To the Max

by Julie Lynn Hayes

  “Mine? She’s mine?” I stare at him in amazement. “What… how?” I look back and forth from him to the pup. She is simply beautiful, and she has the most soulful eyes, large, soft brown orbs, like melted milk chocolate. I stroke the soft fur of her beautiful long silky ears in amazement that she is really mine. I’ve never had a pet of my own.

  He smiles at my confusion. “Tonight, or rather, last night, it’s morning isn’t it? Anyway, at the reception, I was talking to the mother of the bride, and I was talking about you, and one thing led to another, and I found out she raises King Charles spaniels. She’s a major breeder in the Midwest. And she was so happy with the way the wedding went and everything, that she took me back to her place and gave me this little girl just for you. She even helped me get a ticket on the next available flight, ’cause I told her I missed you, and she felt bad that we were apart.” His smile is so very radiant that I am getting lost in it. “Two tickets, I should say, Principessa rode in her carrier on the seat next to mine. The stewardesses didn’t care; the flight was almost empty. They spoiled us both the whole way.”

  Oh God, his words are so much balm to my soul. He missed me, he was talking about me, he got me a present, and he came home to me early. I am positively glowing, probably grinning like an idiot, but I don’t give a big damn.

  “She’s beautiful,” I whisper. “Her name is Principessa?”

  “Yes, don’t ask me why an English dog has an Italian name,” he laughs, “but she does. Principessa Nabuleone Desiree, in full.”

  “Did you get stuff for her? Food, brush, leash? Bed?”

  “No, my love, we’ll do that tomorrow. I just wanted to come home to you. I missed you, Max.” I lay the yawning animal on the bed, where she promptly curls up and goes to sleep, while Richard pulls me close to him and kisses me warmly. “Didja miss me?”

  “You know I did,” I reply into his lips, moaning at his touch and simply melting all over him. How can Rachel think such things about my beautiful boy? It’s obvious that he loves me, that he needs me as much as I need him.

  “Were you surprised?”

  “Yes, very surprised.” I smile at him, leaning my head against his, gazing into those gorgeous eyes. “Thank you for sending them over, we had a lovely evening.”

  “So I see,” he chuckles. “I hope they took pictures.”

  “Luckily no.”

  He pretends to pout, his hands running up and down my spine. Making me shiver again. “I think you look simply delightful. If only you were wearing lingerie… stockings… high heels….” He punctuates each item with a kiss. “My own little Frank–N-Furter,” he murmurs. “Next time we go to Rocky Horror, you should do that. Knock ’em all out.”

  “I wouldn’t set foot outside the house dressed like this,” I reply, my tongue reaching out to lick his lips. “You should, though. You’re the pretty one here. You’d look fabulous in makeup, and you do, you know you do.”

  He opens his mouth to my tongue, so I slide it in between his sexy lips, glide over his teeth, and softly run it across his tongue. Then he takes my tongue into his mouth and begins to suck on it. And for a moment we are content to stand there, exchanging saliva, not speaking a word. I maneuver him in such a way that when I glance into the mirror, he is the one that I see, not me—never me. I never tire of looking at him.

  He breaks the kiss and whispers, “I hope the girls don’t mind, but I’m keeping you here with me for the rest of the night,” as he pulls me down onto our bed. The puppy stirs, relocates herself to another part of the bed, goes back to sleep.

  He winds himself around me so tightly that we are indistinguishable, one from the other.

  “I forgot to ask, how did the wedding go?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” he says, “right now I have other things to say.”

  And his lips proceed to tell the tale, as do his hands, and every other part of him. As I listen most attentively.

  Filled with happiness to the max, and holding on for dear life to what I have.

