Not displaying a visible reaction to the changes time had wrought on Wendy Benjamin was perhaps the hardest thing Frank had ever done. Surely Tom had brought him to the wrong room? He checked the number on the door even though a whisper inside his head reminded him that he had no idea which room number was supposed to be hers.
Wendy had always been a small woman. Now she embodied the cliché: frail as a bird. Her white hair resembled the fluff atop a new chick’s head, pink skin just visible beneath. Her eyes had faded from blue to gray, and beneath the parchment hue, her skin held an unhealthy pallor. Liver failure, Tom had said. And she’d apparently had several intestinal surgeries as well as cancer. And a broken neck. And a coma of some sort, the last of which had left her grappling with reality in a way no alcoholic stupor ever had.
No wonder Tom lectured the kids about addiction.
No wonder he’d never left Pennsylvania.
Rather than stand by the door and cry, Frank slipped inside the room, softening his footfalls by touching his toe down before lowering his heels. Tom was crouched in front of Wendy, holding her hands and speaking in a low voice.
“I’ve brought someone to see you, Mom. You were asking about Frank a little while ago.”
Tom continued talking, and Frank noticed he didn’t speak as one might to an invalid or someone who’d lost as much as Wendy had. He spoke as any doting son might.
Oh, Tom.
Frank’s chest tightened.
After wrapping up a report on his week—thankfully leaving out the part about them fucking in an utterly proverbial manner since their return from Jersey City—Tom asked Wendy if she wanted to go for a walk. When she gave no reaction, he checked her shoes, then turned to look over his shoulder. “Can you bring the wheelchair over?”
Realizing he’d not moved much past the doorway, Frank jolted himself out of the trance he’d fallen into, claimed the chair from the corner, and pushed it across the room until he had it positioned just behind Tom.
“Is it okay if we take her out?”
“She likes the garden,” Tom said. “She might, um, become responsive if we take her outside.”
“Do you want to be alone with her?”
“Only if that would make you more comfortable.”
“No. I . . .” He couldn’t say he was exactly glad to be here. He’d experienced perhaps his most cowardly moment when Tom had first asked if he wanted to visit. But he was here, and he was here because Wendy was as much a part of his life as Tom.
Taking a deep breath, Frank turned to Wendy—who remained still and unfocused in her chair—and said, “It’s so good to see you again, Wendy. I’m looking forward to touring your garden.”
She made no answer, but Tom’s smile was worth the small pantomime.
Tom lifted his mother and settled her in the chair, fussing over her pant legs and shirt until he was sure she was comfortable. Then they wheeled her out of the room, down the hall, and out into the summer sunshine.
Wendy did brighten as they toured the garden. Frank would never have taken her as one who enjoyed the outdoors; Wendy always had seemed to be working when they’d been kids. But Tom must have inherited his love of nature and hiking from someone. They rolled to a stop in front of a flower bed. Behind, a short lawn ended at a line of trees over which the sound of the highway rippled almost like a stream. If Frank squinted—eyes and ears and never mind how he got his ears to squint—he could almost imagine he was near the creek at home.
When had he started thinking of Bossen Hill as home?
Tom sat on the convenient bench beside the chair, took his mother’s hand in his, and started telling her more about his week. Frank stood there feeling awkward until she seemed to glance up at him. Her head moved, anyway. Then her gaze sharpened and she was looking right at him. Frank tried for a smile.
“Frankie.”
His smile widened out of perfunctory and into astonished. “Hello, Wendy.”
“You sure did get tall, didn’t you?”
She not only knew who he was, but that he was grown? Frank shook his head, then nodded. “I was always on the large side.”
Wendy produced a dry cackle. “Yes, you were. Did you come back to get Tommy? He missed you, you know.”
Beside her, Tom scowled lightly.
“I did,” Frank said.
She lifted a shaking hand. It dropped back into her lap. Frank reached down to clasp it and Wendy smiled. “You take good care of my boy.” The squeeze she gave his fingers was feeble, but beneath it, Frank could feel the strength that had kept her alive this long. Say what you wanted about Wendy’s choices, but something had kept her here, and Frank didn’t have to think about what . . . who that might be.
