Story copyright November 2014 by Hollis Shiloh. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from the author. All characters and events are fictitious, and any similarity to real people or events is coincidental. Cover by Hollis Shiloh using an image licensed through Shutterstock.com. Cover image content is being used for illustrative purposes only. Proofreading by Carol Davis.
About the story:
Yeah, Seth knows Joe is a little older—but he doesn't realize the foxy gentleman is thirty years older. Twenty-three vs. fifty-three is kind of a big deal. Is there any chance for things to work out between a laid-back surfer and an older guy with heart problems and an overly chivalrous nature?
Heat level: low
Length: 25,000
The Way to Joe
by Hollis Shiloh
I walked down towards the coffee shop, wearing boaters without socks, khaki shorts, and nothing on top.
"Hey, Joe!" I called, waving to the man on the porch.
He waved back, a quick raise of his hand. "You know they won't let you in like that," he said mildly, leaning forward. His porch swing creaked.
I made a face at him. "Shirts are so overrated."
To my surprise, he said, "Maybe on you, but you're making the rest of us look bad."
I detoured back to his porch, grinning, and leaned against one of the white pillars. "Yeah? You think?"
He rolled his eyes and took another slurp of his coffee. "Weak, Seth. If you want compliments from me…"
"Oh, I always want compliments from you." I moved up onto his porch; the wood creaked under my feet. "Move over."
He looked up at me, his hands tightening around his mug. Then a slow smile spread across his face.
"Okay." He moved over.
I sat down, entirely pleased with myself. It was the best start to a morning yet—even if there'd been no coffee so far.
I was house sitting in the neighborhood. Joe Havenhem was my third-closest neighbor, and a hot, foxy guy. He was also so far out of my league, with the laugh lines on his face and the bits of silver in his hair. He had a level, laughing way of assessing a person, looking at you as if he could deduce a lot about you.
The first time I saw him I thought, "He should be a boat captain."
I later found out that he was—after a fashion. He was retired now, rather young for retiring, but his business had been a big success and his health less so—it had been necessary. I got all this from my bar fly friend, Caden, who'd come here to work as a waiter over the summer.
"Yeah? Is he single?" I'd asked Caden, while we danced together to some reggae.
Caden rolled his eyes and hip-checked me. "So out of your league. You did not just go there."
I shrugged. "So I'm not blind. Excuse me."
"I won't," he said. We got into a playful argument.
Of course, Joe was out of my league, and I still didn't know if he was single—but I was guessing that "Yes, and he already wasn't interested in me so you don't have a shot" was the real answer Caden didn't want to share with me.
It made me smirk that I was sitting on Joe's porch swing with him now, and he'd actually noticed me and complimented me.
After a second's hesitation, he got up.
"Aw," I said, pouting a little. "Have to go so soon?" I pushed his swing a little with my shoes and tried to give him puppy eyes. I'm not very good at puppy eyes; they just make Caden laugh.
"I might as well get you your own cup of coffee," he said in that calm and understated way of his.
I perked right up. "Oh, yeah!"
I swung a little harder with him gone, letting my childish excitement take over.
In this gorgeous little seaside town, everyone had big houses, gorgeous old houses, houseboats, stuff like that, and people like Joe Havenhem seemed to have all these things at once—a big old house of pale robin's egg blue with white gingerbread trim, a large, stately, well-groomed yard, and a fishing boat to go out on on the weekends. He also always looked absolutely perfect, in that self-contained way some men have as they grow older. He reminded me a little bit of George Clooney, not his looks precisely, but the quietness he seemed to carry with him.
Yes, I'd thought about him a lot even though we'd only spoken a few times, at a neighborhood barbeque someone was kind enough to invite me to.
They'd introduced us, rather obviously: the gay house sitter down the street and the retired gay guy living nearby. So obvious of them—but you didn't hear me complaining.
Joe had just smiled that enigmatic smile and looked at me with his reserved but friendly expression that seemed to read me well.
