Bree had noticed that as the afternoon wore on and Craig spent more time with her mother, he had

loosened up, and in no time the two of them were chatting and joking like old friends. Apparently they had more in common than she imagined.

"That's right," muttered Sloan. "I can't believe I forgot."

"You're not exactly the most thoughtful person in the world," chided Craig.

"Do you see me arguing?" Sloan shrugged. "But how about I make it up to you by buying you a latte at

the cafe?" "Thanks, but...I'd kind of like to go for a walk on the beach." He pulled his teeth over his lower lip. "Alone, if you don't mind." "Sure," said Sloan. "Maybe I could take a nap. I still haven't completely shaken my hangover from last night." Bree perked up. This was exactly the opportunity she'd been waiting for. "Oh, come on, Sloan. Don't be such a wuss. This would be a perfect opportunity for me to show you my shop." To her surprise, Sloan didn't hesitate. "All right. Sleep is overrated, anyway."

Twenty minutes later Craig was splashing barefoot along the beach, and Bree was leading Sloan through a detailed tour of her inventory. Luckily business was slow, so there were no patrons to distract them. Bree had dismissed her assistant and surreptitiously flipped the sign over to "Closed". She didn't want to be interrupted.

Bree studied Sloan as his eyes scanned her shop.

"You've got some great stuff here, Chicky-Bree," said Sloan as he took in the shelves and displays. "You might actually make it on Rodeo Drive."

"Right," she snorted, hesitant to admit how much his praise meant to her.

"No. Really. These prices seem pretty in line with the clientele here, but you could charge triple in LA."

"I have no interest in moving to LA," she said tightly. "This is my home. Unlike some, I like it here."

"Sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. It was just an observation." He sighed as he picked up a decorative bowl in a vibrant blue glaze with gold edging. It was one of hers. "Does this really have to be so hard? Can't we get past the resentment and just get to know each other again?"

Bree's irritation fizzled. "No, I'm sorry. I'm just always a bit on edge after seeing Mom."

"She looks pretty good," said Sloan.

"No, she doesn't. And she'd laugh if she heard you say that."

He set down the pot. "You're right. She looks terrible. I guess I just don't know what to say."

"She's dying, Sloan. And there's absolutely nothing I can do about it."

"No," he said, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. "I suppose not. But at least she'll die knowing that you love her. That's a lot."

"Yes. But it's not enough."

He looked at her and frowned. "Maybe not, but it's all you've got. There's not much else you can do besides be there. And you should be grateful for the opportunity to show her that you care. Not everybody..." His voice faded off, and Bree knew he was thinking of his father.

"That's not what I mean. There is something concrete I can do for her. And I intend to do everything in my power in order to accomplish it."

Sloan sat down on a small bench beside the counter. "What do you mean?"

She proceeded with the speech she'd rehearsed over and over in her mind for months. "My mother has lost a lot of things that are dear to her. She lost her husband. She lost her best friend. She lost her health. And she lost something else that was extremely precious to her."

Sloan eyed her suspiciously. "And what would that be?"

"The series of jars my father crafted just before he died. The jars themselves weren't that remarkable, but the glazing and the art that decorated them were some of his best work." She waited a heartbeat before adding, "And they were his last. They were a piece of him and they should have stayed in the family-something for his wife and daughter to cherish and remember him by. But they were stolen from us." She swallowed and speared him with her eyes. "And I blame you."

Perhaps that was overstating it, but she needed to shock him. She needed to get his attention and impress upon him how serious she was about this. It seemed to work.

His eyes flew wide. "What? What the hell do I have to do with this?"

"You don't even remember, do you?"

"Remember what? I vaguely remember those pieces, but I certainly didn't steal them from anybody."

"They had gone to the Elliotts for auction. They refused to return them, saying they had a contract that guaranteed their access to all of my father's work. They already had the pieces in their possession when he died, so I had to resort to legal maneuvering to keep them from being sold." She pointed a finger at him. "You were helping me. You had promised to contact a lawyer and look into our options. I left it in your hands since I was quite occupied with Daddy's funeral and then looking after Mom and his estate."

Sloan was gradually going pale as she reminded him of things he had obviously forgotten. But he had yet to utter a word.

"I trusted you, Sloan. I had no reason to doubt that you would follow through on it. You gave me your word. And then, the next thing I know, you're gone. No lawyer was ever contacted. And the pieces were auctioned two days after you left. I had no time to do anything."

Sloan's Adam's apple bobbed slowly. "Shit."

"I know you said you were in turmoil at the time, but that's no excuse. You could have told me you had too much on your plate, or that you just couldn't handle it. You could have done-I don't know-something!"

"Shit." His head sank into his hands. "You're right. God, I'm sorry. But with everything that was going on..." He shrugged helplessly. "It completely slipped my mind."

