by Feliz Faber
There was ground coffee in a tin on the counter, and filter bags in a small box next to it. While he waited for the coffee to percolate, Will washed the dishes he and Francis had used the night before.
The others started trickling in as Will was sipping his first cup (that for whatever reason didn’t taste anywhere near as good as Mme. Kim’s). The first was Paul, the guy who’d shared a staff house with Rémy, looking subdued and lost. He poked his head around the corner, gave Will a wary glance, and disappeared again. Jean-Yves, following in Paul’s wake, greeted Will with a grunt but didn’t linger either. Only when the Esturs turned up did Will learn that Sunday was another rest day for the horses, with all that this entailed.
Neither Louis nor Nic had been seen yet, and La Thillaye was a groom short, even disregarding the fact that Jacques was still in hospital. Will didn’t even have to think about it. He simply put his cup down, grabbed a pair of boots and a parka off the clothes rack, and followed the others out to the stables.
It turned out that a one-armed man couldn’t do an awful lot. Of all things, Will ended up grooming horses; he was pretty sure the animals weren’t any happier being stuck with him than the other way round. However, a job was a job, and Will went about his with grim determination until his right arm felt as if it was going to fall off.
He was just working up the courage to enter Presque Minuit’s stall—for reasons he refused to think too hard about, he’d left caring for this particular horse for last—when a gentle touch to his shoulder made him jump. “There you are,” Nic said.
Will spun so fast he almost lost balance. He only realized how on edge with worry he’d been when relief flooded him at seeing Nic there, hollow-eyed and pale, but calm and composed as ever.
“Good to see you, Nic. How are you?” Will asked with a tentative smile.
“I’m fine, thanks.” Nic held out a hand for the currycomb. “Come, give me that, Will. I’ll take over from here.”
“Are you sure?” Will hesitated, although he was only too pleased to be spared dealing with Minuit. Besides, he realized he’d all but forgotten the time. He’d have to leave soon.
“Mais bien sûr. Actually, I’m glad there’s still something left to do for me. It’s bad enough that you were shanghaied into working yet again.”
“I volunteered,” Will protested.
Nic smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes as he took the currycomb from Will. “Even so. My apologies.” He placed his free hand on Will’s shoulder again, squeezing briefly. “Thank you for everything, Will. Safe travels, and as I said yesterday, you’re always welcome here. That hasn’t changed.”
“I might take you up on that, you know.” Will smiled back. Looking around himself, he asked casually, “Where’s Louis, by the way? Are you two okay?”
Meeting Nic’s eyes again, Will could practically see the shutters go down behind them. It stung, being excluded like this, but it strangely also eased Will’s mind. Nic, the rock, was back.
“I’m sure he’ll find you before you leave.” With a parting nod, Nic opened the sliding door and went into Minuit’s stall.
“Nic…,” Will tried, but the other man didn’t react. Talk about awkward. Will wasn’t sure what to say so he settled for “In case I miss Louis, tell him I’ll call, okay?”
Nic didn’t turn, only waved a hand. “I will. Good bye, Will.”
LOUIS caught him when Will was ready to leave, well provided for the two-hour drive to Paris by Mme. Kim with sandwiches and a thermos full of coffee. He’d gone back to his room to retrieve his phone and charger when, after a brief knock, Louis entered and shut the door behind him, leaning against it.
“Will. Sorry it took me so long,” he said, meeting Will’s bewildered gaze with a rueful one of his own.
Will shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry for. I’d have regretted not seeing you again, but I’d have understood.”
Louis pushed off the door, crossed the room in two long strides, and pulled Will into a firm embrace. Will hugged him back without hesitation.
They stood like that for long moments until Louis stepped back, holding on to Will’s forearms. “Let’s stay in touch, okay? Just give me time. I’ll need a while, but I will get back to you. If you want me to.”
“You bet I do, dumbass,” Will said, and Louis shot him that crooked half smile again.
