The Philanthropist and the Paratrooper (Siren Publishing Everlasting Classic ManLove)

by Taylor Brooks

  “Huh,” Trace said, confused that anyone would pay so much attention to something he considered more of a hobby than anything else.

  The only reason he had even bothered to put them in his mother’s shop was because she was insistent that they were wonderful and more people deserved to see them. Of course he knew she was the most biased person on the planet when it came to anything he touched, but still no one before Harrington had paid much mind to anything he created except for the occasional polite comment or remark.

  Just then, Harrington crossed from the gift shop into the diner. In his hand was a small model car, a Ford Model T, circa 1939. It was no bigger than the size of his hand, but Trace could recall every detail of the tiny vehicle he’d spent a week putting together and hand painting.

  “Excuse me,” he said to Del. “I hope you don’t mind me pulling this one from the case, but I didn’t want to make you go all the way to the back again. I was wondering if this one was for sale. None of them have any price tags on them so I wasn’t sure.”

  “Oh. This one?” Del turned to her son. “Well, we’ve never priced them before. We sell each piece individually.”

  Trace watched in disbelief as his sweet and innocent little mother flat-out lied to their hotel guest. Not only did they not sell each piece individually, they’d never sold a single piece at all. Ever.

  “Any idea how much you might charge for this one? It really struck me,” Harrington said.

  “Well, we could just ask the artist himself.” Del turned toward her son. “What do you think, Trace? How much for the little green car?”

  “The little green car as you put it is actually a classic Model T. It’s one of the most popular of Ford’s earlier models.”

  “You made this?” Harrington asked.

  “Yeah. Why?” Trace asked, still not sure what it was about this man that unnerved him so much.

  “Because it’s absolutely gorgeous. Rarely do you see a one of a kind piece with such…depth or passion.”

  “Passion? It’s a model car,” Trace pointed out.

  “Oh, I beg to differ. When you put this together, you didn’t just do it because it looked like a neat thing to build. You did it because you loved the look and the lines of the vehicle. Like right here”—Harrington set it down on the counter and pointed to the spokes between the wheels—“you could have just painted these once you had them on the wheel, but instead I see that you painted them each individually, and then placed them in their spokes, paying careful attention to not nick the paint job which you’d spent so much time on.”

  Trace stared at him as he spoke. That was in fact exactly how he’d done it, but he didn’t exactly like the idea of having a complete stranger be able to read him that carefully. Even if it was only his work that he was talking about.

  “Trace?” Del broke the silence between them.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Are you going to answer Mister Harrington?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Throw an offer out. I might entertain it. I might not.”

  “Okay, how about eighty dollars? I’m on a tight budget so I really shouldn’t be spending that much, but I have to have this car.”

  “Mistake number one, never tell someone that you have to have something. You appear weak to your opponent,” he replied.

  “Trace Jennings,” his mother offered in stern warning.

  “Mistake number two, never tell someone to throw out an offer, it tells the other person you don’t know the value of your own work. Thus making you appear a bit of a novice in your own chosen field of work,” Harrington added.

  Del smirked and turned away. Trace didn’t miss it, but he wouldn’t add credence to his mother’s amusement by glancing in her direction.

  “Okay, Harrington. Fine. Make it one hundred and you have yourself a deal.”

  “Done.” Harrington pulled out his wallet and counted out five twenties, handing it over to Del. “I guess I’ll give it to you since it was in your shop and the artist seems a bit temperamental.”

  “Thank you very much, Mister Harrington. I’ll gladly pass it along to our moody artist here once he regains his composure. Will you be joining us for dinner this evening?”

  “I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’m starved.”

  “Great. Go have a seat over there in the corner booth and I’ll bring you over a menu,” she told him.

  “Actually, your waitress Bonnie earlier recommended the French Toast Grandpa’s Feast Platter. Any chance you can surprise me? Give me whatever is good?” He held up his hand when she started to speak. “I know, I know. It’s all good, but just surprise me with whatever you think I’d like.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I’ll have something out to you shortly,” she told him.

  Trace watched as the man sauntered over to the booth. He bent over just as he slid behind the Formica table, offering him another glance at his ass. Once again, he felt the familiar tug in his jeans. He didn’t know what his problem was, but this guy was really starting to get to him. On one hand he didn’t trust him, but that was mostly because he didn’t trust anyone he didn’t know. Then there was the other hand, the hand that noticed how attractive Harrington was. He had dirty blond hair, dark green eyes, and almost porcelain-looking creamy skin with a five o’clock shadow that seemed to call out to Trace, telling him to kiss every single inch of it.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Del asked her son.

  “Trust me, Mom. You don’t want to know.”

  Chapter Six

  Brad sat in the corner booth and gobbled down the chicken-fried steak that Del had brought him not too long before. The thick and creamy Southern gravy that smothered it was to die for and unlike anything he’d ever tasted before.

  He had no idea what Del used in her kitchen to create such a wonderful medley of flavors, and he didn’t care. In fact he figured it was better he didn’t know at all. He figured there was a pretty good chance that he wouldn’t eat it if he knew.

