The Stolen Canvas by Marlene Chase Page A

and headed down the beach. It was a spectacular Maine afternoon. The sand was warm beneath his feet, and a soft breeze cooled his face. The tourist season was in full swing, but most people had left the beach area and had gone in search of supper. Wally liked this time of day when a man could be alone with his thoughts. It was quiet and peaceful as he walked toward town.
    “Hey mister, can you spare a dime?”
    He hadn’t heard anyone behind him. The out-of-the-past cliché was odd, but there was something familiar about the question—as familiar as the voice, rich and deep with a slight twang. Wally whirled around.
    The man behind him was sturdily built, well-tailored clothing belying any need for a handout. He was wearing sharply pressed slacks and a pale blue shirt under a nicely cut jacket. The worn loafers he wore fell a bit short of the overall well-groomed look; maybe he just preferred the comfort of old shoes. He was older and heavier, his dark hair tinged with silver, but the ironic grin and laughing eyes had not changed.
    “Jem?” he croaked, grabbing the extended hand with both of his. “Is that really you, man?”
    “It’s me, but call me J.C. More sophisticated for a man in my position, eh?”
    Wally swallowed hard, trying to take in the changes in his brother. He hadn’t seen him in quite a while. As kids they’d run along this beach and swam like two dark fish until their lungs were bursting. Mister, can you spare a dime? They’d used that line with tourists when they wanted money for soda or snacks. These days a dime wouldn’t buy a soda straw or a candy wrapper.
    Then the stormy teen years had come, and they’d been in more than their share of trouble. Wally’s mind whirled with memories. He’d been no saint then, to be sure, but Jem had a special knack for getting in harm’s way. Folks said the two of them had been the death of Pop.
    There had been no feminine hand to gentle their rough edges. Their mother had died of cancer when Wally was ten. Dad’s downward spiral had begun then. Most days he came home from fishing in his old boat and drank until he passed out in the living room chair. Wally and Jem were pretty much left to their own not-so-wise devices.
    Peggy had saved Wally from total destruction, but for Jem there had been no savior. It was rumored that he liked the drink too, and that he liked loose women, but most of all, that he liked money. He’d always been a schemer, sure his next idea would make him rich. Wally remembered how Jem had devised a plan to swipe buoys after dark and exchange them with their own so they could haul in a bigger catch the next day.
    Jem slung an arm around Wally’s shoulder as they walked, turning away from the beach and taking Grand Avenue toward the downtown area. They were nearing the town center, but Wally paused and turned to Jem … or was it J.C.?
    The last he’d heard, Jem had dabbled rather unsuccessfully in an import/export business and lost his shirt. Obviously, he’d found a new one—a rather nice silk one that fit snugly over his expanding waist. But he was still a handsome man. It had been years since he’d seen Jem. Wally wondered why he never came around.
    Jem always said he was an outsider, the black sheep. “Besides, I ain’t gonna be no smelly lobsterman; I’ve got better fish that need frying!” Wally remembered him saying that. Jem, it seemed, had little interest in his roots. Last year’s Christmas card had arrived in March like the afterthought it probably was. And Wally never had an address to send his brother one.
    Given the train wreck of his teen years, maybe it was a good thing Jem hadn’t hung around Stony Point. Wally kicked at a tuft of crabgrass hedging the walkway. But you’d think when a guy had family he’d show up once in a blue moon. Well, here he was, right beside him, tall and muscular . Jem had always made Wally feel small.
    Wally thought about what Jem had said. A more sophisticated name for a man in