Chapter 9

 

 

EVEN KNOWING the score, even agreeing with Randy’s assessment and Joe’s advice, Zachary found himself thinking of Thomas far too often. His handsome face, black hair, hard body—sure, Zachary dreamed of those. But besides the spank material, he thought more often about the kindness in Thomas’s blue eyes, his manner with Joe, the hints about his passion for using his political position to help the homeless. All of that seemed irreconcilable with the man who so firmly tried to convince Zachary that he was an unrepentant asshole.

Zachary prided himself on his ability to read people. In fact that was one of the skills that helped him excel at his job in human relations. All of his instincts told him Thomas was a good man, worth knowing better, and perhaps less credibly, that Thomas seemed drawn to him. But Zachary knew he must have fundamentally misread the situation.

He was nonetheless pleasantly surprised when he picked up his phone at work one day and heard Thomas’s baritone in his ear. “Hi, Zachary,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind me calling. I got your number from Joe.”

Zachary’s heart began to pound immediately, but he kept his voice as neutral as he could. “Hey, Thomas. No, I don’t mind at all. What’s up?”

“I have this standard thing with Randy. When I’m in town on a weekend, we like to go to museums on Sunday afternoons, maybe grab a late lunch before he heads in to prep the bar. I know you’re still trying to learn the city, and it occurred to me that you might like to join us this Sunday.”

Zachary felt a moment of blazing hope. Almost immediately, though, he realized that, with Randy there, Thomas wasn’t asking him on a date. He answered slowly, “Friends, huh?”

Thomas chuckled a bit. “Exactly. I meant it when I said I hoped we could be friends, and you seemed okay with it at brunch the other day.”

Zachary swallowed his disappointment and tried to be mature. He really did like being around Thomas, he wanted more friends in Washington, and the idea of a Sunday afternoon at a museum was pleasant. All he’d have to do was control his emotions and his dick.

What could go wrong?

What he said was “Sure, I’d like to join you guys. Thanks for the invitation.”

“Great,” Thomas exclaimed. “We’re planning to meet at the National Gallery of Art. The West Building. Do you know where that one is, or do you want a ride?”

“I think I’ve seen it when I’ve gone for a run along the Mall a few times at lunch. It’s near the Capitol, right?” Zachary asked.

“That’s right. It has a big dome. We’re meeting in the main entrance area at noon.”

“I’ll see you there.”

He heard a slight pause as though Thomas wanted to say more, but all that came over the line was “See you there.”

 

 

SUNDAY MORNING arrived, and Zachary spent some extra time in the pool to get himself ready to face Thomas. The rhythm of his steady motion through the cool water, the pull of his arms, the even breaths, centered him like nothing else on earth. He was supercharged with energy when he woke up and then crashed halfway through his breakfast when he realized it was all due to seeing Thomas again. If they were really going to spend time together, Zachary had to accept at face value what he had told him. Friendship was all Thomas had to offer.

Zachary needed a friend too, so he would bury his desire and just do friendly things with Thomas. That became his mantra as he swam his laps. He recited, “To make a friend, be a friend,” over and over in his head as he pushed himself to one hundred fifty lengths.

He rode the Metro to the Smithsonian stop and walked along the Mall until he identified the right museum. He was quite early, and the spring weather was beautiful, if chilly, so he wandered up and down the Mall for a while. Across Pennsylvania Avenue he saw the Canadian flag flying over one building and guessed it must be that country’s embassy.

Next to that was a much more modern building, kind of squat and ugly and not to Zachary’s taste. It bore a sign reading Newseum, and an enormous plaque covered half the facade with the words of the First Amendment to the United States Constitution—Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

He could see balconies on the left end of the building, and he wondered if there were apartments there as well as a museum. He whistled at the thought of how expensive those would likely be, a few blocks away from the US Capitol, the Supreme Court, and the Library of Congress.

Ah well. It’s not like I’d ever get to see the inside of an apartment like that.

He walked a bit more and then returned to the National Gallery, but he realized he still had some time to kill, so he seated himself in an alcove next to a large fountain that had not yet been turned on for the season. He took a few pictures with his phone’s camera—some of the Mall, a few of the other museums lining the opposite side, a couple of passersby. One man with shaggy blond hair and glasses caught Zachary’s eye. The man seemed to look back a moment too long, but then he turned his gaze forward and hurried on.

