Slow Dances Under an Orange Moon (Colors of Love Book 4)

by V. L. Locey

  “Who else in this pondside community has a garden other than me? You’re not too swift are you? Told you playing hockey would make your brain pudding. Brain pudding. I had that once over in England during the war.”

  “Dunny, you were never in England during the war. You were a Sea Bee in the South Pacific. That’s where you got malaria, remember?”

  “Oh, right. Hated that malaria shit but loved the pretty women on them islands,” he mumbled, his hand working the screwdriver but the screw wasn’t moving. “You ever find a wife?”

  “No, no wife. Can I screw that in for you?” I held out my hand for the screwdriver. He glowered at my palm and kept screwing. My eyes rolled to the crusty ceiling. Ugh, the cobwebs had cobwebs. I could see why the state was talking nursing home unless someone stepped in. That someone was me. Mom and Dad were unable to leave Florida, and there was no one else. Dunny’s brother had died. His in-laws were all as old as he was, and his nieces and nephews could not care less. “So, hey, I’m going to be staying in the barn and helping out around here for the next few months.”

  “The barn is where Rose had her studio,” he stated flatly.

  “Yep, I know. I’m going to be there.”

  “Don’t touch none of her stuff,” he said, gaze lifting from the potato bug paratrooper device to me. “I mean it.” He shook the screwdriver at me. I crossed my heart. He harrumphed and went back to work on the drone.

  “Right, so, I’m going to get my bags and carry them into her studio. I’ll be back, and we’ll head into town for something for dinner.”

  “Fish sticks and stewed tomatoes.”

  “Sure, fish sticks it is.” I stood, patted his thin shoulder, and was struck by how bony and frail he really was. My last memory of Dunny was of a robust man with hair as red as mine, working this small farm with a saucy whistle and a quick hug for his favorite grandson. Twenty years had changed him. As it had changed us all.

  As I made my way to the Tesla parked next to Dunny’s old Ford Fairlane, I had to wonder how many other less-than-favorable changes I’d find in my old hometown.

  Chapter Two

  It didn’t take long to find one thing that had remained unchanged and several that had changed big time. Rose’s small studio barn was exactly as I remembered it. The oil paintings on the barnboard walls, the easel by the huge glass door that looked down at the pond, the soft braided rug that covered the floor, the pink drapes, the smell of turpentine. Everything, just as it had been. It was clean too. Immaculately so. Every damn thing was spotless. No dust anywhere, the windows were sparkly, the air a little stuffy but scented softly with something floral.

  “This is too fucking much,” I whispered, carrying my bag into the small bedroom off the main room. This had always been a guest room for Rose’s sister, Peony, when she visited. It was frilly, with pink and white bedding and lacy sheers on the skinny window over the bed. The nightstand and dresser were clean, no dust anywhere. I tossed my bags to the bed, folded my arms over my Pittsburgh Panthers T-shirt, and cocked an eyebrow. “If there are ghosts in this studio who are into cleaning, may I please suggest you go haunt the main house?”

  A soft wind blew the wind chimes that hung on the tiny porch but no spooky sounds or otherworldly offers of maid service was heard. Pity. A spectral housekeeper would rock.

  I slogged back to the house, gathered Dunny, made him wash his face and pull on a clean shirt, and then we began the long walk to the car. Any time I would try to take him by the elbow because holy fuggers the man was tipsy, he’d jerk away and call me a dipshit or threaten to bean me with his cane.

  “What the fuck is this?” He paused to catch his breath by the vehicles.

  I yanked open the passenger door of my car. “It’s a Tesla. It’s an American made electric car,” I boasted because I was proud to be doing my part to reduce my carbon foot—

  “Electric car? What’s wrong with a regular car?”

  “They’re poisoning the planet for one thing.”

  “Bullshit. Let’s take my Fairlane.”

  “No, we’re not taking that car. Its inspection sticker ran out four years ago.”

  “It did?”

  A small sadness crept into my heart. “Yep, it did.” We got him lowered into the Tesla, buckled in, and tucked his cane in the back within reach. Why he wanted the knobby wooden cane so close in the car who could say.

  “You sure this isn’t a Japanese car?” Dunny poked at the dash with a bent finger.

