Tom wished he could attribute the burn behind his eyes to the odor rolling off his clothes and hands, but the hurt on Frank’s face would shift the heaviest heart. And it was Tom’s fault. He’d put that expression there and had never stepped up to wipe it away. He didn’t even know if it was possible.
And he didn’t know if he could explain his actions anymore. Time and life had smoothed some edges and sharpened others. He couldn’t rely on his memory of certain events, because he viewed history through the lens of a broken heart. Worse, he’d done the breaking himself.
How did you go about fixing that?
The stillness of the gray, Sunday morning finally intruded, pressing between them until Frank cleared his throat. “Well, then. I need more coffee.”
“I need a shower.”
“Yes, you do. Afterward, can I take you out to lunch? We don’t have to talk about that night.” Frank held out his hands, fingers spread. “But I do want to talk. If you don’t want to share what you’ve been up to over the past thirty years, we can talk about Robert. And the drawing on the wall in there.” He pointed toward the office. “And talk over what we might do with this place.”
“‘We’?”
“You’re still here.” While Frank seemed intent on pointing that out, this time his tone was different. Softer, gentler. “And you’re probably the only reason the lodge is still standing, current roofing issues aside. So, yes. We. I want your opinion on what to do with this mess. And I want to know how any decision I make will affect you.”
Tom shook his head. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Go take a shower, Tom. You stink.”
Tom turned to do just that before remembering that someone who only stayed at the lodge occasionally wouldn’t have a full wardrobe stashed away somewhere. Say, in one of the two guesthouses with roofs and locking doors. He hesitated, half-turned, aware Frank had likely noticed the pause. Now would be the perfect time to tell him. To admit to Frank he was sort of living at the lodge and had been for months now. That he’d slept on the couch in the office so often he knew where the lumps were. That he’d been using Robert’s bathroom for two weeks and had been “testing” each shower upstairs before then.
That his future hung on whatever choice Frank might make.
He’d tried to tell him last night, in the kitchen, and had been glad afterward that he’d kept his secret to himself. Studying Frank now, seeing the restful patience in his expression, Tom opened his mouth . . . and lied. “I’ll just, ah, get my car keys. I’ve got a clean change of clothes in the trunk.”
“Sure. Take your time. I can always do a little work.”
“Work?”
“I have a story to piece together, some notes to make for another idea I have, and I need a list of reasons why I don’t want to go to Texas.”
“What’s in Texas?”
“A career direction I don’t really want.”
Tom left him to it. Whatever kept Frank busy kept him from prying too far into Tom’s business. Present and past. He retrieved his clothes from the guesthouse and ducked into Robert’s bathroom. After showering, he inspected his reflection and decided he should shave. Lunch with Frank probably meant somewhere other than McDonald’s.
When he arrived back in the office, Frank gave his appearance a quick but obvious examination and a smile.
“I’m glad you approve,” Tom said.
It’d taken him a while to find a shirt that wasn’t frayed, discolored, or emblazoned with the faded logo of some local business. He had his Bossen Hill polos, but preferred to keep those for work—such as it was. Finally, he’d found a short-sleeve shirt (with a collar and buttons!) at the back of the wardrobe. Paired with his cleanest jeans, it was the best he could do.
“Red suits you,” Frank said.
Grunting, Tom checked his pockets for phone and wallet. “You want to drive or should I?”
“Why don’t you? I ended up in Scotrun yesterday trying to find Cherry Lane Road.”
“Cherry Lane Road? Do you mean Shine Hill Road?”
“That would have made sense, wouldn’t it?”
Chuckling, Tom checked the front door, locked it, and led the way through the laundry to the side garage. He rolled open the door and turned back to find Frank staring at his neat and tidy Toyota with disappointment.
“Where’s Bojangles?”
Tom laughed. “Jeez, how do you remember that?”
“Bojangles was the stuff of legends.”
“And you thought I’d still be driving it?” His 1970 Mercury Cougar had been well used in 1985, and had died three years into his commute to Marywood University in Scranton.
“I can’t even remember why we named your car that,” Frank mused.
“You were obsessed with that tap dancer, Bill . . . Roberts?”
Frank’s confusion cleared. “Robinson. Bill ‘Bojangles’ Robinson. Man could move.”
The grin pulling at Tom’s cheeks felt unfamiliar but welcome. Same with the warm little dot spreading out from the center of his chest. “So I guess I should introduce you to Delany.” He gestured toward his car.
“Delany?”
“He’s a writer.”
Frank’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean Samuel Delany.”
Tom shrugged. “His books are pretty weird, but I like ’em.”
Frank considered the car for a few seconds before nodding. “Nice to meet you, Delany.”
