by Anne Brooke
“True,” Johnny chipped in, much to my relief. “But don’t forget this is a social visit to get to know Liam’s parents, not a raid on the local lowlife.”
After another tense moment, Mark nodded. “A good reminder, thank you. In that case, I think we should do as Liam suggests. I assume everyone is in agreement?”
He gazed around the room: a lion assuring his pride was all in order after a slight ruckus. We’d all reckoned without my father, however, who leaned forward in his chair so he was almost nose-to-nose with Mark.
“It seems to me, Mr. Delaney,” my father said, “that Liam has learnt some kind of diplomacy in your company. A fact I’m grateful for. So for that reason, I agree to your request and my son’s compromise. At the same time, I would like to remind you my wife and I are still in charge here. It is, after all, our house.”
At this point, I began to wonder how quickly I could whip my mobile out of my pocket and ring the police in the case of blood—any blood—being spilled.
Once again, however, Mark proved himself full of surprises. He half-closed his eyes and gave a slow smile, which was almost, but not quite, non-threatening.
“Of course,” he murmured. “An Irishman’s home is his castle. That seems more than reasonable, just as long as you don’t forget that outside it, I’m in charge.”
* * *
I was never likely to forget Mark was in charge, that was certain. Equally certain was the fact my father had received the message loud and clear as well, though not at all in the way I understood it. At the dining room table, Mark sat down first and gestured for me to sit next to him with Johnny opposite. My parents took either end as they always did with the right number of guests.
In all honesty, I was astonished Mark hadn’t gone for the head of table position and made Johnny sit at the other end. With my mother, father and me placed in the middle, it would have been a Delaney sandwich of the sort I didn’t want to contemplate. My father’s dining chair was more than sacrosanct, but then again that was artists for you. A peculiar breed.
Maybe Johnny had secretly given his brother a gentle reminder of visiting etiquette before we’d set off tonight. This must have been the first social call they’d paid for a long time that didn’t include threats, crime, injury or death. I hoped.
“Liam!”
The sound of my mother’s voice made me jump almost as much as a Delaney command, but not quite. I wasn’t nine years old any more—at least not outside my head, although whenever I visited my parents, that nine-year-old boy wasn’t too far away.
“Yes?” I looked up, making sure I was wearing my most innocent expression.
My mother sighed and raised her eyes to the ceiling, though she couldn’t quite hide the curve of her smile. “Sorry, I’ve not believed that look for years, and it never worked with your father either. Were you listening at all or too much in your own head to pay any attention to your poor old mother?”
She’d never been a “poor old mother” in any sense of the phrase, and I was just about to launch into a round of banter when I glanced over at Johnny and saw he was glaring at me and leaning across the table. And if that was the case with him, I didn’t even dare imagine what Mark was thinking. Hell, I certainly didn’t dare look.
“Liam,” Johnny hissed out as if we were the only two people in the room and he had no idea we were being overheard, “she’s your mother.”
I blinked. “Yes, sir, I know.”
“In that case,” he continued, “you should pay her the respect she’s owed and listen to her. Mark and I would be nothing without our mother.”
Some of their reputation also relied on what they’d done to their father, but even I realized now wasn’t the time to mention it. “Yes, sir; sorry, sir.”
My father made a small choking noise. It sounded like he was trying to swallow down an attack of laughter, but I ignored him. Knowing that the first lesson I’d ever learnt from the Delaneys was how to apologize in style, I turned to my mother and showed the twins exactly what I could do.
“I’m so sorry for not listening to you,” I said, taking her hand and grasping it as though only she were standing between me and the great abyss. Which maybe she was, when I came to think of it. “I’ll make absolutely sure it doesn’t happen again, and I hope you’ll be kind enough to repeat whatever it was you said.”
I wasn’t entirely surprised when my mother began to laugh. “I always thought the gift of the blarney had missed you out,” she said, “but I see the Delaneys have skills even I haven’t appreciated before.”
