by P. A. Brown
Soon the sky was ablaze with more stars than David had seen in years. In L.A. celestial stars were a rare event.
Beside him Chris yawned. David finished his beer and stood.
“I’m hungry. I’ll make us some sandwiches.” He reached for Chris’s hand again. Together they said goodnight and went into the kitchen. Chris sat at the marble island while David prepared two sourdough sandwiches, slathering on the Dijon mustard he knew Chris adored. They ate standing up. Then they climbed the stairs to David’s room. David shut the door and turned to face Chris.
Chris made a step toward the bathroom. “I need to get my pajamas.”
David caught him and pulled him into an embrace, nuzzling his throat. “Why? It’s not like I’m going to let you wear them.
Come on, your captain needs you.”
ChAPteR eight
Sunday, 4:10am Valley Stream Road, Holderness, New Hampshire Chris grabbed both suitcases off his unused bed. He set them on the floor and smoothed his hand over the down comforter.
He’d never expected this leg of their trip to yield so many surprises. David was proving to have layers Chris had never experienced.
When Chris had first met and fallen in love with his big bear he had known that not only had David hidden his orientation from his fellow police officers, he hadn’t been comfortable with public shows of affection, even within the gay community.
Now that all seemed to be changing. He wasn’t sure what had happened between David and his mother—he suspected it was a lot more than David would admit—but he knew it had been incandescent. And now David seemed to have decided he didn’t have to hide his feelings.
It was still tentative, there was no guarantee that David wouldn’t slam the closet door shut again, but for now Chris was overjoyed. He loved David and it wasn’t always easy withholding his desire to show his feelings to the man he loved. He began to think that even if David left the LAPD, it would be okay. They would make it, no matter what.
David entered the room. He looked spiffy in a Madras shirt and stonewashed cargo shorts. Chris admired his muscular legs covered with thick black hair.
“Ready?”
Chris hefted both bags. “All set.”
“You want to grab breakfast?”
“Let’s wait till we’re on the road,” Chris said, not admitting how eager he was to leave. “Maybe we can get a bite on the way.”
62 P.A. Brown
“Suits me.”
David popped the trunk open and they piled their luggage inside. Then he closed it with a loud thunk. They both turned to find Graham on the front veranda. He trotted down the steps and held out his hand.
“I’m glad you came, no matter what happened. As far as I’m concerned you’re always welcome here. Both of you.”
They shook hands all around. David made no comment on his mother’s conspicuous absence.
“Let me know how it goes in Bermuda.”
“Sure, I’ll give you a call.”
David slid behind the wheel of the rental car. Chris met Graham’s gaze.
“Thank you,” he said. “It means a lot to him.”
“Well you two take care. Especially you. Take care of him, Chris.”
“I will.”
David patted his knee when Chris climbed into the passenger seat.
“You ready for this?”
“Yeah, I think so. You?”
“Nervous.”
Chris popped a Red Hot Chili Peppers CD into the player.
Soon the voice of Anthony Kiedis singing Californication filled the small space.
They stopped at a roadside greasy-spoon where Chris loaded up on carbs in the form of a massive pile of Belgian waffles, whipped cream and strawberries. David selected a more modest breakfast of a cheddar cheese omelet and buttered toast. They both indulged in several cups of coffee.
They arrived at the airport a good two hours before their flight. It was still dark outside, though the first faint blush of BeRMudA heAt 63
dawn painted the eastern horizon pink. They checked their baggage and got their boarding passes. Chris bought a gossip magazine while David picked up a new Robert Sawyer science fiction novel he’d heard about. Finally they boarded.
The gossip rag forgotten in his lap, Chris dozed off shortly after takeoff. David shook him awake when the pilot announced they were descending into the Bermuda International Airport.
Through the tiny window they watched the island grow and evolve into a series of bays and runways. Grabbing their carry-ons, they waited in line to deplane.
