by Jane Davitt
Nick was looking down at the sand now, watching as grains of it shifted in the light winds. “What if I said yes? Yes, I’d want you to walk away. Let them call you every name in the book, let them think whatever they want about us. I’d rather that than have that,” he nodded in Michael’s direction, “happen to you.” He lifted his eyes to John’s, wary, looking for all the world as if he were a dog waiting to be kicked.
“And if I had no choice?” John hated that he couldn’t just give Nick what he wanted and promise to walk away. “Nick, love, if someone hit you I’d be tearing them apart before they had a chance to do it a second time, and if they hit me I can’t see me turning the other cheek” He studied Nick’s apprehensive face and sighed. “It’s been years since I got in a fight. Years. And I can take care of myself. It’s really not something you should be worrying about.” He didn’t even look around to see if anyone was watching before reaching out and hugging Nick to him. “Come here, will you? God, don’t look like that. It’s not going to happen.”
Nick’s arms gripped him tightly. Each time they embraced, John was surprised by the strength in Nick’s form, although he supposed he ought not to have been, considering how many years Nick had been living the way he had. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.” Nick’s breath was moist against John’s neck. “I won’t ask for anything else.”
“I can do that.” John felt relieved. “What, do you think I want to end up in that state? With my face so sore you wouldn’t be able to kiss me?” He shook his head. “God, maybe I will walk away ...”
“I just don’t want anything to happen to you.” Nick pulled back so they could look at each other. “I’d wait another year to touch you if I had to, but I don’t want to have to wait at all. I want you all the time.”
Nick’s words ‑‑ and the look in his eyes as he said them ‑‑ made John feel a glow of pleasure that he was sure was reflected in his face as he smiled at him. “It’s the same way I feel about you, so you won’t find me arguing with that.” He kissed Nick, tasting the salt on his lips, and made an effort to step back before he did more than just brush his lips over Nick’s. “We should get these fish in your fridge, or better yet under the grill.”
“Wouldn’t that require the kind of thing that might tempt the grill to explode?” Nick held his hand out reluctantly for the bag of fish and gestured at the car door, where John’s keys were hanging from the lock.
John slid into the driver’s seat and smiled across at Nick as he got in. “Tell you what,” he said kindly. “We’ll have sushi instead.”
Chapter Eighteen
“He’s not here,” Nick said again. It was the third time since they’d finished eating, and the fifth since they’d been back at the house. John didn’t even have to finish asking the question at this point before Nick was answering him. “It’s okay.” Nick patted John’s shoulder and took the dish cloth out of his hands, hanging it up on a hook on the side of the refrigerator. “I know this is a big deal. I’ll say if I hear or see anything, okay?”
John nodded sheepishly. He couldn’t help being on edge, waiting.
“We could go sit in the other room?” Nick suggested. “Or take a walk?” He seemed remarkably relaxed about the whole thing.
“I’d sooner stay in the house. Do you think ‑‑ is there any way that you can, well, call him?” Vague memories of a dozen horror films rose up and John swallowed. “Or maybe that’s not such a good idea.” He gave Nick an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be trying to do your job for you. So do you think it’ll be here in the kitchen again? Or anywhere in the house as long as it’s where you are?”
“I’m starting to think it’s your mother he needs help with.” Nick came closer and pulled John into his arms, holding him firmly, one hand running up and down his back, and John sighed and leaned into the embrace. “He’s had plenty of opportunities to come back, I think. Maybe it’s an energy thing. Sometimes they need a certain person’s energy, or a particular place, but there’s no reason to think it’s here and nowhere else. He seemed pretty ... determined.”
“My mother?” John gave that some consideration as he relaxed into the warmth of Nick’s arms, resting his head against his shoulder gratefully. “They seemed to be happy, but I suppose ... well, you never know, do you? There might have been something I didn’t know about going on.” He felt doubtful though. Anne and Fergus had been quietly, deeply content, and it’d shown. He lifted his head and met Nick’s eyes, frowning as he followed a thought to its logical conclusion. “Do you mean we can’t sort this out without my mother being there?”
