by Anna Martin
“Leo?” he asked, guessing correctly on the first attempt.
There was a tattoo, a fairly large one, which covered most of Ryan’s arm and on to the curve of his shoulder. It was a lion’s head done in tones of black and grey, placid, intense eyes with a bushy mane that fanned out from the face.
“No,” Ryan said absently, then grinned. “Gryffindor.”
“No way!” Henry exclaimed, laughing.
“You’re a muppet,” Ryan said and pushed Henry playfully away.
Henry hummed and aligned their bodies again. “I always thought of myself as more of the Slytherin type, actually,” he said. “Want to play kinky Harry Potter sex games? I’ll be Draco. You can be Harry.”
“You’re not blond,” Ryan pointed out and ran his fingers through Henry’s glossy brown hair to prove his point.
Henry pouted. “Use your imagination. I can certainly think of what I can use as my magic wand.”
Unable to stop the silly giggles, Ryan pulled Henry closer and buried his face in Henry’s neck, holding him tight.
“Hmm hr hmm oo?”
“What?”
Ryan pulled away. “What would I do without you?”
“Live a terribly boring life,” Henry said sincerely.
“Hey, I meant to ask you. We’re going down to Newquay for my birthday. Do you wanna come?”
“Where’s that?”
“Down on the south coast of Cornwall,” Ryan said, smiling indulgently, still stroking Henry’s hair. “It’s a bit of a party spot, and there’s amazing surfing.”
“Okay,” Henry said, leaning into Ryan’s touch. “Sounds good.”
“A few guys from the team will go down, I expect, and Stella will go down in Andy’s camper van.”
“Are we going to stay down there?”
“Yeah, only overnight, though. Don’t worry. I’ve got a tent.”
Henry frowned. “Oh, now you mention the tent.”
“Is that a problem?”
He fixed Ryan with an even stare. “Mama doesn’t camp.”
Ryan tried, and failed, to suppress a grin. “Mama does now.”
Chapter Eighteen
The last thing to do before opening the house to the public was to get one woman’s seal of approval. If he was honest, it was the first time he’d been nervous about the work he’d done for some time. It felt like all his weeks, months, even, of work and research were about to be tested.
Nell was picked up by a cab from her home and travelled to the house with Sandra, the home’s manager. Henry watched from the front door as she was helped from the car and into a wheelchair, settled herself with her purse on her lap before giving a little nod to indicate she was ready.
“Henry,” Nell said warmly as he offered her a hand to help her into the house. He didn’t like thinking of her as frail, but she undoubtedly was, and took a seat back in the wheelchair as soon as was possible.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Excited,” she said. “And a little nervous.”
“Me too,” he admitted, feeling suddenly at ease. “Let me show you around.”
It felt a little like giving the first tour of the house. He had a draft of a script in his head, pointing out the original features of the house and what had been restored, stories about the rich history, and yet more about his family.
Nell nodded her approval of each room in turn and seemed especially pleased with the work he’d done restoring the ladies’ parlour room. It was one of his favourite rooms in the house, although it had been tough to start with. When renovations had first begun, he’d had no idea of what should go in there and had instructed Scott to restore the wood panelling the best he could. Many hours of research later, he’d painted the room a light sage-green colour and filled it with little tables, vases full of flowers, beautiful antique cabinets, delicate armchairs, a chaise longue, and a pretty floral settee for two.
“There’s something I need your help with, actually,” Henry said, showing Nell back through to the entrance hall.
In the attic, Henry had found several paintings and a few more framed pictures that had been stored there. He imagined the grand paintings probably once hung on the walls in the main part of the house, and surmised that they, like so many other examples of grandeur and excess, were removed when the house had served as a field hospital during the Second World War. He could see how it would appear grotesque to have antiquities on show while men were dying in the rooms built to demonstrate the very wealth he had now inherited.
“Do you know where any of these should go?” he asked.
Nell looked pleased to be asked and cast her eye over the paintings.
“That, my dear, unless I’m very much mistaken, is an original Manet.”
“A what?” Henry asked dizzily.
“A Manet. My father acquired it before I was born.”
“Are you serious?” Henry asked, his eyes darting from his great-grandmother to the painting and back again. “I’ve just had it propped up against the wall.”
“It survived,” Nell said with a touch of humour.
“But… shouldn’t it be in a gallery somewhere?”
“Good gracious, no. It belongs above the fireplace in the smoking room, to answer your original question. There are plenty of great works of art owned by private collectors,” she added, on seeing Henry’s expression. “Owning one is not something to be ashamed of.”
Sandra obligingly pushed Nell around the ground floor of the house again as they redistributed the paintings to where they were supposed to go or, in the cases of the few where Nell couldn’t remember, where she thought they should go. Her enthusiasm for the task was worth more than any words of approval.
As he showed Nell back to the car, he didn’t miss her slight exhale, the soft lines of sadness around her eyes as she took in the sight of her family home, restored, smelling of beeswax and the lemony cleaning fluid he used on the entrance hall tiles. He knew as well as she did that she may never visit again. It had been many, many years since she had been through it last, and he couldn’t imagine why she’d want to come back. Although beautiful, it was still a place where she’d seen terrible things, watched men die. He didn’t blame her for her reluctance to return.
