by Lanyon, Josh
“The Crazy Cashels like wine with their supper. So what?”
A dead leaf crackled under the sole of Austin’s high-tops. No. Not a dead leaf. A brown and dry cherry blossom. He knelt to pick it up. The cherry blossoms were long gone. This had been tracked inside a month or so ago. The papery petals crumbled in his hand.
Tyrone stared at the blossom and then at Austin. Something flickered in his eyes. Austin’s scalp prickled. He rose quickly, telling himself he wasn’t seeing what he thought he was seeing—it was too unbelievable.
They both jumped at footsteps coming down the stairs. Tyrone was suddenly smiling again, showing that big, wide, goofy smile. He winked at Austin.
“You got company.”
Cormac appeared, looking sleepy and smelling of pot. “You can go,” he told Tyrone arrogantly.
Tyrone glanced at Austin, inviting him to share the joke. He drawled, “Yes, suh, Mistah Cashel, suh!” He sauntered past Cormac and up the stairs.
Cormac glared after him. He turned back to Austin and smiled. “I haven’t had a chance to really talk to you.”
“It’s been a busy day.”
Cormac was still smiling. “But you’re working for us, so we get to say when you can take a break.”
“It’s not quite like that.”
Cormac walked toward him, smiling with foolish affection, his eyes slightly unfocused. He held his arms out as though to hug Austin.
“Not this again,” Austin protested, backing up into the wine racks.
“But why not?”
“Because I’m here to work.”
Cormac’s stuck his bottom lip out in a boyish pout, reminding Austin briefly of Ernest, though Ernest didn’t pout much. He was more about world domination. “So what? You can do both, can’t you?”
“I don’t want to do both,” Austin said, losing patience.
Cormac stopped and placed his hands on his hips. “I don’t understand you!” It was obvious that he was telling the simple truth.
“I thought there was no gay in Georgia,” Austin said bitterly.
Cormac blinked his long lashes, looking more confused than ever.
“Look, I like you,” Austin said patiently, “but I’m not in the mood right now. Why don’t we talk about your stories?”
“How can you not be in the mood?” Cormac confided, “I’m always in the mood. Carson’s always in the mood.”
Uh-oh. “That’s nice, but I really have a lot to do. See all these shelves? Let’s talk about your stories, and then I have to get back to work.”
Cormac wrapped his arms around Austin and thrust gently against him. “Just a quickie.”
“Will you knock it off?” Austin freed himself with less patience. “No. Read my lips.”
Cormac stared at Austin’s mouth intensely and then plastered his own to it.
Somewhere in the distance, Austin heard footsteps pounding down the stairs again.
He pinched Cormac’s arm hard, and Cormac broke contact and yowled into his face like a startled cat.
“Sorry to break this up,” Jeff said coldly, “but there’s a tornado warning.”
“There’s always a tornado warning,” Cormac said irritably.
Jeff was staring at Austin as though Austin had crawled out from behind the shelves with the other insects.
Austin stared stonily back. Jeff had one hell of a nerve disapproving of anything he did.
“Why are you here all the time, anyway?” Cormac demanded of Jeff.
Jeff gave him a level look and said nothing.
A few seconds later Auntie Eudie and Carson came trooping downstairs, followed by Faulkner. They carried blankets, pillows, and an assortment of books, flashlights, and candles. Faulkner, freighting a picnic basket, closed the door behind them.
It began to look like they were preparing for a state of siege, seeming to take the tornado warning seriously. That was a surprise. Maybe Ballineen was truly in the twister’s path. That was pretty much the way Austin’s luck was running these days. In fact, at this point, getting blown away by a tornado might be an improvement.
“Isn’t Mr. Cashel coming downstairs?” Austin asked.
“Daddy won’t come down to the cellar,” Carson told him. “He says a true Southern gentleman never acknowledges fear.”
Cormac put in sardonically, “Plus he’d be in more danger trying to negotiate the stairs than he is up there.”
