by Anna Martin
“Another?” she offered.
“It was good,” he said cautiously. “But I really will have that gin and tonic this time.”
“No problem,” she said with a little wink.
“Did you like the band?” Ryan asked, leaning with his back to the bar and his elbows propped on it.
“Yeah,” Henry said. “They’re awesome. They remind me a little bit of Mumford and Sons.”
He didn’t think his comment was out of place since he’d recognised a cover of theirs during the set, and Ryan smiled as if pleased.
“My cousin is the girl on the fiddle. Emma. She’s a good lass.”
“I’m still getting used to the way you all speak over here,” Henry admitted. “It’s the same language, but it sounds so different.”
“You’re in a part of the country that has a fairly thick accent too,” Ryan said, “and a lot of local slang. I’m sure you’ll pick it up soon enough. If you decide to stick around, anyway.”
“I’m going to stay,” Henry said as Stella delivered his glass, three cubes of ice and a wedge of lime in it. He would have asked for exactly that if he hadn't been afraid of making a fool of himself. The exchange of cash took a few moments again. Then he turned back to Ryan.
“I’m going to stay,” he repeated, “although I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do just yet.”
It wasn’t exactly a spur-of-the-moment decision. He’d been working up to it for some time, although the decision had probably been made for him when he started the renovation work. He was committed to seeing it through.
“So, tell me what you were doing in New York,” Ryan said conversationally.
“I ran a party planning business,” he said, then frowned at Ryan’s expression. “Don’t laugh. A few years ago I was doing really well, before the economic crash, and suddenly people didn’t want to be spending the money on having someone else arrange their weddings and bar mitzvahs for them.”
“Weddings? ’Cos Stella’s getting married at some point. She’s been engaged for the better part of five years. She’s just too bloody lazy to get off her arse and arrange the damn thing.”
Henry smiled reluctantly. “Yeah, I did weddings. Engagement parties too, birthdays, a couple of funerals, although they really drag you down. I organised a big family reunion up in the Hamptons once too. That was fun.”
“Was it your own company?”
“Yeah,” Henry said and tried not to let the squirmy feeling of shame twist in his stomach. “It went bankrupt, though. I got bought out by a bigger company. They took over my book of contacts. It was a good deal in the end. It was just hard to let it go.”
Ryan shook his head. “It’s tough, man. I know some months we hover on the edge. That’s one good thing about having the two businesses, though. When the pub needs propping up, I can help from the farm, and vice versa.”
“Do you both own both businesses, then?” Henry asked, starting to feel more comfortable with the conversation.
“Sort of,” Ryan said. “My parents used to own them both, up until about five years ago. Then they retired to Tenerife and left it all to the two of us. Stella had been managing the pub for a while at that point anyway, so she naturally took it over, and I was working the farm with my dad. Technically, they’re separate entities, but since she’s the sole owner of this place and I own the farm, we can do what we want with them. Up to a point.”
“That makes sense,” Henry said. “Do you see much of your parents now?”
“They come back every now and then to catch up,” Ryan said. “They’ve got their beach-front house, though, and a little yappy dog, and they’re content as you like.”
The bar seemed to be slowing down a little, and Henry watched as Stella poured herself a large glass of water with ice and ducked under the bar to come out and join them. Ryan immediately pulled her into a brief hug.
“Sorry I couldn’t stop and talk earlier,” she said to Henry. “It’s a bit mental around here when there’s live music on.”
“No problem,” Henry said. “They were really good.”
As Stella smiled, Henry started to notice the similarities between the siblings.
Although their hair colours were different—Stella’s was more strawberry blonde, whereas Ryan’s was light brown—they shared the gene that caused an explosion of freckles on their noses and thick, curly hair. Stella packed curves into her chest and hips in a way that suited her. She wore jeans and a plain black T-shirt, like the rest of the people working the bar, but the neckline of her shirt skimmed low on her chest, showing off the tops of her breasts.
“Henry used to plan weddings,” Ryan supplied. “He could do yours, if you like.”
Both Stella and Henry objected to this.
“I’ll get married when I’m good and ready to,” she told him firmly.
“And it’s not quite as simple as ‘oh, Henry will plan it’,” Henry added. “There’s a lot more involved than that.”
“You sure? She turns up in a dress, someone remembers to book the church, wham, bam, thank you ma’am.”
“Ignore him,” Stella said to Henry, rather pointedly. “He doesn’t get it.”
“That Andy Perrin should make an honest woman of you,” Ryan said.
“What he means is, we’ve been living together for about six years now. We’ve got a son together—”
“You’ve got a son?” Henry said, interrupting.
“Yeah,” Stella said, beaming. “Jack. He’s two.”
“Awesome. I love kids. None of my friends have any, though—it’s what you get for hanging around gay men in their twenties.”
Stella laughed and shoved Ryan off his stool so she could rest her feet for a few minutes. “Have you met many people in town yet?” she asked.
“Not really,” Henry said, not wanting to admit that he had become something of a hermit. “Do you know Shenal Gupta? She’s Nell’s lawyer, and she seems nice. And Ryan, of course. And Judith and her daughter at the hotel.”