Yes, indeed they did, and I hoped with everything crossed that could possibly be crossed she’d never see any more of it for herself.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I’d appreciate your help in the kitchen, if you wouldn’t mind. Which was what I was trying to tell you before. Come on.”
With that, she released her hand from my clutches and sashayed her way toward the door. Having received the nod from Mark, I scrambled in her wake. When we got there, the kitchen was a sauna of steam and delicious scents.
“Oh good, lamb stew,” I said. “My favorite. And Mark’s too, I think.”
She gave me a sly look. “I thought you might need to keep your strength up. I can’t imagine the Delaneys aren’t energetic, to say the least. From what I’ve seen.”
I’m sure mothers of every age and type always possess the power to stun their offspring into silence, and my mother was no exception. I could feel my blush rising as I tried, foolishly, to offer some sort of explanation for the scene involving the twins in my bedroom she’d only recently stumbled across.
She raised her hand and, accustomed to instant obedience with the Delaneys, I fell silent. At this she gave me another amused stare.
“The change suits you,” she said. “You were always a child who argued too much when told what to do. The Delaneys are sure to go up in my estimation as a result. Really, you should be over all this nonsense about being embarrassed by sex. Haven’t your father and I brought you up to be open about these things?”
Yes, that was true. Both of my parents always tended to err on the side of risk and had never let very much be secret in our family life. It must be because they were artistic, or at least that’s what a friend of mine had offered as an explanation during a particularly humiliating moment in my later teenage years. I’d seen no reason not to accept the truth of it, though I’d never got over the shame of having my mother announce to said friend that he’d do better not to ring on a Sunday morning, as she and my father always enjoyed having sex then.
Ah, the memory made me cringe even now. It probably explained why I grew up being such a strait-laced lad.
Meanwhile, my mother chuckled, presumably at the look on my face, and began setting plates out across the work surface. “I’ll serve it out in here. There’s a vegetarian option, but it’s not to be recommended, so I’m hoping the Delaneys are both meat-eaters?”
I nodded. Indeed they were, in more ways than one. My mother looked at me and laughed again, so my face, as well as the rising color of my skin, must have highlighted the thoughts in my head.
“Oh, to be young again,” she said. “Though your father and I don’t do too badly, considering, even in spite of our advancing years.”
“Too much information, Mother,” I said, pressing my hands over my ears to avoid another earth-shattering revelation.
She pretended to cuff me and then we got down to business—draining vegetables, adding last minute salt to the stew and making sure the bread was warm on the inside, too. Never let it be said I wasn’t domesticated if given direct instructions or relying on habit. There, the Delaneys definitely had something to thank my mother for.
We’d just grabbed a plate for the bread when my mother lobbed another conversational bomb into the mix, and not quite from the direction I was expecting either.
“Were you happy about the way you left your art behind?” she asked quietly, all the time gazing at the bread and not at me. “I don’t
wish to interfere, no matter what you think, but Johnny raised it when we spoke a few days ago, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
I licked my lips and swallowed. I risked a glance in her direction, but she was still studiously not looking at me, so I took my time putting the bread plate down before attempting an answer.
When I opened my mouth, it was with the intention of saying something light and fluffy, something that would enable us to skate over the entire subject for the whole of this evening. But I couldn’t do that, could I? Not any more. First of all, the twins were here and they’d both be able to see through any blagging I might do, Mark especially.
“I don’t know,” I said at last. “It was a relief to let the painting go when I did. You know how much and how long Dad and I argued about it. I wanted to be like him, even though I knew I couldn’t be. Now, the twins seem to want me to look into it again, and Melissa doesn’t seem totally against it either. I think they might raise the subject tonight. The Delaneys, I mean, not Melissa. She’s not the sort to interfere and, besides, she’s not here, is she?”
My mother squeezed my arm, obviously deciding to ignore how much of an idiot I sounded. “That’s because she’s not involved with you, like the Delaneys are. It makes a difference.”