He squeezed back, gently. “I will.”
Wendy faded then, leaving Frank wondering if he’d dreamed the entire exchange. But her hand still rested loosely in his. He crouched beside her chair and held on until Tom said they could take her back inside.
“Why don’t you get her settled?” Frank said. “I need to”—he pulled his phone from his pocket—“make a call.”
Tom’s eyebrows quirked in different directions, but he nodded and wheeled Wendy back toward the building. Frank followed at a slower pace, changing direction at the fountain and reentering the building through the lobby area. He strode directly toward the desk and greeted the receptionist with a smile.
“How do I go about paying Wendy Benjamin’s account?”
“I asked for help, not a handout!”
Frank had expected this. He might be in love, but he hadn’t lost all sense. He watched as Tom paced the short length of the office, past the sofa he’d apparently called home for the past five months and up to the bureau housing the evil little coffee maker. He spun on his heel and turned back again.
Should he wait for Tom to wear a hole in the floor or simply wear himself out? The couch was right there. If and when Tom did collapse, however, he’d only wake in the same mood. A more stubborn man had yet to be born.
Frank let him complete another two grumbling circuits before he held up a hand. “Can I say just two things?”
Tom stopped and glared at him. “Just two?”
“I’ll start with two.”
Tom folded his arms.
“Technically, you are now my employee. As such, you’re entitled to certain benefits.”
“I’m not in a full-time care facility.”
“No, but your family is. A good portion of Wendy’s care should be covered by your benefits.”
Tom scoffed. “My benefits? You do realize I don’t have any, right?”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Seriously, Frank?”
Frank waved his hands. “Okay, let’s move on to the second point. If Robert had required long-term care, would you have arranged it?”
“Yes.”
Frank spread the hands he still had in the air and shrugged.
Growling, Tom unfolded his arms and resumed his pacing. Frank let him go. The floor would give way soon. Before that happened, however, Tom angled himself toward the couch and flopped into an angry bundle, arms and legs tucked in, head bend forward. He growled again, muttered something, tugged on his hair a little, and finally breathed out.
Had the storm passed? And was this what Frank had to look forward to for the next forty or so years? Of course it was, and he’d known that.
Now would be a bad time to smile, wouldn’t it? Shit, Tom was looking up. Frank pressed his lips together.
Tom narrowed his eyes. “Fuck you, Tern.”
“Yes, please.”
“Am I really your employee?”
“I don’t know how it works when ownership of a business changes hands, but I would assume so.” The thick envelope of paperwork he’d only skimmed, should have fucking read, would likely have documentation to that effect. “Either way, we need to renegotiate your contract.”
“What if I don’t want to work for you?”
“Then don’t. Be my business partner instead.”
Tom scowled. “I have nothing, Frank.”
“You are vital to this project. I wouldn’t have thought of it without you, and while I tidy up some of my writing commitments, you’ll be the man on the ground, so to speak.” Frank leaned forward in the office chair. “I already considered us partners in this deal.”
“What if we fail?”
“Then we move on to the next thing.”
“Failure means debt, Frank. It means not being able to buy new mattresses and silk pajamas.”
“Quelle horreur!” Frank put his flapping hands back in his lap and took a more serious tone. “How long have you been making that work for you?”
Tom arched a single eyebrow. “What, my lack of silk pajamas?”
“Exactly that.”
“Frank, being poor isn’t a joke. It’s not an adventure.”
“I don’t imagine it would be, and I’m not going to say I wouldn’t care because you’d be at my side. I might prefer tailored shirts and the feel of silk against my skin, but I’m not all fluff and nonsense. And I don’t intend to fail. I’m not going to devote two years of my life renovating this resort while expecting to fail. We’re going to build something wonderful here, Tommy. You and I. And while we’re building our dream, I’ll write about it and you can take the pictures, just as we always planned.”
Tom started shaking his head.