"It wouldn't matter so much, except that he kept back so few pieces for our enjoyment, and those were special. And now with Mom dying..." She sat down beside him and rested her hands on her knees. "I want them back. I want her to hold them in her hands before she dies. And I want them on my mantel after she's gone. They're all I have left of my father. They're all I have left of us and what we shared. And I won't take no for an answer."

He looked at her sharply. "What are you implying?"

Again she continued as if she hadn't heard him. "I tried for years to locate the buyers. I pleaded with the Elliotts to let me see their records so I could contact these people and try to buy them back. But they were adamant. Their records are extremely confidential. Some of these collectors are extremely wealthy and reclusive. Many of them don't even show up for the auctions. They do everything by proxy. Many don't want their names leaked, and nothing short of a court order would persuade the Elliotts to open their records."

He just kept staring at her.

"You owe me this, Sloan. If not for you I would have had them in my possession for years."

"You don't know that. Your father signed a contract, and getting them back was dicey, even then. Now tell me what the hell you're thinking."

She took a deep breath and blurted it out. "I want you to break into their files and find that name for me. It's only one name. I know they were sold as a set because Troy attended the auction. And then, depending on whether the person is amenable to selling, I want you to steal them for me." Well, she had said it. There was no going back now.

But he just kept staring at her and something indefinable passed across his features before he finally whispered, "You're kidding, right? This is all part of the big joke on old Sloan. Lure him home, humiliate him at a bogus party, and then scare the shit out of him with a completely insane proposal like this one."

"It's not a joke. I'm absolutely serious. And it's not insane. I've thought it out. I know exactly where they keep those files. And we both know you can do it."

The color fled his face and his entire body vibrated with emotion, whether it was rage or fear she couldn't say. But honestly, she didn't care. He owed her this. Goddammit, she had loved him-more than she had ever loved anyone-and he had betrayed her and left her high and dry. He deserved to suffer a little bit for all that. And the jars would be the icing on the cake.

"What?" he breathed. "What the hell would make you say that?"

She allowed herself a nervous chuckle. "Oh, come on, Sloan. Is your memory really so short?"

"Y-you mean those dares we used to do?" He licked his lips. "Those were just juvenile pranks. This is a felony we're talking about!"

"I hate to burst your bubble, Mister Model Citizen, but those juvenile pranks to which you so casually refer, were nothing short of breaking and entering."

"We never stole so much as a nickel."

"True. Your motives were much more noble. You kissed unsuspecting girls while they slept, and put itching powder in people's underwear."

Sloan dropped his gaze to the floor, and clasped his hands tightly in front of him. Bree wasn't sure, but she thought maybe they were shaking.

"That underwear thing we did once, and it was all Franki's idea. She wanted to get back at that guy for dumping her." He sounded a little like a surly teen who was about to lose his privileges to the family car.

"I know that. God, Sloan, you act as if I'm accusing you of something. I'm just as guilty as you and Troy."

The boys had been the perpetrators. They had picked locks and slipped in through open windows. They had done their dirty deeds, the likes of which included hiding car keys and rearranging refrigerators, along with the girl-kissing thing. Bree and Franki had been the lookouts, and had driven the getaway car when their nefarious accomplices had completed their mission of the evening. They had all sweated bullets during the raid and then laughed like lunatics when they were all safely huddled on a beach around a raging bonfire. They had toasted their incredible nerve and bravery with cheap beer, and a few hits from a shared joint. They were so cool, they made dry ice look hot.

God, were all teenagers that stupid?

"I'm merely reminding you of the facts," she continued. "And there's another fact that is indisputable."

He cast her a nervous glance. "What's that?"

"You and Troy did it together, but there was no denying you were the more talented burglar."

He winced at the term, and she felt oddly guilty. But she refused to give in to the urge to go easy on him.

"You were good, Sloan. Damn good. I couldn't believe the stunts you pulled off. And you were our leader. Back then none of us would have admitted it, but it's the truth. You masterminded everything, and you were the one who got the biggest kick out of it all. And not only could I not ask Troy to break into his own parents' things, but I wanted the best. And that's why I brought you here." Was it? she suddenly asked herself. Was that the only reason she wanted him back? Suddenly, with him sitting here, so close and warm, her skin prickled at the memories. Memories of warm hands and gentle sighs. No one else had made her feel that way-ever.

So, were her motives really so unselfish? Or had she come up with the plan merely as an excuse-a ruse to lure him back to Bay's Haven, and back into her life.

Sloan vaulted from the bench and whirled on her. "So that's what this is all about? This is why you staged this whole thing?"

She nodded.

"Christ!" He took a step back as if she had hit him with a sucker punch. "Do you know how insane this is? I did that stuff when I was young and stupid. I did it because I was looking for a cheap thrill, and it suited the purpose. I've gotten beyond that, and I have no interest in serving jail time so you can have a few pieces of clay on your mantel!"

