“Don’t even fucking think about it.” Mom always told me a smile was the quickest way to make friends. Good thing I wasn’t at TJ’s to make friends, wasn’t it? “Next time, keep your eye on the ball.”
Oh, Trader Joe’s, don’t ever change.
I went in search of the sugar. I suppose I could’ve used something artificial, but it was one day a year, and I knew I’d work the calories off. What other people did was no concern of mine.
Then, because I needed to eat, I grabbed a tray of California rolls and some lime-flavored fizzy water.
“Dude, why’re you carrying your basket up there?”
I looked around and found a TJ’s employee looking at me, trying not to laugh.
“It keeps people from stealing things out of it.”
He looked surprised.
I grinned. “Not expecting that?”
“No, and I don’t say that very often.”
I snorted. “I’m almost positive that didn’t come out how you intended it.”
The clerk thought about it and then slowly looked me up and down. “Don’t be so sure.”
Somehow being openly admired made me feel like my skin didn’t fit or something, or that I was a boy thrust into a man’s game. That made no sense, given my activities that one crazy summer, but there I was. I never claimed I made sense. “Uh… yeah, I’ll be sure to let my boyfriend know you appreciate my work in the boats.”
He winked at me.
I looked around for the checkout stands. They had to be here somewhere. Oh yes, where the lines were. Without taking my leave of Cruisy the Clerk, I made my hasty way to the checkout queue. I put the basket on one shoulder and then read on my iPhone until it was my turn.
I put my embarrassment behind me as I drove to Heath and Jerry’s house, what they’d told me was a Queen Anne-style Victorian, one of the painted ladies in Land Park. If McKinley Park was the jewel of east Sacramento, Land Park made south Sacramento sparkle. I should qualify that—Land Park was south of Broadway, the area immediately south of downtown, not the area more properly called South Sacramento farther south. The latter was nothing more than suburban gangland. Land Park started as and remained a respectable residential neighborhood. In addition to the acres and acres of the park itself, Land Park featured the zoo as well as a number of famous residents who had moved in and out of the area over the years. Sacramento was a company town, and that company was the state government, but in addition to political figures of interest only to students of California’s government, Land Park was or had been home to the author Joan Didion, as well as to members of the Deftones and US Supreme Court Justice Anthony Kennedy. I loved the selection of American culture that had called Land Park home. Secrets like that kept Sacramento from being irretrievably hopeless.
Over the years, Heath and Jerry had put in the work to turn the tatty, somewhat rundown Victorian they’d bought into a beautifully restored turn of the century Queen Anne. While not so grand as San Francisco’s painted ladies, Sacramento’s version still projected a certain charm from the city’s earlier days. When I’d asked Jerry why the entrance was on the second floor, he had laughed. “Hon, there weren’t always the levies. This city used to flood every single winter.”
I always forgot about that. If you looked closely at the walls of the state capitol building, you could see the high water marks.
When they’d acquired it, they’d had to rip out so much ham-handed “restoration” that it no longer qualified for any kind of historical status or registration, so their hands hadn’t been tied. Air conditioning, so important in Sacramento Valley summers, was no problem, and neither was adding an extra guest suite at the back. They’d made sure not to spoil the lines, so the city approved the plans. The planning agency recognized a rehab job when it saw one. I merely saw a beautiful house that had always felt like a safe port in a storm.
I pulled up in front of the house and then checked the street signs. Was it the right day to park on this side of the street, and when would I need to move my car? Ah, urban living.
As I grabbed my groceries and bag for the weekend, I heard the door open. “Why’re you parking in the street, lily-white boy?”
“As opposed to parking… where?”
Jerry shook his head. “The driveway?”
“It seemed rude to presume.” I always trod carefully around Jerry. I never knew when the switch would flip and he’d out-queen the ladies at Aspects, or Ass-Pecs as it was known. Also, it drove him crazy, and there wasn’t much he could do about it because I was being nice and all.
He rolled his eyes. “Move your car, child. The city doesn’t need your money that badly.”