  Chapter 19

  Getting to the Heart of the Subject

  I HOLD the portfolio in my lap as we make the trek to Webster Groves. I had wanted to bring Principessa with us, but we decide that she probably wouldn’t be up to the long journey quite yet, so she has been left with food and water and toys to last her until our return. Richard has done a very nice job; the photos are mounted in a handsome leather binder, and I can’t resist opening it to glance at its contents, the pages crackling smartly as I turn them. It’s not like I don’t look over most of his work. I do. He is a wonderful photographer with a real eye for composition. And he excels at bringing out the heart of his subjects, their emotional core. But even I realize in the back of my mind that this is something different, my motives are impure at best, and I am not simply curious, I am jealous. There is a big difference.

  Morgan’s smarmy face grins up at me, and even in the photos a disturbing quality makes itself felt, as if there is more to this boy than meets the eye, something that draws one’s attention to him in a decidedly sexual manner. He is neither heterosexual nor homosexual. He is omnisexual, and more. There’s an unnatural glow in his eyes that belies the apparent innocence of his countenance. The predatory orbs look as if they would suck you deep into his very soul—or what might pass for such a thing with him—and then trap you there forever. And it would most likely be a very painful experience. I shudder as I close the portfolio, tearing myself away from that cruel gaze.

  Richard pats the knee that is butted up against him, as if to reassure me. “You’ve no reason to be jealous of him, babe,” he says. “None at all. Didn’t I tell you he’s just a client?” I can see him watching me from the corner of his eye, even as he navigates the highway.

  “Did you tell him that?”

  He just laughs and tells me I am silly.

  Why are we going to Webster Groves, you’re surely wondering, knowing that my mother lives there, who has let me know I am not as important a part of her life as a certain sinister minister? Surprisingly she called us this morning, and I answered the phone without thinking and couldn’t exactly hang up after that. She invited us to lunch. Yes, us, as in the two of us. With Richard’s approval, I agreed to go on condition that no one else would be there (read you-know-who). We’ll see how that works out.

  When we pull into my mother’s drive, I look with some trepidation for the reverend’s overgrown Cadillac, but it isn’t there, luckily. However, I do notice that there is a strange car parked besides her Olds, some sand-colored junker I don’t recognize, slathered with a slew of bumper stickers that engulf over half of it: peace signs and marijuana leaves, that old tired one about “ass, gas, or grass, nobody rides for free,” and even a gay pride rainbow. Whose can that be? She said no one would be here. I glance at Richard, as if for reassurance, and he is frowning.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Maybe nothing.” He shrugs. “I’m not sure.” He takes the portfolio from me as we exit the car.

  We walk into the house in the most casual way. No one in the living room, so we head past the dining room directly to the back of the house. Unless I’m mistaken, that’s Bob Dylan I hear. When did my mother start listening to him again? I wonder. I guess it could be worse—like her Yanni phase. From the doorway, I can see that there is indeed someone with her, but I don’t recognize this woman from the back—long russet hair, interspersed with bright red streaks, plaited with multi-colored beads—and yet there is something strangely familiar about her.

  Beside me, I hear Richard mutter “fuck” under his breath, and I look at him questioningly. His eyes are riveted on the stranger, and he doesn’t look happy, not at all. Uneasy, is the word I might use even. I’m not used to my boy looking like this.

  Just then, my mother sees us and rises. It’s impossible for me to make out the expression on her face; she is playing it too close to the bone. The woman turns, too, and for a moment I am taken back a number of years to the fir
st and only time I ever saw her. The resemblance is still noticeable, although time has added a few grey hairs and some fine lines are visible in the tanned face I don’t remember being there before, but otherwise she is pretty much the same. She moves toward her son with her arms held open, although he makes no effort to meet her halfway. Moonsong. Who the hell knows what her last name is or ever was. I think Burke is actually a name that Richard made up.

  I shoot my mother an accusatory glare, and she knows exactly what I am saying, hastily defending herself with, “It wasn’t a lie; it was a surprise.” Sounds pretty damn lame to me, as I turn my attention back to my… what? Mother-in-law? Significant other-in-law? What is the right term for one’s live-in lover’s mother? I haven’t got a clue, and I don’t really give a damn at the moment. I wait for her to turn him loose, rather smoothly attaching myself to his hip, and he puts a grateful arm around my waist as I take the portfolio and shove it onto a nearby table. Right now that is the least of our worries.