  “It’s American.” I cranked the engine over and made a tight U-turn, taking care not to get off the gravel. I’d hate to drive on the lawn and rut it up.

  “Looks Japanese. I don’t drive Japanese cars. I fought them in the war,” Dunny said and settled in to look out the window. “Did you see the new sluice pipe the county put in down by the runoff where you and that Dave boy played all the time?”

  “Nope, I must have missed it.” I eased back out onto the road. “Do you see Davy around much?”

  “Not sure. He’s in the army, I think. I saw him in his uniform.”

  “No, he’s a game warden,” I gently corrected. Dunny’s bushy silver eyebrows knotted up. “Wildlife conservation officer.”

  “I know what it means. Thought only women were WACs. Guess the gays are in everything now…”

  “No, Dunny, not…you know what, yeah, the gays are in everything. They’re everywhere. Glitter and rainbows as far as the eye can see!” I threw a hand around. Dunny gave me an odd look. “What?”

  “Just figured you’d be behind the gays since you and Dave were so close.”

  “Dunny, I love the gays, trust me on this one.”

  “You sure act like a brasher is all,” he mumbled.

  I began to snigger despite myself. “Basher, Dunny, not brasher.”

  “Eh, don’t give me your shit. My dentures add letters to my words.” He sniffed then launched into a long ramble about caterpillars and stray cats pissing on his tires.

  By the time we were seated at the bar, which happened to have a nice kitchen, Dunny had slipped into nap mode. The waiter/barkeep brought me a beer and Dunny a coke with no ice. He smiled at me as if he knew me and then held out his hand.

  “Kirk White, we played on the same team.”

  “Holy shit, yeah! I remember you. You had more hair and less gut,” I teased, slapping my hand into Kirk’s. He snorted and pumped my hand several times. “You own this place now?”

  “Yeah, bought it from Angus Walker about five years ago.”

  I smiled up at him, surprised to see how much older he looked. Guess a man can see age on others before he sees it on himself. Either that or I was just ignoring the crow’s feet and silver hairs among the ginger ones. We chatted for a few then he ambled off to fix our fish stick and stewed tomato dinners. Kirk certainly had changed. He was heavier, twice divorced, and had long ago given up on the dream of hockey. Knocking up Belinda Trucker at eighteen had pretty much sealed his fate. He’d never left this town after the first of four kids spread over two wives had arrived. He would die in this town never knowing that there was a world out there to be experienced. A life to lead. Fame and fortune and friends and fans to be enjoyed. I’d gotten free of that small town trap by running away as quickly as I could, never looking back.

  The door opened and in walked two men, both in tan uniforms with dark green hats. My glass of Coors froze just four inches from my lower lip. The man on the right was some blond Justin Bieber sort of pop star pretty boy. The man on the left was Davy Aguirre. Holy mother of a happy baby Jesus. Davy had aged really well. Still lean but taller, wider across the shoulders, he carried off that tan shirt and trouser look perfectly. His gun holster rode low on his hips and his green ball cap with the game commission seal sat comfortably on a bed of neatly cut black hair. I took a sip of beer just to wet my lips and throat. His forearms were bared and tan and muscled with a fine dusting of dark hair. He and his fellow warden took a corner table. I peeked around the high wooden ba
ck of the booth Dunny and I were in.

  Davy and Pretty Guy were laughing over something as Davy removed his ball cap and ran his fingers through his hair. Were they dating? Man, I hoped not. That would fuck the hell out of my plans to rekindle with Davy and—

  “What are you looking at?”

  I startled, beer slopping out of my glass and coating my fingers as I whirled around to glare at Dunny.

  “Nothing, I’m looking at the time on the clock is all.”

  The old man looked skeptical, but he bought it. Our food came quickly, which was a blessing as it kept Dunny from asking questions and me from sneaking peeks at Davy and his maybe date. I heard the door opening as we were finishing up but refused to look to see who was coming or going. When we were given the tab, I slid out of the booth, stretched to work out that persistent kink in my lower back, and gave the bar a sly once-over. The table where Davy and the pretty boy had been was empty. While it sucked to have been so close and not speak to him, I’d bump into him soon and hopefully, he’d be alone. I could chat him up much better if he weren’t on a date with someone. Not that young model game warden dude had anything on me because I am far from being some wet-behind the ears pup. Kye McLeod was still in playing form. I am a lean, mean, romance seeking machine.

