02_The Hero Next Door (7 page)

One corner of his mouth hitched up. “You’ll get through it.” He was tempted to lay his hand against the gentle sweep of her cheek in a gesture of reassurance—and caring. But there was no way he wanted to put the fragile connection they’d just established at risk. Instead, he checked his watch and eased away. “I need to get ready for work. And I’m serious about that.” He gestured to the slip of paper in her hand. “Call me if I can help.”

Lifting a hand in farewell, he retreated to the street for the short ride back to his cottage.

Minutes later, as he stashed his bike in Chester’s garage and headed down the flagstone path toward his front door, a light came on in Heather’s room. Tonight the shade was up, and as he caught a glimpse of her moving past the window, he was reminded of the night of the cat invasion, when she’d been only a shadowed silhouette, unreachable behind the closed shade.

Things had changed, thanks to the arrival of a nephew who’d disrupted her neat, orderly world and pushed her to seek input from a man she’d gone out of her way to avoid. And J.C. had mixed feelings about that.

On one hand, he was sorry for the stress it was causing her.

But on a selfish level, he was glad it had also prompted her to dismantle a few of the barriers around her heart.

The room was a pigsty.

Heather had waited until she heard Brian’s door open before heading upstairs to follow J.C.’s advice from last night and demonstrate some tough love. She hadn’t wanted to risk having the teen ignore her knock. This way, he’d find her waiting in the doorway when he returned from the bathroom.

But she hadn’t expected to find this…mess. The room was trashed. Literally. Trying to tamp down her anger, she scanned the candy wrappers, empty soda cans, dirty plates and glasses, crushed potato chips and the half-eaten piece of the chocolate cake he’d claimed he didn’t want but that had been disappearing from the kitchen in hefty chunks since his arrival.

Her lips setting into a grim line, she folded her arms across her chest, turned her back on the room and blocked the doorway.

One minute later, the bathroom door opened. Brian took three steps down the hall. Spotted her. Stopped.

“What’s going on?” He gave her a wary look.

“We need to talk.”

“About what?”

She jerked a finger over her shoulder. “About that disaster area, for one thing.”

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his baggy pants and glared at her. “I like it the way it is.”

“I don’t. And this is my house. So we’re going to talk about some ground rules. First, you’re going to clean up the room and keep it that way. Second, if you want to eat, you eat in the kitchen. Third, I don’t like freeloaders. Starting this afternoon, you’re going to help with cleanup after my tea guests leave. We’ll also build in some beach time and do other fun things, if you want to. The last part’s your choice. The first part isn’t.”

She saw the sudden stubborn jut of his jaw and braced herself. She’d expected him to balk—and she was prepared.

“What if I don’t want to do any of that?”

She closed the distance between them and folded her arms across her chest. “Then I am going to shadow you twenty-four-seven.”

His mouth dropped open. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. I’m going to stick so close to you that you won’t be able to breathe without smelling my shampoo.”

“You can’t do that. You have to run this tea place.”

“I have an assistant. And Edith will fill in for me if necessary.”

His eyes narrowed, assessing her. She didn’t blink—but she hoped he wouldn’t call her bluff. The truth was, she
did
have to run the tearoom. While she could get Edith to help out for a day or two if Brian balked and she had to actually implement her plan, she was counting on him getting so sick of her hovering that he’d fall in line within the first twenty-four hours.

When the rigid line of his shoulders eased a fraction, she knew she’d won.

“This stinks.”

“We’ve had that conversation before.” Relief coursed through
her, and she stepped aside, motioning him into the room. “Get started in here. And be downstairs at noon for lunch.”

He folded his arms across his chest and didn’t move.

Heather shrugged. “Start when you like. But I want this place cleaned up by the end of the day. The dust mop and vacuum are in the hall closet.”

With that, she walked down the hall and descended the steps, hoping she appeared strong and in control.

But on the inside she was a quivering mass of nerves.

Because if the tough love she’d just applied didn’t do the trick, she had no idea what to try next.