“Do you still read romance?” Tom asked. Frank used to filch historical romance novels from his mother’s nightstand. He’d first tried to say he wanted to laugh over the lurid covers, but Tom had caught him reading them too many times to believe that.
Frank smiled. “Yes, I do. Sometimes. They write gay romance now, you know. With happy endings.”
“Seriously?”
“Mmm.”
“How ’bout that.”
The drive started out quietly, Frank either reminiscing about teenage jaunts in Bojangles or love in historical times. He spoke up just as the hot dog stand on 447 came into view. “Oh my God, Spanky’s is still open?”
Frank seemed so surprised, Tom had to laugh. “Yep.”
“It looks exactly the same. How are they still in business?”
Tom glanced at the shack nestled inside a stand of tall pine trees. The exterior had faded—red paint now a shade of salmon and the chrome facing not quite polished, but still silver against the shade. A few tables dotted the clearing, one with a mostly useless umbrella advertising the iconic name. Being Sunday, a line had formed in front of the window and cars bunched in the small lot.
“Want to stop?” Tom asked.
Frank shook his head. “Not sure I have enough Mylanta in my suitcase to deal with a Spankin’.”
“I’d forgotten we called it that. How did we not permanently damage our digestive tracts back then?”
“Who says we didn’t? We used to ride our bikes down here at least once a week. More often in the summer.”
“It was probably the ride back that saved us. All up hill. Now the thought makes me weep.”
Frank side-eyed him. “You look pretty fit.”
Ignoring the blush working its way down from his hairline, Tom focused on the road ahead. “I was always a skinny bugger. You seem pretty fit yourself.”
“I actually enjoyed being skinny as you call it for about a year in college, until I fainted—not prettily or delicately—outside my neighbor’s door. Turns out it was a great way to meet an attractive man, even if it did make me look the fool. Anyway, Simon, that was his name, picked me up, fed me, and took me to the gym. Aside from becoming a good friend, he also taught me a lot about nutrition and exercise.”
Sunshine had begun to burn away the mist, turning the morning into one of those rare pockets of beauty—wide swathes of light cutting through the densely packed trees, each carrying a dizzying array of dust motes as they slashed across the road. The same light played over Frank’s face in an on/off pattern, highlighting his smiles and deepening his frowns. Bringing his story to life in a series of half-second glimpses of expression.
It was nice to hear him just talk the way he used to. With no hint of self-consciousness and plenty of self-depreciation.
“Though, if you want a true specimen of male fitness, Simon’s partner Brian would make a lovely example. Bastard.”
Tom felt his eyebrows rise up. If Frank and Simon had ever been a thing, it was obviously long past. Was Frank with anyone now? A glance at Frank’s left hand showed no evidence of a ring—though that wasn’t always proof of singledom.
“In love with his own reflection?” Tom asked.
Frank offered a faint smile. “Oh, yes. And everyone else who admired it.”
“How long have they been together?”
“Oh, they’re not anymore.”
“Huh.”
Frank waved a hand. “Anyway, I soon discovered that I’m just not built to be willowy. Under Simon’s tutelage, I figured out what I could eat and what I couldn’t. How to exercise properly. I will say that turning forty changed a lot of that, though. I still watch what I eat and I still workout when I can, but I’ve found I care less.” There was something wistful in his tone. “And the closer I get to fifty, the more I let go.”
“So by sixty you’ll be doing your best John Candy impression?”
“No. But I’m not going to lie in my coffin wishing I’d eaten more cured meats. Or regretting a serious lack of cannoli. Life is too short to forgo cannoli, Tom.”
“You do know that by the time you land in a coffin, you won’t be thinking.”
“Says you.”
Tom signaled to turn onto North Fifth and guided the car around the gentle curve and over the bridge crossing Brodhead Creek. “Do you always drift into philosophy while traveling?”
“Hardly, though it does feel as if we’re taking a journey. Maybe we should have stopped for a Spankin’.” Frank leaned toward his window to glance over the side of the bridge at the rail tracks and creek, both far below. “It’s a pity they never delivered on the promise of commuter trains out this far.”
Tom shrugged. “It’s still supposed to happen. Soon as they figure out who’s going to pay for it. By then, of course, the developers will be carving up farmland all the way to Harrisburg and we’ll just be another stop on the commuter lifestyle.”
Frank leaned back into his seat. “It really hasn’t changed, you know. This area. Town looks busier and there are houses where there used to be woods. Too many cars on the roads, everyone going everywhere. But Spanky’s is still here. And that little coffee caravan is still on the far side of the mall.”
“It’s like everything else, Frank. Bits fall off, get replaced by other bits, but underneath it endures.”
“That’s . . .”
“As deep into philosophy as I get.”
Scoffing, Frank turned his attention back to the passenger-side window.