At the car, he once again offered her his hand as she slid into the passenger seat.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “I must admit I enjoyed that.”
Henry returned her smile. “It was my pleasure. Thank you for coming out here.”
“Do you know when the house will be opened?”
“Hopefully, within the next few weeks,” Henry said. “I’ve been contacting the local press, TV, and newspapers, and trying to stoke up some national interest too.”
“I will certainly keep an eye out for anything,” Nell said. “And I wish you the best of luck, Henry, truly.”
He nodded. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Take care, dear.”
“Go camping, they said,” Henry griped. “It’ll be fun, they said.”
“It will be fun,” Stella said, hoisting Jack farther up onto her hip as they walked down the hill to the sea.
“That’s easy for you to say. You get to sleep in a camper.”
Stella only laughed.
“I don’t know what you two are looking so smug about,” Ryan said and shifted the enormous bag of stuff he was carrying. “He moaned all the way down here in the car.”
“So did Jack Jack,” Andy said.
“Jack Jack is two.”
“Fair point.”
The day was glorious—the sky an impossibly rich blue, dotted with fluffy clouds that danced over the sea. It was warm enough for shorts and flip-flops and layers of sun cream. Henry knew he’d burn if he wasn’t careful.
Even though it was only just midday, the beach was already packed, and Ryan led them to the far end of Fistral bay, where the waves crashed against lethal-looking jagged rocks, and the surfers, farther out in the sea, looked like tin
y multi-coloured dots.
“The others should be here soon,” Ryan said. “I’ll text them and let them know where we are.”
It didn’t take long for his annoyance over the camping situation to wane. After shaking out a towel and lying down, slathered in sunblock, shades on, Henry decided that maybe the weekend wouldn’t be a total washout.
He wasn’t quite prepared for the arrival of at least ten more people. He knew them all, of course, guys from the cricket team and some of their girlfriends, mostly guys, though, loud and energetic with their bags and surfboards.
There was space, just about, for everyone to lay out their blankets and towels and set up windbreakers for some shade. Between Stella and Andy and the rest of the guys, there was a ridiculous amount of food, drinks in coolers, and an ice box which contained just ice cream.
It was rare for Henry to be one of the quiet ones in a group, but the guys from the team were just so loud, it was nice to take something of a backseat and just let the chatter happen around him.
When Stella plopped down next to him, Henry managed to crack an eye open.
“You’re blocking my sun,” he said evenly.
She laughed and dumped Jack on his chest, making him “oomph” as the air was forced out of his lungs. Grumbling, Henry propped himself up and shifted the little boy to a safer position on his lap.
“Are you okay?” Stella asked.
“Sure. What makes you ask?”
“You’re quiet,” Stella said lightly. “And you’re not, normally.”
Henry shrugged and ran his hand over Jack’s hair, smoothing it out. “There’s a lot of people here,” he said by way of an explanation.
“So?”
“So… I’m not sure if I feel comfortable being… being me.”
“Henry,” she said sternly. “You are a lovely guy and a good friend. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel bad about who you are.”
“But all these guys are so macho. And I’m not. And,” he said, lowering his voice so Jack wouldn’t overhear them. “They’re all way too much like my kinda man, if you know what I mean.”
Stella pursed her lips together, then burst out laughing. “Oh, darling,” she said gently, petting his hair.
When Ryan suggested taking Jack down to the sea, Henry readily agreed. It was a chance for the two of them to be on their own, if only for a little while. Stella lathered sunblock over her son and covered him up in a hat and T-shirt before they left for the journey down to the water’s edge.
There were plenty of other kids around, of varying ages, from babies in their parent’s arms to younger children, unattended, but not far from the watchful eyes of adults lying supine on beach towels.
Jack immediately plopped himself down into the sea, slapping at the water and laughing delightedly. Deciding it was best to join him, Henry sat down too in the deliciously cool water.
He was surprised but pleased when Ryan sat down behind him and wrapped his arms around Henry’s torso, his fingertips gently skimming over Henry’s abs. Ryan dropped his chin to Henry’s shoulder and pressed a gentle kiss to his ear.
It seemed so easy, away from the village and the people who liked to whisper behind their backs, knowing that even if their friends could see them now they wouldn’t care. And it wouldn’t matter.
Henry was more comfortable being out and proud than Ryan was. He’d had years to develop a thick skin and had survived homophobic abuse in all its various forms. Loving Ryan meant wanting to protect him and to shield him from that abuse, if he could. The affection that Ryan gave so easily made Henry wary, but Ryan was always so sweet about it that Henry found it difficult to try and dissuade him.
After Jack discovered how to throw clumps of wet sand, Henry decided it was time to take the little boy back to his mother and washed his hands off in the sea before hefting him up onto his hip.
“Come on, trouble. Let’s go find your mommy,” Henry said.
