Frank slowed as he passed the modernized ranch Simon used to live in. For a second, it seemed appropriate that he’d almost pulled into the wrong house with the wrong car. The rental wasn’t crappy, but neither did it inspire joy. He hadn’t earned this car. How those thoughts applied to the knotty feeling in his gut as he turned into the house next door was anybody’s guess. What he did know was he needed a moment to fortify himself against the chaos of Charlie’s place.
He started by parading back through his week, mentally checking boxes for everything he’d managed to accomplish. He’d pulled together his last essay on what he’d found in Puerto Rico: not the story he’d gone for, but a city full of dislocated people and more reality than he’d been prepared to deal with. The piece was good, definitely better than the one he’d already posted, but he knew he couldn’t continue to write in the same vein. He was better at interviewing people, singular, than dwelling on the fate of so many. He was all about entertainment, insight, finding out what made someone interesting, not . . .
God, was he really that shallow?
Article written, check. Self-examination, in progress. Twitter . . . He was still letting his PA take care of it. When had he stopped caring about Twitter?
Personal finances, examined. Letter from his uncle, read. It had been short and to the point and could be summed up in five words: This is where you belong.
Humph.
Brooding, accomplished.
Dinner with Simon was the last item on his list, well, except for the matter he’d not so successfully tried to ignore all week: Tom.
What to do about Tom? Any plans Frank might have for Bossen Hill felt secondary to that.
After a last fortifying breath, Frank collected his bag of yumminess from the deli he’d discovered off Main Street in Bethlehem, and approached the newly painted porch. He knocked on the door—when was someone going to fix that bell?—and gaped as Charlie’s teenaged daughter Olivia opened it past a belly so round, she appeared ready to pop.
“Well, aren’t you looking . . . radiant.” That was the right thing to say to a pregnant woman, yes?
Olivia returned her usual greeting—an eye roll and a smirk—before calling over her shoulder. “Simon, Frank’s here.”
And then she left him standing on the threshold. Because that was what teenagers did. Another teenager passed by while he was waiting there. A girl with dark-brown skin and the most stunningly beautiful face Frank had ever seen. Olivia’s friend, Rosie. She lifted a hand in greeting, but did not invite him in. As a third person approached the door, Frank invited himself inside and came face-to-face with the father of Olivia’s child.
Were Charlie and Simon running a flophouse now?
“Hey,” said the boy. Jason? Justin? He did the calling thing too. “Simon, your friend is here.”
The dog appeared next, followed by Charlie, who seemed to move in much the same manner as his canine. Buoyant steps, mouth open in a wide grin. His tongue didn’t loll about, but he did whuff slightly before saying, “Hey!”
“Is Simon here?”
Frank’s palms had started to sweat a little. He wasn’t necessarily a shy man. One couldn’t be, in his line of work. But he didn’t care for large crowds of people he was supposed to know—and didn’t. Charlie, being the man he was, immediately put his hands on Frank, dragging him away from the door, pulling him into a complicated hug arrangement, and guiding him down the hallway. All at once.
“Great to see you. Simon’s out back cleaning the grill. Apparently we’re not allowed to put meat on it until every part is shiny and disinfected.” Charlie shrugged. “I’ve tried explaining we’re only going to mess it up again, but you know Simon.”
Frank chuckled. Oh, yes. As he progressed through the house, he could see traces of his best friend elsewhere too. It was subtle, but noticeable to someone who knew of Simon’s need for order. Windows had been cleaned, curtains pinned back, walls repainted. Furniture rearranged and replaced.
“The house looks . . .”
“Clean,” Charlie finished for him.
“I was going to say very nice.”
“Did you know he can’t go to bed without doing the dishes?”
“I did know that, yes.”