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
There it was—the admission to my mother that being with the Delaneys wasn’t just a game, but was, in fact, more devastatingly serious than I’d ever imagined it could be.
“Does it matter to you?” I went on, blabbing for Britain, as ever. “That you’ve got a son who wants to settle down with two men instead of one, like every other gay son does, and they’re well-known criminals rather than the sensible young man with a steady job I’m sure you’d rather I was with? It’s a bit of a shock for me, too, but how are you coping with it all, Mum?”
In answer, she just laughed and gave me a quick hug. “First of all, I’m married to a temperamental artist, so I wouldn’t know anything about sensible young men with steady jobs. And secondly, I hope we brought you up to be liberal minded, so I’ve no issues with the fact you suddenly seem to have taken us up on it. If it works for you all and isn’t hurting anyone else, what’s the problem?”
I hugged her back. “Thanks, Mum. Sometimes you’re not as terrifying as I always think you are.”
I felt rather than heard her chuckle. “That’s alright to say between the two of us, but please don’t ruin my credibility outside these four walls. Oh, and Liam?”
“Yes?”
“What you said about your father. It’s alright to be different from him. After all, he’s straight.”
Fair enough, I thought, though, as I followed my mother as she left the kitchen with the steaming plates and a bright smile, I couldn’t help thinking my father might not quite have the same ideas about my brave new lifestyle that she did.
In the dining room, all was chaos. As she pushed through the door, my mother came to an abrupt halt, and I collided against her, managing by a combination of luck and sheer genius only to lose two or three slices of the bread and a mere nothing of the stew.
Over her shoulder, I saw my father pacing up and down at the far end of the room. He was muttering words I couldn’t hear and gesticulating wildly. Next to him, Johnny was attempting to match his pace and calm him down, whilst Mark sat astride his chair and watched their tableau carefully. One false move from my father against Mark’s beloved twin might well bring the wrath of the Delaneys down on all our heads.
It was pretty obvious their research hadn’t extended to my father’s artistic frenzies. My mother and I were far more used to it, so did what we usually did under these circumstances. My mother tip-tapped her way smartly to the dining table, deposited her armful of plates and smiled ’round at the room.
“Good to see you’re all getting on in here,” she trilled. “Anyone for more wine?”
At the same time, I sidestepped my way past my father and gently eased Johnny out of harm’s way.
“He’s always like this,” I whispered close enough to Johnny’s delectable ear that he could hear me above my father’s low, ranting rumble. “I think it’s something they put in the paint. Has he been to the studio while we were in the kitchen?”
Johnny nodded. “To tidy up, as you suggested. He was like this when he came back and then, when Mark and I started chatting, he got worse.”
“If he touches Johnny or you,” Mark interrupted with a snarl, “then I’m sorry, Liam, but I can’t answer for the consequences. Just what the hell is going on?”
“Language!” my mother said, raising her eyebrows and giving the elder twin the kind of stare that would normally shatter glass at forty paces. “There’s never any need for it, and certainly not in our house. My husband is simply having an idea about his next picture, that’s all. What did you say to him anyway?”
Mark stood, still keeping one watchful eye on my father, and frowned at my mother. “I’m sorry about the swearing, Mrs. O’Connell. We were talking about his art and talent, and the kind of talent Liam might have, too.”
My eyes widened at that, until Johnny leaned over and said, “Artistic talent, Liam, that’s all.”
Thank heavens. If they’d been discussing the ins and…ah…outs of my abilities to somehow keep two demanding men entertained in bed, then my father might well have been in the middle of a heart attack and in need of rather more sustenance than another glass of wine.
“Aha!” said my mother, as she slid elegantly into her seat at the opposite end from my father’s pacing. “You brought up Liam and art and put them into the same sentence. No wonder there’s trouble. Mind you, I’m pleased it’s helping Richard have another idea. He’s been rather quiet on that front lately.”