The humidity smacked them like a wet towel the minute they hit the stairs leading to a shimmering tarmac. As one, the passengers hurried through the arrivals door. Once inside, cool air washed over them. A steel drum band greeted them in the corridor playing some sprightly island music. It was a vast improvement over the elevator muzak most public airports played. They collected their bags and went through customs quickly. Outside they found a line of taxis, mostly small vans, waiting by the curb. A thickset black man approached them.
“Taxi, mon?”
The man had a slight accent, not musical like Jamaican, but with a touch of British formality, much like David’s father had sounded on the phone. David gave their destination, a guest house called Aunt Nea’s in St. George’s. The cabbie loaded their luggage in the back of the van and David and Chris climbed into the vehicle.
The cab wasn’t air-conditioned. Instead, most of the windows were open, letting a scented breeze in. They left the airport and took a roundabout north-east onto a roadway that followed a curving azure inlet.
The road was hemmed in by dense tropical plants on one side and open field on the other. Jewel-colored stucco houses appeared on both sides. Palms, banana plants, an explosion of hibiscus and carpets of climbing morning glories caught the early morning sun. As they entered St. George’s they saw a cruise ship, the Norwegian Majesty, at dock. On the road in front of it, at a 64 P.A. Brown
bus stop, a crowd of tourists clustered together, waiting. Traffic increased as they neared the center of town.
Chris was unnerved by the narrowness of the roads. The cab careened down pavement close enough to touch the buildings and dense greenery that crowded in on either side. Scooters by the dozen raced in and out of traffic, braving life and limb. Chris heard the cabbie mutter “kids” when one particularly daring soul nearly plowed into them as it passed a pink and blue bus coming in the other direction. It didn’t help that there appeared to be no sidewalks or even curbs. Pedestrians seemed to be unwilling participants in a Death Race 2000 video.
“They always drive like maniacs here?” David asked.
The cabbie glanced back at them.
“They are always crazy. Nothing seems to teach them to slow down, not even the many accidents they have.”
“How can you get around besides cabs?” Chris asked. “Can we rent our own car?”
“No, no car rentals. Only scooters.”
Chris was intrigued. It might be fun to motor around the island on one of the noisy machines. David clearly didn’t share his enthusiasm.
“What are gas prices like?” David asked.
The cabbie told him. Chris did the math in his head. Convert liters to gallons…Chris winced, over eight dollars a gallon.
“Good thing we won’t be driving.” It had to be three times what it was in California. “And we thought we were being gouged.”
Ship masts appeared ahead of them. Further down, another massive, white cruise ship lay at dock.
“Lot of cruise ships come in?” David asked.
“All summer long. They come in here, out at the Dockyards and in Hamilton. Ah, we are here.”
The cabbie pulled off the main road, eventually turning into a narrow alley, through a gate, passing a white stucco wall. The BeRMudA heAt 65
driveway was lined with palmettos, tall, elegant cypress and hibiscus. The cabbie collected his fare and helped them unload their luggage. David grabbed the
two largest, leaving Chris to pick up the smallest of the three. He slung his laptop over his shoulder. They passed through an odd structure that looked like a hobbit hole and rapped on the wooden door with a warm Welcome sign. A middle-aged woman checked them in and directed them upstairs to their room.
“This is our Jasmine room.” There was a queen-size sleigh bed with a flowered duvet; the kitchen was fully equipped, right down to the coffee maker. Just through the French doors Chris could see a veranda overlooking St. George’s harbor. There was black wicker deck furniture and a glass table. “We’re not exactly facing west,” she said. “But you’ll get a spectacular view of the sunset.
If you prefer to make your own meals, you can pick up groceries just down at the market on Duke of York Street. There’s a ferry dock near King’s Square, on Ordnance Island. It’s about a forty minute trip into Hamilton. That’s where you’ll find the bulk of better restaurants. I have a few brochures from some of them.
I’m afraid we don’t serve food on the premises.”
“What about liquor?” Chris asked. “Beer?”
