For two weeks, Tom had been splitting his nights between a sleeping bag on the floor of the empty cottage where he kept his stuff, and the back seat of his car—which had been convenient to his mom for a few days, but once they’d released her to her room, it was just him sleeping with his pride. Leaning in the doorway of the office, he eyed the sofa with a pang of homesickness. Might not be much of a step up, but he could stretch his legs out all the way and it wasn’t the freaking floor.
He was tired, sore, and needed a shower.
“Ready to go?” Frank turned away from the fancy laptop he had set up on the desk.
Lifting his shoulder from the edge of the doorway, Tom said, “I need a shower. Water tank at my place is on the fritz.”
“Sure. Take your time.” Frank held up his phone. “I’ve got a rough itinerary set up.” He smiled. “I’m trying to see if any of the resorts we want to visit have a wedding planned. You’ll be doing your usual Saturday thing.”
Snorting, Tom left Frank to his plans and went to shower in Robert’s bathroom. On the way back through the bedroom he eyed Robert’s bed. A heavy dragging fatigue pulled him toward the edge, where he sat, smoothing his hand over the soft duvet cover. He’d been avoiding this part of the room—avoiding memories of the morning he’d found Robert. Robert’s body. Ten o’clock had come and gone without Robert drifting into the office to grumble at the Keurig. He hadn’t answered a polite knock at his door, not a call or a steady banging, and Tom had known he was gone the moment he opened the door and saw Robert’s outline under the sheets—still, lifeless, and not peaceful. Just . . . empty.
He’d stood there for ten full minutes, not in and not out of the room, hovering in the doorway, trapped by the same fatigue that had him sitting here now. A need to not deal with whatever lay in front of him.
Scuffing footsteps drew his attention forward, back to the present and over to the door. Frank stood there, arms folded, expression solemn. “How’s your mom?”
“Good. Getting better every day.” And her improved health had come with a steady increase in messages from Mountain Manor. They were texting him now.
He should tell Frank he had nowhere else to stay. And maybe ask for a paycheck while he was at it. If he kept putting it off, Frank might think Tom was stringing him along for just that: money and a roof over his head—and rebuilding their friendship, angling toward more, was worth twice that. Being here with Frank, planning for a something he’d only ever considered a dream, was the only thing keeping him going right now—when he could balance it against the fear that Frank would decide this was all too hard.
That Frank wasn’t going to stay this time.
Stop.
Tom put his hands to either side of him, flat against the quilt and pressed down. He’d visit the bank on Monday. Organize another loan. He had options. There were always options.
Gritting his teeth, Tom pushed up off the side of the bed.
“If you want to hang out today instead, we can do that,” Frank said. “Try another swim. Talk about Robert?” The last was offered tentatively.
Tom forced a smile. “No, it’s fine. I’m eager to check out the competition.” Their supposed competition. “C’mon, we’re wasting daylight.”
“It’s summer. Plenty of daylight to be had.”
From the doorway, Tom cast a last quick look over his shoulder at the bed. Maybe he’d sneak in here tonight, get some proper rest. He’d need it if he was going to keep spending long June days with Frank.
Frank offered to drive. He’d finally collected his “precious” from the body shop, and Tom couldn’t help his grin as he took in the softly gleaming black paint and sleek contours. It didn’t surprise him that the car was twenty years old. Frank might like nice things, but once he had them, he kept them.
Frank turned the keys and depressed the accelerator gently. The BMW responded with a smooth purr. “All is right with the world again.”
As they drove north, heading through the hills to the first resort on their list, Frank briefly outlined the history of his car. “I bought it with my first substantial pay check as a journalist. Well, made a down payment, anyway. I’d just been given a regular column and had sold my biggest story.” His smile was boyish. “It was the best week of my life.”
“And then you started winning awards. Getting spots on TV. Rubbing elbows with famous people.”
“That was all quite some time after that.”
“Are you really bored with it all?”
Frank tilted his head and shrugged. “I don’t know if ‘bored’ is the right word. ‘Jaded’ might be better. ‘Tired’? I started out looking for people to highlight, for the people who didn’t have a name yet, but who should. That’s how I made my name. I’m not sure when everything changed.” He glanced over. “Life is like that, isn’t it? One minute you’re writing about a kid who invented a fabulous gizmo, the next you’re writing puff pieces about people who don’t need any more air up their asses, because no one wants to hear about new and interesting things anymore.