  “Max!” She addresses me with a warm smile and before I have time to react, she has clasped us both in her embrace. I respond as well as I can without turning loose of Richard. “Long time, no see, sweetie. You’re looking very well,” she compliments me, “and I see you’ve been taking good care of my boy.” She winks at me as she speaks. She releases us finally and steps back to simply look at us together. I take it she isn’t displeased; she seems to bask for whatever reason. “What’s it been, Richard, two years already? I told you I’d turn up here eventually, didn’t I? Don’t you two look cute together? Don’t you think so, Juliet?” And she turns to my mother, who is merely standing there, an uninterested bystander, apparently, watching the accidental spectacle inside her home which just happens to accidentally feature her one and only gay son.

  Two years? Suddenly Moonsong’s words hit home, as I realize that two years ago was the last time Richard left me, and I feel as if I have just been sucker-punched, the wind knocked out of me, and I can’t help but shiver. A goose has just walked over my grave, and the worst feeling of déjà vu I have ever experienced in my life is making itself felt. For a few moments, I lose total track of the conversation, so whatever Richard’s response may have been, it is lost to me. It seems to me, and yes, I know it sounds damn superstitious, that some awful chain of events has been set into motion, one that cannot help but lead to intense heartbreak, and I am helpless to do anything about it. Feelings of dark despair overwhelm me as my mind, unbidden, travels back two years.

  I remember that summer well; it was one of the happiest of my life. Richard and I had never been so in sync with one another, so incredibly in harmony. In June we traveled to Tuscany and spent two weeks of pure bliss in a rented villa with the most beautiful view of the Arno Valley. What we could see of it from our bedroom window, that is. Or from the beautifully landscaped grounds. We made love under the Tuscan sun, picking grape leaves out of each other’s hair and from our bums. Danced together beneath the Tuscan moon to the music in our hearts. Played tag in the vineyards and never stopped saying I love you every moment of every day.

  We did take some time to explore the neighborhood, though, and found the most marvelous little café where we took our meals and sipped cappuccinos and glasses of the local wine. Where we discovered and learned to love lemoncello and ate tons of pasta of every size and shape. The owners of the cafe were a married couple about Juliet’s age; the woman was warm and earthy, told us to call her Mama Sophia. She took a liking to us—adopted us in fact—and she always gave me extra portions of whatever I ordered, as if she thought I were in danger of wasting away to nothing. I couldn’t very well explain to her about my high werewolf metabolism, so I merely thanked her and ate it, which only caused Richard to laugh and warn me that I would be plumping up, if I didn’t watch out, and become too heavy for his lap. So naturally I had to put his theory to the test by jumping directly into his lap, and he had to moan and groan as if I were killing him before I stopped him with my lips. Estate della amore!

  That summer we also made a record number of trips to the river and were almost caught in flagrante delicto by some passing canoeists on a float trip, too entangled in what we were doing to take proper notice of our surroundings. But at the last moment, I heard the sound of an oar dipping into the water, and we were able to wrap the blanket about us in such a way as to preserve proprieties and waved cheerily to the group of young people in their vessels until they were past us and well out of sight, at which point we collapsed together in tears of laughter at our near faux pas.

  And on one very memorable weekend, my lover surprised me with an impromptu visit to New York, for a special Greek exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art—which just happens to be one of my favorite places to go in the city—and we were also able to squeeze in a visit to the Percy Grainger library in White Plains, which is on Long Island, and lunch with the archivist, the very affable and knowledgeable Stewart Manville. Yes, that was indeed a summer of incredible bliss… until the day that I awoke, shortly after our return from New York, to find him gone.

  Again.

