Present Day
The crunch of gravel distracted Frank from a stream of mindless crap. How had he ever been invested in Twitter? Why did he even have an account? At some point, it had no doubt seemed important, but lately—since his return from Puerto Rico, his reunion with Tom—social media felt utterly frivolous. They said it took ten days to break a habit. The fact he hadn’t tried to align any of the frames on the red wall behind the ratty couch in his uncle’s office . . . the fact he was still here in Pennsylvania, proved he’d done more than break a single habit over the past few weeks.
He could use the excuse of having to go through his uncle’s stuff for his lack of attention to neatness, order, and the future of his career. Sadly, that exercise hadn’t taken more than a day. The boxes in the basement had contained an assortment of lawn toys, pool equipment, and the games and books that used to fill the shelves in the lounge. Otherwise, Robert had pared down his existence to an alarming degree after Madge had died. All that remained of him was the house, a misaligned collection of framed photos and prints, and the clothing hanging in his wardrobe.
Of course, the house was all Robert. Every stick of furniture, every coat of paint. And Frank was still here for something other than a collection of old stuff. He was here for Tom, which should have been obvious to both of them. Was obvious. But Tom was Tom and Tom deflected. Frank persisted. It made for an intense working relationship and that was what counted right now.
Keep telling yourself that, Frankie.
Telling himself this was what he wanted, this project, felt better. Truer.
Content with that, Frank slipped his phone into a pocket, stood, and stretched, bending toward the window as he did so. His eyebrows did a little stretch of their own as he recognized the car outside the lodge. Tucking in his shirt, he bent the other direction to check his reflection in the glass covering one of the prints. The glass wasn’t much of a mirror, showing only a shadowy outline of his hair and shoulders. Frank fiddled with the shortened curls at his temples anyway, putting off the moment when he’d have to greet a person he simultaneously did and did not want to see.
By the time Frank made it outside, the visitor was leaning against the side of his car, arms folded, ankles crossed. The pose was one of relaxed nonchalance. Brian Kenway usually waited for the world to come to him, rather than deign to visit the world.
What had Simon ever seen in him?
That, Frank. Exactly that.
“Well look what the cat dragged up the mountain and left by the roadside,” Frank said, stepping out of the shade of the porch. There was no sign of Tom. He’d shot another wedding that morning and was probably still in the cellar working on albums. For the moment, that suited Frank quite well.
“And what are you? The specimen left here last week? Last month?” Brian pushed away from the side of his car and met Frank halfway across the drive. He extended a hand and Frank took it. The shake was brief, barely cordial, and completely undermined by Brian’s wide smile. “You don’t seem pleased to see me,” he said.
“Actually, I’m mostly surprised. I only spoke to Simon last week.”
“So he mentioned when I was there yesterday.”
“You were visiting Simon?”
“Why wouldn’t I? We’re in business together.”
“You were in business together. He’s working with someone else now.” And sleeping with someone else, thank God.
Brian made a dismissive sound. “We still have a few projects in common. So, what’s up with this place? It’s a nice parcel of land.”
“Why are you here?”
“Did you know your frowny face is an almost exact replica of Simon’s?”
Frank hadn’t known he was frowning. Now, however, he felt the wrinkles in his forehead deepening—and that annoyed him further because he’d always been the crayon version of Brian Kenway. Not quite as tall, not as attractively blond—the fact he’d been coloring his hair for years not withstanding—not as interestingly featured, and definitely not as charismatic.
“Simon and I have been friends for a long time.”
A crease appeared between Brian’s eyebrows. “Why do you dislike me so much?”
Because you broke Simon’s heart. Not once, not twice, but at least once a year for the entire twelve you were together. “Not everyone is susceptible to your charms.”
Brian waved a hand between them as though clearing the air. “Why don’t we talk about the decrepit pile of stone behind you?”
Clenching his jaw, Frank turned to look at the . . . decrepit pile of stone. “Oh dear.” He’d become quite used to the air of neglect. Seeing the lodge through Brian’s eyes, he had to wonder if he and Tom had taken leave of their senses.