I wondered, even now, what he saw. Someone with no direction in life, a failed beach bum who did the next closest thing to seeking steady employment by house-sitting whenever he ran out of money? Did he see my ratty shoes and my supreme inability to remember (or bother wearing) a shirt? Or someone who was actually interesting?
Well, it might have only been a few times I'd talked to him—once at the party, once at the grocery store—but both times had been interesting conversations, at least to me. And we'd talked about lettuce at the grocery store, so that gives you some idea of how interesting I found the guy. Seriously, he could make sports interesting, I'll bet. I've never been able to sit through anything that involves keeping score with balls and such. My mind just flits away. "Does a bunk," as my grandmother used to say, shaking her head.
Fortunately I was lucky: she didn't get bent out of shape about my grades. And the variety of learning disabilities I was diagnosed with—it felt like whatever was in flavor that week, to be honest—never really cleared up enough to let me be a good student, even if I'd tried. I hadn't: I was always more interested in sneaking away to skate, surf, or do something else fun.
Or flirt with cute guys. I was so gay, even then. It had never really been a question to me, something I needed to figure out. I'd been lucky to live in a fairly open-minded beach town and have a grandmother who was unfazed by me, more worldly-wise and easy about my sexuality than anyone would guess to look at her prim face.
Anyway, I was fortunate to graduate high school; college was never an option or an interest. I'd bummed around, working odd jobs to save up for surfing trips, and now I was finally trying, at the ripe age of twenty-three, to grow up a little. I was a pretty good house sitter, or house-and-pet sitter, and was starting to get some decent references.
But I couldn't help thinking that a guy like Joe must've already been on an amazing career path by the time he was my age. He was probably amused by my ratty shoes and carefree attitude toward life. But he was hot, and nice, and I couldn't help thinking about him—and being thrilled that I was sitting on his porch and he was fetching me coffee.
The screen door creaked and there he was, returning to his porch. I gave him my dazzler—my best smile, which, okay, is still only mediocre, especially since a couple of my teeth are kinda crooked. Grandma never had the money for braces, for which I was always insanely grateful as a kid.
He held out a cup to me. It was an actual cup, not a mug. Unusual, but cool. It had a thick, old-fashioned pottery look to it, pale white with a ring of brown near its lip for decoration. It looked like the kind of mug you'd find in a cozy old diner. I'd been to a few of them on my surfing travels. You could say I'm a cozy old diner aficionado.
"So, what are you up to today?" he asked, looking down at me.
I smiled up at him, grateful for the coffee. "Oh, I have some dogs to walk and then I'll be surfing for a few hours."
It might have been my imagination, but I thought he hesitated about joining me again on the swing. I moved over and patted the seat so he'd have plenty of room. Then he did sit, and looked at me while I drank.
"Sorry, I didn't t
hink to ask how you take your coffee."
"Any which way at all." I grinned and drank carefully; it was still really hot. Thick, too. "I see you on your boat sometimes. Pretty awesome."
Great, now I was sounding like I was a teenager again or something. I smiled again, probably a little weakly this time. "Great coffee," I added quickly. "It's…awesome." I squeezed my eyes shut, grimacing. "Yeah, I do know other words, honestly."
"Thank you," he said. "Yes, I like the boat a lot. It was a present from my father when I retired."
"Wow."
"I've been lucky," said Joe. "I know it."
We swung a little more. Somehow I didn't feel the need to make conversation, just relished my coffee. He finished first, even though his mug was bigger—a real mug, with a sailboat on the side.
He rose easily and held out a hand for my empty cup. I'd been balancing it on my thighs as we swung carefully. "Thank you." I handed it back.
"Refill?"
"Um." I weighed looking greedy versus the excellent coffee.
He smiled in that way of his. "I'll get you a refill."
I sat there on the porch, feeling lucky. You couldn't quite see the ocean from here—there were other houses and white fences and some sandy dunes protected for wildlife between here and there. But you could feel it close, and smell it, and the breeze touching my face was one of the nicest things about the ocean. I never got immune to it.
