Chapter 16

 

 

 

 

They left after breakfast Sunday morning to head back to the city. They’d snuggled together the night before as they fell asleep, spooning so Donovan’s feet wouldn’t hang off the end of the full mattress. After too many of Becca’s famous blueberry buttermilk pancakes, and many hugs and kisses and promises to come back soon, they headed back to New York.

Sam was happy at how easily Donovan had fit in with his family, not that he’d had any doubts. On the island they’d shared endless stories about their childhoods, and it had been fun to take Donovan by his old school and to the baseball field where he’d first kissed a boy behind the bleachers.

For the first few hours of the drive back to the city, they alternated between easy conversation and companionable silence. But as they neared the city, Sam could sense Donovan’s rising restlessness. He put his hand lightly on Donovan’s jiggling thigh. “What’s going on with you?”

Donovan glanced from the road to Sam. “I keep thinking about my dad. I never just walked out before the way I did on Friday. I hope he’s okay.”

“Call him?”

Donovan shook his head. “It’s his Sunday golf game at his club. He never, ever misses it. No phones allowed on the course. He usually stays after for dinner with the boys. He won’t be home for another couple of hours. And frankly, I’m not sure how receptive he’d be to a call.”

“How about we stop by your place when we get into town and leave a note? Just something to let him know you’re thinking about him? A way to open the door between the two of you?”

“That’s a good idea, yeah,” Donovan agreed, visibly relaxing. “I’m not really ready for another full-blown confrontation right now. I’ll write a quick note, and I can pack some more clothes and my laptop and stuff while we’re there.”

They stopped for a sandwich at a Cuban place around five, breakfast now only a distant memory. Donovan brought in a pad of paper and a pen from his glove compartment and penned a note to his father. He showed it to Sam when he was done. “Think this is okay?”

Sam read the note. “Hi Dad, I wanted you to know I’d stopped by to grab some of my things. I hope you are doing well and that your golf game went well. We didn’t part on the best of terms on Friday, and I would like to talk some more when you feel ready. I love you, Dad, and I hope we can find a way to work through our differences. I know Mom would want that for us, and I do too. Love, Donovan.”

“I think that’s perfect, Donovan,” Sam said, sliding the paper back toward him. “You’re leaving the door open, and you’re letting him know you understand it’s tough for him, and you’ll be there when he’s ready.”

“I hope so,” Donovan said with a small sigh. He pushed back from the table. “Ready to hit the road again?”

There was a small bakery next door to the sandwich place, the offerings visible through the storefront glass window. “Those chocolate éclairs look pretty good,” Donovan commented before they returned to their car. “Let’s get some to take home.”

“Great idea,” Sam agreed. “Maybe get a couple for your dad, too? A peace offering?”

Donovan laughed. “Hey, Dad. Sorry I’m quitting law and have turned queer, but how about an éclair to smooth things over?”

Sam shrugged, grinning. “Couldn’t hurt, right?”

 

Donovan pulled into the underground parking garage a little after seven. “Want me to wait in the car?” Sam asked. “If your dad is home, it might be easier on him to see you alone.”

“He’s not here. We have designated spaces right next to each other,” he added as he pulled into a numbered space. “We should have a half hour or more before he gets back from Westchester. I’ll just grab some stuff, leave him the dessert and the note, and we’ll be on our way.”

The wood-paneled elevator was silent as it glided upward to Donovan’s floor. The apartment was large and elegantly furnished. “The kitchen’s through there,” Donovan said, pointing past a dining room with a polished granite table surrounded by black chairs. “If you could just drop the éclairs on the counter along with the note, I’ll go pack some things into a suitcase.”

“Sure,” Sam said, taking the box from Donovan.

“Thanks. I won’t be long.” Donovan disappeared down a hallway.

In the kitchen, Sam put the éclair box on the counter and placed the note on top of it. On his way back through the dining room, he was distracted by a large oil painting portrait on the wall of a young woman he knew instantly must be Donovan’s mother. She was dressed in a pale gray satin gown just off the shoulder, seated demurely, her hands folded on her lap. She had the same clear blue eyes, dark hair and cleft chin as Donovan, though her features were, of course, more feminine. The painting was really quite good, especially her hands, the delicate blue of veins just showing beneath the pearly skin.

Sam was startled from his examination by the sound of a key turning in a lock. As he turned, the door opened and Raymond McNair appeared. “Donovan?” he called as he entered, no doubt having seen Donovan’s car in its parking space beside his own. Then he saw Sam, and his face darkened.

“Hi, Mr. McNair,” Sam said quickly, speaking loudly so Donovan could hear him. “Sorry to startle you. Donovan just stopped by to grab some things.”

“What the—” Raymond began.

Donovan appeared from the hallway. “Dad. I thought I heard you. You’re back early.”

