by G. S. Wiley
“Sorry,” Dylan said, as if he’d read Paul’s mind. “But I can’t stick around. There’s a basketball tournament tomorrow. I need to be there.”
“Right. Sure, that’s okay.” Paul cracked open the water and drank, savoring the coolness on his parched throat. “My flight leaves tomorrow, anyway.”
“So soon?”
“I have to get back. For work.” Saying it reminded Paul that he hadn’t been in touch with Cleo all day. He hadn’t even checked his phone for messages.
“Okay.” Dylan smiled a little, then bent over to take his pants from the floor. “Come on, I’ll take you back to the city.”
It was dark already, stars peppering the sky with a brilliance Paul hadn’t seen since the night of their high school graduation. As Paul and Dylan drew nearer to Regina, the stars disappeared gradually, consumed by the lights of the city.
Dylan pulled the car up in front of the hotel. He looked over but didn’t say anything.
“Thanks for the ride,” Paul said, then winced at the banal sound of it.
“I could…,” Dylan began, then stopped. He licked his lips, his complexion yellowed by the bright lights above the hotel’s door. “I mean, Emma’s staying at a friend’s tonight.” For a long moment, Paul didn’t have the faintest idea who Emma was. The memory that it was Dylan’s dog came crashing back just as Dylan went on, “I could stay over with you tonight if you want. Just until the morning, though,” he added. “I really have to get to this tournament.”
Paul nodded. “Okay.”
“Yeah?” Dylan grinned, like he’d been expecting Paul to turn him down.
“Yeah,” Paul repeated. A smile crept onto his face, as if Dylan’s were contagious. “Why not?” There were a lot of answers to that question.
Thankfully, Dylan didn’t offer any of them. Instead, he drove back onto the street and circled into the hotel’s parking lot.
THE LAST time he had been in Saskatchewan, Paul couldn’t wait to escape. Now, lying on the hotel bed while Dylan dressed, he didn’t want to leave.
“I need to stop by my place before the tournament,” Dylan said, lacing up his running shoes. “You sure you don’t want me to drop you at the airport?”
Paul shook his head. “My flight’s not until this afternoon.” Regina airport security was rumored to be the slowest on the planet, but he didn’t need to get there that early.
“Okay.”
They stood, neither speaking, for a long moment. They’d fucked again, in the dark hours of the morning, but most of the night had been spent talking about the twenty years they’d been apart, and the eighteen years before that they’d been together without ever really knowing each other.
“We should keep in touch.” Even as Paul said it, he didn’t know if it was a good idea. What was the point? He couldn’t imagine Dylan ever moving to Toronto, and they were both too old for any kind of long-distance relationship.
Still, Dylan said, “That’d be great,” and Paul was comforted, a little, to know he at least wasn’t alone in his madness.
Dylan leaned over. Paul kissed him, once, not allowing either of them to linger longer than an extended peck. He pulled away, then threw back the covers. “Good luck with the match. Game. Whatever.” He padded across the carpet to the bathroom. As he turned on the shower, he heard Dylan come in behind him. He stood near the doorway, his gaze catching Paul’s in the mirror.
“I’m really glad you came back, Paul. Even if it was only for a little while.”
“Yeah.” Paul had never thought he’d hear himself say it, but he couldn’t deny it. “So am I.”
After Dylan left, Paul treated himself to a room-service breakfast that cost about as much as his last art show had brought in, although, despite Cleo’s emoji-laden text message to that effect, he didn’t think of it as “eating his feelings.” When he’d finished, he called an Uber. This time, when they passed in front of the little art gallery, it was open. Hiking his bag up on his shoulder, Paul got out of the car and went inside.
Inside, the gallery was more spacious than the narrow storefront suggested. As well as the Aboriginal art that had first caught his eye, a collection of European-style artwork hung on the walls. All of it had a distinct Saskatchewan theme, from artistically photographed grain elevators to impressionistic paintings of wheat fields to portraits of women in embroidered Ukrainian dresses, red flowers in their hair.
