by Feliz Faber
Yes, three. The realization that Louis must’ve pulled his leg had Will laughing with joy, all his dark thoughts immediately dissolving into thin air. “Francis,” he called out, knowing he grinned like an idiot and not giving a damn. He’d been majorly had, after all.
Will was about to throw himself into Francis’s arms, but the look he got from those starless-night eyes stopped him short in his tracks. Cold, hard, forbidding. Looking between the three men, Will met matching expressions on all their faces.
“Name your price, William.” The words, delivered in such a dispassionate tone by the voice Will had longed to hear again so much made his gaze snap back to Francis.
“Wha….”
The lawyer stepped forward, holding out a batch of papers. “We could call it a finder’s fee, if you’re fastidious about labels. Finder’s keepers, sure, but as I don’t intend to give this back, I’d appreciate you telling me what you want in exchange for forgetting about ever finding anything.” He thrust the papers out again, and Will took them automatically. From worried to elated to dumbstruck in a matter of minutes. Numbly he read through the scrap of yellow lined paper on top of the stack.
Sonny,
Here are the papers you wanted. I sifted through the whole bunch again, and I think this should be way enough for you to get your hands on the protocol of that hearing. Junior doesn’t have a clue what he’s been sitting on all those years.
I’ve still got the originals, btw. I’m an old man, who’d blame me for forgetting about them?
Don’t let the legal shit fuck you over, hear me?
Why don’t you call on me once you’re back? You can pay off what you owe me with an hour of pleasant company or three. Oh, and make sure you bring Jim.
TS
Will was still reading when Francis spoke again. “This came to my office addressed to Mr. W. Yeats, c/o Office of Mr. LeBon, marked confidential all over, and without a return address. Reasonable cause for me to warrant a breach of postal privacy, as it could very well have been a letter bomb. Which indeed, it turned out to be.” Will looked up in time to catch Francis’s malicious leer. “Were you trusting the cat with the cream, William? How thoughtless of you. This particular legal shit is nosy when it comes to you.”
“But that wasn’t— I didn’t— I wanted you to have— What’s that supposed to mean, Francis?” Will found himself unable to string a coherent sentence together. It didn’t matter, though; Francis obviously wasn’t listening anyway.
“Once I realized what this was about, I came as fast as possible. Whatever you were offered, I’ll double it. On the condition that the ‘originals’ this TS mentioned are included in the deal, which should go without saying.”
“What the fuck, Francis!” Will barked, not bothering to make his words a question as he went from puzzled to pissed really fast now. “What do you fucking think you’re doing here?”
Raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, Francis spread his hands. “Shouldn’t this be obvious? I’m doing damage control—for both of us, I might add, as this”—he pointed at the papers Will was still clutching with both hands—“could easily turn into a breach of our agreement, were I so inclined. So what’s it going to be, William? Don’t make me ask you again.” He cocked his head. “Oh, and of course your boyfriend will be reimbursed for his efforts, too. If nothing else, I robbed him of your pleasant company for weeks, after all.”
Will felt the papers crumpling, he was clenching his fists so hard. “There’s no boyfriend,” he spat, precariously holding on to his self-control.
“No? Then I’m dying to learn more about this mysterious TS,” Francis said, infuriating Will further with his put-on cheerfulness. “For a not-boyfriend, he seems to be quite taken with you.”
“You’re so stupid it hurts,” Will snarled. “T is for Ted, S for Sampson, and he’s a lonely, bitter old man who happens to like Jim Beam Whiskey. That good enough for you?”
At that, the first crack of doubt appeared in Francis’s self-righteousness, but Will didn’t have time to dwell on it.
“Ted Sampson? The reporter who wrote that hateful, piece-of-shit article?” Louis cut in, and Will whirled around to face him.
“Fuck yes. The very same.” He shook the papers at Louis. “This is him apologizing to you, for whatever it’s worth. This was supposed to clear your name, and Nic’s, of whatever goddamn charge led to you being banned from US racetracks back in the Stone Age. As if anyone still gave a shit.”
