02_The Hero Next Door Read online

  “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?”

  Her hope plummeted. In the space of a few heartbeats, the rebellious teen had returned.

  “You can’t run away, Brian.” She avoided his question. “You’re only thirteen.”

  “Right. I’m still a kid. I don’t get any say in what happens in my life.” Bitterness and frustration twisted his features. “Well, you know what? I’m tired of people telling me what to do. Watching over my shoulder. First mom, now you. Why can’t everyone just leave me alone?”

  His voice broke on the last word, and Heather felt the pressure of tears in her throat as he shifted away from her and dipped his head, his bangs falling into his eyes. She knew what it felt like to have your world turned upside down. To feel adrift. She’d reacted differently than Brian when her parents separated, coped in a different way. But the driving emotion behind her behavior had been the same.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Brian. I know how hard it is to…”

  “You don’t know anything about what my life is like! Neither does Mom. Or that dumb counselor at school she made me talk to!”

  His words came out muffled and choked. Heather stepped closer, her heart aching. “Please, Brian, don’t shut us out. We all want what’s best for you. Getting involved with the wrong crowd can have repercussions that last a lifetime.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Why don’t you let…”

  Swinging toward her, Brian shook off her touch. “Just leave me alone!”

  Then he shoved her away.

  Hard.

  Caught off guard, Heather stumbled back a step. Her heel snagged on an uneven piece of concrete, and she struggled to maintain her balance as J.C.’s jacket slipped off her shoulders. Failing, she braced for the impact.

  Instead of a hard landing on the unforgiving concrete, however, she found herself caught in a pair of strong arms and supported against a solid chest, the rapid thud of a heart pounding beneath her ear.

  “Are you okay?”

  As the husky words registered, she managed a shaky nod. “Yes.”

  J.C. settled her on her feet and gave her a quick inspection, then turned his attention to the teen standing a few feet away. Putting himself between Heather and her nephew, he planted his fists on his hips as he assessed the boy.

  Though he was two years younger than Nathan had been when J.C. inherited responsibility for his younger brother, Brian exuded the same explosive anger. The same sense that the world hadn’t treated him fairly. The same sullen attitude.

  But this kid’s veneer of defiance hadn’t yet hardened into an impenetrable mask, as Nathan’s had. J.C. could tell that by the slight quiver at the corners of his mouth. By the way he shoved his hands into his pockets and adopted a closed-in, protective posture. By the fear in his eyes.

  Brian knew he was on dangerous ground. And he cared.

  Nathan never had.

  That was in this kid’s favor. But no way did J.C. intend to let him off easy for shoving Heather. Brian might be only thirteen, but he was as tall as his aunt. Capable of hurting her.

  That thought made J.C.’s blood run cold.

  Moving in on the teen, he pinned him with a steely stare and planted his fists on his hips. Brian edged away until his back was up against the wall.

  Invading his personal space, J.C. got close enough to smell his fear. “Let’s get one thing straight, Brian. You never use physical force against another person no matter how angry you are—unless they’re attacking you. Got it?”

  When he didn’t respond, J.C. braced his hands on the wall on either side of Brian’s head and leaned even closer to his face. “Got it?”

  Brian blinked. Swallowed. “Yeah.” J.C. held his position for a full ten seconds, then eased back slightly and folded his arms across his chest. “Now let me tell you why running away is a bad idea. Most of the time, I work in Chicago. In the back alleys, where runaways often end up. They sleep near Dumpsters, like you were going to do tonight. Or in cardboard sheds under bridges, down by the river. To survive, they end up doing things that aren’t pretty. They get on the bad side of the law. They get hooked on drugs. A lot of them end up in prison…or dead. Sometimes the ones in prison wish they were dead.”

  He let that sink in for a minute, making sure Brian was listening. “A lot of those runaways don’t have people who care about them. That’s a tragedy, and I feel sorry for them. I don’t feel sorry for you. So your parents split. There are worse things in life. Your mom and dad are still around, and they love you. Your aunt disrupted her own life to take you in after things got rough at home—because she cares. You’re old enough to appreciate that kind of love and support. I suggest you start.”

  After several seconds, J.C. moved out of the kid’s personal space and checked on Heather. She stood a few feet away, her arms wrapped around her body, the mist obscuring the nuances of her features. But he could tell she was shaking.

  Retrieving his jacket from the ground, he moved beside her and draped it around her shoulders again, keeping his back to Brian.