“Shenal’s a sweetie,” Stella said. “We go up to the theatre together sometimes, when there’s something good on. Judith would be good to keep on your side if you go ahead with converting the manor. You could arrange group discount deals for people who want to stay in the village.”
“I filled her in on some of the stuff we talked about earlier,” Ryan said, a note of apology in his voice. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all,” Henry said. “It’s not a secret. I meant to ask you, actually—what do you think the people around here will think? Of me opening the manor up again, I mean.”
Stella pursed her lips. “Be prepared for some scepticism,” she said slowly. “And maybe a little bit of negativity. I think, once people see that you plan on restoring rather than renovating the place, they’ll be more open to the idea. Also, if you can really make something of the fact that you’ll be bringing more people into the area, local economy and creating jobs, blah blah, then you’ll get the locals on your side.”
“People are going to look at you as an outsider,” Ryan said. “That can either be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on how you spin it. It’s only a little community here, so you don’t want to go making enemies.”
“I definitely don’t want that,” Henry said.
Stella dug her elbow into her brother’s ribs, altogether unsubtly. “You’ll be fine, love,” she said. “Take your time, don’t rush things, call on local people for work as much as you can. I think you’re doing a good thing. People in the village have been saying for years that it’s a travesty that the manor was all closed up. They want it done right, but they do want it open for people to see.”
“Also, don’t underestimate how nosy people can be,” Ryan added. “They’ll want to look in, see what you’re doing.”
“This is a lot of information all at once,” Henry said.
“I’ve got to go back to work,” Stella said and drained her glass of water.
“I shou
ld be heading back too,” Henry added.
“And so should you,” Stella said to Ryan, giving him a pointed look. “You’ve got to be up for your chickens in the morning.”
“Oh, fuck off,” he said lightly. “Need a ride back, Henry?”
“You’re driving?” Henry asked incredulously. Ryan had drunk at least three pints of the cider, and it was pretty potent stuff.
“Yeah, that’s my tractor parked around the back. Didn’t you notice?”
“Ryan, stop teasing the poor man,” Stella scolded. “Get out of my pub, the both of you, or I’ll kick you out.”
They did as they were told.
The moon was hanging low in the sky, which Henry was grateful for, since it was pretty much the only light to see by.
“Don’t you have streetlights?” he asked Ryan, who hadn’t driven his tractor at all. Bastard.
“There are some in the village,” Ryan said. “Not many out here, though. If it’s overcast, I usually bring a torch, just in case.”
“A what?”
“A….” Ryan searched for the translation. “A flashlight.”
“Oh! Okay.”
“Clearly, I’ve watched too many American sitcoms,” Ryan said as they made their way back toward the hotel and the farm, guided by the light of the moon.
“Clearly, I haven’t seen enough British ones,” Henry replied.
The lack of streetlights did have one advantage though—nearly every star was visible against the infinite black sky. Every few steps Henry paused to look up, unable to tear his eyes away from the clearness, the brightness. It was beautiful.
“I think this is you,” Ryan said, interrupting the stillness of the night.
Henry startled and looked around. Sure enough, they were on the opposite side of the road to the hotel.
“Oh, yeah. Well, thanks for walking with me.”
“No problem.”
“Are you sure you’ll be okay getting back?”
Ryan laughed. “I’ve been walking this route for nearly ten years now. I could do it in the dark.” And he winked.
“Okay. Well, I’ll see you again.”
“Sure. Good night, Henry.”
“’Night, Ryan.”
Henry’s room seemed especially lonely when he returned, even though he’d done a fairly good job of making it feel homey. He knew that it had been stupid to hide himself away, but fear was a strong motivator, and having Ryan by his side was reassuring. He wasn’t afraid of being gay-bashed with Ryan around—the man looked like he could handle himself in a fight.
The night had felt like a revelation. He could go out and have fun, and even though it was a million miles away from what he was used to, socialising wasn’t going to kill him.
On top of all of that… Ryan was cute. Hot wasn’t the right word to describe him; he wasn’t sexy and toned like Henry’s last boyfriend (the one who had dumped him for a much younger model) or even muscled and sultry like Scott. Ryan was his own brand of appealing, sweet, and nice, and friendly, and… warm. Henry could imagine being wrapped up in Ryan’s arms and feeling safe and secure.
Henry stood in front of the bathroom mirror and sighed. His heart ached. Even if—and it was a very big if—even if Ryan was gay, who was to say he’d be interested in a guy like Henry? He tried to force those thoughts away, but they lingered as he changed for bed, and hung around in his dreams.
Chapter Six
Early on Sunday morning, the phone in Henry’s room rang.
“Hello?” he answered groggily.
Judith’s voice chirped down the phone at him. “Good morning, Mr. Richardson. I have a call for you.”
“Yeah, okay, put them through,” he said, sitting up in bed and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“Henry, it’s Ryan. I’m outside, get up.”
“What?”
“Get up. I’m coming up to get you.” And he rang off. Henry collapsed back on his pillows and checked the clock on his nightstand, which said it was just after 10:00 a.m.