“Maybe not. It’s hard to know for sure.” Nick sounded a bit frustrated, which John thought must come with the territory. He probably spent a fair amount of his time not knowing for sure what it was the ghosts wanted. “Or we could go to her. If you think she’d let us in.”
John hugged him and then stepped back. Holding Nick wasn’t making thinking easy. Not when just turning his head would bring his mouth dragging gently over Nick’s neck, making him give that little shiver ... “Aye, she will. She knows the neighbors will be watching, and it wouldn’t be Christian to turn her son from the door.”
“He still might not show up,” Nick warned, even as he turned to pick up his jacket from the back of the chair it was draped over. “And like you said, maybe it wasn’t even your dad.”
“I need to see her anyway.” John was wondering if he wanted it to be his father or not. The thought of seeing him again ‑‑ was that horrifying or tempting? He couldn’t decide. “I can’t leave it the way it is, and she’s had time to think it over, maybe.”
He glanced around the kitchen, wishing they could stay here, getting to know each other. It hadn’t even been a full week yet ‑‑
Nick was watching him, his eyes sympathetic. John sighed and opened the door. “She’s got a dog. A yappy wee thing called Hector. Don’t try and make friends with him; if he doesn’t take to you, he’ll bite you, and if he does, he’ll likely pee on the carpet.”
“I’ll try to ignore him,” Nick promised as they went outside and John shut the door behind them. “I’m not really a dog person anyway.” He took a shuddering breath, suddenly looking apprehensive. “This isn’t going to be fun.”
“I can’t imagine how it could be.” They got into the car and John started it up, waiting for Nick to get his seatbelt on before putting it into gear.
They drove to his mother’s house without talking, the soft, muffled crunch of stones under the tires as they pulled into the driveway breaking their silence. “Don’t worry,” Nick said. “It’ll be okay.”
John looked across at him. “Will you promise me something? Will you promise not to listen if she tells you that you’ve ruined my life and it’d be better if you left, or anything like that? Because I can tell you now, it’s not true.” He sighed. “I hope to God that she doesn’t, though. You don’t want to see me bruised, and I’m the same way about you getting hurt.” He leaned across and kissed Nick, feeling what was becoming a familiar ache of love and longing just from the briefest of touches. “Right, then, let’s ‑‑” He broke off, recognizing the car parked in front of the house. “Oh, well, that’s going to make it easy.”
“What?”
John got out of the car and strode towards the front door. “It’s the minister come to call,” he flung back over his shoulder at Nick. “Aye, he’s a fine one when the ladies need comforting, is Mr. Sinclair.”
He reached the door and hesitated. Normally, he’d have just walked in, but now ‑‑ oh, the hell with it, he thought and opened the door.
His mother and Andrew Sinclair were sitting side-by-side on the couch, an open Bible on Sinclair’s lap and an earnest, anxious expression on his face.
“Hello, Mother.” John gave the minister a curt nod. “Mr. Sinclair.” Nick came in behind him and John smiled. “And you’ve both met Nick of course.”
“I hope you both realize that there’s no place in heave
n for men who practice the sorts of things you do.” Mr. Sinclair started to stand up but was pulled back down by Anne’s clutching grip on his hand. “I thought better of you, Kelley. If your uncle had known the kind of man he was bringing to the island, he’d have burned his house down sooner than see you live in it.”
“My uncle knew I was gay. My mother told him, a long time ago, so I’ll have to disagree with you there.” Nick seemed to be taking the accusation more coolly than John would have expected. “And if I believed in God ‑‑ which I don’t ‑‑ I don’t think I’d believe that he’d be all that concerned with what responsible adults do in the privacy of their bedrooms.”
“You’d be wrong!” John’s mother said. “You are wrong. This isn’t acceptable, what you’re doing.”