Eight hours later, Heather was feeling better about things. She’d heard the vacuum rev up around noon, and Brian had shown up for lunch. He hadn’t deigned to talk with her as he’d wolfed down a turkey sandwich, but he’d been there. The last tea guests had departed, and he’d come when she’d called him. Julie had had to dash off for a dentist appointment, so Heather had dispatched Brian to bus the remaining tables in the twin parlors.

As she wiped off the stainless-steel prep station in the middle of the kitchen, he pushed through the swinging door, carrying a tray with a dozen teacups and saucers on it.

“You can put that here, Brian.” She indicated the prep station and turned toward the sink.

Silence met her instruction, and she looked over her shoulder. As she watched, he held the tray out and very deliberately dropped it to the floor. The delicate teacups and saucers, each one of a kind from the collection she and her mother had amassed, shattered on the tile floor.

“Oops.” He gave her a defiant smirk.

Shock reverberated through Heather, followed by a shaft of pain. Closing the distance between them, she dropped to one knee, picked up one of the larger shards and cradled it in her
hand. It was the edge of the gilded scalloped cup given to her and her mother by one of their regular customers, an older woman who had become a close friend. Purchased for them in a tiny Cotswold antique store during a trip to England, it had been her way of saying thank-you for the many pleasant hours she’d spent at The Devon Rose. Every cup had a story like that, which Heather often told to her patrons as she served them.

Now a dozen of them were gone.

Tears blinded her, fueled by grief and anger. Such destructive behavior was outside her realm of experience.

“Go upstairs.” She choked out the words.

Silence.

“I said
go upstairs.
”

“Aunt Heather, I…”

She lifted her face, and Brian stopped speaking. For the first time since his arrival, he looked uncertain. And more like the little boy she’d once caught stealing a cookie ten minutes before dinner, after his mother had told him he couldn’t have one. Shamefaced. Guilty. Aware he’d stepped over the line.

But at the moment she didn’t care.

“Go upstairs.” Her voice shook.

After a brief hesitation, he did as she told him.

Heather didn’t know how long she knelt on the floor beside the shattered porcelain that represented so many memories. But when, at last, she rose, she marched over to the phone and punched in her sister’s number. She’d been afraid all along she’d find herself in over her head with the rebellious teen. And everything that had happened since he’d stepped off the plane had validated those fears. It was time to send him home. He was Susan’s problem, not hers.

Her sister answered on the second ring.

“Susan…it’s Heather.”

“Hi. Can you hold a minute?”

Susan didn’t give her sister a chance to reply. Instead,
Heather was treated to some odd thumping sounds as she waited for Susan to return to the phone.

Thirty seconds later, Susan’s frazzled voice came over the line. “Sorry about that. I just walked in, and I had to shut the door. You’re never going to believe what happened today.”

“Try me.” Her sister’s day couldn’t have been any worse than her own, Heather thought, tension continuing to coil in her stomach.

“For starters, I got handed a huge project at work this afternoon that will require lots of overtime. Klutz that I am, I also sprained my ankle last night and am now hobbling around on crutches. And I just found out that a bunch of the kids in the group Brian was hanging around with got busted for smoking marijuana last night. I am
so
glad he’s out of here for a while.”

At Susan’s download of information, Heather wavered. Especially after the last piece of news. Fortunately, Brian hadn’t yet gotten into any serious trouble. But if he’d been in that group last night…

“So how’s everything going out there?”

Heather drew a resigned breath. “It’s been a little rough. But I’m coping.”

“I’m sorry for putting you to all this inconvenience.” There was a hint of tears in Susan’s voice. “But he really is a good kid. This separation has torn him apart, and he’s taking it out on everybody. I’m hoping once he adjusts to the new reality, he’ll settle down. Keeping him in line in the meantime, though, has been a challenge. Is he around?”

“He went up to his room a little while ago.”

Susan sighed. “I doubt he wants to talk to me, anyway. But tell him I called, okay? And give him my love.”

“Sure. Take care of yourself, Susan. Put that foot up.”

“Yeah. That’s what the doctor said.” A disgusted sound came over the line. “I wonder if physicians know how unrealis
tic some of their advice is? Listen, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay? And call me if Brian gives you any real trouble.”

“Right. Take care, Susan.”

