Mountain Manor had called while they’d been out. Tom almost couldn’t hear the voice mail over the panicked thrum of his blood—which rose to a quiet roar as he listened to the almost polite message regarding the state of his account. He called Sandra’s cell and left a message asking after his mom, then hid his phone under a wet towel and stepped into the shower.
He took his time, standing under the hot spray until his thoughts ceased firing in random patterns like hopped-up fireflies. Then he just stood there. When tepid water stung his shoulders, he lingered a little longer, not knowing what to do next. But he couldn’t live in the shower, or even hide in Robert’s bathroom. Eventually, Frank would come to find him, like he always had.
The mirror had unfogged by the time Tom finished drying and dressing. Continuing his mission to avoid thinking, Tom ignored his reflection as he combed out his hair and considered a shave. He didn’t realize he’d been staring at nothing—through his own face into God only knew what—until faint strains of music drifted over the nothingness. Frank was showered, most likely dressed to impress, and apparently determined to be lively.
Why couldn’t Frank spend the evening in his room? Or, better yet, pack his bags and head back to Jersey City? Not that Tom wanted him to go, but it would be easier if he did. For about a minute, Tom contemplated sneaking out himself. He wasn’t sure he could stay the night, anyway. He wasn’t being paid to manage the lodge anymore. His employment had ended with Robert’s death. Telling Frank he had nowhere else to go was too much on top of the events of the afternoon, however.
Also, Frank was cooking, and whatever it was smelled amazing.
He’d stay long enough to eat.
The music was coming from the kitchen. Tom paused outside the door to listen as Frank’s voice rose above the radio. He was singing along with Sam Smith and doing a credible job. Leaning against the wall, Tom smiled and waited until the song was done before ducking into the kitchen. Frank stood facing the range, his back to the doorway. He flipped something in one pan and leaned over to stir whatever he had in another.
Idly, Tom wondered how much food Frank had stuffed the fridge with this time.
Frank turned and broke into a smile. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Tom propped his hip against the counter opposite the range. “What’s cooking?”
“Balsamic chicken, wilted greens, a caprese salad—do you eat cheese? Wait, what am I asking. You eat pretty much everything, don’t you?”
“Given the opportunity.”
“What about onions and garlic?”
“Onions not so much.” The cheese, the garlic . . . not if he and Frank were . . . Frank obviously wasn’t planning to jump him after dinner. That was good, right? Then again, why would Frank want to pursue something Tom had effectively killed that afternoon?
“I had to give them up when I turned forty-five. But I shall cling to garlic until I am old and gray,” Frank said.
Tom wrestled his thoughts back to the present moment. “You already are gray. Or is it white?” He plucked a slice of tomato from the fan on the salad plate. “So, when did you come up?”
“Hmm?”
“To the lodge. Last night, this morning . . .?”
“Last night. You weren’t here.”
“I stayed at my place.” His place being the back seat of his Toyota. Moving on. “Do you enjoy cooking?”
“Are you kidding?” Frank patted his abdomen. “Of course I enjoy cooking. A little too much sometimes.”
Tom smiled. “Can I do anything?”
“Set the table. A table? Where do you want to eat?”
Tom glanced around the outsized kitchen, checking the long counter by the window, thinking about the dark and dusty guest dining room and the lonely table out on the decrepit patio. “I can clear off a corner of the desk in the office.”
“That works. Feel like some wine?”
“Sure, I’ll grab a bottle from the cellar.”
Dinner passed in a blur of nonconversation. The weather, the wine, how well tomatoes did not grow in the Poconos. Memories of apple picking with Robert, Madge, and Frank’s parents. How winter had seemed like fun when they were kids. The weather again. Throughout, Tom picked at his food until he’d cleaned his plate. He drank two glasses of wine. It was more than he’d had to eat or drink since—well, since the week before.
“You don’t eat enough.”
He glanced up. “And you think I’m the only one who can read minds.”
“It’s our connection.” Frank’s smile started out warm, cooling slightly as his expression became thoughtful. “Are you ready to talk about what happened this afternoon?”
Tom wished he had more food. He leaned back in his chair, away from his corner of the desk, and ran over possible dessert options in his mind. Maybe he could—
“I’ll start, if you like.”
Breathing out, Tom nodded. “Sure.”
“What’s going on with you? We can talk about what happened when we were kids if you want, but I’d rather talk about what’s happening now. You’re like a ghost, Tom. You were always quiet, but now . . . Something’s up. I know I’ve been gone forever and, well, I could have come home sooner. I’m not going to make excuses.”