  “Are you okay taking him home?” He kept his volume low as he studied her. He didn’t like the idea of her alone in the house with the angry kid behind him. Yet there wasn’t a good alternative, short of putting Brian in the station’s juvenile cell for the night. But that would involve legalities, wh
ich he suspected Heather wouldn’t want to pursue.

  “Yes.”

  He gave her an intent look. “I want you to promise you’ll call me if you have any concern about your safety.”

  Shock parted her lips. “Brian wouldn’t hurt me, J.C.”

  “He almost did tonight.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Anger can be very dangerous.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I still want you to promise you’ll call if anything raises an alarm.”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth and gave a slow nod. “Okay.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car.” Stepping aside, he spoke to Brian as he picked up the teen’s suitcase. “Let’s go.”

  Brian reached for his backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and gave a wide berth to the two adults as he trudged toward the front of the building, his shoulders slumping.

  Heather followed, and J.C. kept pace beside her during the silent walk through the fog to the end of the wharf.

  When they reached her car, she opened the trunk. Brian dumped his backpack inside and moved toward the front passenger door as J.C. added the suitcase and closed the lid.

  After shrugging out of his jacket, Heather held it out. “Thank you for everything tonight.”

  Her voice was soft. So were her eyes, he noted, as he took the jacket. Her cold fingers brushed his, and the temptation to pull her close and wrap her in his arms, to keep her safe and warm, was strong. Very strong.

  Instead, he took her hand and gave it a quick encouraging squeeze. “I wish I could do more.” He checked on Brian, who was slouched in the front seat, and tried to focus on the problem at hand instead of the appealing woman a whisper away. “He’s got some major attitude issues.”

  “I know. But he used to be a good kid. Susan says he still was up until the split a few months ago. Maybe time will fix the problem.”

  “If he doesn’t get into serious trouble first.”

  “I’m hoping that for tonight he’ll be too tired to do anything but sleep. I know I will be.” She checked her watch and shook her head. “This is way past my bedtime.”

  “Will you be okay driving home in the fog?”

  “I’m used to this weather. And I don’t have far to go. Good night, J.C.”

  “Good night.”

  She slid into the driver’s seat, and he shut the door behind her, backing up as she turned the key and put the car in gear. With a weary smile and wave, she drove into the night.

  J.C. watched until the fog swallowed the taillights. Then he headed for his bike. Even though it was the first day of summer, the night was chilly, and the mist was seeping into his shirt.

  As he approached his bike, he slid his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. It was still warm, and a faint sweet scent clung to it. Heather’s scent. Lifting the collar, he tipped his head and inhaled. How odd that a fragrance could somehow ease the soul-deep loneliness that he’d come to accept as his destiny.

  He could get used to having that scent—and the woman it belonged to—in his life, he realized.

  But while Heather might be more approachable now than she’d been at their first meeting in the tearoom, and while he no longer thought of her as out of his league, one big stumbling block still stood in the path to any kind of relationship.

  He was going to be around for only nine more weeks. And Heather’s life was here, on Nantucket.

  If there was any kind of future for the two of them, it was as obscure as the buildings along Main Street on this fog-shrouded night, J.C. mused as he took the cobblestones slow and easy. Only one person had a clear vision of his future, and He hadn’t yet shared it with J.C.

  But as he pedaled through the dark Nantucket streets in the still, empty hours after midnight when he always felt most alone, J.C. couldn’t help wishing his tomorrows would include a lovely tearoom owner.

  Chapter Eight

  At eight-thirty the next morning, as J.C. turned onto Lighthouse Lane after finishing his night shift, Heather was just coming through her garden gate, a bouquet in hand.

  Her jeans were damp at the knees, and there was a streak of dirt on her cheek. In the background, he caught a glimpse of a shovel leaning against a tree, a pair of garden gloves on the ground beside it.

  Gliding to a stop beside her, he noted the shadows under her eyes and the tautness in her features. Souvenirs of last night—or indications of more trouble?

  “Good morning.” He balanced himself with one foot on the ground. “I thought you’d sleep in.”

  “I wish.” She shook her head ruefully. “But I did manage to get about six hours.”

  “Any more problems?”

  “No. I haven’t seen Brian yet this morning. I thought I’d do a little gardening while I planned my strategy. I got rid of the weeds, but unfortunately a strategy eluded me.”

  “Did he say anything last night, on the way home?”