For the past week, they’d been sketching, researching, outlining, and planning. It had been stimulating work—and not only because of the time spent with Tom. Through this shared vision, they were rebuilding their friendship, and though Frank still wanted Tom with every cell of his being—his bathroom reeked of misspent semen—he’d willingly admit that they needed this. Needed time to just be together. They were relearning each other’s quirks and becoming accustomed to each other’s routines. So much had changed. So much hadn’t. Like the lodge, their relationship needed a lot of work.
Frank considered the old building, which wasn’t flattered by the midday sun. Morning began on the other side of the main house, only traveling around to the front by late afternoon. One might believe the original house had been planned that way so that arriving visitors would see the lodge lit up by the more golden light of afternoon, while guests were able to enjoy noon sunshine in the patio and pool areas. Now, the place simply looked much as it was: forlorn, forgotten, finished.
“It has seen better days,” Frank said quietly.
“You’re planning to knock it down, right?”
“What? No.”
Brian frowned. “This is a great area for development. You could fit half a dozen nice houses here and quadruple any investment. Where are the boundaries? Is there much of a slope to the back lawn?”
“We don’t want to knock it down.”
“‘We’?” Brian arched a single eyebrow. His mouth quirked at a matching, sardonic angle.
Frank’s internal temperature rose by ten degrees. “Simon told you about Tom.”
“He didn’t mean to. Charlie was the one who mentioned him, and Simon picked up the slack.”
“Charlie mentioned him? Wonderful. Terrific. My teenage love life is now the hot news item in Bethlehem.”
“Don’t we think a lot of ourselves?”
“I cannot believe he told Charlie what I shared with him in the strictest confidence.” Actually, Frank could believe it. Simon might still be the soul of discretion when it counted, but when it came to Charlie, he had no secrets. They were just so damned couple-y.
Brian smiled. “He did look a mite uncomfortable, but you know what?”
“Oh, please enlighten me.”
“I should have guessed.”
“Guessed what?”
“You have just about everyone fooled. Simon most of all. But you’re not what you pretend to be.”
Frank opened and closed his mouth. Drew his eyebrows together. “You might as well be speaking Greek.”
“You play at being the party boy, Franklin Tern. The out-and-proud journalist, posing for photographs with the sort of people most of us would give our left nut to meet. How many times have you been in Fairground?”
“You read Vanity Fair?”
“At the doctor’s office.”
“What is your point?”
“I’ve hooked up with some of your supposed lovers, Frank”—of course he had—“and you’re just friends with all of them. In fact, there’s a rumor about you.”
“One I haven’t heard?” His cheeks were not heating. The day had simply grown warmer, that was all.
Brian seemed poised to deliver his punch line and then he stopped. Refocused. Sorted his expression from cattiest to most genial. Frank turned, and yes, Tom had finally made it upstairs and was skipping down the steps from the front porch.
Dressed in his usual, casual manner—jeans and a T-shirt, flip-flops today instead of boots—Tom appeared lighter than he had the week before. That ghost-like quality continued to glimmer around him, but he seemed to step less carefully—in some respects. Tom was definitely here, with him, but the man still had secrets. Sometimes he looked so afraid. Frank didn’t know how to ask why.
Extracting a hand from his jeans pocket, Tom extended it toward Brian. Lord, he was beautiful. All that dark, floppy hair. The silver threads could be highlights. Big, expressive eyes. A smile that was not quite tentative. “A friend of Frank’s?” he asked.
“I’m Brian, and I suppose you could say that.” Brian gave Frank a sideways smile, reminding him that they had been friends, once, even if the only thing they’d ever had in common was Simon. “You must be Tom.”
Tom glanced at Frank as if asking for a cue.
“Brian works with Simon. My friend from Bethlehem.”
“Oh, that Brian.” Tom’s dark eyebrows did a little dance.
Brian had the grace to look uncomfortable, but couldn’t let a touch go without a riposte. “I see I’m not the only one who talks.”
“Simon mentioned our plans for the lodge,” Frank said, ignoring Brian’s jab, “and Brian came to see the project.”
“That’s great!” The enthusiasm lighting Tom’s face was heartbreaking. For all Frank wanted their venture to succeed, was prepared to invest in it—time and money—he didn’t actually know if they could pull it off. “What can I show you?”