Zachary suddenly shivered as though someone had walked over his grave.

“I hate that expression,” he muttered to himself as he zipped his jacket. Despite the sunshine it was only March. He was probably just cold.

 

 

SHORTLY BEFORE twelve Zachary made his way to the entrance hall, where he found Thomas and Randy conversing by the coat check. Randy was dressed in jeans, boots, and a down vest over a plaid shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to show muscular, hairy forearms. Zachary acknowledged that Randy was dead sexy, but he thought it in a platonic way.

Not like his appraisal of Thomas, who was laughing at something Randy had said. Thomas had on tight black jeans that curved around his rear end and showed a prominent bulge in front. Zachary knew what the bulge only hinted at, and he felt a knot of desire deep in his belly. A sky blue polo with black-and-white piping on the sleeves and collar stretched tightly over his muscles, and a few wisps of chest hair were visible over the placket. A slight scruff darkened his jaw and made Zachary’s palms itch with the desire to stroke his face. Thomas held a light tan jacket in one hand, and the other hand was stuck in his hip pocket.

Zachary tried hard not to stare at Thomas as he walked up. He called out in the most casual tone he could manage, “Hey, guys.”

Randy grinned at him and stuck out his big hand for a shake. “Thomas talked you into joining our outing, huh?”

Thomas started to go in for a hug, but at the last second, clapped a hand on Zachary’s shoulder instead. “I may have failed to inform Zachary that you like to show off on these perambulations,” he said with a smile, and his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Randy was an art history major before he switched to criminal justice in college,” he explained to Zachary. “I think he would have been happier as a docent than an agent.”

Zachary had to laugh. “Oh, Randy, I can just see you guiding tour groups with one hand on the butt of your gun while you just wait for someone to touch a painting or feel up a statue.”

“With this scary mug? They wouldn’t dare,” Randy growled. “I’d never have to draw.”

Zachary looked around the lobby. “Where do we buy tickets?”

Thomas said, “We don’t. This is one of the many perks of life in Washington. Most of the museums are free.”

Randy threw in, “These works are bought with taxpayer dollars, so they aren’t really free.”

Thomas rolled his eyes and groused, “Here we go again. Now that Randy is a businessman, he’s turning into a Republican.”

Randy glanced at Zachary and then said to Thomas, “Let’s start in the European paintings galleries. I’ll show you the portrait I was talking about.”

They bypassed several tour groups in the lobby to climb wide stone steps to the second floor. As they walked upstairs, Zachary asked Randy, “What made you switch from art to the Secret Service?”

“My uncle was a police officer in Portland, Maine. He got killed in the line of duty while I was in college. Decided I wanted to honor him, so I switched my major.”

Thomas bumped his shoulder deliberately into Randy’s arm. “C’mon, big guy. Tell him the rest.”

Randy glared down at him for a second but then relaxed his frown and shrugged.

“Yeah, okay. My uncle Kevin was gay too. He was the only one in my family who really got me. I think I was closer to him than to my own mother.” Randy paused at the top of the stairs and looked up at a large urn topped by a bronze statue. “The Portland Police Department couldn’t or wouldn’t even give Uncle Kev’s partner the usual survivor benefits when Kev was killed. That pissed me right off. So I got all activist and decided I’d see what I could do to fight the system from the inside.”

Zachary asked softly, “Did they get the person who killed your uncle?”

After a moment Randy turned his head toward them. “What? Oh, yeah, they did. Guy flipped out on PCP. He’s still behind bars. I check sometimes.”

Zachary put his hands in his pockets and studied Randy. “I bet Kevin would have been proud you went into law enforcement for him.”

Randy gave him a rueful look. “Actually I think he would have yelled at me for giving up on art. He was the one who took me to museums and plays and things like that when I was a kid. He got me thinking about the relationship between humanity and the arts. So putting down the brush and picking up a gun—Kev might have tried to whip my ass for doing that.”

Thomas smiled gently. “You showed me a picture of Kevin once. He probably could have whipped you. He was bigger even than you.”

“Yeah, but for a big guy, he was a real teddy bear.” Randy’s eyes glistened a bit. “Tore me up he died so stupidly.”

“But you stayed interested in art even while you were in the Secret Service,” Zachary observed to shift the mood.