“Do you even know what we’re talking about here? Have you read it?” Francis asked, making Will jerk back around.
“How the hell would I? I had Sampson mail it straight to you, right after he told me about it. If you’d bothered to return my calls once, you’d know that.”
“You could’ve left a message.”
“Guess I could have, couldn’t I?” Will laughed, a dry, humorless noise that burned in the back of his throat. “Never crossed your mind that I’d want to talk to you? That I’d think there was something between us that’d make you want to talk to me? Silly me, to think you’d mean it when you said you trusted me. But words are cheap, aren’t they?”
Francis’s brows knit together, and he pursed his lips, apparently about to defend himself. Before he got to it, Nic stepped forward into Will’s line of sight, holding out his hands in front of him in a conciliatory gesture. “Someone’s been poking around that race recently, even before you contacted us,” he said. “What you have here could turn rather damning in the wrong hands, even today. Can you really blame Francis for jumping to conclusions?”
Nic’s words gave Will pause. Even through the haze of confusion, hurt, and fury, they piqued his curiosity. But Francis smashed it all to pieces with his next comment.
“Spare me your excuses, William. No reporter worth his salt would give away such a trump sight unseen. So why would you?”
Will took off like a rocket.
“Why? I’ll fucking tell you why, you lying, two-faced piece of shit.” He took a step forward, another one, shouted right into Francis’s face. “I promised, okay? I made a promise to you, you bastard, and to them, to write nothing that could possibly harm them! And as for stupid, how much more fucking stupid can I get than thinking you’d be the best person to deal with all that shit!”
Francis actually took a step back, the frown on his face evening out in something like uncertainty. He opened his mouth to say something, but Will was in full spate now and wouldn’t be stopped before he’d said his piece, no matter what.
“Don’t believe me? Call Sampson, ask him, and while you’re at it, snoop ’round my laptop, why don’t you? Smart as you are, you shouldn’t have any problems finding something in there to throw more shit at me. But you know what? I don’t give a fuck!” He jerked his arm wide in a furious, all-encompassing gesture. “I’m done, I’m well and truly done—with you, with them, with each and every fucking thing here in fucking France or Kentucky or where-the-fuck ever.” The papers fluttered like a flock of seagulls when Will threw them into Francis’s face. “Stuff that up your ass and choke on it, I don’t care. I’m outta here.”
He turned on his heel and stormed out. A moment later, the Twingo bounced and jerked across the dirt road as Will pushed her mercilessly, not really knowing where he was going, only knowing he had to get away, or he’d surely suffocate to death the very next minute.
Fourteen
IT SHOULDN’T have hurt so much. Will wandered about the maze of streets that made up old Deauville, not really paying attention to where his feet carried him, caught in his own head. It shouldn’t even have come as much of a surprise, though he surely hadn’t seen this one coming. Oblivious to the bewildered glances passersby cast him, Will laughed bitterly at the thought that he’d fancied some kind of connection between him and the two Frenchmen, never mind Francis. Name your price, William. If that didn’t beat everything.
And to think he had almost talked himself into believing there was something building bet
ween Francis and him, something that went deeper than the casual erotic encounters they’d had so far. It was all in his own head, an imaginary relationship Will had made up out of a few fantastic fucks, out of shared laughter and comfort and the way he’d felt completely at ease with himself and the world in Francis’s presence.
Hurt no less for that, though.
A hand that grabbed his sleeve shook him out of his brooding.
“Attention, doucement!” a male voice said, and Will realized he’d been about to walk right off a pier. He muttered a thank-you to the angler who’d stopped him, receiving a frown and a wagging forefinger as the elderly man spouted what had to be some kind of reproach. Will didn’t understand a word, but he nodded dutifully. The angler cocked his head.
“Anglais? English?” he asked.
“American,” Will said.
The Frenchman eyed him thoughtfully. “You do not look so good. Allons, venez là-bas. Sit down.”