“Take this piece I was supposed to do in Puerto Rico. There are several billionaires down there throwing money at worthy causes, and a handful of other people just giving themselves. I went down to do a story on a woman who wants to help revolutionize electricity generation. Sadly, it’s a clean slate down there. I never even got to meet her, because I couldn’t get transport to the other side of the island. The most recent storm wasn’t devastating in the manner of a hurricane, but to a country already picked apart and thrown back together, it might as well have been. So, I tried to cover that and . . .” His hands tightened on the wheel. “I discovered something I am not good at.”
Tom swallowed his immediate desire to tease. He’d read the story Frank posted from Puerto Rico, and it had not been Frank’s usual thing. The situation, the thinly veiled horror behind Frank’s words, and that deeper tone. The sense of futility and worthlessness. Tom had supposed he’d imagined it until now. That maybe Frank had been trying for something he couldn’t quite capture, because normally he wrote lighter pieces. Not fluff, but his interviews and perspectives always carried a tone of optimism. Joy, even. As though he felt privileged to have met the person he’d spoken to, and to have the opportunity to share their story.
“Could you go down again?”
Frank shrugged. “If I wanted to interview a billionaire, I could get a ticket tomorrow. If I wanted to cover an actor doling out smiles, I’d have several magazines bidding for the story.”
“Have you tried contacting her directly?” Tom asked. He needn’t have. He already knew the answer. Frank might project a carefree and somewhat frivolous manner, especially in the company of those who knew only that side of him, but he’d always been a deeply conscientious person.
“We’ve exchanged emails. Someone else is down there now, wading hip-deep through mud with her.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Frank.”
“Don’t be. It was too real for me.”
Tom shook his head. “Don’t say that. It just wasn’t your kind of story, that’s all.”
“I have more frequent flyer miles than I’ll ever get to spend, and all I want to do is stay home.” Frank glanced over, the look in his eyes not insignificant. “I want to tell smaller stories again.”
“Then that’s what you should do.”
Frank turned his attention back to the road. They were passing through the almost nonexistent township of Middle Smithfield. A supermarket, a tattoo parlor, take-out Chinese and pizza, a gas station, and a bar. “That’s not the same supermarket you threw up in, is it?” he asked.
“Seriously? You haven’t been along here in thirty years and that’s what you remember?” As a change of subject, it was . . . It’d do.
“It’s not every day you get to witness such a spectacular hurl.”
Grinning, Tom ducked his head. “I’m going to say it was your fault. You bet I couldn’t eat eight popsicles in a row, didn’t you?”
“No, that was Matty.” Frank’s older brother. “And when you started saying you were going to be sick, he pulled in here so fast he nearly left his transmission out on Milford Road. Were we on our way home from Smithfield Beach?”
“Something like that. I could have just hung my head out the window.”
“I seem to remember he was worried about his paint job.”
Tom laughed. “God. My stomach’s cramping just thinking about it.”
“You gave a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘taste the rainbow.’”
“Pretty sure no one was using that line back then.”
The rest of the drive out to the first resort passed in a blur of similar memories: the time Frank had broken the plumbing at the Arby’s, the time Tom had thrown up in gym class, the three or so fights they’d been involved in on the bus—the ones that ended with blood—and the time Tom had thrown up in the creek.
“I vomited a lot.”
“It was weird, because you never ate enough. Still don’t.” Frank poked him in the ribs.
“I guess I had a nervous stomach.”
“Heh. Okay, we should be close.”
“Yeah, it’s up on the left. I shot a wedding here about eight years ago. I think they’ve renovated since then.”
Frank’s eyes narrowed as he read the signs flanking either side of the resort driveway. “Did we slip through an interdimensional rift to Las Vegas?”
“I did mention it was all casino consortiums and water parks, didn’t I?”
“I thought you were exaggerating.”
“Not so much.”
The Pocono Haven Resort had been renovated, and the new buildings were large and showy. Behind them, the old resort hotel brooded like a resentful cousin. Some effort had been made to bring it in line with the updated buildings, but paint couldn’t hide architecture.
Frank parked in the sprawling lot beside the main building and they got out, stretching their legs. It hadn’t been a long drive, but the Z3 was small, even for Tom.
“Want to wander around, or . . .?” Tom waved in the direction of the older part of the resort.
Frank nodded his head toward the main building. “Let’s start there.”
Once inside, Frank walked right up to the reception desk. A well-groomed woman greeted them with a friendly expression. “Good morning and welcome to the Pocono Haven Resort. What can I assist you with today?”
