“I believe Adam’s gone to check the dog.” Vilhelm meandered to the other side of the small room.
“Deet? Evan went to get him.”
Vilhelm furrowed his brow. “Deet?” He opened a drawer beneath a counter of stemware.
“My dog, Detritus.”
He nodded. “Ah. Adam will take care of everything. He always does.” Vilhelm returned to the table and gazed at my lower region.
The snug, pajama-like suit I wore accentuated my bumps and bulges, and I placed a hand over my crotch. “I need to check in with my husband and let him know where I am.” Reminding him of my marriage seemed a good idea.
“Adam will inform him of your whereabouts, if he hasn’t already.” He spotted the corkscrew lying atop the table and picked it up. “Right out in the open, like it should be.” He pulled out the chair across from me. “Are you cold?”
“It is a little chilly down here.”
“Your nipples tell me so.” He blushed.
I folded my arms across my chest.
Vilhelm pointed a chin to the unlit fireplace with its stacks of wood neatly piled in a cubbyhole. “Care for a fire?”
“Ah, sure.” I waited for him to start one.
Instead, he sat. “Please. It is rather chilly.” He attended to the bottle of wine.
“Sure.” I rose and hobbled over to the hearth, where I removed kindling from a brass bucket on the floor. I laid the sticks beneath the grates. “You got a light?”
He handed me the box of matches he’d used to ignite the candle. “I’m better at opening wine than I am lighting fires.” He broke the seal of the Sangiovese. “Even in Scouts, I’d make the other boys light ’em for me.”
I retrieved a small dry log from the cubbyhole. “A man must know certain things in life: how to change a flat, tie a necktie, and build a campfire.” I struck a match to the kindling and it smoked.
“I’d fail miserably in your troop.”
“Not even the necktie?” I set the log on the bed and it smoldered.
He uncorked the wine. “Thirty-three percent is failing.”
“Ah.” I used his chair for leverage. “We’ll scale the results.”
“I like your method of examination, Mr. Deiss.” He emptied the wine into a decanter.
I flopped with a harrumph back into my chair.
He sloshed the wine about in the crystal vessel.
“Does that mean we need to wait to drink it?”
“No.” Vilhelm’s steel-gray eyes sparkled in the candle light. “I’ll teach you a thing or two about wine.” He poured me a glass—a lot less than the to-the-rim ones I poured for Ev and me—then furnished his own.
“Cheers.” I held mine up.
“Not yet.” He placed his fingers on the base of his glass and glided it in a circular motion along the table. “This unleashes the aroma and quickens the decanting.”
It wasn’t as if I’d never done that before—to release the wine’s fragrance—but I went along with him, like I did with this quasi-date.
“Take in its bouquet first.” He shoved his nose into the glass and sniffed. “Ah, hints of…violet.” He came back up for air, then went back in. “A touch of spicy earth.” “Cheers.” He clicked his glass against mine and sipped some. “Silky.”
I sniffed, then tasted. “Not bad.”
“Not bad? Can you taste the richness of the cherry?” He sipped more and after a time swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Like ripe plum with a smidge of warm spice or”—he tilted his head—“maybe cracked pepper.”
I guzzled the rest of mine and set my empty glass down. “Ah. Tastes like good wine to me.”
He rolled his eyes. The fire crackled.
“We should set another log down.” My foot rested comfortably on the overturned crate, and the wine relaxed me. I had no intention of getting up. “Go for it, Vilhelm.”
His shoulders drooped, and he tilted his head. “Come again?”
“The log.” I eyeballed the now-flickering flames. “It needs more wood to keep it going.”
An orange glow decorated Vilhelm’s chiseled face as he stared into the hearth. I understood why he was successful in Hollywood. A stunning portrait, our scene like a publicity still—a tableau of men in nineteenth-century garb drinking wine by the fire.
“I-I can’t,” he said.
“Why not?” The fire diminished some. “It’s going to go out if we don’t stoke it.”
He turned around. “I’ve never touched a flame.”
“You don’t touch it.” I flung up a hand. “You drop a load, um, a log onto the hearth.” Load?