I smiled. He stood at the top of the stairs, arms crossed and toes a-tapping, watching me. I’d won this round, but there was a long weekend stretching out ahead of me.
After I put my things in one of the guest rooms, the three of us—Heath, Jerry, and myself—spent a quiet evening en famille, eating dinner and playing board games. I supposed we could’ve gone out, even to the aforementioned Ass-Pecs, but when it came down to it, games were more fun, and we could make hogs of ourselves with the Chex mix without anyone judging.
The next day I slept in. Such a luxury. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d missed sunrise at the port. That didn’t mean I wasn’t sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee in my hand when Heath stumbled in at what he obviously considered an obscene hour.
“What’re you doing up so early? Isn’t this supposed to be a holiday?” Heath mumbled, his brain still mired in sleep. “And shouldn’t you be sleeping in?”
“I already slept in. Now I’m enjoying coffee and the paper.” And trying not to laugh at my host. I kept that to myself.
Heath squinted at me. “If I’d have known you could both sleep in and be up so stinking early, I’d have let you deal with the turkey.”
“That’d work out fine, if I had some clue what to do with it. Other than eat it, I mean.” I turned my attention back to the comics. Yeah, I’m that lowbrow. That Satchel, poor earnest dog that he was, always on the wrong end of that horrible cat’s stupidity.
Heath bumbled his way deeper into the kitchen, presumably looking at the recipe or incantation or whatever it was Jerry had set out for the turkey. He was sure swearing a lot.
“Problem?”
He sighed. “Only that I don’t need to do anything with this damn bird until two hours before we intend to eat it.”
I glanced at the clock. “So you’re up this early for no good reason?”
“None whatsoever. Well, I can take my meds, but other than that and the dubious pleasure of your company, no.”
I buried my smile in my coffee cup as Heath grumbled his way back upstairs. Me, I planned to contact Michael and see if maybe he might be interested in meeting at the Cap City boathouse, him or maybe Lodestone, if Marissa wanted him out from underfoot. Unless Lodestone planned to cook or unless they were travelling. I knew Peter’s family lived up in Washington, but I thought Marissa’s people lived locally. I tried not to be as self-absorbed as people accused me of being.
I glanced at the clock on the microwave. I knew my fairy HIV-fathers had planned dinner for much later in the day, so I could scull as well as lounge about for a while, which is exactly what I did.
Chapter 09
WHEN I’D left for the boathouse, no one else had stirred, and no one had arrived. When I returned there was a strange car in front of the house, and I suddenly wished I’d had a chance to clean up. Alas, the Cap City boathouse wasn’t nearly as nice as CalPac’s, but CalPac’s was closed for the holiday. But I had to scull. I needed to, if only to get the stench from yesterday’s attempt off of me.
“Is that you, Remy?” Jerry called from the kitchen.
“Not if I’m meeting anyone!” Seriously, what could he be thinking? He was gay, I was gay. He knew the score.
“Jerry!” Heath hissed.
I heard unfamiliar voices laughing. Someone said, “We r
ow, we get it. Let the man shower, Jerry.”
Rowers. “We.” That ruled out Brad and Drew, although they were supposed to be here for dinner. Drew didn’t row, and they didn’t sound like Adam and Owen. As nervous as I could get around strangers, I was afire with curiosity, too.
I showered and dressed in reasonable haste. I debated shaving, but decided I had the right amount of scruff going on. At least Michael had thought so when he was nibbling on it after our row. Dressed in a comfortable pair of jeans and a Michael-approved polo shirt—he liked ’em tight—I went downstairs. Strangers to encounter and cranberry relish to make.
When I entered the kitchen, conversation stopped, and four heads swiveled in my direction. Whoa. Stranger danger.
Jerry grinned. “Thanks for joining us, lily-white boy. I was just singing your praises to Nick and Morgan here.”
Rowers. Nick. Not that Nick, surely….