“Our fourth dropped out, so the game went faster than usual,” Raymond said, glowering. “I assume you were hoping to find me out so you wouldn’t have to face me.”

He turned his glare on Sam. “And what’s he doing here?”

Sam started to reply, but Donovan spoke first. “Sam and I went up to Maine to visit his family.” Sam could feel Donovan’s tension, but also his resolve. “I stopped by to get some of my things. I wasn’t trying to avoid you, though you have to admit your last words to me the other night didn’t exactly make me feel welcome to return.”

Raymond stiffened, no doubt recalling the argument, and his directive to Donovan to get out of his sight. But at the same time, Sam could see the sorrow and confusion in his faded blue eyes. In spite of himself, Sam felt sorry for the man.

Donovan must have seen the pain in his father’s face too, because he took a step forward, his voice gentler as he continued, “I’m sure this weekend has been tough for you, Dad. I stayed away to give you the space you need.” He moved toward his father. “I know this has been a lot to take in, Dad. I threw a lot at you at once, and I’m sorry about that.”

Raymond took a step into the room. “I just don’t understand your choices,” he said gruffly, glancing toward Sam and then away again.

“The real choice here for me is choosing to take control of my life, Dad. To examine what I want and what I need, instead of continuing to blindly follow a path that no longer makes me happy.” When Raymond said nothing, Donovan continued, his tone earnest but kind, “I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t live a lie. I don’t know if you can understand this, but for the first time in my life, I’m following my heart. That doesn’t have to change things between us. I still love you, no matter what.”

Raymond said nothing for a long moment. He looked at Sam again, this time directly, and then his eyes slid to the portrait of his late wife. Something changed in his face, a layer of hardness suddenly falling away as tears sprang to his eyes. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said about your mother the other day—that she would want you to be happy. I admit, I don’t understand your choices, but I want that, too. And I love you, too, son. More than anything.”

The two men embraced. It might take a while longer for Raymond to fully accept his son on his own terms, but things were definitely moving in the right direction.

Sam smiled, pride and love for Donovan welling in his heart.

~*~

It took Donovan a few days to settle into the more relaxed pace and rhythm of his new life, but he found he quite enjoyed not having to wake up at the crack of dawn and hurtle out of the building to a job that consumed most of his waking hours. He didn’t miss the work, and there were very few people from the office he cared if he ever saw again.

But, by the same token, it was sometimes daunting to face a day that hadn’t been fully scheduled for him, every minute accounted for in billable hours. He hadn’t realized how much discipline and dedication it took to make yourself sit down and create.

Donovan had brought a few things from his room at his father’s place, including a favorite lamp, as well as end tables they positioned on either side of their futon bed. Sam had moved completely out of his old apartment, leaving most of the old furniture behind for the next tenant.

In the afternoons they went all over the city, scouring estate sales, thrift shops and furniture stores to create a home together. They had found large rice paper screens to serve as partitions between their living and work space, along with a great retro Formica table and matching chairs for their makeshift kitchenette.

Sam and he had appeared on a couple of the local morning news shows together. The experience had been sort of surreal, as they talked about the details of the shipwreck and their struggle to survive to perfectly made-up anchors reading cue cards in a brightly lit studio. Afterward, Donovan had been inundated with calls, texts and emails from friends and associates who had seen the interviews, some of them people he hadn’t heard from in years.

At Sam’s encouragement, he’d mentioned during the interviews that he was writing a memoir about their experience. As a result, he’d been contacted by two agents and another publishing house, each promising a better deal if he’d sign with them. But Donovan would never forget Carlos Jimenez’s incredible generosity in flying them back to the States with no expectation of payment or obligation. He was happy with his decision, and only hoped he’d be able to write something worthy of publication.

Now Donovan looked up from his laptop. Sam was at his easel, his face a mask of concentration as he daubed paint on the canvas. Donovan almost hated to disturb him, but he couldn’t keep his news to himself. “I think I finally did it,” he blurted.

Sam looked over at him. “Did what?”

“Finished the first chapter. Well, one I’m actually happy with. Who knew it would take fifty plus hours of constant writing, deleting and starting over to get three thousand words that don’t totally suck,” he added with a rueful laugh.

“Hey, that’s great,” Sam said, flashing a smile. “And don’t worry, it’ll get easier. I can’t tell you how many pieces of crap I’ve painted over the years, especially when I was first learning my craft. Now that you’ve got that first chapter under your belt, I’ll bet you’ll settle into a productive rhythm.”

“I hope you’re right. Marisol wants the first draft in two months.”

 Donovan had been living with Sam for two weeks, and the place was coming together nicely. They had set up a workspace for Donovan, his desk facing one of the large windows about ten feet from Sam’s studio. He liked working in the sunny, pleasant space, and he especially liked that, with a swivel of his chair, he could turn to see Sam nearby.