“I don’t recall asking you to accept it.” John’s gaze traveled from the minister to his mother. “Either of you. It’s none of your damn business. It’s also not what I came here for.” He looked at Sinclair. “I don’t know what you were doing before I got here, but I’m thinking you weren’t reminding my mother of what a good son I’ve been to her all these years and how much I love her.” His gaze went back to his mother’s face and he saw that she’d been crying. “No, of course you weren’t, or she wouldn’t be looking like this. Mam, I’m sorry. Not for loving Nick, not ever for that, but for letting you think something about me that wasn’t true. I’ll ask your forgiveness for that, if nothing else.”
“I can’t give you anything if you persist in sinning.” Anne’s voice cracked. “I’d sooner see you dead than see you with him, and that’s the truth.”
“No, it isn’t.” John refused to let her words hurt him. “You know it isn’t.”
She met his gaze defiantly and then bit her lip, glancing down. “I just wanted you to be happy,” she whispered. “Just wanted you to be ‑‑”
“Normal?” John asked dryly. He shook his head, losing patience with the discussion. “Och, it doesn’t matter. All the talking in the world won’t change me, and like I said, I didn’t really come here to see you.” He glared at the minister. “And I really didn’t want to see you, you sanctimonious piece of ‑‑”
“John!”
His mother’s voice and Nick’s rang out at the same time, and he turned to see Nick staring at the corner of the room.
“I’ll be asking you to leave now,” John said to Sinclair, moving to Nick’s side and stretching out his hand. “This is family business.”
“This is your mother’s house,” Sinclair said, and Nick’s hand tightened painfully on John’s. Sinclair’s face hardened with disapproval as his gaze fell to their linked hands. “Let go of him!”
John decided to appeal to his mother instead of the minister. “Mam, you know what I told you about Nick. What he can do.” John was trying to avoid saying it in so many words in front of Sinclair, if he could.
“Aye. One more reason why he shouldn’t be a part of your life.” Anne nodded firmly, as if saying that would make it happen. Sinclair stood up and she glanced at him appealingly. “Please, Mr. Sinclair. If we maybe pray for them ‑‑?”
“They’re godless and depraved. What would be the point?”
Nick shook his head. “No point.” He sounded distracted. “John ‑‑”
“Oh, the hell with it ‑‑” John muttered. He stepped closer to Nick and slid his hand behind Nick’s head, turning him and kissing him hard.
It wasn’t easy to sustain the kiss, not when his mother gave a shocked gasp, not when he was certain his father’s ghost was watching, but he prolonged it, trusting Nick to understand and cooperate, until Sinclair backed away, fumbling for the door handle.
“I’ll not stay and watch this,” he declared. “It’s disgusting, and you should be ashamed of yourself, so you should.”
John broke the kiss and looked over Nick’s shoulder at Sinclair, whose thin lips were curved in a tight, angry line. “Will you get out, man? Before I forget that you’re a man of God and put you out myself?”
“Aye.” Sinclair’s head was bobbing with agitation as he nodded. “Aye, I’ll go sooner than watch your lewdness ‑‑”
The door slammed behind him a moment later, and John turned his attention to Nick, who was breathing quickly, nostrils flaring, eyes closed. “He says ... he says there’s a pair of earrings. Under his pillow.” Nick spoke almost flatly, as if he were trying to relay the information with as little emotion as possible. “The ones he bought you on your honeymoon. You keep them there to remember him.”
Anne stood up in shock, fingers pressed to her lips. “How do you know that?” she demanded, glaring at Nick, who opened his eyes in time to see her expression.
“He told me,” Nick said. “Fergus. That was your dad’s name, wasn’t it?” he asked John.
“I didn’t ever tell you, not that I recall, but yes, it was.” John hadn’t been able to bring himself to turn to the corner when Sinclair had been there, and now he’d gone he still couldn’t. What was Nick seeing? What would he see if he looked?
“You may have my son fooled, Mr. Kelley, but you can’t fool me.” Anne raised her chin defiantly.
“What do you think I did?” Nick snapped, rounding on her with a fury John hadn’t expected, and which he had to admit he didn’t like seeing directed at his mother, even though under the circumstances she deserved it. “Do you think I went up to your bedroom and looked for something to convince you with?” He was trembling. “What? Oh, back to your bedroom.”
“Aye.” Anne still looked wary. “Aye ... the bedroom’s in the back.”