Randy nodded. “Sure. It’s always been a passion. There was a fair amount of overseas travel, so I collected shit everywhere I went.”

Zachary’s eyes widened. “Oh. Then I guess the paintings in Mata Hari are your personal collection.”

Thomas grinned. “You’re quick, Zachary. I talked Randy out of displaying the really valuable pieces he owns because you never know what’s going to happen in a bar. Even a piano bar.”

“I hear people throw drinks at you, Thomas,” Zachary said. “That could definitely mar an oil.” He meant it to be funny, but both Thomas and Randy suddenly looked stricken. “What did I say wrong? Randy told me he’s cleaned up three broken glasses thrown at you.”

Randy cleared his throat and forced a chuckle. “You’re right, Zachary. I take it out of his share of the profits.” At Thomas’s exasperated snort, Randy shrugged. “Kid’s smart, like you said. He probably already figured out you’re an investor.”

Zachary smiled at that. “Actually I had. And anyway, it makes sense since you spend so much time on that bar stool.”

“Just don’t spread it around, Zachary. Okay?” Thomas pleaded. “I like being a silent partner.”

“That’s no problem. I don’t gossip. Hey, Randy, I always wanted to ask—why did you call your place Mata Hari?”

Randy’s face, which had been surprisingly open so far, seemed to close down. “I just like that movie,” he said in his gruff voice and looked away. Zachary glanced at Thomas and saw his own surprise mirrored there. Thomas shrugged slightly at him, but they dropped the subject.

Randy led them into a series of small galleries that displayed Florentine paintings from the late Renaissance, and his steps quickened as they entered. There was eagerness in his voice when he said, “Here we go, Thomas. The painting I was telling you about is in one of these galleries. I want to know if you see it, so I’m not going to point it out.”

Randy didn’t take them right to a specific work of art. Instead they moved around the walls of each gallery counterclockwise. Randy commented on specific techniques and developments in artistic style as they walked, and his passion for the subject made him more talkative than normal.

When they reached a grouping of portraits by Raphael, Zachary commented as he studied the works, “I remember that Florence was important in the Renaissance, but I’m not really sure how or why.”

“Most historians say it was the Medici family who created a new environment for the arts to flourish,” Randy explained, his normal brusque manner displaced by his obvious enthusiasm. “The Medici were significant patrons, and they made it fashionable for others to support art as well. You combine that kind of patronage with the presence of some of the most amazing artistic geniuses ever known, and Florence became an… incubator, I suppose.

“Here. Look at the geometry,” he continued as he indicated Fra Carnevale’s The Annunciation, and his eyes almost glowed. “See the way the lines bisect the angel Gabriel from the figure of Mary? The proportions were just perfect, and that’s one of the aspects Florence brought to the Renaissance—a rebirth of interest in classical measurements and proportions and the relationship of those concepts to the human figure.”

Thomas shared a small smile with Zachary and said, “You’ve done it now. There is no off switch when Randy talks about the Renaissance.”

That little smile went straight to Zachary’s chest, and he started to reach to curl an arm around Thomas’s waist to share the moment. But he caught himself just in time and covered the false move by shoving his hand into his pocket as he said to Randy, “Ignore the critic, because I really am interested. Tell me about this one,” he said as they stopped in front of a Madonna and Child. “I get the subject matter, but this seems different from the ones we passed as we entered the gallery.”

Randy nodded quickly and said, “Absolutely right. This is by Fra Filippo Lippi. He was technically a monk, but very scandalous.”

“Even more so than Joe?” Thomas interjected with a chuckle.

“Well, he lived openly with a nun, and he had a son who also became a well-respected artist. Pretty racy stuff for the fifteenth century. But look what he did to subvert the traditional images. See how the Mary figure looks? How melancholy? It’s as if she can see what’s going to happen to her son down the road. And look at the Christ child. See the gentle way he’s touching her hand, even as he seems to be thinking very adult thoughts? It’s like he’s comforting her. Fra Lippo brought so much humanity to the divine.”

Zachary studied the painting with new appreciation and finally said, “I see that. The earlier paintings are more formal and stiff. Posed, I guess. Like idols. This Mary seems to know that she’s heading toward a grand tragedy, and all she wants to do is protect her son, even though it’s Jesus.”

Randy said, “That’s a good way to look at it. Where earlier artists focused on divinity, Lippo and many, many of the Florentine artists were humanists first. They used the religious stories to show the best in mankind.”