Faulkner switched the CD player on Tyrone’s ghetto blaster to the radio. A newscaster announced, “If you can hear my voice, you are in the tornado-warning area.”
“Tyrone just left here about ten minutes ago,” Austin said.
Faulkner said stiffly, “Tyrone can look after himself.”
“Don’t you worry. We’ll hear him if he bangs on the storm doors,” Auntie Eudie reassured him.
Austin watched them find folding chairs and set them up. Faulkner dug out a cobwebbed kerosene lantern and lit it. They seemed to have it down to a science.
“How long is the tornado warning likely to last?”
“Just depends.” Carson pulled out a deck of cards and began to shuffle them. “Strip poker?” she suggested to Jeff.
Jeff grinned lazily and joined her at the card table.
“Want to play cards, Mr. Gillespie?” Carson inquired.
“I’m going to try to work as long the light holds out.” He added doubtfully, “Will the light hold out?”
“Sure it will,” Jeff said. “Unless we actually get hit by the tornado.” His gaze glittered wickedly in the gloomy light.
Auntie Eudie took out her knitting, and Faulkner fiddled with the dials on the ghetto blaster. Austin continued to work, trying to ignore the flirtatious background conversation between Jeff and Carson. He was unhappily aware that beneath the teasing banter, Jeff was angry—angry with him—and that there was an underlying message for Austin in many of his comments. Even if Austin couldn’t figure out what the message was.
“You want your laptop turned off?” Jeff asked Austin as Carson began to deal cards. “You don’t want to take a chance of it getting zapped or knocked off this table. Your whole life is in there.”
“Just what do you plan on doing on this table, Jefferson?” Carson murmured.
Austin crossed to the table and powered down his laptop, acutely conscious of Jeff—the fine blond hairs on his tanned forearm, the gold-tipped eyelashes concealing his gaze, the hint of men’s fragrance—bergamot, citrus, basil, mint, and something else. Something intrinsically Jeff.
Jeff ignored him. With the lid closed on his laptop, Austin moved back to the safety of the wine racks.
If he looked at the situation dispassionately, it was sort of strange how much…energy and emotion there was between him and Jeff. They had only spent one night together, after all. Yet he had spent a month trying not to think about Jeff and getting angry because Jeff could apparently not think about him—and here Jeff was angry because Austin didn’t want to pick up where they had left off.
Cormac came to join him. “Can I help you?”
“Sure. If you read the labels, I’ll write them down on this pad.”
For a time they worked together, and Austin was able to tune out Jeff and Carson’s chatter.
“What’s so special about wine, anyway?” Cormac asked. “It’s just booze.”
“It’s not just booze,” Austin argued. “From the beginning, wine has possessed symbolic and spiritual significance. It’s a communion between man and nature. It links centuries and generations.”
“How many wines do you taste in a wine tasting?” Carson asked from the table.
“Usually not more than fifty. It’s hard to keep clarity of palate after that.”
“Clarity of anything, I’d say. You must get drunk as a skunk!”
“He doesn’t inhale,” Jeff drawled, and Carson giggled.
“What’s the best wine you ever had?” Cormac asked.
“I can’t really say. It’s not like that. Every
wine is different and…mutable.”
Austin fully expected Cormac to guffaw, but he continued to watch him with that intense, scowling expression. “Wine changes all the time. Every day makes a difference in the life of a grape. Once the wine is bottled, it continues to mature. Even after it’s opened, it continues to interact with air and sunlight and glass. Seven different glasses means seven different tastes of wine.”
“So some of these old wines are still good to drink? They wouldn’t just be for collecting?”
“Some of these wines would be great to drink,” Austin told him. “I would love to drink some of these old wines. I had an 1864 Angelica a few years back that was produced during the Civil War, and it was amazing. Very aromatic. It tasted of raisins and walnuts. Very sweet with a long and flavorful finish. One of the best wines I can remember was an 1870 Château Montrose. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like drinking history.”