"Bullshit! You say you're done looking for thrills? That's a crock and you know it. Craig even complained about your constant quest for new adventures. You're always looking for something a little more dangerous, a little more exciting than your last exploit." She stood and pointed a finger at him. "And you won't get caught. You're too good. You must have hit twenty houses when we were nineteen, and no one ever came close to even suspecting you had been there. If you do this right, the Elliotts will never even know you've tampered with their files. You find the right one, write down a name and address and that's it. You're out of there, and no one is the wiser."

He licked his lips. "But then you want me to steal these things! What about that?"

"Hopefully it won't come to that. I'm willing to purchase them all square and legal. I'll mortgage the house if I have to. But if these people refuse, or even if they hedge or stall me, I won't stand for it. I have to have those things within the next few months. I have to have them before..." To her horror she found that she was battling tears.

"Before Lydia dies," he finished for her.

"Yes." She wiped impatiently at her eyes. "You saw her today. You saw how weak and fragile she is."

"That's why you waited to ask me until I'd seen her. To get in the pity factor."

She tensed. "I don't want anybody's pity, and neither does she. I just wanted you to see her, so you would know how earnest I am about this." She hugged herself against the iciness in his stare. "We just want what's rightfully ours."

"That's debatable," he whispered.

"You don't know how much she loved him. They were so devoted to each other." She sank back onto the bench, and gazed at her right hand where her father's wedding band glowed warm and bright. "To have him ripped away so suddenly like that..." A hairpin turn on rain-slicked road had claimed Russell Hampstead's life. It had been snuffed out in a nanosecond of poor judgment and worse luck. His body had shattered like a piece of clay hitting concrete. And no amount of glue could put it back together.

"I know," he said quietly as he settled back down beside her on the bench. "God, don't you think I know?"

"And now I'm going to lose her too." Her voice cracked. "At least you still have your mother. Or at least you could if you were willing to make the first step toward reconciliation." She laid her hand on his. They were so close, and yet at that moment she missed him more than she had in the eight years since he left. "That's something else I wanted to urge you to do, Sloan. Don't throw that away. No matter how much it hurts to face her, it will hurt more to lose her and know that you could have told her you loved her one more time."

He was silent, and though he didn't pull his hand from hers, his eyes were turned away. She took a chance and reached up to touch his chin, already stubbled with the day's growth of beard. She tugged his face toward her, and was amazed to see a few unshed tears shimmering in those deep blue eyes.

"Please, Sloan. We were such good friends once. We loved each other. Even if you were conflicted about your sexuality, you can't deny that I meant something to you. Can you do this for me?"

He swallowed. "I...I don't know."

"At least think about it?"

"It's a lot to ask, but..." He sighed. "I'll think about it."

She planted a soft kiss on his cheek, whispered against his skin. "That's good enough. For now...that's all I can ask."

Craig tipped back the bottle of Cuervo Gold that he'd found in the tiny bar fridge. He drained the last of the tequila and lamented the lack of a worm.

He stood at the window and gazed out over the shimmering silver-dollar leaves of a birch tree. He could just make out a few whitecaps in the distance.

The walk on the beach had been therapeutic. He had allowed himself to remember those few treasured moments amidst the searing hot sand and gentle waves that lapped at the New Jersey Shore.

At least twice each summer he and his grandmother had made the four-hour trek to their special oceanside hideaway. That had been their special time-their time away from the hustle and bustle of the busy New York streets and the crazy comings and goings of the family's East Side delicatessen. There they had spent their time building whimsical sandcastles and discussing his school writing assignments, or ideas for the stories that he had to write just because he'd just as soon write as breathe. His grandmother had listened and encouraged...and understood.

Her joy and vitality had coaxed a shy and uncertain Craig out of his stories and multi-faceted imaginary worlds, into the bright sunshine and vivid possibilities of the real world.

Her death had been devastating. He had gotten over the pain of that loss, but his placid nature continued to long for that kind of raw enthusiasm and unrepentant independence. He had found that in Sloan.

Sloan Carver lived life to the fullest, treating every day as if it might be his last. He did as he pleased and seldom gave a flying fig as to what anyone thought of him. Craig fed off that. He found strength and inspiration in his partner, and he suspected Sloan found stability and balance in him.

He dropped the empty tequila bottle in the waste can, and was startled by a knock on the door. He knew Sloan had his key, so it couldn't be him.

Puzzled and curious he opened the door, and stared in shock.

"Craig!" said Franki through a crimson smile. "Fancy meeting you here."

She had changed her clothes since the hospital. His eyes roamed from bare shoulders over a second-skin halter top in a vivid Caribbean blue. Denim shorts topped a set of legs that should have been illegal in all fifty states. There his eyes lingered. "Uh...yeah."

She tapped his shoulder. "Up here."

He managed to drag his eyes up to meet hers. "Oh. Sorry."

Her lips twitched but she didn't quite smile. "Is Sloan here?"