Tom was already walking back toward the lodge. Brian glanced at Frank, his expression so damned smug, Frank wanted to slap him. He snarled instead. Silently, pettily. And then fought the rising tide of embarrassment all the way to the front door.
Tom led the way inside, talking and gesturing. “We’d keep the entry way pretty much as it is, I think. The dimensions are good and with the window over the stairs at the back and above the foyer”—he indicated the large window set over the front door—“light isn’t an issue. However we decide to decorate the place, this area works.” He showed Brian a bashful smile. “Well, I’m no architect, but I think it does.”
“I’m not an architect either. That’s Simon’s department. But I can see what you’re saying. It’s a good space. What’s through here?” Brian indicated the archway leading toward the guest lounge.
Now that Tom was showing him around, Brian wanted to see the place? What the fuck? He’d been one step away from calling for demolition services when he arrived.
“This area I’m not sure about,” Tom said. “Frank and I have discussed keeping it as it is, lounge and dining room, or maybe making it one larger space, like a great room. Advantages and disadvantages to both. One big space would be great for receptions, weddings, events. But would it still feel intimate enough for a smaller party? The wedding I shot this morning was only about thirty-five people. Really close-knit group. They’d have been lost in a space as big as all that.”
Brian stood in the connecting doorway between the dining and lounge and looked back and forth. “I see what you mean.” His forehead wrinkled, and he seemed to consider his next question before sharing it. “Have you thought about adding more outdoor space instead?”
Tom’s expression shifted from bright to radiant as he gestured in the direction of the kitchen. “Let me show you the barn.”
Not wanting to be left behind, Frank led the way. He noticed the smell as soon as he stepped outside the kitchen door. Not mold. Something sharper, like rotting meat or rancid garbage. He glanced at the cans lined up behind the garage, then back at the kitchen, seeing nothing amiss.
Behind him, Brian wrinkled his forehead and Tom stopped to do the same check as Frank. Kitchen, garage, garbage cans. “What is that smell?”
“Probably the leftovers from your attempt to cook last night,” Frank quipped.
Mock scowling, Tom continued toward the patio.
Frank and Brian followed, and the fetid odor thickened.
“Any dead bodies you want to tell me about?” Brian asked.
“No.” Tom was quiet, thoughtful, and then he strode to the edge of the empty swimming pool. Shock rippled across his face as he jerked back, covering his nose and mouth. He waved Frank and Brian away, saying something behind his palm.
“What is it?” Ignoring the wave, Frank approached the pool. The stink of rot was so heavy by the time he reached the edge, he could almost lean against it. He glanced toward the deep end, at the drifts of mulching leaves, small branches, and pile of fur and pink and . . . “Oh God.”
Brian stalked toward the edge and leaned forward a little. “Are those raccoons?”
Not anymore.
Trying not to gag, Frank asked, “Could they have fallen in? Does that happen often?”
Tom shook his head and dropped his hand away from his mouth. “I’m going to go get some garbage bags.” He disappeared in the direction of the laundry.
“Something or someone killed those raccoons and threw them into the pool,” Brian said.
Frank nodded. He’d flirted with the same theory, in between trying to imagine how a corpse (or several) could bloat and explode without them noticing the smell long before this. “Kids, probably.”
“I wonder if Patricia Nolan had anything to do with it,” Tom said, returning with gloves and a wad of heavy black plastic.
“The woman from the Tinden Group?” Frank asked.
Brian’s eyebrows rose. “They can play dirty, but isn’t this a little juvenile?”
Tom shook his head, the gesture more thoughtful than outright denial. “She stopped to leave another business card about a week and a half ago. Had someone in the car with her. I was upstairs”—were Tom’s cheeks reddening?—“and saw her through a window. I didn’t feel like answering the door, so I just watched as she got out, knocked, left a card, and got back in the car. It was the same day that kid crossed the back lawn. They ran off when my cell phone rang.”
“You think it’s all connected?” Frank looked from the pool to the forest and back again.
“I don’t know.”
Frank blew out a breath. “Well, a few dead raccoons aren’t going to put me off.”
Tom held out the bags and gloves. “You want to clean them up, then, while I show Brian the barn?” His mouth was slanted in some sort of amused smirk, and Frank could feel the challenge in his gaze.