  I snapped out of my revelry when Dunny shouted goodbye and shuffled out the front door. Kirk chuckled as I threw thirty bucks and the bill on the bar and raced off after my grandfather before he stumbled out into traffic. Of course given the fact that a mid-day rush was five cars waiting at the lone red light, Dunny ambling out into the road wasn’t as terrifying as it would be if we were anywhere other than this dinky little town. Just another thing that had remained unchanged.

  One thing on that ever-growing list of things that stayed the same was my evening routine while here at Dunny’s. More or less. When I’d been a gangly kid, I’d come sit here on Grandma Rose’s small back porch and wait in the dark for Davy to jog around the pond after dinner. Our age determined what things we’d find to do in the dark to entertain us. When we were eight, it was catching lightning bugs in Rose’s old Mason jars. When we were thirteen creeping into the woods to sneak cigarettes and talk about hockey or animal sciences was the thing to do. When we were seventeen, it was lying down by the pond on the darkest summer nights and making out. Oh, to be seventeen again…

  Now I was seated on a lawn chair, reliving those old days, sipping a Coors, and wishing I had a dog. Or a cat. Or a frigging parrot. Something to keep me company when the memories and regrets grew to be deafening. I stared across the pond, with my sight locked on the Aguirre house. Was Davy there now? Was he there helping with dinner? Was his sister still living around here? How were his parents? What about their beagle Maxwell? Was he part of the family yet? Doubtful. It had been over twenty years. That realization made a dark bloom of sadness unfurl in my chest. Good old Max. He’d shared everything with us. The bug years, the hockey/animal rights obsession years, the discovering that we were two gays in a big old sea of straights years. Max had never told anyone about our nights camping by the pond, hidden away inside Dunny’s old tent, reading old science fiction books or sipping stolen whiskey or exploring each other’s bodies. Max kept our secrets and took them to his grave. Man I did not want to end up like Max, my chest filled with secrets as they tossed dirt over my casket.

  “Sweet tender baby J.” I sighed then scrubbed my face with my hand. “You’re slipping into being morose, Kye.”

  Dog. Needed one. Stat. The moon was lying lazily in the night sky, one perfect half orb, all whitish-yellow. Brown bats streaked back and forth over the water, eating their body weight in mosquitoes. Tiny frogs serenaded me, filling the night with song of unrequited love. My gaze slid from the moon to the Aguirre house again. I could just walk over and knock on the back door as I’d done a million times. I mean, since when did Kye McLeod hide on his grandma’s back porch? Hell, I’d knocked the biggest and maddest players in the NHL to their asses nightly. Nothing and no one intimidated me. So, why then was I ass-plastered to this stupid chair?

  “The wolf doesn’t wait for the elk to come to him, he tracks the elk,” I muttered, reciting some pep talk line from my college coach. Coaches were big on talking about wolves and being a predatory alpha male. Which, you know, sounded good and macho, but then you find out there really is no such thing as an alpha wolf and so you’ve been spoon-fed a bunch of bullshit and how are you supposed to act now that they debunked the notion of a supreme pack leader who claimed his spot by being the nastiest, manliest, most aggressive male in the group?

  I sighed, and my ass stayed in that chair until both cheeks were numb and my beer was long gone. With no answers in sight and two legs covered with bug bites. Note to self: build and hang bat houses stat. I went to bed after taking a quick shower and dotting my legs with calamine lotion. The sounds of the country were quite different than the noises of Pittsburgh, where I’d moved when I’d been called up to the pros about eighteen years ago. Where, if I were being honest, I now considered home. My house in Fox Chapel was waiting for me to get this thing with Dunny under control until my father could travel up here to make the call.