True to his word, a few minutes later Ryan knocked on his door and called through the wood.
“Henry, you lazy bastard, get up.”
Henry opened the door. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Ryan beamed. “We’re going to church. Get dressed.”
It took Henry a few moments to absorb and process this information. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. Come on. Put a shirt on.”
Suddenly aware of his almost-nakedness, Henry rubbed a hand self-consciously over his chest and turned back to the room.
“It’s too early for this. Go away.”
He was ignored as Ryan strode past him into the room, headed for his closet, and searched through his clothes. A few moments later, a white shirt and a smart pair of jeans were thrown on the bed.
Henry wasn’t ashamed of his body, even if it was only covered by very tight underwear, but the thought of showing it off to Ryan was causing some unwelcome feelings for this time in the morning, particularly when Ryan kept mentioning church. He also wasn’t really sure why Ryan had come. It was confusing. His brain wasn’t good at picking apart information this early.
“Come on, get dressed,” Ryan said. “Don’t make me do it for you.”
Henry groaned. “I’m not going to church, Ryan. I’m Jewish.”
A snort turned to a giggle, which turned into a laugh. “Not any more you’re not.”
“I’m gay.”
There. It was out.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Fifteen minutes later, Henry found himself in Ryan’s car.
“I still don’t understand why I’m doing this,” he grouched.
“Okay,” Ryan said. “A number of reasons. Firstly, I have to go, and Stella’s working, so she can’t come with me. And I don’t like going alone, and I didn’t know who else to take.”
“Bastard,” Henry muttered under his breath. Even though he hadn’t known Ryan long, he didn’t think the other man would take offense.
“But mostly, I’m doing you a favour.”
“Explain that to me one more time?”
“In this village, everyone knows everyone,” Ryan said, turning down an impossibly small lane where the hedgerow scraped at the side of his beat-up old VW Golf. “That’s a good thing and a bad thing. Nell, God bless her heart, has been going to this church service for longer than either you or I can contemplate. She’s a smart woman. You want her on your side.
“But it’s not just about impressing Nell. Imagine this—your new country estate manor house has just opened, and on the first weekend, a toilet breaks. You make the right connections here, you can make the right phone calls and someone will be out to you within the hour, to fix it for free, because you’re part of the congregation. It’s just how things work out here.”
Henry nodded. “So what you’re saying is, this is a networking opportunity.”
“Henry, this is the biggest networking opportunity you’ll ever get.”
“And you didn’t want to go alone.”
“No,” Ryan said, smirking a little and not taking his eyes off the road. “I didn’t.”
Henry wondered about Ryan’s lack of other options until they pulled into the church’s parking lot.
He’d read somewhere, probably in some conservative newspaper back home, that Britain was gripped in a crisis of morality, that churches were empty, that faith was dying. Clearly the writer had never been here.
The church was ancient, or it at least looked that way. The brickwork was almost black with age, the stained-glass windows old and beautiful, and ivy climbed up and around the arched door into the building. Inside, the pews were made of dark wood, suspiciously narrow, with brightly coloured crocheted cushions for kneeling during prayer lined up on little hooks under the shelf holding prayer books, Bibles, and hymn sheets.
“Way, way out of my comfort zone,” Henry muttered as Ryan led them through to one of the pews at the back of the church.
The door opened into the middle of the room, at the side, and most of the pews to the front of the church were already full. He could see Nell, sitting in the front row, wearing her hat and lace gloves, with a neat leather handbag perched on her knees.
She looked like a queen and graced him with a demure nod when he lifted a hand in greeting.
“Sing along, stand up in the right places, and pretend to listen,” Ryan said under his breath as they slid into a pew. “And trust me.”
He did as he was told: singing, standing, sitting, and pretending to listen for the relatively short forty-five-minute service, entertaining himself by studying the architecture, the stained-glass windows, the embroidered cloths hanging from the stone walls.
Despite the fact that Henry wasn’t particularly a fan of the whole Christianity thing, as a sociological experiment it was fairly interesting. Having a Jewish mother meant he’d never sat through a Christian service before, and although some of the readings had a familiar cadence to them and the songs tugged at his subconscious, it was entirely new.
Although he had absolutely no intention of admitting this to Ryan, as an experience, he hadn’t hated it.
As they dutifully filed out of the church, Henry was more than slightly surprised when Ryan, instead of shaking the pastor’s hand, enveloped him in a tight hug, laughing.
“Alright, mate?” Ryan asked.
“Yeah, not bad. Not bad.”
“This is Henry Richardson,” Ryan said, gesturing to Henry. “Nell Richardson’s great-grandson. He just moved here and is going to renovate Stretton House. Henry, this is Paul Aster. We went to school together.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Henry said, shaking the pastor’s hand.
“Pleasure,” Paul echoed. “Sorry I can’t stop to chat. You gonna be at the Dog for lunch?”
“Stella’s doing beef. See you there,” Ryan said with a cheeky smile.
They walked back to the car in silence. Henry got in, buckled up,
“What was that about?” he demanded as they pulled out of the parking lot. “You know the pastor?”