He gave Will’s forearms a brief, firm squeeze, then let go of them with a parting nod. “Au revoir, mon ami.”
IT WAS Friday afternoon again, Good Friday for all that this was worth, and Will had been back at his desk for a week. Back to a normality that had felt anything but normal at first. For one, there was the brace on his arm, a constant reminder of recent events and a nuisance that slowed down Will’s usual rapid-fire typing to a tedious, awkward stumble of fingers on keyboard. For another, it’d been strange to realize how much he’d fallen into the rhythm of La Thillaye; he still woke at the crack of dawn expecting to hear and smell horses outside, and he missed the quiet at night and the clear, clean air.
And then there was Francis. True to his word, he’d been there when Will stumbled off his twenty-hour, two-layovers flight in the wee hours of Monday morning, the most welcome sight imaginable.
And this was when Will finally started to believe.
Although neither his nor Francis’s schedule had miraculously turned more permissive, they hadn’t spent a whole night apart since. During the day they talked on the phone. Exchanged texts and e-mails. They planned to spend the weekend together, which made Will impatient for the workday to be over. But before he’d get to that (and he actually felt giddy with anticipation, even though he berated himself for turning into a schoolgirl), his article had to pass muster with Trevor.
Thoughtfully, Will read through his article draft again. He wasn’t sure if his portrait of a gay jockey was actually worthy of an editorial, even if it was for all intents and purposes exactly what Trevor had asked him to write in the first place. However, Will had ended the story with Louis and Nic settling down at La Thillaye together. He told himself that what had gone down with Collins was another matter altogether.
Paris horseracing benefactor, former champion jockey Jeremy Collins, severely injured in tragic accident at Le Touques race course. That was all the coverage the incident got from a handful of turf periodicals; the local press had barely deemed it worthy of a page-three five-liner. However, the news hadn’t spread any further than that.
There’d been quite a few telephone calls back and forth across the Atlantic Ocean lately. Like Will had anticipated, Louis and Nic were less than interested in making waves, be it in the press or otherwise. Same went for any other parties involved, obviously, official or otherwise. Once Minuit’s blood samples had come back clean, everybody was apparently only too happy to let the whole affair dissolve into fine air. Last Will had heard, police investigations had been dropped, and even Rémy had been released from custody, jobless but scot-free.
For a fleeting moment Will thought about pressing charges against Collins himself, but he rejected the idea right out of hand. He appreciated that Francis hadn’t tried to steer him in any direction when they discussed it. For one thing, there was the urge to protect Louis and Nic—if anything, that had grown stronger since he last saw them. For another, by not taking action against Collins, Will was protecting himself. After all, he was withholding something Trevor would love to dig his claws into.
Collins’s story offered a kind of drama and skullduggery that was right up Trevor’s alley. Will was fully aware that Trevor would feel cheated out of a scoop, if he ever found out—he’d be royally pissed—and a pissed-off Trevor wasn’t something Will particularly looked forward to dealing with.
However, if the time in France had taught him one thing, it was the fact that there were more important things to life than career and reputation. With a shrug, Will clicked on “print.”
I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. If at all.
�
��HI, SWEETHEART.” Once upon a time, Will had hated endearments. With Francis, he found he didn’t mind them at all.
Currently alone in his doctor’s waiting room, Will pressed the phone to his ear, smiling to himself. “Hey, big man.”
His doctor had hemmed and hawed about scientific standards and dubious practices upon hearing how Dr. Maricheau set Will’s dislocated elbow, but at length had grudgingly admitted she’d gotten it perfectly right. Today’s appointment was to determine when the brace would come off.
“How’d it go with Mr. Haussman?” Francis asked. Knowing how nervous Will was about Trevor’s reaction, he’d insisted Will give him a call right afterward.