Charlie rolled his eyes in a good imitation of his daughter. Or perhaps she’d learned the skill from him. Frank and Charlie had made it through to the kitchen at this point, the back half of which was missing, the gaping hole covered with gently flapping plastic sheeting. Through the plastic, Frank could see Simon out on the patio, bent over the aforementioned grill. He wore an apron, gloves that covered him to the elbow . . . and a face mask.
“Oh my.”
“Right?” Charlie grinned. “He’s one of a kind.”
And Charlie obviously adored him for that reason. In fact, Charlie fairly exuded the sort of emotions that usually had Frank cringing: love, contentment, happiness.
They stepped outside, Charlie calling out. “Simon!”
Simon glanced up and quickly pulled his face mask aside. “Frank.” He gestured at his gloved and aproned self. “I’d say hello properly, but I’m a little grimy.”
“Detailing the grill, apparently.”
“It hadn’t been cleaned properly in three years.”
“Perish the thought.”
Charlie was examining the grill plates stacked against the leg of the patio table. “Wow. These came out of there?”
“Mm-hmm.” And there it was, the same sappy expression painted all over Simon’s face: love, contentment, and happiness.
Frank’s stomach curled tight. Vital organs in his chest wanted to do the same. A deep sense of unwelcome rolled through him, pushing him back a step. He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t a part of this family.
He wasn’t a part of—
Simon cut short Frank’s roll into the pity pool by clanking something against the grill. “Just need to finish this last piece and I’ll come in.” Simon glanced at the bag and wine Frank still held. “You want to drop those off in the kitchen?”
“I’ll take them,” Charlie said. “Let you two catch up!” He smiled his brilliant smile at Frank, and though he still felt uncomfortable, Charlie’s pleasure in having him here was clearly evident.
Frank returned a smaller smile. “Thank you.” He passed off his goods and waited until Charlie had ducked inside the house before turning back to Simon. And couldn’t think of anything to say, which was absurd. This was his closest, dearest friend. Dressed in an apron and wearing a surgical mask.
“You look ridiculous.”
Simon chuckled softly, the mask puffing out a little. “I know. Makes Charlie happy, though.”
“Surely you don’t—”
“It’s not like that. I’d have worn one of those suits the CDC takes into disaster areas if I thought I could get away with it. This grill is a biological hazard. But knowing how much enjoyment he gets out of my odd quirks only makes them seem . . .” He shrugged. “I find I don’t care as much as I used to. Either that, or he simply makes me feel better about being me.”
“I’ve been here five minutes and already I want to throw up.”
“So that’s why you’re studying me like I’m something you found washed up on the beach.”
“I’ll have you know, I’ve discovered treasure on the sand at Cape May.” Everyone had a jar of milky glass and pretty shells tucked away somewhere, didn’t they?
“Oh?”
Frank appraised him in all his Simon-ness and smiled. “I can’t fit you in my souvenir jar, but I’ll keep you nonetheless.”
Simon started laughing.
Frank preened. Charlie wasn’t the only person who could amuse Simon Lynley. He’d been here way before and would be here . . .
Simon was gazing over his head toward the flapping plastic. Through the plastic at the shadow moving about in the kitchen. And he wore that expression again.
Sigh.
“Olivia looks ready to burst,” Frank said.
Simon returned his attention to the grill. “Yes! She was due yesterday, actually, but apparently first babies can take their time. We’re all on high alert. Bags packed and whatnot. I finished decorating the nursery only last week. Do you want to see it?”
“Maybe later.” Frank tipped his head toward the plastic wall. “And this?”
“We’re going to extend the kitchen out here—” a gesture encompassed the patio “—and build a new patio from the side around. We’ll have two casual eating areas, then. Indoor and outdoor. Glass doors opening outward so we can combine the space when entertaining. We’ll use the same siding as the rest of the house. Well, the same color. And I’m thinking of building a fieldstone chimney out here to house a proper grill. As a surprise for Charlie.”
Up until that last, Simon had sounded almost normal.
“Nice.”
“Mmm.” Simon finished picking grime off the last part of the grill and started cleaning up. “So, how are you?”