  The clean sheets crinkled under me when I rolled to my side. Frog’s songs lulled me to sleep, carrying me back to my youth, to one of many nights when Davy and I had set up that stupid tent that reeked of mouse piss beside the pond. We’d been so wound up in each other, in the knowledge that we were different yet the same. That summer, our last summer before senior year, had been all about discovery. It had been a summer of late-night swims, sticky skin, breathless laughter, and hot kisses. Kisses that led to touches, touches that led to strokes, strokes that led to shuddering ecstasy as fireflies danced and barred owls called. Nothing is impossible at seventeen. The world lay open like a giant buffet of possibilities. Seventeen is bulletproof. Seventeen is Superman with no kryptonite. Seventeen is fast cars, raging hormones, loud music, and instant infatuation. Seventeen is fucking amazing.

  I woke up with a raging hard-on that took forever to go away. As badly as I wanted to jerk off I knew that if I started tugging one off every time I skipped down memory lane, I’d be pulling on my peter nonstop over the next few months. Every street corner or bird song held a memory. I tossed the bedding aside, took another shower to wash off the clamminess, avoided my throbbing dick the best that I could while still washing, and got dressed. My towel served as a comb. The bath was small, just a corner shower that I had to stand at an angle in to avoid cracking my elbows, a sink, and a toilet. Everything was pink and white. Rose really loved her pink, no denying that.

  Dressing was cargo shorts, an oversized Pittsburgh Zoo tank top with a happy penguin on the front, and my old sandals. I stepped out onto the back porch after the coffee was done perking and took a moment to find the Zen. The tiny kitchenette was going to be handy. Just a small fridge and a tiny two burner stove with a small sink wedged between the two appliances, but it was enough. I didn’t cook much anyway, but I did require copious amounts of coffee to get my motor running. It wasn’t an instant start as it had been back at seventeen.

  I didn’t have to search too hard or too long for that Zen. Morning sun bounced off the pond. Red-winged blackbirds sat atop the cattails, their o-ka-lee song rising above the mist lying low on the water’s surface. A pair of wood ducks landed on the water, startling me. My phone lay beside the coffee pot, and I knew if I moved the ducks would spook, so I opted to skip taking a picture. This moment would be just for me. Kind of like that gauzy dream last night.

  After two cups I walked up the slight incline from the studio to the house. Dunny was awake, eating toast with jam, in his underwear. Well, at least he was partially dressed and eating food. Couldn’t fault a man for slouching around in his BVDs. I did it all the time back home.

  “Morning, Dunny,” I called as I made my way to the sink and gave the mountain of dirty dishes a disgruntled look. “I’m going to buy you a dishwasher.”

 
“Don’t need one of them things. Makes no sense to wash the dishes then put them in the dishwasher. Might as well just wash them once,” he replied around his toast.

  “That might be a point if you actually washed the dishes. Since you don’t the point is moot, and we’re buying a dishwasher. I’m also going into town this morning to pick up some home improvement basics. Like paint, cleaning supplies, new curtains.” I began ticking things off my mental list while moving the crusty plates from the sink to the countertop.

  “Don’t you touch them drapes! Rose bought them because they had pink flowers on them,” Dunny barked from behind me.

  “Dunny, they’re brown from age and cooking grease. They’re going.”

  I plugged the sink and cranked on the hot water. A crust of toast bounced off my shoulder and fell into the clean water. Rolling my head, I shot the old bugger at the table a dark look. He flipped me off. That kind of amused me. Chuckling softly, I fished the crust out, chucked it to the overflowing trash, and added a squirt of lemon soap.

  “This is why I didn’t let your father come visit. Always telling me what to do, just like that Dolores woman who comes around. I think she killed her husband during the last eclipse.”

  I stopped scrubbing a dish to turn and stare at his scrawny back. “Dun, that’s a Stephen King book.”

  “Nope,” he insisted waving his jammy fingers around. “Her name is Dolores. Says she’s from the Agency on Aging but I know better.”

  Knowing it was probably pointless to argue, I shrugged and returned to washing dishes. Forty minutes later, I was standing beside the Fairlane, writing down the supplies I’d need. The phone inside rang, the bell set to its loudest setting. Pen and tablet in hand, I jogged back inside to pick it up since Dunny was in the bathtub.

  “McLeod residence,” I said after grabbing the landline receiver off the wall.

  “Oh, Mr. Kye, is that you?”

  “Uhm yes, who is this?”