Frank grabbed Tom’s hand and put on a brilliant smile. “My fiancé and I are up this weekend checking out wedding venues. I wondered if someone could give us a quick tour? And maybe a peek at one of the rooms?”
“Of course! Let me see who is available to show you around.”
Tom spent about three seconds trying to figure out how to be a fiancé before simply “relaxing” into the stiff posture he was used to. Frank pretended to ignore him. A few moments later, a happy-looking guy dressed in a shiny suit walked up.
“Welcome to . . . Oh my God, Tom?”
“Riley?”
Riley reached for Tom’s arm and wrapped his fingers around the biceps, squeezing gently. “I heard about Robert. I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?”
“Ah . . . Frank, this is Riley Blum. He used to work at Bossen Hill.” About ten years ago. He’d . . . grown up. “Riley, this is Frank. Robert’s nephew.”
Riley glanced down at their joined hands, forehead wrinkling as his eyebrows jumped up. Tom had to try really, really hard not to extract his hand from Frank’s warm grip.
Riley moved his hand to theirs, making what should have been an awkward, three-way shake sort-of thing. “Frank. So lovely to meet you. I don’t know whether to express my condolences or congratulations first. Robert was a wonderful man.”
Frank turned his hand, opening his fingers, until he escaped the pile of palms. Then he took Riley’s hand in his and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you. It’s nice of you to remember Robert.”
“So when’s the happy day?” Riley asked.
“We’re thinking fall,” Frank said, giving Tom a sappy smile.
Tom shoved his hands into his pockets, hoping to avoid any more holding and squeezing.
“Well, if it couldn’t be me . . .” Riley all but sang.
Frank looked between them, one eyebrow arched.
“Oh, I was apparently too young for him,” Riley said, interpreting the question. “Besides, he was on his girl kick around then. Sandra, was it? You were with her after Gerry, right?”
“Gerry, as in Sarah Street Grill Gerry?” Frank asked. “With the hot wings?”
Riley answered with a rapid chin bob. “Aren’t they the best? No one makes a better sauce than Gerry.”
If there’d been a background to fade into, Tom would have done it, even if it meant giving up his skin.
Frank shot him a gleeful smile. “I had a feeling about Gerry.”
“Did you now?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Well, let me show you folks around!” Riley said.
They started their tour at the chapel (a little gaudy with all the marble and gold), moved on to the gardens (well maintained, but not particularly interesting), and then the reception areas—which, to be fair, were large and bland enough to carry any theme. Still, undecorated as the larger dining room was right then, it had the feeling of a ski lodge in the summertime: empty. Tom took pictures from every angle while Frank made notes—of how the tables and chairs could be arranged, the dimensions of the space, the proximity to the kitchens, the small stage against the far wall and, overhead, the lighting arrangement that could turn the room from anything into a romantic space for fifty to a dance club for an intimate hundred.
Lighting. Jeez. They hadn’t even considered lighting.
Next were the rooms.
Riley opened a rather ordinary door on the ground floor of a rather ordinary building—white stucco with new columns to match the fancier building fronting the resort—and said, “This is our most popular room. We call it the Love Bubble Suite.”
An immediate impression of “red” had Tom not so surreptitiously searching for a body. Red carpet, red curtains, a red sofa, and two chairs flanking a fireplace surrounded in brass. A crimson stripe followed the wall around to the bed, which was red and very, very round and set against a red accent wall. Before he could pass comment on the complementary color scheme, however, his gaze fell on the champagne glass. The freaking huge champagne glass set between two of the columns.
Next to him, Frank snickered and tugged on his hand. “Tom, look! A champagne-glass hot tub! I always wanted to fuck in one of these. It’s my ultimate wedding fantasy come true.”
Tom sucked in a breath and coughed. How was this even here? No one could live in the Poconos and not know about the tall champagne-glass hot tubs, but the fact they were real seemed a little . . . unreal. The fact the place had been renovated, with someone making a decision to keep the glasses was more unreal.
Frank was under the glass now, pushing at the stem. “Oh, quite sturdy.” He turned to glance at Riley. “Has one of these ever collapsed?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
Frank was still grinning when he faced Tom. “How I love a challenge.”
All Tom could think about was how unattractive his ass—anyone’s ass—would look pressed up against the clear Perspex. And how many happy couples had done the deed inside the bowl. “So not happening.”
“Aw, don’t be like that.” Frank pouted.
Riley looked charmed.
Ignoring them both, Tom toured the rest of the room. It was all red. Even the other tub. And the pool.