  This time the separation only lasted a month. Naturally it seemed longer to me. And nary a word of explanation on his return. He walked into the house one day as I sat at my desk, typing up my column. Do you think that I yelled at him, quizzed him, beat him with the proverbial hose until he confessed? Made him explain his disappearance? Made him crawl like a worm, abasing himself before me until I relented and accepted his sincere apology for having been the cause of such great mental anguish and suffering on my part? If you think this, then you haven’t learned anything about me thus far. Of course I didn’t. With a strangled cry, I rose from my chair and threw myself into his arms, and we can all guess how that ended up: naked and sweaty in our bed. ’Nuff said.

  Luckily no one is taking any notice of me as I make an attempt to throw off this dark mood. But I am struck by a sudden question. “You came here looking for us? We haven’t lived here in over twenty years,” I begin. A sudden pressure on my hand stops me from spilling out our current address.

  “This was the last address I had,” Moonsong replies, “so this is where I came. My boy likes to be closemouthed sometimes, don’t you, Richard?” Her smile is so eerily like Richard’s, and yet different, in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. “I’m glad, anyway, ’cause it gave me the chance to meet Juliet, Max, and for us to become better acquainted. It’s about time. We’re practically in-laws anyway, aren’t we?”

  I see my mother flinch, and at that moment I hate her for it. But she does a quick recovery and manages to half-joke, “Something like that, I think. Would you like a drink?” She addresses us directly for the first time since we walked into the house. “I have some wine in the fridge, or I can mix something?”

  “I’ll get it,” I offer tensely, deciding to expend my energy in motion. Not giving her time to respond, I swish out of the room, my lover still attached. But instead of poking my head into the refrigerator, I lean against it, looking at him, not saying a word.

  “What?” he asks, trying to fathom my expression.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you saw your mother two years ago?”

  He shrugs, almost casual in an elegant sort of way, which only Richard can achieve. “Wasn’t important,” he says, “just happened to run into her, no big deal.” He kisses my cheek softly. “Don’t let it bother you, Max, and don’t let her get to you.”

  “Get to me? What do you mean?” I would have thought the warning should have been about my mother, not his.

  Instead of replying, he opens the fridge behind me, peering in as best he can. “I see some Zinfandel, want that?”

  “Sure,” I say, stepping out of the way so he can grab the bottle. I’m still not satisfied, but this is neither the time nor the place to discuss anything in depth. I want to trust him—I really do—but at times it is just difficult. And Morgan Arthur isn’t making anything easier, only adding fuel to the smoldering flames.

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nbsp; “Grab some glasses, baby?” he says, pulling the cork from the bottle as he speaks. I do, and he pours out some of the pale liquid into each, setting the bottle back into its place. When I would return to our mothers, he stops me, twining his arm through mine first, and bringing the glass to his lovely lips. “To you,” he says sweetly, “to my precious Max,” and he drinks to me, his eyes locked on mine.

  “And to my one and only love,” I return, sipping from my own. For a moment, nothing is said; then he moves toward me, our lips meeting in the middle, and we are momentarily suspended in time until it is broken by the sound of Moonsong’s voice. “Richard, quit molesting that boy and get back in here!”

  “Permission to continue molesting at #1 Lupercalia Lane?” he asks. “At Mr. Montague’s convenience, of course….”

  I smirk. “Permission granted, Mr. Burke, at any time when the two parties shall consent to be present at the same time.”

  “How about right after lunch?” He brushes his lips softly over mine, setting me atingle. “Or as soon as we can get out of here.”

  “It’s a date.” I nuzzle his lips in return.

  When we return to the family room, the two women have Richard’s portfolio in their hands and are turning the pages, oooing and ahhing over little Mr. Prissy, which only makes me scowl as they go on and on about him, his pretty face, his nice body… ye gods, it’s nauseating. “I think the photography was very well done,” I remind them, and I am rewarded with a kiss and a smile for my words.

  “Yes, of course.” Moonsong grins at us. “Not that you’re prejudiced or anything.”

  “Before I forget, I have a little news for you regarding Morgan.” My mother slides in smoothly. “Why don’t you two sit down?”

  Richard claims the nearest chair, and before I can make a move, he pulls me down onto his lap, his arms around my waist. “What’s the news, Juliet?”