Vilhelm stood, his vampire-quickness now a series of slow and methodic movements. He removed a larger log from the cubby. Slender hands held it up. “Just place it on top?” We locked eyes.
“Gently.”
“I won’t get burned?”
“I promise.” I removed my now-warm feet from the crate, leaned in, and watched him lower the oak down.
He jumped back as he did. “It’s hot.”
The flame crackled and reengaged.
“I did it.” He smiled and removed fire tongs from a stand. “Use this?” He snapped them open and shut.
“You can.” I poured more wine for us.
“I’ve seen this done in the movies.” He maneuvered the burning wood.
“Pretty simple really. Put another one on now that it’s going.”
He slid out a smaller log. “My parents never let me play with fire.”
I sipped the wine. “Really. Why not?”
“They didn’t want me to get hurt.” He lowered the new log onto the flame. It rolled off the grates and onto the coals.
“Just pick it back up with the—”
He’d already done so.
“There you go.”
On his haunches, he straightened his back with his hands on his thighs and turned. “Thanks, Mr. Deiss. I think I just passed your exam.”
After polishing off the Sangiovese and rehearsing my one line, “Yes, Mr. Smith, I’ll chop down that maple tree in the morning” over and over, I relaxed into my new roles—actor and friend.
Not only was this acting thing a piece of cake, but my growing friendship with Vilhelm Strom seemed genuine. The guy seemed like just a lonely, rich recluse.
The British woman from Wardrobe, whose accent smacked of Adele’s, clogged her thick shoes down the basement stairs and announced her arrival. As if the heavy footsteps weren’t enough. “Hello there. I’m coming down the stairs!”
“You’re not interrupting anything!” Vilhelm bellowed, head thrown back.
It appeared she made a habit of announcing her approach, but I let it go. I thought of Adam’s comment about Vilhelm getting his way with those he liked.
When she located us, she made me stand and readily picked and prodded at my union suit. I stood, arms out, while she measured. She wore a chartreuse neck scarf in a shade favored by garden-hose manufacturers. Occasionally she stepped back—arms across her gut, mouth pursed—then returned with more tugging and plucking at the material. “Spin. I want to see your bum.” She tapped my hip.
“Excuse—”
“Turn.”
I did.
She pulled on the buttons to the flap on my behind. “You’ve got no undies on, right?”
“Freeballin’.” I covered my genitals.
Vilhelm snickered.
“Looks good.” She spun me around again, and with pins in her mouth, she plucked me in areas only Evan had. “So sorry,” she said and shoved the little rods through the material. Luckily, the fire lit the dark cellar, and she didn’t prick me.
“Leave it hanging in the back closet.” She winked, turned, and clobbered her way back upstairs.
With the aid of his phone’s flashlight, Vilhelm led me down the basement hall to the dressing area.
In the closet, I retrieved my phone and found no message from Evan on it. “Hmm.” It had been hours since I’d left. Maybe there
was no reception. I had only one bar. I dressed back into my street clothes—actually Evan’s cords, now sliced at the hem to allow my wrapped foot through—and exited with my crutches.
Vilhelm waited at the entrance. “You look just as good as a modern man than as a nineteenth-century one.”
I slid my phone into the front pocket of Ev’s Salem State hoodie and followed Vilhelm back down the hall and upstairs.
Candlelight danced along the kitchen ceiling and even more flickered about in the adjacent rooms. A fire crackled in the distance.
Wardrobe’s Adele appeared with a tall, elegant woman beside her. “Patricia Grey from the New England Film Office.”
Patty, as she asked to be called, wore a three-button blazer and a matching gray skirt, cut above her knees. “Sorry I’m late.” Black leggings matched her shoes. She’d dressed far more appropriately for a business meeting than for inclement weather. I recalled Adam informing me that she was transgender. She was a soft-spoken and elegant-looking brunette with a cute button nose and curvaceous lines.
After she and Vilhelm hugged, we shook hands. “Shall we?” She extended an arm toward the entrance to the dining room, like she owned the place. “We’ll have plenty of room in there to discuss the contract.”
