know.” He let out a quick chuckle. “We don’t want to wait until the market cools. Now, we’re down to half a dozen of Jeremy’s paintings and…”
    Slade had had enough. “Look, Mr. Evans, tins isn’t the best time for this conversation. I’m busy right now, but I’ll get back to you.” Walking around the man, he headed for the open garage. “Thanks for stopping by.”
    His expression a mixture of surprise and annoyance, Nathaniel sighed. Jeremy Slade had been polite to a fault, yet his son bordered on rude. “All right. Do call us soon, will you?”
    His back to Evans, Slade sent him a careless wave. He found Jeremy’s toolbox in short order, but waited until Nathaniel left to walk out to where Briana was leaning against the side of her house, watching Evans drive away. “Do you know him?”
    She’d overheard most of the conversation. “Not really, but I’ve known Fern for years. I used to go to the gallery with your dad when I was a kid. I loved riding in his truck.”
    “He wants me to take in more paintings. They’re down to six.” He took the water bottle she held out to him. “I’m not sure if I should.” Minutes ago, she’d mentioned that his father had been cagey about releasing his paintings in a timely fashion. Was six an inadequate number at one gallery? If so, how many should he take in? He didn’t know one damn thing about the selling of art.
    “If you like, I can make a couple of calls. I know someone who owns a gallery in Boston. I trust Doug’s advice.”
    Slade looked thoughtful, then shook his head. “Thanks, but I think I’ll look into it myself.” He was used to doing things on his own, not relying on others. He’d check at the library and visit a couple of art galleries, learn what he needed to know somehow. At the window, he set down the tool kit and found a screwdriver.
    “Okay.” Briana watched him for a few minutes, then walked on past him. They’d be finished with this side shortly and ready to start prepping the back. She’d just moved beyond the shrubs when something caught her eye. There on the grass was a beach thong, size one, in seafoam green. Apparently, she’d overlooked it when she’d repacked the shed. As she bent to pick up the small, forlorn shoe that had belonged to her son, she felt a wrenching sob escape from deep within her.
    Dear God, not again.
How long before she could look at his things or say his name out loud without weeping?
    On the side of the house, Slade was climbing down the ladder when he heard an odd sound. Walking around back, he saw Briana standing with her eyes closed, clutching something in both hands. Recalling how she’d lost control yesterday, he debated about whether to get involved or give her privacy. Finally, he stepped closer. “Can I help?”
    “No. No one can help.” Slowly, her face pale, Briana straightened, remembering everything she’d been trying desperately to forget.
    “I have to go in,” she managed, then ran into the house, the screen door banging shut behind her.
    As Slade turned, he heard a muffled sound through the kitchen screen. Frowning, he ran a hand through his hair. Damn, but he wasn’t good at times like this. He hated seeing a woman cry. He moved closer to the house, trying to decide what to do. Coming to a decision, one he might regret, he discarded his good sense and walked in after her.
    She was leaning against the kitchen archway leading into the dining room, small and slender, looking for all the world as if