“You can buy it at the market, over on York, or there’s a liquor store across from our place. You can’t buy on Sunday.
Almost everything’s closed Sunday. Do you attend church?”
Chris stammered, “No.”
“You’d be welcomed at ours, or there’s a lovely Anglican church in Hamilton. It’s very beautiful. An historical landmark.”
They paused in the kitchen. It held a round tiled table and four comfortable looking chairs.
“I’ve got several brochures and maps of the island in the office.” She continued on, clearly proud of her hotel and eager to share its history. She offered them a genuine smile. “They’ll let you know what’s available this time of year. It’s our busy season, so you might want to call for availability. But there’s lots to see—
St. George’s is a UNESCO heritage site. Let me know if there’s 66 P.A. Brown
anything I can do to make your stay an enjoyable one.”
They thanked her and she handed over the keys. Chris closed and locked the door. He found David in the bedroom. They unpacked their clothes and put everything away. Chris bounced on the queen mattress under David’s amused eyes. He grinned.
“It’ll do.”
“Glad you approve. What do you want to do first?”
“Well, first things first.” He pulled his laptop out of the case and set it up on the kitchen table. “They said this place was wired.
Let’s see how true that is.”
It took him several seconds but soon he was online and pulled up his webmail program. It didn’t take him long to figure out there wasn’t anything he needed to do. Becky was taking care of business. He sent a quick “we’re here” email to both Becky and Des before shutting down the laptop.
They changed out of their traveling clothes and walked down the road to the wharf. Chris had brought along his digital camera and started shooting the minute they left their room.
“You putting together a photo journal?”
“No sense going on a tropical vacation if you can’t make everyone at home jealous.”
Once on Duke of York Street they strolled east, stopping at Sushi Tei where they got a box order for some octopus, ahi and mushroom rolls. They carried the food out to King Square.
Sitting at a wrought iron bench they watched the other tourists.
A horse-drawn carriage plodded by carrying six sightseers. A ferry came in to the dock on Ordnance Island, disgorging a small crowd and taking on a new one.
They ended the meal with a mug of ale in the White Horse Tavern, overlooking the harbor where gulls and sparrows fought for scraps tossed by tourists.
Back on the street they made their way to the market, where they loaded up on staples, including two steaks. David also picked up a six pack of Bud and Chris chose a couple of bottles of South BeRMudA heAt 67
African varietals.
Back at Aunt Nea’s they put the groceries away, got drinks and headed out to the veranda. The sun was sinking behind a bank of clouds, staining them pink and purple. The color deepened and lights began to come on across the water, where their hostess said St. David’s lay. The Norwegian Majesty lit up like a giant floating Christmas decoration.
Chris flipped through a couple of brochures he had picked up from the front desk.
“They’re called moon gates,” he said out of the blue. At David’s puzzled look he added, “Those weird round hobbit holey things. They’re Chinese. Supposed to be good luck for newlyweds to pass through them. Think we’ve been married too long to take advantage?”
“What? We need good luck?”
Chris grinned. “Nah, how could it get any better?” He kept browsing the brochures. “Says there’s something called Harbor Nights every Wednesday over in Hamilton.”
They were supposed to meet Joel Cameron tomorrow afternoon somewhere in a parish called Devonshire. Joel worked until noon. Bermuda was divided into nine parishes. They were in St. George’s, David’s father lived in Devonshire.
“How long do you think it will take us to get there?” Chris asked.
David consulted his map. “Depends on traffic, I guess. We should call a taxi to be here by noon.”
David grilled the steaks and Chris dished up the salad.
Before supper he checked for any urgent emails, knowing Becky would handle anything that came up, but reluctant to keep clear of business entirely. They ate on the deck watching the final remnants of the sunset.
As though by mutual agreement they ignored the gorilla in the room and neither one of them spoke of the impending meeting tomorrow. They were still too wound up over their visit with 68 P.A. Brown
David’s mother, and both wanted a break from the tension.