As Heather gave the end button a frustrated jab, she wondered how Susan defined the term
real trouble.
In light of the marijuana news, she doubted her sister would apply that term to broken teacups.

But Heather viewed the episode differently. By her definition, when it came to real trouble, Brian was up to his neck in it.

And she didn’t see how things could get any worse.

T
he money was gone.

Puzzled, Heather inspected the kitchen counter again. She was certain she’d left the eight twenty-dollar bills she’d gotten at the ATM this morning near the telephone. But they were nowhere in sight.

She searched her purse, on the off chance she’d tucked them in there during a distracted moment today. And there had been plenty of those, thanks to Brian.

Brian.

Heather closed her eyes. She didn’t want to believe her nephew had taken the money. Yet where else could it have gone?

He’d had the opportunity, too, when she’d gone to sit in her garden at twilight, hoping the peaceful ambiance would help calm her after the distressing incident with the teacups.

But after forty-five minutes, she’d given up. Even her garden hadn’t been able to soothe her. Nothing, she suspected, was going to restore order to her world except Brian’s departure. And that was still two and a half weeks away.

Since coming back inside, she’d focused on the only thing she seemed to control at the present—her kitchen. She’d reorganized her tea rack. Folded linen napkins into precise
squares. Shaved milk chocolate into curls to garnish the white-chocolate cheesecake squares that were on tomorrow’s menu. She hadn’t heard a peep out of Brian.

Now, at ten-thirty, he might be in bed. But she wouldn’t sleep a wink until she addressed the missing-money situation. Although she had no idea what she was supposed to do if he denied taking it.

Hoping inspiration would strike once she confronted him, Heather ascended the stairs and headed down the hall toward his closed door. She took a deep breath, lifted her hand and rapped on the wood.

“Brian…I need to talk to you.”

No response.

She wasn’t surprised.

Straightening her shoulders, she rapped again. “Brian, I’m coming in. We need to talk.”

Without waiting for permission, she opened the door and stepped into the room.

On a peripheral level, she was aware he’d cleaned things up. The bed had been made, the floors swept, the area rug vacuumed.

The problem was, it was too clean.

And Brian was nowhere in sight.

The bottom fell out of her stomach.

“Brian?”

Her raised voice echoed in the empty room. And reechoed in the hall, when she stepped out and tried again.

Returning to his room, she opened the closet.

His clothes had vanished.

And his suitcase and backpack were gone, too.

Her heart hammering, she ran down the steps and tried calling him again on the first floor, with the same results.

A quick tour of the yard produced nothing, either.

Doing her best to tamp down her rising panic, Heather tried to hold on to rational thought as she reached into the pocket
of her jeans for her car keys, already in a search mode. Where could he be? What should she do? Who should she call?

Her fingers encountered a slip of paper, and she pulled it out. A grocery receipt. J.C.’s—from the night he’d helped her fix her gate.

Turning it over, she found his cell number scribbled on the other side.

He’d said to phone him if anything came up with Brian, she recalled. Anytime.

Although his offer had touched her, she’d never intended to take him up on it. Each encounter with him exposed her heart to too much risk.

But he
was
a cop. And cops were good in emergencies.

Perhaps he wouldn’t apply that term to a runaway teen on quiet Nantucket Island.

But as far as Heather was concerned, it fit.

At the jarring ring of his cell phone, J.C. froze with his arm halfway into the sleeve of his uniform shirt. He was used to late calls in Chicago; being a detective was a 24/7 job. But since beginning his leave, there had been no reason for anyone to call him after ten.

Unless it was a family emergency.

Maybe Marci was in trouble.

Grabbing the phone, he punched the talk button. “Yes?”

“J.C.?”

It wasn’t Marci.

“Heather?” He thought it was her, but the voice was so tentative and shaky, he wasn’t certain.

“Yes. Listen, I’m sorry to disturb you this late. But Brian is missing.”

He pushed his arm through the sleeve. “What do you mean by missing?”

“He’s not in the house. His clothes are gone. And the
money I got out of the ATM this morning isn’t where I left it on the counter.” Her voice hitched on the last word.

J.C. put the phone on speaker and set it on the dresser as he shrugged his shirt into position and rapidly buttoned it. “Okay, we’ll get this figured out. Do you have any idea why he left?”