Zachary looked around the gallery. “It wasn’t all religious, was it? There are several portraits here of just, well, people.”

Randy agreed. “The Renaissance artists worked for patrons, of course, so many of the subjects were notables or their family members.”

They continued to explore the galleries, and as they walked, Randy pointed out the unusual position of a hand or a striking use of color. Three quarters of the way around one of the rooms, Thomas stopped in front of a painting of a young man and said, “Oh.” His shoulders dropped to a relaxed pose as he shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled at Randy.

Randy nodded at him. “Exactly.”

Zachary looked back and forth between the two of them and at the painting on the wall. The tag revealed it was Portrait of a Young Man, by Sandro Botticelli. The work showed a handsome—almost transcendent—young man with long, slightly curly hair, wide-set brown eyes, and full lips. The subject wore a red cap and a brown jerkin of some kind. The young man’s right hand rested on his breast, and his long fingers pointed toward his left shoulder.

“This is striking,” Zachary said as he studied the image.

Randy’s lips twitched slightly. “Does it look familiar?”

Zachary tilted his head and looked more closely. “Not really. Should I know this painting?”

Thomas said softly, almost reverently, “It could have been painted of you.”

Zachary shot him a glance, certain he was being teased. “What do you mean? This man is beautiful. He looks nothing like me.”

Randy said, “No. Thomas is right. The hair is a little darker than yours and longer, of course, but look at the eyebrows. And the shape of the lips. You could have been the model who posed for this.”

Thomas smiled warmly at Zachary. “How about that? The tough-guy bartender thinks you look like a Renaissance painting.”

Zachary turned away, overcome with the intensity in Thomas’s face. “Ah, you two are just putting me on.”

“Nope,” Randy said. “I mean it, Zachary. This could be an ancestor, he looks so much like you.”

Thomas continued to stare intently at Zachary’s face. Despite himself a shiver of desire ran down Zachary’s back at the scrutiny.

In a voice grown slightly hoarse, Thomas said, “Even the tilt of your eyes is the same, Zachary. The likeness is remarkable.” Their gazes met and held, and warmth bloomed in his heart. Zachary stood a little straighter and tilted up his chin slightly as he met the rapt gaze. The look in Thomas’s eyes wasn’t sexual. It held passion but not fever. It was… regard. Respect, maybe. The moment stretched, and Thomas wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, prepared to speak.

Before he could, Randy said, “I thought of the painting as soon as Zachary came into Mata Hari a few weeks back, but I’m not trying to embarrass you. Anyway, I thought you two might get a kick out of seeing this.”

Zachary kept his eyes on Thomas, but the moment was gone.

The trio studied the painting a moment longer, and then Randy declared, “Impressionists next,” and led them to a different set of galleries.

Zachary could only wonder what had just happened. Most likely he was projecting his own fantasies onto Thomas. But that look he saw in Thomas’s eyes stayed with him as they walked, and he wondered at it.

An hour or so later, Randy glanced at his watch. “Shit. I lost track of time. I don’t think I can grab lunch before I head in to get the bar ready for opening.”

Thomas suddenly looked panicked. Zachary assumed he’d just realized the two of them were about to be left to talk or have lunch with no buffer to protect Thomas. He might insist he didn’t date, but an afternoon at the museum—even with Randy in tow—was close enough to make no difference. Lunch, Zachary guessed, would cross the lines Thomas drew.

Unnerved by the glances exchanged near the Botticelli portrait, Zachary wasn’t sure what to say to Thomas either. He knew what he wanted to say—please take a chance, have lunch with me, let’s see whether you’re as drawn to me as I am to you—but he couldn’t delude himself. Thomas had made it clear he wanted nothing more than friendship from Zachary.

“I need to get going as well,” Zachary said, and he refused to look at Thomas so he wouldn’t see relief in his eyes. He looked instead at Randy and said, “This was a lot of fun. You opened my eyes to so many subtleties in the art that I never would have been able to see, Randy. Really, thank you.”

Randy clouted him on the shoulder with the side of his fist. “My pleasure. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He glanced over at Thomas and then back at Zachary. “Maybe we’ll be able to do it again sometime.”

Thomas hesitated and then said slowly, “Yes, Zachary. Come with us again.”