“Hello?” Paul called. There was no answer. He wandered around slowly, taking in the prices, which were much lower than he’d ask in Toronto, and the square footage, which was much higher than he’d ever be able to afford, even outside Toronto’s downtown core. A small spiral staircase leading up to a loft overlooking the main shop. He couldn’t see much, but it seemed like a larger space than the little office into which he and Cleo were currently crammed. Despite himself, he pictured laying out the space with his desk and his computer, his Ed Ruscha posters on the walls and Cleo’s novelty coffee mugs, all dirty, piled on the sagging shelves.
“Hello?” As Paul looked up, a head poked over the loft’s railing. “I’ll be right there.” The figure clattered down the staircase and came to stand, a tad breathlessly, in front of Paul. It was a woman with brown hair and glasses. Although he knew he’d seen her somewhere, Paul couldn’t think where that might have been until she said, “Hello, I’m Lorna,” in a surprised tone, as if she was amazed anyone was here at all.
“Don’t you work at the balloon shop?”
“Yes. Ah, yes. I do.” She blinked owlishly behind her glasses. “They’re both my businesses. Well, they’re my family’s businesses.”
Paul knew he shouldn’t do it. It was a pointless, ridiculous gesture. He knew nothing about this place, not even whether it was as successful as his gallery in Toronto, but still, he reached into his inside pocket and produced a little white business card.
“Paul Thompson, of the Thompson Gallery in Toronto. Keep us in mind if you ever think of selling. We might be interested in acquiring a western location.”
“I’m thinking of selling,” Lorna replied, so quickly that Paul blinked in surprise. “You can buy the balloon shop too, if you want. I hate both of them. My sisters want them to stay in the family, but if they want to do that, they can work themselves. How much are you offering?”
“I… well, I would, ah, I’d have to consult my partner.” And he knew exactly how Cleo would respond to the idea. “I’ll keep it in mind.” Fleeing would be unprofessional. Instead, he walked as briskly as humanly possible to the door. He felt Lorna’s gaze on him the whole way.
HE DIDN’T mention it to Cleo. After an initial flurry of teasing about “the gym teacher,” and a lengthy discussion about his grandmother’s secret son, he didn’t talk much about his trip at all. He thought about it more than he should, though, when he and Cleo were bumping elbows in the cramped office, when he was on a date with a boring Bay Street banker, and most especially when he was alone at night, in his apartment above a city that never stopped.
Paul and Dylan did keep in touch, for a while. Dylan emailed him an article from the Regina Leader Post about his girls’ team winning the city basketball tournament, and Paul sent back his congratulations. Paul texted another message of congratulations to Dylan when, while riding on the subway one day, he noticed a newspaper claiming the Saskatchewan Roughriders had made it into the Grey Cup, and he texted him a message of condolence when they lost to the Toronto Argonauts. It was more contact than Paul had kept with any of his one-night stands, but he didn’t know how long it could last, seeing as they were so far apart.
In early December, Dylan’s mother suffered a stroke and was hospitalized in Regina. Paul didn’t hear from him much after that.
The Polish collage artist’s exhibition debuted just before Christmas. Paul and Cleo planned a lavish champagne reception for the opening, only for the artist to tell them, at the last minute, that such “Western decadence” was inappropriate for his work.
“I will b
reak my contract,” he threatened, spittle flying from his lips and landing on the lapels of Paul’s jacket. “I will set my artwork free!”
“Let him, then,” Cleo declared, once Sergiusz Przybyszewski had stormed from the gallery. She crushed a Starbucks cup in one finely manicured hand, then tossed it into the recycling bin. “Jesus Christ, I’m so tired of dealing with these jumped-up pseudo professionals.”
“We’ve invited the critics,” Paul reminded her. He decided not to mention that she was the one who’d pushed for them to show Przybyszewski’s work in the first place. “We have to give them something.”
Cleo screamed, a sound that echoed through the thankfully empty gallery, but she couldn’t argue. Instead, they served circles of Polish sausage on toothpicks and tap water decanted into bottles. It didn’t matter. Paul knew the exhibition was destined to be panned anyway. At least this way, they saved money.