“I’d rather create history. That’s what writing is.” Cormac was regarding him with that severe, blazing look that always made Austin uncomfortable.
“Corrie, honey, why don’t you come over here and tell us one of your stories to help while away the time,” Auntie Eudie instructed.
Cormac replaced the bottle he was holding and walked over to sit on the stairs. Without any self-consciousness, he began to recite a story about a boy who set out to build a secret campfire to roast marshmallows and accidentally burned down the family barn.
Listening, Austin remembered that he still needed to talk to Cormac about his stories. He wasn’t sure Cormac was going to like what he had to say, but it needed to be said nonetheless. He glanced around the cellar. Auntie Eudie was smiling contentedly to herself as she knit her fake fox fur. Faulkner had found some sweet potatoes, and he was peeling them. The sharp penknife he used scraped steadily, the small sound lost beneath the static of the radio and the creaking timbers overhead. Faulkner’s rather ascetic face was without expression, but every so often his dark gaze would rest on Cormac.
Austin tried to analyze the complex emotions he read in the old man’s face. There was a gleam of satirical amusement, but there was tolerance too and what appeared to be genuine affection. It seemed strange that Faulkner might truly care for the Cashels. Might be able to find tolerant affection for them, when he seemed to have scant for his own great-nephew. People were confusing and contradictory.
Austin’s gaze roved to Carson, who was now playing solitaire. He liked Carson. She was a kook, but there was something direct and uncomplicated about her. In a weird way he found her more attractive than Cormac, even though Cormac was male. But then for all her flirtatiousness, there was something about Carson that reminded Austin of a playful boy.
He thought about Jeff’s comment that sex was sex. He couldn’t believe Jeff really meant that. Granted, Austin had never been with a woman. Never had any desire that he could recall. Inevitably that reminded him of his father’s charge that he’d chosen to be gay.
That was still too raw to examine closely. Instead he looked around for Jeff. He had finished playing cards, it seemed, and was leaning against the wall, watching Austin.
Meeting Austin’s eyes seemed to be his cue. He pushed away from the wall and joined Austin by the shelves.
“Any sign of those Lee bottles?” He kept his voice low so as to not disturb Cormac’s storytelling.
Austin discovered that he was relieved with a cessation in hostilities. He didn’t really want to fight with Jeff. For one thing, it wasn’t going to solve anything, and it wasn’t going to heal the pain of rejection. So why not accept what Jeff could offer, which was a very casual friendship with benefits?
“Not exactly. I did find something I wanted to show you.” In the excitement of the tornado watch, Austin had briefly forgotten those bizarre moments when he had thought Tyrone might not at all be who he seemed. When Tyrone had seemed almost…dangerous.
He showed Jeff the rack with the four empty cradles and the surrounding bottles of Madeira.
“Not that there’s any rhyme or reason to the way this cellar is organized, but it would make sense to store the Madeiras together. And there’s this.” He pulled what was left of the dried cherry blossom out of his pocket.
Jeff’s brows rose. “I’m deeply flattered you want to share your crushed potato chips with me, but—”
“They’re not potato chips. It’s what’s left of a cherry blossom. When I was here in March, the cherry blossoms were still covering the ground. It’s possible that this gives a reference point for when these four bottles were removed.”
Jeff considered this. He said neutrally, “Maybe. That doesn’t mean the four bottles that were here were the Lee bottles. It doesn’t mean that the four bottles that were here weren’t removed and drunk at dinner one night. The fact that someone tracked a cherry blossom inside isn’t exactly conclusive.”
He took the crumpled blossom from Austin, his fingers warm against Austin’s bare skin. Jeff glanced at the Cashels. “All the same, keep this quiet for now.”
“There’s something else.”
Jeff’s gaze seemed to linger on Austin’s face, but his words were matter-of-fact. “Go on.”
“Tyrone, Faulkner’s nephew, was marking some of the more expensive bottles we inventoried this morning. I was with him when I found this, and for a couple of seconds…”
“What?”