His wraparound porch looked out on one side to the sidewalk, but the swing actually faced the yard. He had one of those more natural style lawns, that isn't really a lawn: some rock arrangements, shrubs, native grasses in one area, and a bird house sticking up in the middle. There was nothing that would need to be mowed. But looking at it reminded me of something, and I had something to say by the time he got back.
I gestured to his back yard. "Do you know of anybody who needs their lawn mowed? Or is that already mostly taken care of by landscaping companies around here?"
His brows rose slightly. He handed me the cup back, refilled almost to the brim. "I don't know of anyone offhand, but I'll let you know if I hear of someone."
"Thanks. Love this cup, by the way. Did you get it from an old diner?"
He blinked at me, looking surprised, and then smiled. What a gorgeous grin that guy had.
"Yes, actually. My construction company dismantled an old diner, and I found a few pieces to rescue for my own use. And believe it or not, I sold some of the more intact booths. There's a surprising market for pieces of old diners."
I nodded. "I get that. Who wouldn't love a hunk of fifties nostalgia in their home?"
"Exactly."
Again we had run out of things to talk about. I could only stretch coffee for so long—even though I am the master of that—so I eventually finished it and handed him the cup and tried not to look sad about leaving. I thanked him, smiled, and headed off.
But I thought about that brief visit all day.
#
"Seth." Joe raised a hand from his boat. He held up a rope, getting ready to dock.
I held my arms up and caught the rope when he flung it, made quick work of helping him dock. He moved easily on the deck, as if it felt like home to him. He looked at home—though he'd have looked better without a shirt, I thought.
He wore a blue golf shirt with a collar, classy Dockers-type shorts and boaters without socks. I got to see his tanned, hairy, fit legs. Yay, me. Look but don't touch, Seth.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, as he hopped onto the dock easily, tugging his shirt down as if it was automatic for him. "Don't tell me there's any surfing near here?"
"No, not near the docks." I smiled. Trying not to shake back my hair. Which sort of needed to be cut, but I like to keep it surfer-shaggy and long. It's also sort of dishwater blond and ragged. "I don't have any dogs to walk today, and a buddy of mine said you can pick up extra work down here sometimes." I spread my arms wide. "Loading, unloading, that kind of stuff."
He looked at me sharply. "You didn't find any lawns to work on?"
I shook my head. "Nah, man, people 'round here don't want to trust you with their lawns unless you're with some big-ass landscaping company." I ran my hands back through my hair and smiled at him.
"You mean they don't trust you on sight? I can't imagine why." His eyes crinkled at the edges, lined but in a cute way, like an actor aging gracefully.
He wasn't that old, not really. And it was hot on him, too.
"Hey. This is a shirt. What do you want?" I tugged the edge of it out. It was a really old shirt, from the used clothing store, once red but so battered and worn and washed out it was almost pink now. The fabric was pretty sturdy, and it had gotten nice and soft from all that wear and tear. It was definitely too nice to throw out. There were a couple of holes in it, but they were small.
He raised one eyebrow eloquently, as if to say, "Really?"
"Hey, it's a great shirt! I lost my virginity on this shirt."
He almost choked on his own saliva from the look of it. "You okay there?" I asked skeptically.
"On this…?" He looked at me like he thought I was nuts. "You can't be serious."
"Sure. That was like…on a beach, you know. Late. Had to spread something out." I shrugged. "Not like, ass virginity. Just…you know, fooling around with a guy and both…" I stopped, could see he was getting a little red in the face.
"Well, I can see that that would certainly be, ah, memorable, but perhaps we shouldn't…" He waved his hands, indicating the generally public area where we were talking.
"Oh, yeah, shit, sorry." I smiled at him. "Nice seeing ya, bro." I raised a hand. "Sorry for being so queer in public." I gave him a teasing wink, to show there weren't really any hard feelings.