And they needed it. “You look like Bob fucking Cratchit,” Cleo told him, as she came into the office late on the afternoon on Christmas Eve. Paul straightened up from where he’d been hunched over the Macbook, but he didn’t laugh. She passed him a coffee—Second Cup rather than Starbucks, he noticed, although the price savings there were negligible—and said, “Unless something changes drastically, we’re going to be bankrupt by this time next year.”
Paul sighed, sipped his too-hot coffee, and pulled the trigger. “I have an idea for a drastic change.”
Cleo didn’t immediately run away screaming.
Paul took that as a good sign. Good enough that, after he’d described the gallery in Regina, he went on, “The biggest advantage we’d have is hardly any competition. The Aboriginal art is fantastic. The rest is good, but it’s pedestrian. I’m sure we could find some really innovative artists, stuff the community hasn’t seen before. Even Karsten would be a breath of fresh air….”
“And would there be a market for that fresh air, Paul?”
A few months ago, Paul would have said no. Now, he said: “There’s a market for sushi. And local wine.”
Cleo sighed. “I don’t know. I….”
A voice came from the doorway. “Excuse me?”
Paul and Cleo turned around together. Dylan stood on the threshold, a bag over his shoulder and snow on his worn-out running shoes. His face broke into a grin. “Paul! Thank God for that. I was worried I got off at the wrong stop. That subway map is something else, I tell you….”
“I don’t think we’ve met.” Cleo held out a hand. Her nails were red and green today, striped festively with a little diamante snowman on each thumb.
Dylan shook her hand without blinking. “Dylan Shevchenko,” he said.
Cleo hooted with glee. “The gym teacher!”
“Yeah, that’s me.” Dylan turned to Paul. “Sorry for dropping in unannounced. I didn’t know whether I’d be able to come out. My mom’s been in and out of hospital. I didn’t want to make plans with you unless I knew I could keep them.”
“It’s fine.” Paul felt like he’d been punched, in the best possible way. “Great.” He smiled. “It’s really great.”
Dylan reached out, wrapping one big hand around Paul’s forearm.
As Paul leaned in for a hug, Cleo said, “Before I leave you two alone, tell us, Dylan. What would you think about Paul and me buying a gallery in Regina?”
“It’s just an idea,” Paul broke in quickly, staring daggers at Cleo. He loved her like a sister, had for years, but there were moments when he didn’t particularly like her. “Not even an idea, really. Just a thought, something we were throwing around….”
Dylan didn’t hesitate. “It would be amazing. We need a good gallery.”
“Hm.” Cleo nodded. “And you think the city would support something like that?”
“I would. Definitely,” Dylan said, looking at Paul so intently, Paul’s stomach turned over. He blamed the Second Cup coffee. “I would do everything I can to make sure it succeeds.”
“We both appreciate that,” Cleo went on. The smirk on her face told Paul she knew what Dylan was saying; her crossed arms told him she wasn’t willing to let go of the pertinent point just yet. “But moving our business would be a massive undertaking. There are a lot of issues to consider, a lot of problems to iron out….”
Paul didn’t take his eyes off Dylan. He felt like a teenager, but he couldn’t help himself. “Batman wouldn’t be afraid,” he said, without thinking about it. He felt himself blush, afterward, but Dylan just smiled.
Cleo blinked. “What the fuck are you talking about, Paul?”
Paul didn’t explain. He didn’t have to.
WINTER LASTED a long time in Saskatchewan. Paul had forgotten that. He’d forgotten, as well, how absolutely frigid minus twelve degrees Celsius could feel in March. He pulled down the sleeves of his sweater as he stood at the Thompson and Wu Gallery window, looking out at the fat, heavy flakes falling outside.
“We should have put the grand opening off until April,” he said. “I knew we should have put it off.”