Meanwhile, I’d had enough. If I was going to cause any trouble, I wanted it to be with the twins—where at least I received a pretty damn hot kind of punishment for it—and not with my parents. They were likely to spend the rest of their lives attempting to explain my love life to their friends anyway, so needed all the help they could get right now.
“Dad,” I said, stepping away from Johnny and directly into the line of fire, “I know whatever idea it is you’ve got is important but, please, just this once, can it wait until later?”
I didn’t think I had a hope in the proverbial hell of making my father listen to me, as he was usually in a world of his own at this point. So I was surprised when, still in mid-pace and rant, he grabbed my wrists and glared at me.
“Yes, that’s exactly it,” he said. “If you were a real artist, then you’d understand that nothing—absolutely nothing—comes between you and the idea you have. That’s what you’ve never really understood, have you?”
As I stared at him, unable to think up any kind of response, Mark jumped up, presumably in defense of my honor, but was subtly and suitably restrained by Johnny from carrying out any threats or promises. Just as suddenly, my father let me go and sighed. Thank God, as I wasn’t convinced Johnny would ever be able to stop his brother carrying out whatever he’d decided on, under any circumstances.
I was right, too.
“I came here to meet Liam’s parents,” Mark said, his voice silencing my thoughts so I could concentrate entirely on him. “And to talk about art. Whatever else happens, therefore, that is what I intend to do. Mr. O’Connell, like you, I’m a very focused man. When I think of a good business deal or a way to improve the Delaneys’ standing in the region, then I begin to put it into practice at once. However, when my brother and I are entertaining, which doesn’t happen often, we make sure we put our guests first. Don’t we, Liam?”
“Yes, sir, you do.” I could certainly vouch for that, in all sorts of ways.
Mark nodded his approval at my agreement, a gesture that sent an instant zing to my cock. I hoped nobody else noticed.
“Very commendable,” my father replied, coming to an abrupt halt before catching Mark’s gaze and holding it. “I apologize for my appalling la
ck of manners. On the other hand, I very rarely terminally dispose of my guests, or indeed my relatives, after the last coffees are poured and the conversation done. So, I suppose you could say we’re quits.”
Johnny and I both gasped, but Mark said nothing. For a long moment, he continued to stare at my father, weighing him in the balance. My father stared back, undaunted. It was like two alpha tigers each assessing the other to see which of them might win the battle. Just as I thought either Mark would make his move or I would, if only I knew what it might be, he threw back his head and gave a snort of laughter. A second or so later and my father followed suit.
“Touché indeed,” Mark said. “I can see where Liam gets his chutzpah from. I think I will have that glass of wine, Mrs. O’Connell. Perhaps we all will.”
We all did. Mark leant forward and clicked his glass against my father’s, and both men smiled. Johnny followed suit. I simply gulped half my wine in one swallow and I think my mother did the same. She’d always been the best of us at holding her drink.
“If we can all eat dinner together,” she said, “Richard can note some of his ideas down, so the moment isn’t lost entirely.”
“Good idea,” Johnny agreed. “Mark and I like to write our ideas down, too, but we make sure to destroy them later. It’s safer that way.”
While my father made a series of scribbles and wild strokes of the pencil into his scrapbook, we ate lamb stew and talked about innocuous subjects, like the weather and the state of the economy. Both were always bad, whichever way you looked at it, but that was part of the deal if you lived in the UK. Halfway through a discussion about how Britain might be saved from debt by the export of umbrellas and Macintoshes, as long as we exported our weather as well, I felt Mark’s fingers slide along my leg.
He started at my knee, and I swallowed a gasp, all but choking on my mouthful. My mother gave me a curious glance, and I took another gulp of the wine.
“Gristle,” I said when I could speak again. Which was true after a fashion as I now had a definite boner down below.
“Nonsense!” my mother shot back. “There is no gristle ever at this table. You’re simply not chewing properly.”