“Oh, you know. Overworked, bitchy, in need of a fuck.”
Simon arched a single eyebrow. “Perhaps a stop at the casino on your way . . . Are you heading home or up to Stroudsburg? How is everything going up there?”
Charlie returned to the patio, drinks in hand. He had wineglasses for Frank and Simon and a beer for himself. If there was one thing Frank admired about Charlie, it would be his honesty. He didn’t care for wine and so he didn’t pretend to drink it. Charlie lifted his bottle in a sort of toast. “Thanks for coming, Frank.”
Simon had stripped off his gloves and mask. He took his glass, Frank took his, and raised they toasted Charlie in return. The stupidly nice, quite handsome if you were into the “boy next door” look, and just all around charming Charlie.
Frank had spent too many hours examining his feelings about Charlie, and he didn’t like what he’d found. He was jealous of this man. Not because he’d taken Simon away. Simon deserved this. Needed it. More it was that—
Well, now wasn’t the time.
“Thanks for having me.” Frank sampled his wine.
Charlie smiled. “Anytime. So, Simon. Can I destroy the grill again yet?”
Simon cast a forlorn look over his gleaming grill parts. “I don’t suppose you’d agree to covering—”
“Nope. But think of it this way. Cleaning the grill can be one of your summer things. You, a surgical mask, and quiet evenings out on the patio.”
Frank laughed. He couldn’t help it. Charlie had Simon pinned.
Simon pushed the side of Charlie’s head and then curled his arm around his lover’s shoulders and pulled him into a sideways hug. “Goof.”
“I thought you were going to cook, Simon?”
“I was until I saw the state of everything. That will be a challenge for another day, I think.”
Frank smiled. “So, what’s on the menu, then?”
The evening passed rather pleasantly from there, Frank’s hors d’oeuvres rounding out a full menu of kebabs, grilled vegetables, couscous, salad, and dessert. By the time he and Simon had effectively killed Frank’s bottle of wine, Frank had drifted into a state of fuzzy fullness.
“Want to walk the dog with me?” Simon asked.
“Really?”
“We didn’t get a chance to finish our chat earlier.”
Frank grumbled quietly, but inside he was pleased at the prospect of spending a little more time just with Simon. Unless Charlie intended to accompany them. This would usually be their thing, hmm? Walking the dog together after dinner. But Charlie excused himself to start on the dishes—after unabashedly wrapping his arms around Simon’s shoulder and kissing him on the corner of the mouth. “Might even get you to bed early tonight if I get all of this done.”
Ugh. So disgustingly cute. Men their age shouldn’t be cute in any way, shape, or form. Of course, Frank’s thoughts immediately drifted toward Tom. His large, dark eyes and elfin features. He might have to revise his opinion. Maybe.
“Ready?”
“As I ever will be to walk a dog through a suburban neighborhood on a summer evening.”
Simon waited until they were past his old house before bringing up his mood. “You’ve been very quiet. I’d say not as bitchy as usual, but for the feeling the bitchiness is all mental. And I know you.”
“Too well.”
“What’s up?”
Where to start. His jealousy—or was it envy? His dissatisfaction with his career. His loneliness. The rotting resort he’d inherited. The notion he didn’t deserve it, even if it was something of an albatross. Tom.
“Frank?” Simon had stopped walking. The dog, Herbert, didn’t seem to mind. He was sniffing around a mailbox pole, probably preparing to deliver a message of his own.
Frank glanced up at Simon. “I have a lot on my mind, that’s all.”
“Want to talk about it?”
They were approaching fifty and quite gay and therefore able to talk about feelings and thoughts without fearing the impact on their masculinity. Yet they rarely unloaded all at once, or in depth, whether out of long-held habit or simply because men weren’t programmed that way. Frank started with the easiest issue: the resort. Without mentioning Tom, he described the state of decay, the visit from Patricia Nolan, and his lack of certainty going forward. The question of what he was going to do with the place.