Contract? I scratched my head and lumbered forward, leaving my crutches resting against the kitchen counter. Adam did say that Vilhelm had arranged everything. I entered the dining room.
In the center of a dark wood table, red wax dripped from a candelabrum and pooled into sterling silver sconces. Traces of the melted wax clung to the holder’s sides, and some fell in splotches, like blood, dotting a runner of lace.
“We’ll make do without electricity.” She pulled a chair out for me. “What on earth did you do to your foot?” She eyed my bandaged ankle.
“I sprained it ice skating.”
She tsked.
Behind me, Vilhelm tucked my chair in and grasped my shoulders in a leaned-in friendly manner. “I’ll leave you two to business. I’ve got to prepare for tomorrow’s shoot.”
“Very well,” Patty said. “I hear filming’s going splendidly.” Her accent hinted at time in England.
Vilhelm left.
“Are you from the UK?” I needed small talk and time to locate my marketing hat. My frumpy attire staved my confidence.
“I spent time there, yes.” She unzipped a leather satchel and removed a manila folder. “Vilhelm and I go way back. He’s from Norway, as he may have told you.”
He hadn’t, but I didn’t say so.
“When we were children, our families would holiday together in Port Isaac. We nearly grew up together. I’m originally from Boston.”
“Nice.” I repositioned the hood of my sweatshirt as if to find my marketing hat inside. “I’ve been to London many times, but never to the southwest of England.”
“Well, you should try it. It’s quiet a relaxing village.” She opened the folder and handed me some paperwork. “Vilhelm assures me Conant Marketing is right for the job.”
“He does?” I cleared my throat. “He does.” I perused the contract. I could sense her stare as I bit my lower lip and read. Then the sales groove hit me—despite a buzz from the wine, the seemingly clinched deal, a hoodie, and pants sliced at the leg. Even my throbbing foot couldn’t hold me back. I closed the manila folder and slid it aside. My elbows rested on the chair’s arm and I steepled my hands to my chin. “Tell me what NEFO needs.” I imagined wearing a Brooks Brothers suit. I could even sense the snug fit of the Italian dress boots I’d purchased at Nordstrom.
I listened—listened hard—and probed deeper to discover the client’s real needs. I’d found my marketing hat. The flow consumed me. Time passed quickly. I kept my hands steepled. I found no need for notes.
“You certainly know your stuff, Mr. Deiss.” She signed the contract and pushed it my way.
“We’ll make New England the next Hollywood.” I sealed the offer with my signature and slid it back to her.
“You’re a confident man.”
Chapter 27
Evan
Javier left Deet and me at the Settlement Inn’s darkened front porch and sped off into a cluster of pine trees. He dodged branches weighed down with ice and vanished into the night. The fact they’d watched Dillon and Deet playing on Salem Common a while back rattled me, but I was glad to have our dog back safely in my custody.
Inside the inn, an eerie darkness filled the lobby. Deet shook and his metal dog tags rattled in a way that, months back, used to startle me from many cancer-drug naps. I brushed snow off my coat.
“Evening, Mr. McCormick.” A gray-haired man popped his head around the column by the check-in area. “Electricity is out. Storm’s pretty bad.”
“Good evening,” I said, surprised he knew my name. “Any idea when the lights will be back on?” A howling wind clattered the front door.
“Can’t say I do.” He eyed Deet. “Hey, fella.” He looked back at me. “Last time the wires froze, it took a month.”
“A month!” A log snapped in the glowing hearth. I turned to it as embers shot up the flue.
“We got enough wood to last a time,” he said.
“Our room has a gas one. Will it work?”
“Oh, yeah. All them ones on the second and third floors have a battery backup pilot.” He shuffled to his stool. “If you have any trouble, just give me a holl’ah.”
Detritus bounded up the stairs, sniffing his way forward. At the second-floor landing, he trotted down the hall. “Do you smell your daddy?” I followed. When I got to the room, I unlocked it, and Deet bolted in.
“Dillon?” I flipped the wall switch, forgetting there was no power. “Dill?”