Tom made a noise in his throat. A scoff, if Frank’s raised eyebrows could be taken as a reliable measure. The sound wasn’t a direct response to Frank, though, or even derisive. Tom was dismissing himself.
He didn’t want to tell Frank what was up.
“But if you were going to make an excuse . . .” he prompted instead.
“I stayed away because everything between us was so awkward.” Frank lifted his glass and inspected the contents for a moment before taking a sip. He swallowed the way a man did when he’d taken the time to taste what was in his mouth and set his glass down again.
“The letters made it more awkward,” Tom said.
“Only because you didn’t answer them.”
Heat not generated by a good meal and a couple of glasses of wine flushed Tom’s cheeks. “So you’re saying it’s my fault you haven’t been back.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You didn’t even know I was working here.”
Frank looked confused for a moment, as though he’d forgotten what they were talking about, and Tom realized they’d switched tracks. They were supposed to be discussing his freak-out at the creek. Frank apparently wanted to talk about the much earlier freak-out, and Tom wanted to talk about why Frank had never visited Robert. Except he didn’t. Not really. Because there was a point where those three tracks crossed and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for the resulting derailment.
“Talk to me, Tom,” Frank said, his voice quiet.
Tom considered his empty glass, then picked it up. Held it out toward Frank. “This is me.”
Frank looked at the glass. “Is this a half-empty, half-full thing?”
“It’s a completely-empty-and-has-been-for-a-while thing.”
“Tommy.”
“You asked.”
Frank dipped his chin.
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Tom continued. “You could have come back, sure, and I could have left. But I didn’t. I chose to stay here because of my mom.”
“The same woman who nearly let you die from pneumonia.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“You’re not the one who had to watch you pass out from coughing. Your lips were blue, Tom. And there was no damn phone in that trailer. None of your neighbors would answer their doors, and I had to pay the super to use his phone to call my dad. I’ve never been so scared in all my life.”
“She kept clean, or as clean as she could, for years after that.” Tom kept his voice even. “You know she did.”
“But . . .”
Tom let out a sharp sigh. “But about six months after graduation, her boyfriend up and left town.” Another man leaving her behind. “She fell sideways and everything started again. She never got any better after that. I spent most of my time at college running back and forth between here and Scranton.”
“Then you came home to look after her.”
“I did and that was my choice.”
No, his mom hadn’t been the best provider, but Tom had never had to question the fact that she loved him. He might not have seen her for five or six days, between shifts and drinking binges, but then she’d be in the trailer one afternoon, singing, smoking, burning dinner on the hotplate. There’d be a gift for him. A book, a cassette tape, a pair of sneakers. Always something he’d really wanted, though he could never figure out how she knew. For that single night, he’d be able to pretend that’s how it always was, and he had, even when he’d been old enough to understand the idiocy behind the pretense.
She’d never apologized for not being around. Hadn’t told him she’d been busy, or that she was working. She’d just been there, then, and he’d learned quickly to cherish those evenings, when she’d listen to his stories and encourage him in his hopes and dreams. When she had been a mom and she’d looked at him with bright mom eyes.
“She was never good at taking care of herself,” he explained to Frank. “But she managed the rent most of the time, and she let me dream.” Was that a stupid thing to say? “So when she slid too far, started getting sick, it felt like it was my turn. She was a crap mom, but she loves me, Frank, and I’m all she has.”
Frank acknowledged this with a sober nod.
Tom took a deep breath. “And I couldn’t have done any of it without Robert. Madge too, but mostly Robert. So if you want to know why I look like a ghost, well, it’s because I just lost a man who was my friend.”
His childhood might be a cliché, but Tom hadn’t had it that bad. So long as he had a camera in his hand and the ability to use it, life would always be interesting at the very least.
Robert had been the one to put a camera there in the first place.
Tom had been dealing with his mom his whole life. With Robert, he’d never had to deal. Robert had been father, uncle, mentor, and friend all in one, and the hole he’d left in Tom’s life couldn’t be measured. Not by the current deficit in his checking account. The panic when he considered the immediate future. Definitely not by a single empty glass.
Leaning forward, Frank spoke quietly. “He loved you, Tommy. You were the son he never had.”
“Don’t—”
“No, it’s true. I might not have been around, but Annabelle was and she knew how he felt. Hell, he should have left this place to you.”