He ooof’ed as Jack wriggled in his arms, corrected himself, and gripped the toddler more securely. The almost slip wasn’t much, but enough for Ryan to place his hand on Henry’s back to steady him.
A young mother—probably not much older than twenty—who had been playing with her own baby nearby, stopped to beam at him.
“He’s a cutie,” she said. “What’s his name?”
“Jack,” Ryan said and ruffled his hair. “Say hiya.”
Jack waved and said hello, playing along for smiles and attention.
“You look like great dads,” the girl told them.
“He’s not ours,” Ryan said, laughing. “He’s my nephew.”
“Oh! Well, he’s adorable,” she said, then turned back to her own child.
“Oh my God,” Henry murmured as they walked back up the beach.
“I’m sure she wasn’t the only one who thought that,” Ryan said, and Henry couldn’t quite be sure if he was teasing or not.
“I hate you.”
They transferred responsibility of Jack back to one of his real parents and announced that they were going for a walk. But only after Ryan had fished two ice creams out of the freezer tub and threatened not to share.
Once they were clear of the camp again, Henry licked a drip of his ice cream and reached for Ryan’s hand, then stopped himself.
“Can I hold your hand here without getting my head bashed?” he asked.
“Of course,” Ryan said. “You can handle stupid teenagers maybe calling you names, though, right?”
Henry rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”
In answer, Ryan slipped his hand into Henry’s and loosely swung his arm back and forth.
As the day softened into evening, most of the families started to pack up and leave the beach. It didn’t take long for the music and bonfires to start up, giving their little corner of the world a bit more of a party atmosphere.
Stella gave Jack his dinner, then slipped back into the camper van to settle him down to sleep. They had a baby monitor that would sit next to her in case he woke up, and their own bonfire and barbeque was pitched right next to the van, meaning she was never more than a few yards away from her baby.
The young mother’s words from earlier had resonated with Henry more than he wanted to admit. He’d never aspired to be a father. It wasn’t something he or his former boyfriends had wanted, and he was happy with his vision of the future, one that didn’t have children in it.
It wasn’t something he wanted to reflect too deeply on tonight, not while Ryan’s hand was rarely straying from his back and he was drinking more than he normally would. Being slightly drunk and emotionally delicate was not a good state to be in while contemplating his hypothetical future children.
The night didn’t get all the way dark until after ten in the evening, and even then, under the blanket of bright stars and a full, low-hanging moon, and with the amber glow of the fire, there was plenty of light to see by.
No one had mentioned the casual intimacy between Ryan and Henry. Whether that was because they didn’t care or they did care and were too embarrassed to mention it, Henry wasn’t sure. He had a feeling it was because no one cared. These people were his friends now.
“I really don’t like camping,” Henry said as they finally crawled into Ryan’s tent. It was late—later than Henry wanted to think about, considering what time they were expecting the sun to rise in the morning. And, of course, Ryan always woke up disgustingly early, even when he wasn’t working.
“I know you don’t,” Ryan mumbled. It was only when he flicked on two flashlights that Henry realised what Ryan had done for him.
There were no sleeping bags, like he’d been expecting. Instead, it looked like Ryan had brought Henry’s duvet and pillows on the trip and had set up an inflatable mattress in the middle of the tent, the bed neatly made. He’d also set two boxes to serve as nightstands, on which sat the flashlights, which had lampshades fixed to them. Even Henry’s alarm clock sat on Henry’s nightstand, on his side of the bed.
“
You’re adorable,” Henry said, aware it would be too easy for him to say something more. Too much more, too many things he wasn’t really ready to say just yet.
“Come to bed,” Ryan said simply, and it was suddenly as easy as that.
Just like he would at home, Henry shed everything except his underwear and slid between the cool sheets, allowing Ryan to zip up the tent and join him, curving a warm body behind his own. Even though Henry had known in advance that he’d be sharing a tent with Ryan, the bed situation was unanticipated. It took very little time for him to decide he liked it.
When Ryan’s palm flattened on his stomach, Henry allowed the arousal to flutter, wondering if he was going to do anything about it. He thought probably not. These walls were thin. Too thin. They’d definitely hear outside if anything happened.
It turned out to be something of a blessing. With there being no chance of any sexy time, Henry allowed himself to be held, listened to the sound of Ryan’s deep breathing, and fell asleep.
Not too much later, he was woken by light creeping through the seams of the tent. Even though it was made out of dark fabric, Henry had always been a light sleeper, and sunlight was one of the things sure to wake him.
And of course, Ryan was awake. Not doing much, just lying on his side, his back to Henry, reading a book on Henry’s iPad.
“Morning,” he mumbled sleepily.
“Good morning,” Ryan said and flipped the cover back on the iPad, rolling onto his back to allow Henry to snuggle into his side.
It was warm, so Henry kicked the duvet down to his waist and relished the feel of Ryan’s skin against his cheek, the steady thump of his heart and gentle fingertips that skimmed up and down his back.
“Did you sleep okay?”
“Mm,” Henry hummed, not willing to admit that, actually, he’d gone out like a light and not stirred all night. “What time is it?”
“A little after seven.”