David went to work on a crossword puzzle, since there were no American sports on TV, and Chris did some more surfing.
Afterward they moved back inside. The local news mentioned a growing tropical storm that was showing up on the radar off the coast of Africa. By eleven they were both yawning. Piling the dishes into the sink they crawled into bed. Both were asleep within minutes.
For breakfast they had picked up the fixings for omelets.
While Chris chopped up the onion, David mixed the eggs and grated New Zealand cheddar. Again they ate on the veranda and studied the Norwegian Majesty as it left the dock. Chris watched it go with a dreamy expression.
“Why have we never taken a cruise?”
“Don’t know,” David said. “The subject never came up?
We’re already on a vacation, let’s enjoy this one before we start planning another.”
After breakfast they both showered and dressed with care.
Even David went through a couple of changes of clothes before he selected a conservative gray suit complete with hand-painted silk tie. He kept checking himself out in the bathroom mirror until Chris planted himself in front of him.
“Enough already,” Chris said. “You look great. You’re worse than I am.”
Two minutes before nine, David grabbed the phone and called for a cab. David locked the door behind them and they waited in the garden. Chris sat down on a wrought iron bench and went through his BlackBerry, checking out his email. David couldn’t sit, instead he nervously paced the length of the sidewalk and back. Chris almost told him to sit down, but he knew the words would be wasted. David wouldn’t relax until this was over.
It was a relief when the cab turned into the lane. David gave the driver their destination and they drove through the gates onto Nea’s Alley then onto the Duke of York Street and back toward the airport.
BeRMudA heAt 69
Between St. George’s, the airport island, and the main island was a low stone bridge that the cabbie called the Causeway. Chris stared out of the van window at the shallow, reef covered shoals.
Water seemed to lap right at the base of the road, while gulls dipped and cavorted in a cloudless blue sky.<
br />
Chris spotted a market on North Shore Road and asked the cabbie to stop. He hurried in to grab a bottle of wine for David’s father. For all he knew, the guy didn’t drink wine, but he felt safer giving it as a gift than anything else. Even if rum was the national drink, he wouldn’t know good rum from swill.
Nearer to Hamilton they turned off North Shore Road and onto Middle Road, passing a sign that said Devonshire Parish.
Chris reached between them and gripped David’s hand. He saw David glance toward the cabbie, but once he saw the man wasn’t paying any attention he half smiled.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said when David glanced over at him.
David squeezed his hand back, but said nothing.
ChAPteR nine
Monday, 9:40am College Hill Road, Devonshire Parish, Bermuda College Hill Road was a short cul-de-sac hemmed in by towering ficus, palmettos and hibiscus. The house the cab pulled up to was set back on a spacious, sloping lawn behind a low stone fence. A small, graven plaque outside on the lawn said Rose Grotto. Chris had noticed similar signs along the roads in front of stately mansions and tiny cottages. This particular house was a two-story butter-yellow house made of the ubiquitous plastered walls with hunter green shutters and a wooden door set into a stone lintel. The windows were simple mullioned stone under a fake portcullis. Like all the roofs Chris had seen so far, the roof was made of sloping white tile. An open terrace ran along the front of the house, partially screened from the street by several burgeoning plant hangers in varying states of bloom.
A half a dozen chairs and an ancient barbecue filled the small space. Cracked pavement led to a shaded lean-to just big enough to store a dusty Toyota pickup. The truck was full of gardening equipment: a lawn mower, tiller and several obviously well-used hand implements.
A pair of bluebird houses were set amid a cluster of hibiscus bushes. A pale gray cat strolled across the lawn, ignoring them completely. David paid the driver and they climbed out. The yard was full of carefully tended flower beds that were in full bloom.
Scents of a dozen flowers, fresh earth and some unique smell under it all. Chris didn’t recognize most of the plants, though he did spot some roses along the west side of the house. He thought he saw some nearly ripe bananas and a knobby gray-barked tree covered with large white and yellow blossoms.