“Like your dad would have been pleased about that.”
“My dad left. He and Mom moved away and they’ve been up here, what? Maybe twice as often as I have in the past five years?”
“So . . . twice nothing is . . . double nothing?” It was a poor stab, but the wine and full belly were working against him now. Any anger he’d hoped to feel had abandoned him, leaving him spent.
“Something like that,” Frank muttered. “They probably figured the same as we all did. Robert had you. And Dad was never interested in this place. He liked having the use of it when we were all young, but he was just as happy to move down to the shore when he retired. Get his little B&B up and running.”
Tom tried to shrug, but his shoulders were heavy.
“If this place was yours, what would you do with it?” Frank asked.
“Don’t ask me that.”
“Why not? You’re the reason the roof hasn’t caved in entirely.” Frank frowned thoughtfully. “We need to work out what we’re going to do.”
“What’s to figure? You should sell the lodge and be done with it.”
“Is that what you’d do?”
Tom shook his head. “I . . . I don’t know, Frank. Today I feel like saying ‘Yeah, sure,’ because I’m so fucking tired. And if my mom . . .” He tightened his grip on the glass, feeling as though he had more in common with the stem than the bowl.
“What about your mom?”
“She’s . . . I stayed in town last night because she’s on oxygen. Another lung infection.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Tom! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
Frank stood up and paced the office—which didn’t take long. He looked as though he might kick the wall for being so close, then he turned and paced back. Stopped in front of Tom and vibrated in place. “Tell me you have some friends up here. People you can tell all this shit to.”
Tom shrugged. “My ex, Sandra. She’s one of the nurses at the home.”
“Ex . . .?”
“Girlfriend.”
Something complicated passed over Frank’s face. Carefully, he sat back on the couch. “Tell me about your mom.”
“Can’t we be done for tonight? You’ve got your facts.”
“You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Whatever.”
“Please?”
Tom pushed out a sigh, more to show his discomfort than any need to refresh his lungs. “Mom’s going to be fine. Probably. She’s had lung infections before. It’s from not moving around enough. And all the smoking, I guess. Honestly, it’s a wonder she’s not dead already. I used to daydream about that, you know. About what I’d do after she died. Where I’d go.” Briefly, he thought of their notebook and winced. “Made me feel like such a fucking heel.” Why was he telling Frank this?
“If you think you’re the only person to ever have entertained such fantasies, then I’m sorry to disappoint you. You’re a good man, Tom. A good son. You always have been.”
Tom ducked his head.
“Play a game with me,” Frank said quietly. “If money were no object, what would you do with the lodge? It’s yours, free and clear, and someone is willing to invest.”
Tom was too tired for this, but Frank’s question was just so damn familiar. He did this. He always had. Whenever Tom decided he’d had enough, Frank would challenge him. Ask for more.
Tom looked at the plan on the wall, the rough sketch he’d made three or so years ago, and recalled the discussions he’d had with Robert—when he’d been able to get Robert to care about what was happening. He thought about the faerie wedding of a couple weeks back, the one relegated to the side of a restaurant. About the ceremony he’d been to that morning and the rigid formality of it. The church, the bland reception center.
Taking a breath, he held it, then decided to share his dream. The true one. What the hell? Maybe Frank would laugh or scoff or finally just give up. “I’d turn it into a wedding venue.”
With one pointed finger, Tom indicated the framed sketch. “The barn and stables? I’d turn them into a three-season sort of hall. Where the stalls are, put in an outdoor kitchen and catering area. Turn the barn into a reception hall. See that path leading away from the patio? That’d be where the bride and groom or bride and bride or whoever and whoever would do their thing. There’s enough lawn for chairs on either side, and they could get married with a view of the forest, a redone patio area, all trellises and vines, or the restored barn if they wanted something rustic.”
If the weather wasn’t cooperating, they could put up a tent. Or they could do the ceremony inside. The dining room would make a nice venue, cleaned up and cleared out.
Tom got up, crossed to the sketch, and tapped the guesthouses. “And we could rebuild a couple of these. Maybe three? Make them really nice. Honeymoon suites. Family suites.” He drew a circle around the garage. “If we moved that back, we’d have room for them. And the room upstairs? The one with the balcony? That’d be a suite too. 203 is tiny, anyway. Just knock out the wall.