"I'll buy you some coffee and you can finish telling me your fascinating tale, if you wish," he said, looking like he was trying not to laugh.
"Coffee? Any time!" I fell into step with him. "But let's see, there's really not anything else to tell."
He looked at the shirt critically. "It's certainly held up well."
"Well, shit, it's not that old. I got it used. Let's see…" I thought back. He looked at me, raising an eyebrow. I counted back on my fingers. "Six years ago, when I was seventeen." I gave him a triumphant look. "That's not so old."
His steps hesitated, and he almost stopped. "What—" He looked at me carefully, all over my face, like he was seeing me fresh and feeling a little alarmed. "You're twenty-three?"
"Yeah. Didn't I say before?"
"No, ah, no, you didn't. Perhaps another time. Excuse me. I-I have to go."
I caught up with him easily, even though he was moving quickly. "Wait, how old did you think I was?" I knew I'd always been a little big for my age, but that was pushing it.
"Thirty, at any rate," he muttered, looking grouchy and pink-cheeked.
"Shit," I said, a little offended. "So I'm not thirty and you're not buying me coffee, huh?"
He stopped and looked at me, really looked at me, and visibly stopped himself from spiraling. "Of course I'll buy you coffee. I'm sorry. I thought—" He shook himself. "This way. I thought you were older, that's all."
"It shouldn't make any difference, unless coffee's a euphemism for something. And anyway, even if it was, I'm not a child." I sounded a little sulky.
"No, but, ah, I'm fifty-three."
"No shit? I put you younger, like in your forties."
He smiled. "Thank you."
"So we're like…"
"A generation apart. Yes." He did not sound pleased about it. "I could very easily be your father."
"Well, not unless you slept with my mom, and let me tell you, it's not likely."
That startled a laugh from him. "No, that's—oh, come along. We may as well have a coffee. A strong coffee," he said grimly. "And…perhaps I can help you out with that job you were looking for."
"Oh, god, you're gonna be avuncular now, ain't you?"
He looked at me, raised that brow.
&n
bsp; "What? I know a couple of big words."
"Well, that's, not, um, quite how you say it…"
"Oh, shit, sue me." I threw my arms in the air. "You ain't gonna fuckin' tutor me, that's for damn sure!"
#
He didn't, but he was charmingly distant even as we kept up a nice conversation over the coffee. He wanted to know about me; he showed an interest. He was depressingly gentlemanly and refused to flirt even a little. I'd thought he was being a little bit of a cold fish earlier. Guess not everybody can be Caden. Especially when they're from a different generation and all that.
I tried not to stare at his tanned, slender, muscular, slightly hairy wrists while he talked. He kept on being avuncular (however you pronounce it).
But by the end of the two coffees and scones he'd bought me, he'd also offered me a job. He could, he said, use some help with the bookcases upstairs. He had a bunch of books being shipped in from storage and wanted to get them onto the shelves. He needed someone to do the hauling for him.
"My heart." He tapped his chest gently and smiled self-deprecatingly. "My doctor won't let me do most physical labor anymore."
"You go sailing?"
"Yes, on short trips. It's pretty relaxing for me. I'm not supposed to go on longer jaunts without someone with me to take over in case I need to rest." He looked at me then, and I looked at him, but neither of us said anything about whether or not I could sail.
I could, but I wasn't going to be the one to bring it up, and he kept silent, too.
#
I showed up bright and early the day his books were to arrive, and he made us both coffee. "You okay drinking so much coffee with your heart?" I tapped my chest the way he'd done earlier.
He looked a little offended as he moved again to his fancy coffee maker. "I have certain limits. I stick to them." He poured us both another cup, carefully making them even, nearly to the brim. I watched the dark brew in satisfaction. He made a great coffee—or his machine did. I wouldn't be surprised if it had a brain in there somewhere and was plotting to take over the world and call us all "Dave."
The Way to Joe Page 1