“I’ve heard of the Tinden Group,” Simon said. “They’ll subdivide and build crappy little houses. I can refer you to other developers if you do want to sell. If you’re interested in what happens to the land after you sell it.”
“I’m not sure that’s what I want to do. Sell it. But I don’t know why.” As the words rolled out, Frank realized they were true. All week, while putting together his piece on Puerto Rico, he’d constantly found himself researching the history of resorts in the Poconos and the current state of the industry. He didn’t know why, but recognized the urge well enough. Whether it was a story or just an idea, he’d have to keep picking away at it until it unraveled. Until he found a person who represented the story. And then he’d write, or act. Do something to break this mental congestion.
“Why would you keep it?” Simon asked. “Sounds like the place is about to fall down. I mean, if it’s not too bad, you could think about restoration, but it’d probably be a huge job.”
“Meaning expensive. Would you come up and take a look? Tell me what you think?”
“I’d love to, but—” Herbert decided to move on, yanking Simon sideways. He managed to walk on without tripping over, and around the shrubbery lining the sidewalk. When Frank caught up to him, he continued, “Brian would have a better idea of what’s involved than I would. He knows land values and development potential.”
“Brian. As in ex-douchebag Brian.”
“It’s his area of expertise. He sees a far bigger picture than I do.”
Frank frowned. “Are you two friends now?”
Simon shrugged. “The sort of friends who don’t really know how to be friends, but can’t be anything else.”
“Are you still working together?”
“On and off. The Burnside project is all but finished, but we’ve been talking about some other ideas.”
“That’s . . . Is that good? How is it working with him?”
Pulling Herbert to another halt, Simon regarded Frank carefully for a moment. Then his face relaxed. “It’s sometimes odd. I forget we’re not together. But I don’t have to catch myself out. I mean . . . How to put this. There’s no desire there. No spark. I’d have thought we’d lost that years ago, but maybe we hadn’t. I don’t know. But now that I’m with Charlie, everything has changed in ways I would never have expected. I can look at Brian and just see Brian. A man I have a lot of respect for, professionally, and even like quite well.” He shrugged again. “I’m happy, and so I find I’m not as broken up about everything as I was last year.”
Frank found it difficult to hold Simon’s gaze while he talked about being happy. He turned away, pretending to study the neighborhood, which was mostly quiet and mostly dark. Summer proper was still a couple of weeks off.
“Frank . . .”
“I’m happy you’re happy,” Frank said to the ground.
“It doesn’t feel that way.”
Frank shook his head. “It’s not about you.” He glanced up. “I’ll admit that last year I thought . . . I wondered . . .” Simon’s eyebrows drew together. “But we’re friends. Good friends.”
“Then what’s got you so tied up?”
“Did I ever tell you about Tommy? I mean Tom. Thomas Benjamin.”
Simon’s eyebrows bunched together again. “Name sounds familiar.”
“Boy I grew up with.”
“Yes! You kissed him and he punched you. Didn’t you write him letters all freshman year?”
“So pathetic.”
Simon chuckled. “Why are we talking about Thomas Benjamin?”
“He’s there, Simon. At the resort.”
“What do you mean?”
“He never left.” Frank lifted his hands to gesture, but didn’t really know what to do with them, so he tucked them behind his back. “And for the past ten years or something, probably longer, he’s been managing the place.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you still . . .”
Frank closed his eyes. Opened them. Prepared to shake his head and stopped. Swallowed. Checked in with the twisted thing in his chest, the organ that was supposed to beat happily when he met The One; the place where he was supposed to store all his most cherished memories. And it was beating. Slowly, steadily. A light drumming that pulsed beneath his skin and echoed lightly in his thoughts.
Tom. Tom. Tom.
He nodded. Thought about lying, changing the subject. Sighed. “I don’t think I ever stopped.”
“Oh, Frank.”