A handsome blond about my height extended his hand. “Since Jerry’s apparently having more fun flummoxing you than being a good host, I’m Nick Bedford.”
“Remy Babcock.” I was shaking hands with a legend right there in Heath and Jerry’s kitchen. I was surprised my mouth worked.
A taller man with darker hair and fairer coloring snickered. “I’m his better half, Morgan Estrada.”
That clinched it. “He’s that Nick Bedford, the one who made CalPac what it is, right?”
Morgan grinned. “Kind of a letdown, isn’t it?”
“What? No.” Jeez, could I sound any stupider?
“You’ve stunned another one of those poor children, Nick.” Jerry laughed again. “You’re going to have to move or change your name or something, if the mere mention of your name makes them plotz.”
As long as it didn’t involve my parents or Michael, I could recover quickly. “Only the gay ones.”
“You’re forgetting one thing. I quit so Morgan and I could be together without that hanging over the program you seem to think I magicked into being all on my own.” Nick smiled when he said it. I could already tell he was someone I’d like.
“Isn’t that sooo dreamy? Giving up your job for the man you love?” Morgan said.
I looked at Morgan closely. He made the love-struck expression with the voice to match, but the eyes. They gave it away. “You’re a bad man.”
“I always knew you had a good head on your shoulders, Remy.” Jerry was quiet for a moment, then he gestured with his half-full martini glass. “Hahahahaha! Somebody fix me a cocktail.”
“I think someone’s already had enough, don’t you?” Morgan said in a stage whisper.
I shook my head. “You don’t really expect me to get involved in this, do you? He knows where I sleep, at least for the next three nights.”
Heath made me a sandwich since by that time my guts had a death grip on my spine, and then left me to visit with Nick and Morgan while he and Jerry continued to work on Thanksgiving in the kitchen. Jerry seemed to be in a queeny mood, and cranberry relish went together easily, so I made myself scarce. He could sharpen his fangs on someone else.
And so the morning passed, at least until the rest of the guests arrived. I looked up from where I sat with Nick and Morgan when the doorbell chimed. More strangers….
“These are Brad and Drew St. Charles and their nephew, Freddie Cochrane,” Heath said by way of introductions.
Or maybe not so strange. I knew Brad and Drew. I’d never forget how kind they’d been back in Boston.
“It’s Fred,” the sullen preteen with hair the color of fire groused. “Not even Philip calls me Freddie anymore.”
I more or less ignored Fred, which was what I always did with ornery children, in favor of Brad and Drew.
“Remy! This is a surprise.” Drew enfolded me in a hug. Then he held me at arm’s length. “Have you gotten taller?”
“In the last month? Unlikely.”
Brad smirked, which seemed to be his natural state. “C’mere, kid.”
“So it’s safe to assume you know these reprobates, Remy?” Nick said as the rather large Brad had his arms around me. Seriously, Brad looked more like Peter Lodestone, who was built like a rugby player. Neither resembled the classic oarsman’s build.
“You think?” Brad said.
“Stop bogarting the Brad.” Morgan pulled me away. “I’ve known him longer.”
“That may be true, but we rowed together in Boston. That’s a bond you’ll never understand.” Brad stuck his tongue out at Morgan.
“We’re best enemies,” Morgan said by way of explanation.
Drew sighed. “Are they still beating that dead horse?”
“So it would appear.” Nick shook his head. “I keep hoping they’ll grow out of it, but it’s been what? Eight years for you and Brad? It’s not looking good.”
“And nine for you and Morgan,” Drew said.
Nick smiled. “About that, yes.”
“Has Mrs. Estrada given up pushing for a wedding, yet?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Morgan said from where he and Brad were bickering about some minor topic I hadn’t been able to follow. Fred or Freddie seemed to have the right idea. He had dropped onto one of the sofas with an electronic device and was ignoring everyone.
Four old friends quickly shifted to conversational topics I knew nothing about, so I took the opportunity to slip into the kitchen and get to work.
“So what do you need, Remy?” Heath said.