Less than five minutes later, half-dragged, half-pushed, Will found them sitting at a table outside a seaside café, both with small glasses of an amber liquid in their hands.
Will’s unknown savior flashed a mouthful of teeth that were much too perfect to be his own and raised his glass in a salute.
“Un petit pommeau. Drink, monsieur. Sweet is good for the pain of the heart.”
Will did as told. Rich, tart sweetness of apples and old wood and sun rolled over his tongue, burned its way gently down his throat, and warmed his belly. He laughed for no reason, reveling in the pleasure of the taste as he took another sip, and the other man grinned even wider and patted Will’s hand.
“Voilà. She will come back.”
The pommeau had Will light-headed already. “He won’t, but it doesn’t matter much. I’m not sure if I’d even want him anymore.” He realized his eyes were watering and wiped them before taking another drink.
His companion’s eyebrows rose up. “Un mec? You are sad for a man?”
“Yes,” Will said, meeting the cunning, beady-eyed stare head-on. So what? The pain’s the same for all of us.
To his surprise, the old man shrugged, then made a sweeping gesture toward the promenade. “This is Deauville,” he said. “It has many other men.”
Bewildered, Will took a look around. Sunshine and warmth had lured quite a few ramblers out, and there were indeed several male couples among them, some holding hands, some even arm in arm. He remembered Louis calling the locals open-minded and tolerant, and apparently this had been the truth. Well, good for them.
The angler saluted him again. “À l’amour,” he said before draining his glass. He stood, gave Will a wink, and swaggered off, back to where his line still dangled off the pier into the sea. Will closed his eyes and turned his face up into the weak sun as he savored another sip of his own drink, feeling an odd calm settling over him.
After a while, he took out his cell and dialed La Thillaye. Not Nic’s cell, the landline, and like he’d hoped, Mme. Kim answered the call.
Upon identifying himself, he heard her sharp intake of breath and hastily went on, warding off possible questions. “Mme. Kim, I’m sorry to say, but I have to leave ahead of time. In fact, I’m afraid I’ll have to bother you with asking you a favor. Would you be so kind as to have my things packed up for me? I won’t be able to come back.”
The line was silent for a few long moments. Eventually, she said softly, “I understand, Mr. Yeats. I am really sorry.”
“So am I,” Will said. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
She took a breath, and then her voice was back to her usual polite efficiency. “It’s no trouble at all. Where would you like me to send your belongings?”
It hadn’t occurred to him before where he was going to go after leaving La Thillaye, and he cast a searching look around for the nearest accommodation. “To the Ibis Hotel in Deauville, please. And thank you very much.”
“As you wish. I’ll see to it, Mr. Yeats,” she assured him.
He thanked her again and ended the call, profoundly grateful that she hadn’t asked any questions. Afterward, he stared at the half-empty glass of pommeau in his hand and tried to brace himself up to carry on. He should’ve made arrangements to have his flight rescheduled. He should’ve thought of how he was going to explain the whole of this fucked-up mess to Trevor. At the very least, he should’ve crossed the street, booked a room, made sure the hotel knew to expect his luggage. Instead, he drained his glass and signaled for the waiter to bring another. He sat, staring out across the ocean and the sunlight reflecting off its surface, unthinking, unfeeling, just being.
Two hours later the sea looked a dark mottled gray, in contrast to the sky that was awash with red, gold, orange, and purple by now. A dark silhouette edged between Will and the beautiful spectacle of the sunset, blocking his view. Blinking, Will looked up, intending to ask the stranger to move, only to realize that it wasn’t a stranger at all. He turned his head away.
Francis cleared his throat. “Can I talk to you?” His voice was low, rough, nothing like its usual rich, dark velvet.
“No thanks. You said more than enough earlier.” Will didn’t even try to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He kept his eyes fixed on a point on the horizon.
“I said way too much, I’m afraid.” Francis took a deep breath and let it out again. “I’m sorry, William. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I came to apologize.”
At that, Will focused on Francis after all. The sunset worked to his disadvantage; he could barely discern Francis’s features, much less read him. Not that he cared much right now.