Frank met him in the bathroom. “If I know you, and I like to think I do, you’re thinking there are three too many places for semen to collect in this room.”
“I’m not a complete germaphobe, but there are three tubs in this place. Why three?”
“Because people love to fuck in water,” Riley said, joining them. “Not my thing.” He shuddered. “Lube and water, well . . .”
Frank laughed.
“So what do you guys think? Do you want to see any of the other suites?”
“This gives us enough of an idea,” Tom said. “Thanks, Riley.”
“Sure, and if you decide to book, give me a call and I’ll put a package together for you. As a friend.”
They all shook hands with Riley trying to do the three-way clasp again—would his “package” include a similar option?—and then they were in the car, Tom working to stow his camera bags somewhere sensible, Frank’s hands stuffed with brochures.
“You know when you hear about something, but you don’t think it’s actually a thing?” Tom asked.
Frank gave a dry chuckle. “I’m familiar with the process, yes.”
“Seriously, those champagne-glass hot tubs. How are they still around?”
“What, you’re not considering them for the Bossen Hill remodel?”
Tom shuddered. “No. And if I ever start to sound like I might? Drown me.”
“Noted. Okay, what’s next?”
“There’s another resort just a little ways north of here.”
“Is it going to be this same badly stitched quilt of past and present?”
“It was only built about ten years ago.”
“Good, a modern comparison, then.”
The newer resort was closed—as in shut down and boarded up behind overgrown walkways. “Holy shit, when did this happen?” Tom wondered aloud. “I drove up this way about six months ago to hike a section of the McDade Trail and this resort was open. They had snow tubing over there and ice skating on the pond.”
“A last hurrah, perhaps,” Frank mused.
“This is just depressing.”
“In one way, yes. But in another, I can already see that there’s a place for what we want to do. These resorts are large and gimmicky. Bossen Hill was never like that.”
Tom could feel his eyebrows drawing together. He pushed his fingers into the crease between them in the hope of massaging away the beginning of a headache, or the deepening of his fatigue. “Shawnee is up next.” He indicated the intersection at the top end of the abandoned resort. “Turn here. We can follow River Road back down toward the Water Gap.”
The Shawnee Inn and the Skytop Lodge would be perhaps the stiffest competition to their plans. Shawnee all the more so because of its proximity to the interstate. It was a traditional inn that hadn’t forgotten its roots, despite several renovations. The grounds were extensive, including river frontage and a championship golf course, which their guide pointed out several times from available windows. No champagne-glass hot tubs, but the rooms were nice, if a little bland.
Back in the car, Tom wrestled with his camera bags while Frank shuffled another batch of glossy brochures.
“It’s a beautiful resort,” Frank said.
“You haven’t seen Skytop yet.”
“I looked over their website. We’ll have something neither Shawnee nor Skytop do, though.”
“The pleasant aroma of mold and rancid raccoon?”
“I’m sure they’ve had a dead rodent or two behind their kitchens.” Frank waved such thoughts away. “No, we’re going to have intimacy. We won’t be hosting golf tournaments and regattas. We’ll be all about weddings.”
Tom glanced over at Frank’s profile and allowed himself to imagine—just for a minute—doing this tour for real. If he’d been able to . . . If he hadn’t ripped Frank out of his life all those years ago, would they be married by now? Or would time have pulled them apart strand by strand?
How did you know when you’d found The One?
Was there such a concept? One single person who meant everything, who defined words such as meaning. A golden standard against whom all others paled. And what about second chances?
The past two weeks had been soft and hard. Every minute in Frank’s company dissolved every objection Tom had had to . . . spending every minute in Frank’s company. But though Frank sent a lot of long, lingering looks in his direction, touched him when he could, cooked for him, encouraged him to dream beyond conceivable boundaries just so they’d know what they could work toward, he had yet to make a move. To lean in and kiss him.
Did Tom’s prickly shield serve as a deflector, or had Frank found a way to ignore the tension crackling between them?
Maybe he was simply waiting for Tom to make an invitation. What Tom couldn’t figure out was whether he should. He wanted to. More and more each day. But if they couldn’t figure out how to save the lodge, would Frank up and leave him behind?
The world wasn’t as large as it used to be, though. Jersey City not so distant.
Tom swallowed and looked away, as he almost always did when long moments of silence settled between them. Even when Frank wasn’t facing him.
How long could they string this out?
When did love fade?
Was that what this was?
If only he wasn’t so tired.