Frank pointed a finger at him. “Don’t scoff, but there’s a book in this. There are stories here”—he circled his finger through the air—“and don’t forget, I’ve been selling stories for the past thirty years. I have more than a few loyal readers, and a number of people who want me to make them sound more interesting than they are. So we’re going to make this work.”
“And all I have to do is take pictures? Come on, Frank. We’re not teenagers anymore.”
Frank set his jaw. “I’m going to say this one last time.” Oh who was he kidding? This was Tom. He was going to have to say this every day for about a year and then probably weekly ever after. “I cannot do this without you and not because I need someone here to supervise construction. But because this is your dream too. Your home. This house is as much yours as it is mine. More so, maybe. And if that’s too idealistic for you, I have no fucking idea how to run a resort. You do. You know the history of this place and you have a firm idea of the direction you’d like to take it in. You’re the intellectual half of this venture, Tom. I’m just the one taking out the loan.” Sure, it was a large loan, but he had invested wisely over the years. He could afford the payments. When it came to money, Frank was nothing if not practical.
Tom was scowling again. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Good.”
“God, you’re infuriating.”
“Even better.”
“So . . .”
“So.” Frank turned on his most charming smile.
Rather than relax back into the couch, Tom leaned forward, grasping his knees. “We’re really doing this.”
“Simon might cry if we don’t.”
Tom snickered, then lifted his head as the driveway announced a visitor.
Without looking around, Frank said, “We should keep the gravel driveway. Early detection system.”
“Bitch to plow in winter, though.”
“Think anyone will get married in winter?”
“The way we’ll have this place set up? Absolutely.”
Grinning, Frank pushed to his feet and bent to peer through the front window. The car was vaguely familiar. Tom was already stalking toward the door and Frank followed. It was Patricia Nolan. The woman was relentless!
Tom was down the steps and in her face before she’d even closed the door on her car. “Was it you?”
“Excuse me?” Patricia eased away from Tom, but didn’t close the car door. Good move. She might need to make a quick getaway.
“How much did you pay that kid to throw a bunch of dead raccoons into the pool? And what about the kids that have been sneaking around the property? And the drugs. Did you plant them there and call the police?”
Patricia rocked back, but her apparent indignation had a rehearsed look to it, as if she’d practiced in front of a mirror. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Frank joined the party. “Ms. Nolan.” He offered a tightlipped smile.
“Mr. Tern.” Her return smile tried harder than his. “Have you—”
“You are a nuisance. If I find you on our property again, without an invitation, I will not only call the police, but begin legal proceedings.”
Her smile faltered, then simply vacated her face, leaving her mouth in a mild gape. “Excuse me?”
“I have no interest in selling this property. But even if I did, it would not be to the Tinden Group. I’m not a fan of their business practices. You, in particular, should consider another line of work.”
“But—”
“I’d like you to leave.”
“Mr.—”
Frank held up a hand. “Stop. I’m not interested in anything you have to say. You can leave now, or wait for the police to arrive. Your choice.”
She looked between them two more times. Back and forth, lips still parted as though she couldn’t decide whether to speak or not. Then, snapping her mouth shut, she got into her car, slammed the door, and spun her tires on the gravel in a clear attempt to drive away in a furious rush.
“We should definitely keep the gravel,” Frank said.
Tom bumped into him from the side, hands wrapping around Frank’s torso. “Fuck that was hot.”
“What?”
“You being all Mr. Tern.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Once more, Frank tried to instruct his mouth to do other than express his actual mood.
Grinning, Tom lifted to his toes and pressed a hard kiss to Frank’s recalcitrant lips. “Let’s go upstairs,” he murmured before kissing Frank again.
“Best idea you’ve had all day.”
“Frank?”
“Mmm.”
“You know I love you, right?”
“And I love you. Always have. Always will.”
Tom seemed to settle then. Not exactly inside his skin—more inside himself, as though the rightness of what they were doing finally made sense. Or he’d simply accepted that it did. He smiled, and his smile was like the sunshine on a spring afternoon: warm and full of promise. “I like the sound of that.”