“I’m not sure. I thought he—this is going to sound ridiculous—I thought he was going to hit me. Or maybe…worse.”
Jeff stood motionless. He could have been turned to stone. “That kid’s got a rap sheet longer than US 80—including assault and battery.”
Assault and battery? Maybe he hadn’t imagined the menace in Tyrone’s eyes. Austin asked uneasily, “Was Williams’s death an accident?”
“Hell no.” Jeff’s voice was almost inaudible. “His car was found with the keys in it in the parking lot at Old Plantation House. No way did he walk out here on his own.”
“What was he doing out here at all?”
Jeff smiled wryly. “Personally? I think he was looking for your Lee bottles.”
“But how would he know they were here?”
“Because I think he sold them to old Dermot Cashel in the first place. Henrietta Williams asked me to investigate her husband’s death, and one of the first things I found out was Williams was involved in buying and selling vintage wines—and not, according to some people—always the real deal.”
Wine fraud. It was increasingly rampant. Some experts believed as much as 5 percent of wine sold in secondary markets was counterfeit.
Austin gazed at the towering shelves, the racks of green and amber bottles with their gilded and ornate labels beneath the velvety veil of dust. “Do you have proof of that?”
“Yeah. I do. Now we’re trying to figure out who would have been Williams’s partner in that lucrative sideline.”
“You think this partner killed Williams?”
“It’s one possibility.”
“Could this partner be one of the Cashels?”
“That’s also a possibility.”
Austin’s gaze got caught up in Jeff’s. He couldn’t seem to look away.
“What are you two whispering about over there?” Carson called.
Jeff turned away abruptly. Austin felt a jab of disappointment. But that was how it was always going to be with Jeff—assuming there was anything with Jeff at all—so he needed to get used to it.
“We could open a bottle of wine,” Cormac said, having finished his storytelling stint.
Austin kept his mouth shut, but it wasn’t easy.
Jeff said easily, “I believe Austin would fight to protect this wine to his last breath.”
The others laughed.
“Some things are worth fighting for,” Austin said.
The lights flickered again and went out.
Austin had that tilting sense of disorientation. On the other side of the cellar, he could hear Faulkner soothing t
he Cashels. Jeff put his hands on Austin’s shoulders, turning him. Austin went with it. Just the feel of Jeff’s hands resting lightly on him sent a blaze of awareness through him, as though his longing for Jeff were something constant, often banked down but always smoldering.
Unerringly, despite the almost complete absence of light, Jeff’s mouth landed on Austin’s. Until that instant Austin hadn’t realized how desperately he had wanted it, wanted to taste Jeff again, wanted his kisses. One of the major erogenous zones, lips; and no wonder, because there was something indescribably satisfying about the soft pressure of a man’s hard mouth moving on his own.
“Austin.” Jeff sounded like he was in pain.
Their mouths lingered dangerously, parted a split second before the faded light winked on.
Jeff was walking back to the card table before Austin had regained his balance.
* * * * *
At nine o’clock the radio announcer cheerfully conveyed the all clear.
“It’s too late to drive back to Madison now,” Auntie Eudie told Austin kindly. “You stay the night, honey. We got plenty of room.”
No way in hell—no way in God’s Little Acre—was he spending the night. Never mind the hours he’d already spent listening to tornado horror stories and histories of the Cashels’ and their friends’ and neighbors’ most gruesome illnesses, and the insanity that was these people’s political opinions. No way could he spend the night under the same roof as Jeff, knowing how Jeff and Carson would be passing the time.
“Thanks so much, but I’ve really got to get back.” Austin clutched his belongings as though he feared they would be forcibly taken from him as he headed for the front door. He could hear the Cashels protesting behind him. “I’ll be back tomorrow first thing,” he called without slowing down.
He opened the door and saw a fantasy landscape of trees bent nearly in half and rain coming down in glinting sheets. A large empty plastic bag for topsoil swooped past like a grubby ghost in the deluge of rain and wind. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see Margaret Hamilton fly by pedaling her bicycle.