“And if we did that,” Cleo said, coming to stand beside him, “it would be another month without any possible hope of income. You might be happy living off your boyfriend, but some of us….” Cleo trailed off as Dylan appeared around the corner. Paul’s sister, Kim, was with him, as expected, as were Paul’s Uncle John, and Minnie. The soapstone piece he’d first admired, of the Inuit hunter with the spear, had been done by John. When Lorna told him that, as he and Cleo toured the gallery before making an offer, it had seemed like fate.
“Who are all those people?” Cleo asked, sounding surprised. Behind John and Minnie came Big and Little Gary, and Darrel-with-one-L, and Jenny from the Liddon Lookout—a wave of humanity wrapped in coats and mittens, snaking its way down the snow-covered street.
“That,” Paul replied, “is Liddon, Saskatchewan.”
“Hi, sweetheart,” Dylan greeted Paul as he opened the door. His face was reddened with cold beneath his tuque, but, as always, he wore running shoes on his feet.
“Mom’s with Nana,” Kim added. “Daisy’s going to see if she can park the van anywhere near, otherwise they’ll drop her off on the street and then go park it.” She looked up at Cleo, standing with admirable solidity on her eight-inch heels. They moved back as people Paul had never seen before squeezed in behind them.
Cleo looked down at her. “Can I take your coat?” she offered, holding out a bedazzled hand.
After half an hour, they ran out of local ice wine and hors d’oeuvres. Dylan offered to go to the grocery store down the street to get more. Paul saw him off. As he was about to approach Little Gary, who was examining a print of Karsten’s “Daybreak and Day Lilies” with hopefully serious interest, Paul’s grandmother stepped into his path.
Nana clung to Minnie’s arm. They were both short women, but Nana seemed even shorter than usual, hunched over in a bright red sweater and dark slacks. “It’s fine,” she barked out, before Paul could say anything. “Not my cup of tea, most of it, and you know I don’t hold with Germans, but it’s better than what used to be here.” She glanced over. Cleo had noticed Little Gary’s interest in the print and was standing beside him, pointing out the picture’s finer points while he stared, enraptured. “And if you can get Little Gary to hang something other than a girlie calendar on his wall, then you can count yourself a success.”
Paul knew his grandmother well enough to know what she was saying. “Dyakuyu, Babusya.”
“You missed out on your chance with the boy at the Gas and Go, though. He’s gone. They’ve got some hard-faced old bitch in there now.”
“You did warn me.”
“Yes.” She nodded, righteously. “I did. Minnie, take me over there. I want to look at John’s sculpture again.”
When Dylan returned, he and Paul went up to the mezzanine office to uncork the wine. “It’s going well,” Dylan said, a hopeful tone to his voice. “Do you think….”
“We’ll do fine.” There was no choice. Paul had ch
osen to rent rather than sell his Toronto condo, at least for now, but he had no plans to return. That gallery was sold, and he had no other reason to go back.
“I know that.”
Dylan set the bottle down on the desk. This time, when he stepped into Paul’s personal space, Paul was expecting it. And when Dylan leaned forward, Paul returned his kiss, wrapping his arms around Dylan’s neck.
“Welcome home,” Dylan murmured when Paul pulled away.
Paul had never thought he’d say the words, but now, with the entirety of his town downstairs and Dylan in his arms, they seemed to actually be true. “It’s good to be back.”
More from G.S. Wiley
Lieutenant Robert Pierce of the Royal Navy was raised in the shadow of his father, a great admiral, and has spent his life on the high seas fighting the ships of Napoleon Bonaparte. When he loses a leg in battle and is confined to land, Robert is devastated. Taken in by his sister Maria, Robert faces the infamously cold, wet summer of 1816 trying to adjust to his new life. It’s made all the gloomier by his worry for his best friend and lover, Lieutenant John Burgess, who is still at sea… until a visitor brings a bright ray of sunshine into Robert’s overcast life.
G.S. WILEY is pleased to return to the Dreamspinner Press family. She loves her family, romantic fiction and learning about science (not always in that order) and considers no day complete without a large glass of iced tea. She lives in Canada.
Twitter: @gswiley
By G.S. Wiley
Wheat Kings and Pretty Things
The Year Without Summer
Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