“Then clean up the pool and patio, maybe put a pergola over here. A summer house arrangement behind the new guesthouses, but leave the lawn as it is. The forest as it is. No tennis courts, no horse-back riding. Just weddings and receptions. And in the off-season, wine tastings, dinner and libation series, book clubs, theme weekends. We could think about theming the whole resort to cater to LGBT couples. There’s another place up here doing that, and they’re way overbooked.”
Tom turned to look at Frank, who was being uncharacteristically quiet. “I know. It’s a dumb idea. Even Robert knew that. He listened, he humored me, but he also knew no one was coming out to the Poconos just to get married anymore.”
“But they are.” Frank stood up. “I did a little research this week, and people are coming out here to get married. It’s close to New York, it’s cheap, but it’s still two states away. This area holds the same allure it always did. It’s just not the only forest on Manhattan’s doorstep anymore.”
“So how do we get people to come here instead of wherever else they’re going?”
“By offering something unique, but not weird.”
“And that would be . . .”
Frank tapped the picture on the wall. “This.”
“What?”
“I could see it before you described it to me. The layout, the atmosphere, the focus on happy beginnings. Small events. Instead of catering to the family vacation, we’d do honeymoons, or intimate gatherings. I think you could narrow the focus even more. Skip the B&B customers and weekenders and do all weddings and anniversaries.”
“That’s not particularly unique.”
“Perhaps not, but by limiting the type of function, you not only specialize, but you offer something few other places can—a complete focus. A complete experience. A beautiful setting where everyone feels welcome.”
“Would you make it all same sex, maybe? Cater to only that market?”
“I don’t know. I mean, is that an issue anymore? Maybe it would be better to be all inclusive, but not . . . I can’t believe I’m saying this, too gay.”
“How do you mean?”
“For a long time when I pictured my own wedding, I’d always imagine myself thumbing my nose at tradition by getting married in some loud and obnoxious manner. Something overwhelmingly pink and purple and not . . . solemn. Not a groom and groom dressed in tuxes exchanging vows, but a party where people could wear whatever they wanted and where we could truly celebrate the fact that no one cared what gender anyone was.”
“That sounds very you.” Tom didn’t allow his thoughts to wander too far toward the guy Frank would be marrying, but the rest of it? Yeah.
“I’ve been to that wedding and it was fun. I’ve been to that wedding half a dozen times. I’ve also been to the boring, traditional bride-and-groom-wear-white wedding and it was beautiful. I’ve come to realize that a wedding is what you make of it and . . . I don’t even know what I’m trying to say anymore. Maybe we should have some more wine.”
“Frank?”
“Mmm?”
They were standing close. As close as two men could without getting either uncomfortable or very comfortable indeed. Tom could smell Frank’s cologne and a slight whiff of wine and garlic. He wanted to kiss him again. Take him upstairs and undress him.
“What are we doing here?”
Frank tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“This.” Tom tapped the framed sketch. “Why are we talking about this as though we might actually do it?”
“If I could get it financed, would you be interested?”
“Are you serious?”
“I won’t know until I try, but . . . yes. I think I am. I mean, there’s a lot to work out and a lot of it depends on you. On whether we could do this together. But I’m ready for something different. I’m not inspired by my work anymore. I want to write something else and I want to do something else. And I have money put aside.”
“You . . . You are serious about this.”
Frank nodded.
Breathing out slowly, Tom took a couple of steps back. He needed some space. Some air not scented with Frank. A gap wide enough to ask the big question. “What if we find we can’t work together?”
“I don’t think that’s the question you want to ask.”
Tom tried again. “What if we can’t resolve whatever this thing is between us?”
Now that he’d acknowledged it, Tom was consumed by the fear Frank would refute the fact that anything remained of what had once been. That he would leave.
Frank smiled a gentle smile. “You were my best friend, Tommy.”
“We barely know each other now.”
“That’s not true. You can say it, but it’s not true.”
“Frank—”
“Just hear me out.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
Frank held up a hand. “I don’t think it will come as a surprise I want more. That I want us to figure out what this . . . this thing as you’ve so eloquently put it . . . is between us. But if we can’t, then we’ll simply have to be friends.”
“How?”
“You’re already in here.” Frank pressed his palm to his chest. “You always were.”
Tom’s heart took a long, painful pause. He knew, even before he could spare a thought toward rearranging his face, that his expression had given him away. That Frank knew he felt the same.
The bastard smiled. “We’ve got some ground to cover, sure. But we’ll always have that.”