He snatched the bags and gloves. “If I die down there, please bury me in something other than black plastic. And not with the raccoons.”
Laughing, Tom skipped back a step, then cocked his head at Brian. “C’mon.”
“What? No, I want to watch Franklin Tern pick up dead animals.”
Frank growled, and this time, he meant it.
Frank did not vomit, though he came close enough that he felt as though he’d earned every calorie that would pass his lips later that evening. And every ounce of wine.
After double bagging the . . . remains, Frank stripped off his gloves and bagged them as well. He considered trashing his entire outfit, but decided a run through the laundry could delay that decision. Also, he wanted a shower. By the time he was cleaned up, Tom and Brian were sitting at the kitchen counter, chatting like old friends.
Tom glanced up as he entered and gave him a bright smile. “You survived!”
“Miracles will never cease.”
Tom slid off his stool and hovered in front of Frank, looking for all the world as though he wanted to hug him.
Frank took a step back, half convinced he still smelled of rotting roadkill, the balance of his feelings centered around the fact Brian was regarding him and Tom with altogether too much interest. “Can I offer you something to drink, Brian? Water? Wine? Drano?”
“I’m going to go get our sketches,” Tom said. “Don’t kill him until after I get back?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Smiling, Tom slipped out of the kitchen.
Frank turned to Brian. “So, what do you think?”
“I think you’re the saddest sack of testosterone ever to have drawn breath.”
“Not following.”
Brian hooked a thumb toward the door. “You’re not sleeping with him, are you?”
“I would rather talk about the lodge.”
“You know, I got why you never liked me. You saw through my bullshit pretty early on. What I never understood was why you didn’t tell Simon what was going on. I guessed it was that you didn’t want to be the messenger, but it still made no sense because I was convinced, one hundred percent, that your distaste for me was directly in proportion to your crush on Simon. I knew there was someone. A reason why none of your ‘affairs’”—he made air quotes—“stuck. Why you bothered with the farce was a mystery, but again, I figured it was Simon. Always Simon.”
“I wasn’t jealous of you.” Not a total lie. “I just didn’t like the way you treated my friend. He was in love with you.”
“And I loved him.”
“And about a dozen other men at the same time.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“I don’t care what it was like and I don’t need any more of your insights, Brian. Stay out of my life.” And my head.
“You’re one sorry bastard, Frankie.”
The nickname took a sour turn on Brian’s tongue. The odd thing was, Frank could see Brian didn’t mean it that way. In fact, if Frank thought about it, he might have been flattered that Brian was so invested in his . . . whatever this was. But at the moment, it felt like interference with a somewhat malicious intent.
“Did you come out here with the express purpose of insulting me?”
“No, I actually came to look at the property. As a favor to Simon, and to you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re right. I’m an asshole.”
“I never said—”
“You did, once. We were at a party, maybe four years ago—”
“Brian.”
“Being able to work with Simon again is a gift. I won’t say I owe him, owed him, but . . .” Brian sighed. “He asked me to come out here and so here I am.”
Frank’s thoughts stuttered, but he managed a quiet “Thank you.”
“That’s it?”
“I can be nice.” Uncomfortable with the direction their conversation had taken, Frank started to move away.
Brian grasped Frank’s upper arm, gently. “Listen, all asshole-ish-ness aside, I get it, okay. I don’t know the whole story. Like I said, I always wondered who you were saving yourself for. I knew you weren’t as easy as you made yourself out to be and it niggled at me. Maybe because I’m the easy one. Can’t turn down—”
“You make a move on him and—”
“This time last year, I’d have done it. Now? I’m going to whup your ass if you don’t.”
“I cannot believe you are advising me on my love life.” Frank tugged his arm, disengaging Brian’s fingers. “But I’ll take your suggestion under advisement.” And not only because it aligned somewhat with his own plans.
Brian stood back and smiled, and for perhaps the first time in the fourteen or so years Frank had known him, there was no calculation in the curve of his mouth or in the gleam of his eyes.
Frank cleared his throat. “What can I get you to drink?”
Brian’s smile widened. “Anything but Drano.”