Will sighed. “I don’t have a cover story.” Francis made a protesting noise that had Will smiling again. “No, don’t worry, he liked it well enough. Thing is, he changed his mind about dedicating the May issue exclusively to horse-racing themes. If I had to guess, I’d say he backed the wrong horse recently or something like that. Anyway, horses are something like a red rag to him for the time being. So my piece will just go into my usual column.”
It had been anticlimactic, actually, after all the buildup and after worrying about which kind of reception his article might meet with from Trevor to find out about his mercurial boss’s change of heart. Will had been prepared to face a thunderstorm, only to realize all that awaited him was a tempest in a teapot.
“Nice work, but a bit bland, cupcake,” Trevor said. “I hope the fun was worth it. It’d better, since these are five days off your vacation time.”
Nothing of the sort had been mentioned beforehand, but Will didn’t protest, too relieved about getting off this easy. He’d left the office with a spring in his step.
“What a pity. You did such a good job with this article,” Francis said.
Will’s heart warmed with his lover’s praise. “Well, I’m confident he’ll give me another shot sometime. After all, MLB is just around the corner, remember?” He grinned, even though Francis couldn’t see him. “I got a press pass that’ll grant me access to any home game. Aaaaand, I can bring a guest.”
“Oh, really? Who’d that be?” Will could hear the tease in Francis’s voice.
“Well, I was thinking a certain lawyer. If I can pry him loose of his desk long enough.” He received a long-suffering sigh in response.
“Well, I guess he could be persuaded, assuming the arguments you adduce are convincing enough,” Francis said. His tone of voice made Will’s cheeks heat.
“Believe me, I can be really convincing if I mean to,” he said, a little breathless.
Francis chuckled. “Do tell.” He cleared his throat. “As much as I’d like to debate further on this subject….” He hesitated for a moment. “There’s something else I wanted to tell you. Will, Collins died last night. Nic called me earlier to tell me that.”
“Oh.” The sudden change of Francis’s tone had Will at a loss for words. “How are they?” he asked eventually.
“Well enough, at least from what Nic said. We didn’t have much time to talk, but he promised they’d be in touch later. Soon, I hope.” Francis paused, took a deep breath. “It’s actually the best that could happen to them. As awful as this sounds, I’m glad he’s dead.”
“Me too,” Will whispered, feeling guilty for feeling as if a load had been taken from him. “They going to be all right?”
“I’m confident,” Francis answered. “Though I’d really like to be with them right now.”
“So would I. But they must work through it in their own time. I trust them to make it, don’t you?”
Francis was silent for a while, only his calm breaths coming over the line.
Will said softly, “At least one good thing came off that whole mess. It brought me you.”
“Yes, mon cœur,” Francis answered, equally softly. Louder, he added, “How much longer are you going to take there, what do you think? Can’t wait—” He broke off on a snort. “Ah, cheesy. Beg your pardon.”
“Say it anyway,” Will urged, smiling again. He could picture Francis wrinkling his nose in self-consciousness even as those dark eyes softened. I couldn’t fall more in love with you if I tried, Will thought.
“Can’t wait to hold you in my arms,” Francis said with perfect honesty, and Will thought, I was wrong. It’s possible.
Epilogue
Deauville, France—April 5th, 2005
THE scent of incense tickled Nic’s nose, and he surreptitiously wrinkled it as he glanced down at the face of his… yes, what? Friend, mentor, lover—Jéro had been all these things to him, and Nic hadn’t been able to forget about it, even realizing the man had turned into his nemesis.
They always say the dead look peaceful, but Jéro didn’t. During his last days on earth he had lost much of the weight he’d gained over the years. In death, his face resembled more the one that still haunted Nic’s dreams time and again: gaunt, with hollow cheeks under sharp cheekbones and deep creases on the forehead, between the eyebrows, and between nose and mouth. His lips, compressed in a thin line, were turned down at the corners. Nic half expected them to curl into one of Jéro’s mendacious grins; those sunken eyes would fly open and nail him with a double ray of sparkling, wolfish, irresistible mischief any moment now. But no, he’d been dead for more than a week, the burial postponed due to the Easter holidays. Wherever his soul was now, it wasn’t here. It was pain and defiance that had carved those lines with a sharp gouge. The stubborn refusal to yield up to his fate was written all over Jéro’s features.