Moonlight cast a shadow on the bed. The remote control lay by a pillow at the foot. Detritus came out from the bathroom and sniffed about, tail wagging.
The door shut. I shivered, found the fireplace remote and turned it on, and the place filled with light.
“Dill?” I knew he wasn’t there but asked the empty room again, anyway. I made for my phone still plugged into the wall by the nightstand on my side of the bed. In the rush to get Detritus, I’d left it behind. A message from an unknown number told me Dillon had been pulled into a meeting.
“A meeting? Now?” I looked at my watch. “It’s two in the morning.”
Detritus scratched an area by the fireplace and curled up.
Exhausted, I collapsed on the bed and called Dillon.
“You’re never going to believe this,” he answered.
“Where the hell are you? It’s late.” I kicked off my shoes.
“Didn’t you get my message?”
I undid my belt. He didn’t let me answer.
“We just got a full-year contract with the New England Film Office!”
“What?”
“A full-year contract with the New England Film Office.”
“For what?”
“To do a marketing campaign to lure in Hollywood film companies to the area.”
Stunned, I propped up. “You’re kidding.”
“A half mill with an option to renew next year, if we do a good job…which we will.”
“Who’d you blow to get that?” I chuckled. Exhausted, I fell onto my back. “I’ve got Deet. Javier told me they’d been watching him—”
“Evan. I didn’t blow anyone!” Dillon huffed. “You think I have to blow people to get work?”
“No, I was kid—”
“Look, I’m busting my ass off over here. And out there…or whatever. I’ve got a sprained ankle. I’m hobbling all over this fucking island,” he warbled. “And you think I’m blowing people?”
I rose from the bed. “I didn’t mean—”
“There are wires down in front of this fuckin’ house. I’m stuck inside with no ride back,” he rushed. “I can’t get out. And you thinking I’m fooling around…date…dating some hotshot Hollywood actor? Or producer? Or assistant or something? Someone.”
; Adam’s “hot stuff” comments came to mind as I paced. “Well, your defensive posture gives pause for concern.” I futzed with the back of my shirt and tucked it in. “Dillon…” I was exhausted and cranky. “Look, it hasn’t been easy for me, either. The cancer. The failed company. The stolen friggin’ car! Deet! The wallets.” I stopped. “Our wallets! Did you hear from that police officer? She was supposed to send a courier over with them.”
Silence.
“Dillon?” I looked at the phone. “He best not have hung up.” I redialed and got his voice mail.
Back in the lobby, the front-desk man snoozed with his arms folded across his belly, and his chin resting on his chest.
“’Scuse me,” I whispered.
He snored, a stop-starter that could keep a sleep-apnea clinic in business for a lifetime.
I wondered if there was a package for us behind the desk. The police wouldn’t just leave it. Would they? I had no message on my phone, but they had Dillon’s number, and he wasn’t picking up.
A thud sounded from the front porch—a tree branch snapping?—and the front-desk clerk rustled from his slumber. He looked startled to see me, his eyes wide. “Oh, Mr. McCormick.” He rose. “Was that a tree limb?”
“Sounded like a big branch.”
He scuttled out of his chair and over to the entrance. “Yup. In the road though, thank God” He shut the blinds he’d peered through and lumbered back, a totter favoring his right hip. “Few years back…a tree ripped down the front overhang.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “We had to replace that there whole deck.”
“You don’t say.”
“Yup.”
“You didn’t happen to get a package for us. Dillon Deiss or Evan McCormick?” I leaned against the counter. “Room 202.”
“Well, let me check.” He plodded behind the desk toward a bunch of cubbyholes. “I’ll say. There is! I must’ve missed it.” He slid out an envelope, too small to be our wallets.
On the front was scratched in pencil:
Dillon and Evan
“Thank you,” I said with my back to the man. When I reached the stairwell, I opened the envelope and removed a piece of notebook paper with the fringes clinging to the side.
Building Us: A Gay Romantic Comedy and Adventure (Marketing Beef Gay Romance Book 2) Page 11