John closed his eyes and felt something, he wasn’t sure what, flow between himself and Nick. Some strength, some comfort. He opened his eyes and turned his head.
His father stood watching him, with a faint smile on his face, dressed as he’d been on the day he’d put out to sea with his brother for a few hours fishing. The injury that had ended his life hadn’t carried over into death; he looked as John remembered him, his brown hair showing some gray, his thin, browned cheeks creased as much by smiling as sixty years of living, hazy and indistinct but with memory and love making him real.
“Dad. Oh God, Dad ‑‑”
The blow from his mother’s hand as it whipped up and struck his cheek drew blood as her wedding ring cut his lip open.
“You dare! You dare! In his house and on the Sabbath! Get out. Take your, your ‑‑ him and get out!”
John tasted the warm salt of his own blood and stared aghast at his mother, white-faced with fury, tears streaming down her face.
“He’s there, Mother. He is. I wouldn’t lie to you about that. You know I wouldn’t. Take my hand. Please. It’s you he wants; he only comes when you and Nick are both there. He wants something, and he can’t rest until ‑‑ Will you not just take my hand?”
He stopped, his chest heaving as he caught his breath, the pleading words tumbling out in a frantic rush as he held out his hand to her.
“Please? Mam, please?”
Anne didn’t move, staring at him.
“He says you need to believe he’s here,” Nick whispered in the quiet, the ticking of the clock the loudest sound in the room. “No, I know. Wait. What? There’s ... he says there was a scare before you were married. That you thought you were pregnant. That no one else knew.”
Nodding, John’s mother’s lips twitched in something close to a smile, slowly. “No one. I never told ...” Her hand reached out and took John’s still outstretched one and held on, her fingers rough and strong. “I can’t see him. Is he really here?”
“He is,” Nick said. “You can’t see him?”
She shook her head mutely, her eyes wide and holding a mixture of apprehension and hope.
“It’s not my hand you need to be holding,” John told her. “It’s his.”
Anne turned to look at Nick again and he held out his hand at once. Without speaking, and moving with a reluctance that John wasn’t quite sure how to interpret, she took Nick’s hand, linkin
g them in a circle.
“Now, Mam? Now can you see him?” John asked urgently, watching his father’s ghost move to stand beside Nick, in front of her. “He’s right there, he’s ‑‑”
“Hush.” Anne’s voice was breaking, her face twisting with grief and longing. “I can see him. Oh, Fergus, love, oh God ...”
Nick was shaking, and there were tears in his eyes; John wasn’t sure why. Was it physically painful for him to connect with the ghosts? He’d have to ask. “He says he loves you,” Nick said. “He says he always will.”
John’s mother nodded, the desperation in her hand mirroring the desperation in Nick’s as they each clutched at John. “Aye, love. I know. Why ... why can’t I hear him? Why can’t I hear you, love?”
“It takes a lot of strength to materialize like this. It’s probably ...” Fergus’s image, thin and wisp-like to begin with, wavered and faded, leaving nothing. Anne made a small sound of dismay, but Nick shook his head. “It’s okay. He’s not gone, he’s just ...”
The sound of his Da’s voice filled John’s head, so familiar and missed that his throat swelled up with unshed tears.
Couldn’t rest until you knew that I was all right, Fergus said. And until I knew you were. Needed to know that you were happy.
“I miss you. So much,” Anne said softly.
Startled, John glanced at his mother, realizing that she’d heard him, too; that the message was for her, not him, although in many ways it applied to them both. You’ve got years left, love. Years to live and be happy with someone else. You’re not to mourn me any longer.
“As if I could ever look at another man!” Anne’s voice strengthened with indignation. John eyed her curiously. There was something, some undertone of guilt there, and Anne was blushing.
Fergus laughed quietly, the sound bringing a sudden sting of tears to John’s eyes. He’d not forgotten it, but he’d never thought to hear that amused, soft chuckle again. Did you have your eyes closed when you were kissing Carson, then? Love, he’s a good man. He’ll take care of you. Don’t worry about it.