Zachary smiled at both of them, though he quickly looked away from Thomas. “Sure. Give me a call whenever you feel like having a third wheel along.”

 

 

THOMAS WALKED slowly along the Mall in the direction of his condo building, his hands in his trouser pockets. The afternoon with Randy and Zach had been… unsettling. He felt listless as the rest of Sunday stretched before him with nothing special to do and nowhere for him to be.

The sun was out, but a light breeze and low temperature caused him to keep his Burberry jacket buttoned up. After two years he was still learning the seasonal rhythms of DC. Even though it was early spring and the annual Cherry Blossom Festival was weeks away, small knots of tourists already marched along the gravel paths on either side of the Mall. Soon it would be nearly impossible to stroll there as fleets of tour buses discharged their loads of school or travel groups. By the Fourth of July, Thomas would want to be far away from the crowds.

In fact, he mused, he should think about a summer vacation. He would want to get out of the throngs of visitors and away from the humidity that turned Washington back into the swamp from which large parts of the city had been built. The best time would be when the Senate was in summer recess because the demands on his staff would be at their lowest then. But where to go? He considered options as he listened to his feet crunching along the gravel.

Obviously Seattle was out. He hadn’t been back there since he left to join Senator Gilbert’s staff and his parents made him feel the entire nightmare with Charles Rumson was his own fault. Well, his father had, and his mother dissuaded Thomas from returning to the family home when he really needed a place to regroup. So definitely no to Seattle.

Italy was a thought. It had been years since he spent any time in Rome or Venice, though both places would likely suffer from the same excess of tourists he wanted to escape. Maybe a drive along the Amalfi coast? That was something he’d never done, and he recalled reading an interview with Gore Vidal about Positano or maybe Ravello—one of the towns that dotted the Tyrrhenian Sea. Vidal had written about a terrace there that he believed provided the finest view on Earth. That was a worthy goal for a vacation—to see for himself the finest view.

As he walked in the Washington, DC spring air, Thomas daydreamed of summer in the warm Italian sun. He imagined himself in a sexy little sports car, top down, racing along winding roads that hugged the steep cliffs with a blue sea spread out below him. They’d pull into a little town for lunch, drink some wine, and maybe laugh about whether it was safe to keep driving. And if the mood was right and the town was beautiful, they’d find a little pensione or even a grand hotel and settle in to drink evening cocktails on a terrace overlooking the sea. He could picture turning languidly, setting down his drink to reach for Zachary’s hand….

Shit.

Thomas abruptly stopped walking, causing a young couple behind to bump into him. “I’m sorry.” He turned to apologize. They laughed it off and kept going, but Thomas didn’t move.

I was thinking of Zachary and me on vacation in Italy.

The idea was as stunning as it was alarming. He had been having sex regularly for at least twenty years, and he couldn’t recall a time he’d fantasized about a vacation with one of his partners. It was always about the sex, and when he’d had someone, he moved on to the next someone. Even when he was younger and occasionally agreed to see a man a few times, he never seriously had the urge to date and certainly not to take a romantic trip with anyone. Not until Zachary.

It would never happen, he told himself. It could never happen. He was a disaster, and the proof was Charles Rumson. Zachary deserved to be with someone who could really appreciate him and take care of him—even cherish him.

Thomas was well aware of how attracted to him Zachary was. The physical aspect was something to which Thomas was accustomed, if not inured, because men had been coming on to him since he was a teenager. But he was also certain that, for Zachary, it was more than that.

Zachary behaved as though he saw something beyond the good looks Thomas had done nothing to earn and beyond the money he had inherited. The look in Zachary’s eyes made Thomas feel prouder, smarter, better. He wanted to live up to the ideal version of himself that Zachary seemed to see. He longed to wallow in the illusion woven by Zachary’s regard—of being wanted for himself, rather than his looks or money.

But it was just a fantasy, of course. Zachary was sharp, quick, charming, and handsome. All too soon he’d see Thomas for the damaged piece of work he really was, and then he’d move on to kinder men who could return his desire honestly and without fear. That being the inevitable conclusion, it was better to keep the distance between them.

Thomas walked on again, resolved to set aside whatever it was he felt for Zachary Hall. In order to protect Zachary’s innocence, he would quell his own pathetic desire to spend a summer vacation in Italy with a handsome young man who could have been painted by Botticelli.