“Yes. I tried the tough-love approach this morning. It didn’t go over well.”

As she went on to describe what had happened—including the dropped-tray incident—the creases in J.C.’s brow deepened. The strict tactic hadn’t worked with Nathan, either. You’d think he’d have learned to keep his mouth shut when it came to advice for teens, he thought in disgust.

“When did you last see him?” The question came out clipped as he slung his equipment belt around his waist and buckled it.

“I heard him upstairs at about quarter to nine, right before I went out in the garden.”

“What was he wearing?” As he asked the question, J.C. pulled out his notebook.

“Last time I saw him, he had on oversize beige cargo pants, a red St. Louis Cardinals sweatshirt and sport shoes.”

“What does he look like?”

“My height, wheat-colored hair, blue eyes, thin.”

“Okay.” He finished writing. “That’s good enough for now. I’m on nights this week, and I’ll head in a little early. I’ll also call in his description so the officers on duty can keep an eye out for him.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Stick close to home, in case he comes back or calls. A lot of times kids do.”

But not always, J.C. acknowledged. Nathan had sometimes disappeared for days at a time. J.C. had lost count of the number of nights he’d spent on the street when he should have been studying, combing the neighborhood in the wee hours of the morning for his kid brother.

In general, all he’d gotten for his efforts had been a bad case of exhaustion. Nathan had learned early on how to disappear.

Brian, on the other hand, was new to this game. And there were far fewer places to hide on Nantucket than there had been in the rough Chicago neighborhood filled with dark alleys that J.C. and his siblings had called home. Besides, this was an island. He could only go so far.

Unless…

“I can’t just sit around, J.C.”

Heather’s agitated protest interrupted his thoughts.

“I know it’s hard. But give it a few hours, okay? If he doesn’t show up, we’ll adjust the plan.”

Silence met his suggestion. Followed by a sigh of capitulation.

“Okay. But will you keep me updated?”

“Absolutely.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to tell Susan. She trusted me with him, and I’ve let her down.”

J.C. knew exactly how Heather felt. He’d been there with both his siblings. And it wasn’t a good place.

“This isn’t your fault, Heather. You didn’t ask for the responsibility, and you dealt with a bad situation in the best way you knew how. Don’t blame yourself.”

A couple of beats of silence passed, and when she responded, her gentle tone took him off guard. “You know, that sounds like the kind of reassurance an eighteen-year-old student I heard about yesterday could have used a long time ago. And maybe still needs to hear.”

At her kindness and empathy even in the midst of her own crisis, a long-cold place in J.C.’s heart suddenly warmed, as if touched by a ray of sun peeking through the clouds on a chilly, overcast day.

“Thanks.” The word came out scratchy, and he cleared his throat. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

Ending the call, he phoned the station with Brian’s description and retrieved his bike from the garage. He didn’t have to report for duty for an hour, and he had an idea he wanted to check out first. A thirteen-year-old was savvy enough to know it wouldn’t be easy to vanish in a place the size of Nantucket. If he really wanted to disappear, Brian would have to find a way to leave the island. And flying wouldn’t be an option. It was too expensive, and too easy to track.

That left the ferry. The last one pulled out at ten o’clock, and J.C. doubted Brian would have found his way to the dock in time to catch it, given his unfamiliarity with the town. But he might stick close to the wharf and try to catch one of the early morning boats, hoping that Heather wouldn’t even have missed him by then.

Pedaling along mist-shrouded Centre Street, his bike tires humming on the pavement, J.C. knew his theory could be off base. He’d guessed wrong plenty of times with Nathan. But if he was a thirteen-year-old kid wanting to disappear, he’d be hiding out near one of the two ferry wharfs.

The streetlights, hazy orbs in the darkness, provided more atmosphere than illumination as he approached Steamboat Wharf, deserted at this hour on a Wednesday night. Fog was beginning to roll in, giving the scene an eerie feel. He’d start here, where the car ferry docked. If he didn’t have any luck, he’d check in at the station, then nose around the day ferry pier.

Propping his bike beside a shuttered souvenir stand, J.C. set off along the wharf, searching the shadows for a rebellious kid who didn’t want to be found.