Nic rested a hand on the wooden rim of the casket and closed his eyes for a moment, overcome with pain and anger of his own. He had yielded. Bowed to custom and convention and to other people’s conveniences, all those years ago and again and again, for his whole life.
A miracle he hadn’t broken earlier.
A cool hand came up to cover Nic’s. He didn’t react, didn’t open his eyes, even though he could feel himself crumple inwardly at the light touch, while at the same time it held him upright. This was it, his miracle. Louis, his doom and the greatest blessing he’d ever known.
They’d spent the nights apart recently, moved to different guest apartments, since neither of them could bear to sleep under the ghost of that god-awful picture. But even so, they got closer to each other over the past two weeks than they’d been in years.
Mostly, they talked. There’d been quite a bit of unburdening going on at first, complete with shouting matches and getting caught up in each other’s blame. But there’d been kisses too and holding on to each other. And there’d been intimacy and passion. Louis had reclaimed him, much like an animal would its mate, and Nic had let him. Moreover, welcomed him, driven by the same need to reinforce the indelibility of the bond they shared.
Slender, callused fingers slid between Nic’s, pried them loose from the wood. He hadn’t even noticed the death grip he’d had on Jéro’s casket.
Louis hadn’t wanted to attend Jéro’s funeral, but he came anyway, for Nic’s sake. Nic wasn’t sure why he wanted to be here so badly, only knew he’d needed to see Jéro one last time. Needed closure.
Once upon a time Nic thought he knew this man, but that had never been true. A gay man who slept with women, even married a woman, solely because these things were expedient—Nic had thought he could relate. But the vehemence of Jéro’s hate still mystified him.
Nic thought it must’ve been a point of principle with him. Jéro had staked his own life and happiness—and Michelle’s—on La Thillaye. He must have felt cheated out of his prize by Louis; perhaps this was what instilled that mindless hatred into him. And Jéro had always been a sore loser.
For a brief moment Nic’s thoughts wandered back to the young American whose curiosity had set the ball rolling. I can’t imagine living like this, always lying about who I love, Will said. The statement had hurt Nic to the core. Could it have been like this for Jéro, seeing Nic and Louis living together as a couple, however covertly? Perhaps that had been the last
little push that tipped Jéro over the edge
In mutual silent agreement, Louis and he had started to redecorate their bedroom a couple of days ago, hung new wallpapers, repainted the built-in closet. They even threw out the bed. A new bed was ordered; once it arrived, they’d move back in there together again. New bed, new start. Nic opened his eyes, stared at Jéro’s face again.
You’re not going to win, not this time. We’re stronger than you.
He laced their hands together, wove his fingers through Louis’s, right there in front of Jéro’s casket, in front of the funeral party, in front of the world. A camera flashed behind them, likely some journalist’s. Jéro’s accident might’ve slipped the national press’s attention, but the death of CODE’s co-owner was definitely of news value. Particularly since rumor had it that Michelle Collins-Desmin was planning to make one of her nowadays so rare public appearances.
Nic didn’t care who might see them. He turned to Louis, met those icy blue eyes. He’d long ago learned to discern the banked glow that lay beneath their glacial surface.
Louis nodded at the casket. “Are you ready? Can we leave?”
“Yes. Nothing’s keeping me here anymore.” Nic didn’t let go of Louis’s hand as they walked out.
Outside the sun was high, and some buds on the apple trees in the churchyard had already burst. Taking a deep breath, Nic lifted their linked hands and kissed them.
“I love you, you know,” he said, his breath warm on their interwoven fingers. He couldn’t have told Louis’s skin apart from his own at that moment.
“I do. And I love you too,” Louis said, holding Nic’s gaze. He smiled. “Come, let’s go home.”