  While he loved how good everything tasted ever since he’d begun his road trip, he knew very well that his conscience would win out if he ever found out just how much saturated fat, calories, and any other number of bad things went into his meals.

  Alfred usually kept his diet and health in line. By both Celia’s cooking and Alfred’s strict vigilance they had managed to keep his body lean, his cholesterol low, and his heart in healthy shape. They did all this in spite of his efforts to go off the deep end and lose himself in a month long, alcohol-induced stupor after Paulo had betrayed him.

  He heard footsteps approaching and caught sight of them in the corner of his eyes. Thankfully it distracted him from the bad memories he’d been about to revisit. He looked up to see Trace standing before him. In his hand he carried a plate of what looked like a T-bone steak and eggs with a glass of some brown soda in the other.

  “May I?” Trace asked.

  A bit surprised, but curious still the same, Brad motioned toward the red vinyl seat in front of him. “Of course.”

  Trace slid behind the table and set his plate and glass down in front of him. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  Brad caught the skeptical glare of his dinner guest. It was obvious that something was on the ruggedly good-looking man’s mind. It was even more clear that he didn’t care for Brad too much. It was actually too bad too, especially seeing as how Trace was the first man who had raised his heartbeat ever since the whole debacle with Paulo.

  “So.” Trace took a bite of his mashed potatoes and motioned toward the small Ford car sitting on the table. “Why did you buy that thing anyway?”

  Brad raised his brows at the question. He found it odd that the man wasn’t more proud of his accomplishment, rather acting so surprised that someone may actually like it.

  “I already told you. I like it.”

  “It’s just a car. Hardly seems worth a hundred bucks.”

  He couldn’t help himself, the laughter l
iterally spilled from his lips like a curse word after stubbing his toe.

  “Something funny?” Trace asked.

  “I’m sorry. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to laugh.”

  “No, go on.”

  “Pardon?” Brad asked, not really sure what this man wanted or why he was even sitting with him.

  “If you have something to say, then just say it,” Trace said.

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect. Please let’s just forget about it.”

  “No, I wanna hear it. What’s so funny?”

  Brad let out a sigh of frustration, partially because he was enjoying his dinner so much he didn’t want to stop, but also because he had a feeling whatever he said would just prompt more questions from this brooding man.

  “All right.” He put down his fork and wiped his mouth. “I just am not used to hearing an artist talk about his pieces of work with such derogatory comments.”

  “I wasn’t being derogatory,” Trace answered.

  “Oh, I beg to differ. I paid one hundred dollars for this car because I appreciated the work and the beauty of it. And instead of being glad or thankful that someone else saw what you saw when you were creating it, you point out that it’s just a car.” Brad used air quotations and annunciated the last three words of his sentence.

  Trace eyed him for a moment, as if he was truly thinking about what Brad had just said to him. Then with a shrug he cut into his steak and took a large bite.

  Brad picked up his own fork and knife and followed suit. Whoever this guy was, and whatever made him tick, he was clearly serious about every situation he encountered. He wondered if the man ever smiled outside of the times he was around his mother.

  “So, why do you like it so much?” Trace broke the silence.

  Brad finished chewing his bite, holding onto his exemplary manners to keep himself from asking Trace to kindly shut the hell up so he could eat his dinner.

  “It reminds me of my grandfather.”

  “Yeah? He used to have one or something?”

  Brad wasn’t sure if he was just this nosy or if he was trying to get a better feeling for who he was. Whatever his reasons were, he knew it would probably be easier and less complicated to just answer him.

  “My grandfather used to restore old cars when I was a little guy. I’d hang out in his garage and sit on his work bench as he tinkered with them. He had one just like this one and was working on getting it fully restored when he died of a heart attack.”

  “Shit. Sorry to hear that. Sounds like he was a neat guy. I used to work on cars when I was younger. Hadn’t done it in a while though. It’s a great stress release and leaves you feeling pretty damn proud once you’re done.”

  “Yeah. He was the best. My happiest memories were of me just hanging out with him in his garage. And of course the times when he’d finish a car and take me out in it.”

  Trace nodded and took another bite of his eggs. After a moment of silence he asked, “Whatever happened to the car? You end up fixing it up for him?”

  “I wish.” Brad took a drink of his lemonade. “There was nothing I would have liked more. My parents however had different plans. They pieced out his classic car collection to the highest bidders and made a pretty hefty profit. Granted this went against my grandfather’s wishes. He told them explicitly that he wanted the collection to go to me when I turned eighteen. My mother, his daughter, never really understood his obsession with cars. So when the time came and the will was settled, her and my father sold each car off. Every last one of them was gone in a matter of days.”

  Brad winced. “Ouch. That must have hurt. Money was tight when you were growing up, huh? I mean, until they sold the cars?”