Just as he’d so often done in vain for his brother.

Hoping tonight he’d have better luck.

She was going stir crazy.

Pacing around the kitchen of The Devon Rose, Heather was sorry she’d agreed to wait at home on the off chance Brian
might return. She’d seen his defiant expression. Felt his hostility and anger.

He wasn’t coming back on his own.

And she couldn’t sit around for another two hours, doing nothing.

Grabbing her keys and purse off the counter, she swung toward the door. But as she reached for the knob, the phone rang.

A surge of adrenaline shot through her, and she dashed for the phone, yanking it out of its holder.

“Yes?”

“Heather, it’s J.C. I found him.”

Every muscle in her body went limp, and she clutched the edge of the counter. “Is he all right?”

“Yes. He’s huddled behind a Dumpster near the Hy-Line Cruises office. How do you want to handle this? He hasn’t seen me.”

“I’ll come down. From what Susan’s said, I don’t think he’s favorably inclined toward the police. It might be better if I’m the one who confronts him.”

“Okay. I’ll stick close until you get here. Why don’t you park near my bike, at the entrance to Straight Wharf, and walk down? I’ll watch for you.”

“I’ll be there in less than ten minutes.”

As Heather dashed for her garage, then maneuvered her car through the great, gray, billowing waves of fog swirling through the narrow streets, she had no idea what she was going to say to Brian. Nothing she’d tried had made any impact. She doubted inspiration would strike this time when they were face-to-face.

But she could hope.

Parking beside J.C.’s bike, Heather plunged into the mist—and immediately realized she should have put on a slicker. Already dampness was seeping through the cotton of her shirt and jeans, sending a shiver rippling through her. By the time she got home, she’d be…

“Heather…”

The soft voice came from behind her, and she whirled around. “J.C.! Sorry. I must have walked right past you.”

“You were moving at a pretty good clip. Brian’s up ahead.” He gestured in the direction of the ferry office and fell into step beside her.

Another shiver coursed through her. This one due more to dread at the coming encounter than to air temperature.

“Cold?”

The man didn’t miss a thing.

“Yes. Not to mention nervous.” She shook her head. “I’m striking out left and right with my nephew. And I’m running out of ideas.”

He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. “You could send him home.”

As warmth—and the scent that was all J.C.—seeped into her pores and invaded her senses, she lost her train of thought and her step faltered. “I can’t…” The words rasped, and she stopped. Cleared her throat. Tried again. “I can’t take your jacket.”

The protest came out halfhearted, and she knew it. Based on the quick grin he flashed her, J.C. did, too. Putting his hand on the small of her back, he urged her forward.

“Too late. So why don’t you send him home if he’s becoming unmanageable?”

Heather bit back another protest about the jacket. She doubted it would do any good. Besides, wearing it made her feel safe. Protected. As did J.C.’s firm, steady hand at her back. An illusion, she knew. But she needed all the bolstering she could get.

“I was going to. I even called Susan to tell her that. In the end, though, I couldn’t.” She explained why.

“I see your problem.” Creases appeared on J.C.’s brow. “If the group he’s hanging around with is starting to dabble in drugs, he’s on dangerous ground.” He stopped and gestured
toward the side of the ticket office. “He’s at the rear. I’ll stay close but out of sight while you talk to him.”

Psyching herself up for the coming exchange, she nodded and stepped forward.

Her soft-soled shoes were noiseless on the pavement, giving Heather a chance to observe Brian without being noticed as she drew close. He was sitting on the concrete, his back against the wall of the building, arms wrapped around his drawn-up legs, chin resting on his knees. He’d put on a hooded jacket and pulled his backpack and suitcase close beside him.

Gone was the defiant glare. Gone was the palpable anger. Gone was the bravado. His shoulders were slumped, and he looked scared. And much more like the little boy she’d once known, who had loved to tag along with his aunt during family visits.

Her hope soared. Perhaps she’d be able to reach him after all.

Crossing her fingers, she stepped into his line of sight.

“Hi, Brian.”

His head jerked toward her, and an instant later he sprang to his feet, his body rigid as he glared at her. “How did you find me?”