“Noted. You can go now.” Deliberate rudeness should get his point across, shouldn’t it? He closed his eyes, shutting Francis out, just to make sure he got the message.
Didn’t work, apparently. When Will opened his eyes again, Francis was still there. “You’ve got every right to be mad at me,” he said, still in this subdued voice that was so unlike him. “What I said, what I did earlier was pretty unforgivable, after all. But please, William, at least hear me out. Give me a chance to explain myself. Afterward, I’ll go away if you want me to, I give you my word.”
Will stared at him from narrowed eyes. “Your word,” he parroted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Holding on to the back of a chair in front of him, Francis shifted and dropped his chin. “I guess I deserved that,” he breathed. His fingertips dug into the wood.
Will said nothing. He made no effort to hide his glee.
After a while, Francis heaved another sigh. “All right. I understand.” He pushed off the chair back, straightening. “I can’t hold it against you, I guess. Again, I’m awfully sorry. I can’t even begin to say….” he broke off. “Goodbye, William.”
His words rang with a finality that sent a hot stab of regret through Will’s chest. He didn’t understand it. Shouldn’t he feel satisfied at seeing Francis grovel like this? Instead, he felt petty. Embarrassed at himself.
If I let him leave now, I’ll likely never see him again. “Francis,” he called softly, even before he finished the thought.
Francis stopped midturn, looked back at him. Will got up, holding Francis’s gaze even as he fished some money out of his pocket and put it on the tabletop, then weighed it down with his empty glass. He nodded toward the seashore.
“Take a walk with me?”
WILL steered them off the wooden planks of the boardwalk into the sand. They turned their backs to a line of beach cabins, each with the name of some actor or film director painted on the small wooden fences that separated them. They wove through the rows and rows of closed umbrellas that grew from the broad expanse of white sand like a parody of a forest, swaying gently in the breeze. In his riding boots, Will trudged toward the sea. Francis struggled even more in his fine city shoes, but he ploughed on without complaint. They didn’t touch, didn’t even look at each other. It felt strangely good, walking next to him. The freshening-up wind from the sea occasionally graced Will’s senses with a w
hiff of salt and tang or a hint of Egoïste over day-old male musk.
Walking got easier once they reached the hard-packed, wet sand closer to the water line. The tide was low, the beach rimmed with a broad band of broken seashells that glittered in the rays of the setting sun. Will stopped and turned his face into the wind.
He could feel Francis’s presence close beside him, but kept staring ahead. Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Will waited.
“I was intrigued with you even before we first met,” Francis said after a while, his voice back to even and calm. “The way you tracked down Louis and Nic with what little you must’ve had, and that cheek of yours to threaten them after they told you to back off—I thought you’d make a worthy adversary, and I was looking forward to crossing swords with you.”
“Hah!” Will huffed. “And I had to fall into your lap like a ripe plum. Sorry to spoil your fun.”
Francis gave a pained little sound. “That wasn’t…. Damn, Will, that came out wrong. I’m sorry, I’m…. Please, will you hear me out? Let me try again.” It was oddly reassuring to have the usually so eloquent man stutter like this. Will could almost believe Francis was serious about his apology.
“You better make it good.”
Francis took a deep breath. “I thought I might have to bribe you. Perhaps intimidate you a little. What I found in you instead… it threw me completely off my stride.”
Will whirled around, glaring. “What did you find, Francis? What? A naïve, gullible fool?” He was satisfied to see Francis’s face fall. “In fact, Francis, what was I to you, a toy? A pleasant little thing you could throw away after use?”
“A treasure, William,” Francis said, in a voice so small and raw he had Will at a loss for words with it. Francis reached out for a tentative touch to Will’s shoulder, his face for this once bare of any defenses. “One I wasn’t even aware I’d been looking for.” He swallowed. “Look, I see so much shit every day in my line of work. I’m used to people trying to fuck me over, and I’ve grown damn good at discovering a ruse and turning it on its head. Too good, as it turns out.”