“For now? A citrus zester or Microplane and a plate to catch the zest.” Not that I had a chance to cook often or was necessarily any good at it, but something about the ritual of preparing food soothed me.
After I had zested both oranges and moved on to the next step, Brad came in to work on his family’s contribution. We chatted about nothing of any real consequence, the way people on the way to being fast friends do, when something occurred to me.
“Wait…. Heath introduced you as Brad St. Charles, but that summer I got into trouble before the Youth Nationals, or even in Boston, you were Coach Sundstrom.”
“I was Coach St. Charles then, too, because… reasons, but I’ve never been able to shake my old name around the boathouse.” Brad looked miserable, absolutely wretched.
I had no idea what I’d said or done, but clearly I’d fucked up in a grand way. “Brad… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” But Brad vanished into the living room.
“That was so not suave. I screwed the pooch, and I’m not even sure how.”
“Would it help if I said it’s not you, it’s him?” Drew said from the kitchen doorway.
I looked past him but couldn’t see anything. “But—”
“Okay, yes, you kind of screwed up, but there’s no way you could possibly have known. Brad and his brother Philip—”
“That’d be Fred’s father—” I said.
Drew nodded. “Guardian, but yes. Brad and Philip’s father was horrible. Like, trying to get one of his lackeys to bash me to get Brad to stop working for me and come back to the family company and resume dying by inches horrible.”
I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? But I was aware of my jaw hanging open.
Guess my father wasn’t that bad, after all.
“Exactly. Brad still hates him with a passion that burns hotter than a million suns. So when we married, Brad took my last name.”
“Hence Coach St. Charles.” Then something occurred to me. “Then why does everyone still call him Coach Sundstrom?”
Drew sighed. “Because getting everyone to take the name change seriously, even at gay-friendly Cap City, hasn’t been easy.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to open old wounds. Or create new ones.” I could never say that enough times, but I had to start.
“I know you are.” Drew snagged a handful of olives off a tray.
“I’ll apologize after I’m done with the cranberries and maybe he’s had a chance to not be so angry at me.”
“That sounds wise. I’ll go ca
lm him down before you do,” Drew said, “but to be fair to you both, he’s not so much angry as hurting. Some wounds never really heal.”
When I’d finished I went back to the living room. Morgan was saying, “My parents decided they were old enough not to fuss with Thanksgiving anymore. So they handed the torch off to my oldest brother, but he’s in SoCal. I have the whole week off, but Nick doesn’t.”
“It’s my holiday to work,” Nick said. “We’ll see them for Christmas and hopefully expiate the Catholic guilt they’re sure to heap at my feet.”
I made my best effort to apologize, but Brad appeared deaf to my words.
“So much for recreating our Charles quad,” I said quietly.
“Are you telling me my company’s not good enough for you, child?” Jerry glared at me.
“Did those words pass my lips? No, they did not. But I don’t see you sculling.”
I told Brad again how sorry I was, but he only looked annoyed.
“Whatever, little oarsman,” Brad said.
Enough was more than enough. I’d accidentally waded into a swamp I hadn’t known existed. I’d made my apologies, only to have them cast back in my face. Poke me with a fork and all that. I frowned. “Little? I’m not that much shorter than you are.”
“Short enough.”
I gritted my teeth. “Maybe, but it was my underage ass that dragged yours down the Charles River, and don’t you forget it, old man.”
I left the room at that point. Who knows, maybe I’d leave the house, too. I was almost positive I’d left something at the boathouse, right? What I failed to understand was why it was “pick on the kid day.”
Jerry laughed. “Don’t worry about her. It’s that time of the month.”
But I swore I heard Brad say, “I like him.”
“That’s because he won’t put up with your crap.” Morgan, I thought.
I heard Drew say, “You should probably pull the stick out of your ass. I’m getting tired of this. He apologized, which is more than he needed to do because—hello?—no one ever told him about the name change, given that he was basically larval when it happened.”
All That Is Solid Melts Into Air Page 9