  “One sentence. ‘I can’t believe you called the cops.’” She shook her head. “I tried to explain that you were a neighbor, but he just turned away. I did ask about the missing money, and he handed it over. But he went straight to his room as soon we got back.” She fingered the delicate petal of a yellow daylily and sighed.

  J.C. wished he could offer her some guidance. But so far, his advice had done more harm than good.

  “I’m sorry you have to deal with this, Heather. Reaching a kid with that much anger inside isn’t easy.”

  “The thing is, I know how he feels.” She touched the tip of a delicate, lacy fern. “When my parents split, it turned my life upside down, too. Everything in my safe, predictable little world changed. My life was spinning out of control, and I felt powerless. Brian’s taking his frustration and anger and fear out on everyone and everything. I took mine out on the cause of the problem—my dad.”

  “Do you think he should do the same thing?”

  Heather’s features hardened. “Maybe. This is Peter’s fault. He cheated on my sister. Multiple times. There was no trust left in that relationship by the time they separated.”

  “Does Brian know that?”

  “Susan said she talked to him about it. But he doesn’t care about the reasons for the split. He just wants things back the way they were. Like I did.”

  “Maybe it would help if you shared some of your own background with him.”

  She pursed her lips, and her expression grew thoughtful. “The empathetic approach. Do you think that might work?”

  He gave a slight shrug and shook his head. “I haven’t a clue. Empathy wasn’t a tool I used with my siblings. Back in those days, I was living with perennial sleep deprivation while trying to cope with school, work and keeping tabs on Marci and Nathan. I didn’t have much time or patience for psychological techniques—or tolerance for disruptive behavior, whatever the cause.”

  “Well, I think it’s worth a try. Things can’t get any worse than they are now.”

  That wasn’t true, but J.C. saw no reason to add to her stress by voicing that thought.

  “Listen…thanks again for all you did last night.”

  “No problem.” He gestured toward the flowers. “Nice bouquet.”

  She smiled down at the colorful blossoms. “Nothing beats fresh flowers to brighten a day. I’m taking these over to Kate. She’s laid up with a bad summer cold. See you later.” Lifting her hand, she set off down the walk, toward her neighbor’s house.

  As he watched her, the rising sun peeked through the trees ahead, gilding her hair and bathing her slender form in a golden light. She was a beautiful woman, J.C. thought. Inside and out. Once again, despite her own problems, she was putting someone else first. Doing her best to offer some cheer to a person in need of a little pick-me-up.

  A rush of tenderness washed over him, smoothing the blemishes from his soul much as the rising tide sweeps over the sand, removing debris and leaving a clean, fresh expanse in its wake.

  And as he pushed off and pedaled toward his
own tiny cottage to get some much-needed shut-eye after his busy night, he found himself hoping a certain tearoom owner would play a starring role in his dreams.

  An hour later, holding a tray containing five fresh-baked blueberry muffins and two glasses of milk, Heather ascended the stairs to the second floor. If she was the praying type, she’d send a plea heavenward about now.

  But in light of what had happened after her last informal request to the Almighty, she refrained.

  Pausing outside Brian’s door, she balanced the tray in one hand and knocked.

  No response.

  She knew he was in there, because she’d heard him moving around a few minutes earlier. She rapped again. “I’m coming in, Brian.”

  Twisting the knob, she gave the door a gentle push, waiting on the threshold as it swung open.

  The teen was stretched out on top of the comforter, still dressed in the cargo pants and sweatshirt from the night before. He’d kicked off his shoes, and they lay beside the packed suitcase at the foot of the bed. He didn’t look her way.

  Please, God, help me find the words that will reach him!

  The supplication echoed in her mind before she could snatch it back. Not that it mattered. God had probably tuned her out by now, anyway.

  Stepping into the room, she set the tray on top of the dresser across from the foot of the bed. After putting a muffin she didn’t want on a plate, she picked up a glass of milk and sat in the upholstered chair beside the door. From there she had a good view of Brian’s stony profile.

  “Help yourself to a muffin. They just came out of the oven.”

  He didn’t respond as she put her milk on the small skirted table beside her.

  A full minute ticked by in silence.

  Finally, willing her voice to remain steady, she followed her instincts and went with the direct approach. “You know, I thought you were growing up. But refusing to talk to someone is pretty immature.”

  He didn’t move a muscle as she broke off a piece of muffin. Put it in her mouth. Chewed.