  “You’d think so, right? I mean it would only make sense that someone would sell off something that had such a high sentimental value only if it was a last resort. Not my parents though. They were pretty well-off. Actually, no, that’s not quite right. They were loaded. They didn’t have a single financial worry. That didn’t stop them though. They didn’t care what Granddad wanted, or what I wanted. They just saw dollar signs and made it happen.”

  “Wow. That’s harsh,” Traced replied.

  “What? Them? Or me?”

  “Them. Both, I guess.”

  “Yeah, well I’m not exactly their biggest fan. But, then again they’re not mine either. It’s a mutually agreed upon relationship.”

  “Ahh…one of those families, huh? You tolerate each other on holidays and not much more?”

  Brad let out a boisterous laugh. He couldn’t help but not do so. The idea that he and his parents tolerated one another was laughable at best. He wasn’t even sure they’d tolerated him before he came out of the closet. Not to mention the disdain they showed him when he finally had.

  “Okay, what did I say this time?” Trace asked.

  “Sorry. It’s just that my parents and I don’t tolerate one another. Far from it. We haven’t spoken in years and I have no intention of doing so. I have no idea where they are living or what they’re up to. Last I spoke to them years ago they were looking for a new home and I was being disowned from the family and taken out of the will. So, when you say tolerate, I think it’s more like a love-hate relationship. We love to hate each other. It’s an amicable situation that works out best for all involved parties.”

  “Now that is harsh. I don’t think I could ever hate my mother, much less not speak to her for years.”

  “Yeah well, your mother is nothing like mine. At least not as far as I can tell. Most women have a natural nurturing characteristic which comes out when they have a child. My mother was always about herself. It was whatever was best for her. Even my father didn’t factor into most of her decisions. She is a very selfish woman and my father is no different. That’s probably why they worked so well together. Two selfish people who came from money, they were raised spoiled and unappreciative for everything they ever received. Neither of them ever really worked a hard day in their life. Their board of directors positions, just like their money, was handed down to them from their family. Long lines of aristocratic and self-absorbed pompous asses who cared more about the status quo than they did about actual humanity, much less one another. That was why my granddad meant so much to me. He had the money, and had married into it, but it mattered little to him. He invested most of it, gave to charities, and just tried to keep himself happy. He lived each day like it was his last. If that meant taking me to the lake to teach me how to fish, or driving me to an old corner store for an ice cream cone, he got what it was really all about. He knew life was too short and made sure I knew that I was important to him. Even as I sit here at thirty-four years old I can honestly tell you that I have never known a better man than him. He may not have been a superhero by today’s standards, but he was the only hero I ever needed growing up. And he was the one that I looked up to.”

  Brad stopped himself when he realized he had been babbling for a couple of minutes. “Oh man. Listen to me. You didn’t ask for all that did you? Sorry about that. I tend to vent sometimes whenever I get on the subject of my parents. I don’t talk about them too often. For obvious reasons.”

  “No. It’s okay. I’m sorry to hear all that. I didn’t know them, but they don’t sound like my type of people.”

  “Yeah well, they’re not exactly mine either,” Brad added.

  “Anyway, you were right.”

  “I was right? About what exactly?”

  “The car. You were right about what you noticed in the details. I did paint all those little spokes and put it together with extra care. I guess I sort of get into the zone when I’m tinkering on my little crafts. So, thanks for buying it. It was the first thing I ever sold. Didn’t even think they ever would. Sell that is.”

  “You should have more faith in your skills. There were some good pieces over there. Any number of people would probably buy them if they had a chance to see them, rather than having them buried in the back of the store. But, this one…well, like I
said, it brought back memories for me.”

  “Well if you two don’t start eating your meals I’m going to lose faith in my skills.” Del walked up to the table. “Although I have to admit, it is nice seeing you two getting along like this.”

  Brad smiled at her. He really did like the woman who had given him a chance and opened up her hotel to him. She was what every mother should be like, and the exactly opposite of what his mother was actually like.

  “Yeah. Maybe you were right and he’s not so bad after all,” Trace told her.

  Del clutched her heart and offered an exaggerated stagger backward. “What? Did I hear you right? Did my baby boy, Trace Jennings, just admit that he was wrong and I was right? Someone pinch me. I must be dreaming.”

  Trace held up his hand and was laughing. “All right now, let’s not get crazy. I did say you were right, but I never said I was wrong.”

  “Is there a difference?” Brad asked.

  “I’m not always right, but I’m never wrong,” Trace answered.

  Del rolled her eyes. “Typical.”

  “I like you two,” Brad said. “My family never talked like this with one another. Everything was always stiff and cold.”

  “Well, we may not always be right, as my dear son pointed out, but we always know how to laugh at ourselves. Now you two eat your dinner before it gets cold. You may be grown men, but I’ll scold you just the same.”

  Brad watched her as she winked at them both before turning away from the table. She truly was an incredibly sweet woman, the kind of mother he used to wish for as a child.

  It struck him them and he suddenly felt sad that he only had a little over one thousand dollars left for his path-finding expedition. When he set out on his cross-country journey, he had no idea of what he was looking for, but somehow he could picture himself settling down in this town for a lot longer than just a couple of days.