He liked watching Sam work, his face a mask of sweet concentration, paint often smeared on his cheek or nose, his tongue appearing on his lower lip as he leaned into the canvas for some especially delicate work. Yet, Sam didn’t mind when Donovan occasionally wanted to bounce an idea off him, or discuss something they’d done on the island that he wanted to include in his book. They’d agreed to leave their more intimate details out of the story, but Donovan hoped to evoke the sense of deep friendship and abiding connection they’d forged as they’d struggled together to survive.

He loved the fact they were beginning to make a life together now, not out of desperation or fear, but out of love.

Donovan had been in touch with his dad in a few brief phone calls, and while Raymond still wasn’t comfortable with the direction of Donovan’s life, at least they were talking, and that was progress.

“I need a break,” Sam said now, setting down his palette and brush. “How about you? Want to get out of here for a while?”

Donovan pushed back from his desk. “I was just thinking the same thing. How about we take the car and go to a department store? I want to get some new clothes.”

“Sure,” Sam agreed. “That sounds great.”

Sam’s entire wardrobe consisted of faded jeans, most of the pairs spattered with paint, and various T-shirts, likewise daubed with color. His footwear included three pairs of sneakers, some winter boots and two pairs of sandals. When they entered the men’s section of the store, Donovan moved through the racks, pulling out various button-down shirts, knit tops and pullovers, plus some trousers in what he guessed was Sam’s size. When he had an armful of potential clothing, he said, “Let’s go try these on.”

At the fitting rooms, Sam stopped at one of the chairs outside the changing area. “You can model them for me,” he said, starting to take a seat.

“Actually,” Donovan said with a grin, “I picked these out for you. Now that you’re an up and coming artist, you’re going to want to dress the part.” When Sam opened his mouth to protest, Donovan shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’m not trying to make you over or anything like that. I just want to get you a few nice things for when we have events to attend and stuff like that. Come on,” he urged with a grin. “Just try them for me?”

Sam laughed. “Okay, sure. You’re right. Other than that shirt you got me for the TV interviews, I haven’t updated my wardrobe since college. Maybe it’s time.”

“You think?” Donovan teased, leading Sam into a large dressing room.

Sam hung his leather jacket on a hook, and then stripped out of his T-shirt and jeans. He looked terrific in all the new clothes Donovan had selected for him. “I love them all. Now, I have to figure out which ones to get. What do you think, Donovan?”

“I think we’re getting all of them, Sam,” Donovan replied with a grin. “My gift to you.”

“What? No way,” Sam cried.

“Way,” Donovan said, laughing. “I know it’s hard for you, but learn to accept a gift graciously,” he teased.

“Oh, yeah?” Sam said, his eyes suddenly glinting with mischief. “I have a gift for you, too.” He was in only his underwear, and Donovan could see the sudden erection materializing beneath the cotton. Sam reached for the metal button at the fly of Donovan’s jeans and pulled it open. Moving closer, he dragged the zipper down Donovan’s also rising shaft.

“What’re you doing?” Donovan whispered nervously, glancing toward the door of the fitting room.

“Just what you think I’m doing,” Sam said with a sly grin. “Now hush and accept your gift graciously.” He lowered himself to his knees in front of Donovan and pulled his jeans down to his ankles, along with his underwear.

Donovan moaned with pleasure as Sam cradled his balls with one hand while he lowered his mouth over Donovan’s shaft. Donovan placed his hand lightly on the back of Sam’s head as Sam sucked and teased him, driving him wild with pleasure. He could see Sam’s strongly muscled back in the mirror as he worked his magic with his lips and tongue.

They were nuts to be doing this is a fitting room in the middle of a department store, but it somehow made the experience even sexier. Donovan began to thrust forward in his excitement, ramming his cock deep into Sam’s throat. Sam held on, milking him for all he was worth. Within minutes, his orgasm rose and crested, bursting from him in several shuddering blasts. Only when he’d sucked every drop Donovan could offer did Sam let him go.

With a satisfied sigh, Donovan sank back onto the small bench beside the mirror, his pants still tangled around his ankles. “Jesus, that was fucking incredible,” he breathed softly.

“You’re fucking incredible,” Sam said, his eyes sparkling.

Eager to return the favor, Donovan got to his feet and reached for Sam’s underwear, tugging it down below his balls with one hand as he gripped the hard, hot shaft with the other. He leaned down and kissed Sam’s mouth as he pumped and stroked Sam’s cock in just the way he knew Sam loved. Sam sighed and shuddered, his cock thrumming with pulsing blood. He came nearly as fast as Donovan had, his silky, hot seed exploding into Donovan’s hand.

A knock on the dressing room door startled them both. “Everything all right in there?” a voice called out.

“Just fine,” Donovan managed to answer, grinning at Sam. “Better than fine, thanks.”