The Wish (19 page)

“Dinner?” Alex choked, nearly laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. Here he was, sneaking out of the house like a rebellious teenager, and Bernard wanted to serve him dinner. Anyway, where was William? Wasn’t Bernard supposed to be retiring? William wouldn’t have stopped him. More than likely, he’d have offered to pull the car around or help pack. He’d also have done it without asking a single question. Actually, he’d have done it without saying a word, period. Alex sighed.

As inconvenient as the interruption was, Alex preferred dealing with Bernard over William. There was something to be said for employees bold enough to intervene if they thought it necessary.

“Martha gave Theresa the day off,” Bernard explained. “She made manicotti, remembering your fondness for her Italian cooking.” His voice dropped, as though fearful the nearly deaf woman might hear him. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint her after she’s gone to so much trouble, would you?” Piercing gray eyes peered over the top of Bernard’s bifocals, daring Alex to decline.

What could he say? Alex sighed and placed his bags on the floor. “No, I suppose not.” Besides, he remembered Martha’s ill temper if she “slaved all day over a hot stove” and the resident males didn’t worship her properly for her sacrifice. He didn’t envy Theresa having to fill Martha’s shoes.

Bernard’s beaming smile grew nearly frightening. “Very good, sir. I’ll take these bags back up to your room while you freshen up. You can join Mr. Sinclair in the dining room.”

The mention of Paul’s name nearly made Alex change his mind. He’d done Paul Sinclair a great disservice and owed him a tremendous apology, more than the feeble attempt at the hospital. How could he ever make amends for the harsh things he’d implied and said? At the very least, enjoying a nice Italian dinner and some light conversation before he left for his hotel wouldn’t hurt. The table was wide. If he remained on his side, everything should be fine.

“Leave the suitcases, Bernard. I’ll get them later,” he said, knowing words were useless. The bags wouldn’t be there after dinner. Bernard never allowed anything to remain out of place for more than the few minutes it took to tidy up. When Alex returned to his room later, every item would be in its rightful place and the suitcases banished to a closet, forcing him to repack—or not. He had little doubt that Bernard, now on alert, would bar any other attempts to leave. Time to admit defeat. “Fine, but get Isaac or William to help you.”

“Are you quite sure? I don’t mind.”

Alex employed the considerable Anderson charm, much as he’d observed his uncle do over the years, to persuade Bernard without belittling his abilities or pointing out that the man was getting far too old to carry heavy baggage up a flight of stairs. “It’s not like Uncle Alfred needs them both right now. Let the men earn their keep.”

Bernard barely hid a gleeful smirk. “Very good, sir.” He ambled off to the back of the house with a jaunty spring in his step. Was he whistling? Alex couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head in disbelief at having been so easily manipulated.

Returning to his room, he exchanged his club wear for comfortable slacks and a loose, lightweight sweater, then followed his nose to the dining room. The most glorious aroma rose from a large silver chafing dish on the table, and his stomach loudly grumbled its approval. Paul was already there, as he’d expected from Bernard’s comment, leaning against the unlit hearth with a glass of wine in hand, staring at the pictures above the mantle with a wistful expression. “Good evening, Paul,” Alex greeted him, determined to behave like a gentleman.

Paul jumped, eyes warily seeking the nearest exit. Alex sighed. Though they’d made remarkable progress recently, apparently he still had a long way to go to win Paul’s trust.

Recovering his composure, Paul pointed to a bottle resting on the end of the table. “Would you care for some wine before dinner?”

“That would be nice.” Damn, what a sight! Simply dressed in tight jeans and a black T-shirt, Paul wore a pair of worn loafers on his otherwise bare feet. His hair, still damp from a recent shower and sleeked back in a thick mass, had darkened to a soft black. The shirt clung to Paul’s well-defined chest, and Alex fought the urge to run his hands beneath the thin material.

“Martha outdid herself tonight,” Paul boasted. “I’ve always loved her Italian cooking, and I think you’ll find the wine goes quite well with the meal.” He poured another glass from the nearly full bottle and crossed the dining room to hand the goblet to Alex.

Paul hid his awkwardness admirably, and if Alex hadn’t known what to look for, he might have missed the signs himself. Over the past few weeks, Alex had noticed Paul worrying his lower lip with his teeth when nervous, like now, and whereas Alex once would have taken advantage, he no longer wanted to make the man uncomfortable, especially not here in what was to be their shared home.

“Thanks.” Alex accepted the glass and sniffed appreciatively before taking a tentative sip of the lightly tinged beverage, the semisweet wine rolling slowly over his tongue. “This is extraordinary,” he exclaimed. “Your choice?”

Paul nodded. “It’s my favorite domestic.”

“A local winery?”

“Nah, Rhode Island, believe it or not. A friend of mine sent a case for my birthday, and I’ve been ordering from them ever since.”

The garden-variety boy next door knew wines, did he? Byron had been renowned for his discerning palate when it came to fine vintages, despite a humble upbringing. Maybe he’d passed some knowledge to his nephew. “Well, you have excellent taste,” Alex admitted, once again giving credit where it was due. “What say we see how well
your favorite domestic
goes with manicotti?”

Though Paul tensed and appeared ready to run, he gamely replied, “I thought you’d never ask. I’m starving.”

Once they were seated, Martha bustled into the room, muttering absentmindedly to herself. For as long as Alex could remember, she’d served their plates personally, an unnecessary gesture, in his opinion. He bit his tongue and remained silent, having learned not to argue with her skewed logic. Better to go ahead and agree with whatever she said or did and get it over with. She’d win eventually, anyway.

“Evenin’, boys,” she rasped, voice rough from too many years of cigarettes. Alex detested the things, blaming them for his mother’s untimely death. Unfortunately, he’d never been able to convince the formidable Martha of the error of her ways, and though she reeked of her favorite vice, he didn’t pull away when she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him soundly on the cheek.

“Good evening, Martha,” Paul and Alex replied in unison.

The true master, or rather, mistress, of the Anderson abode rounded the table to kiss and hug Paul before uncovering the fragrant dishes and serving their plates.

“Mmm… it smells wonderful. Tell me, Martha, what’s the special occasion?” Paul asked.

“Mr. Anderson told me you boys liked my manicotti and asked me if I’d fix it tonight.” No matter how many years she’d worked for Alfred, she still insisted on calling him “Mr. Anderson” and often reprimanded Bernard for referring to their employer by his first name in her presence.

Kissing and hugging her employers was acceptable in her world, as was rapping a knuckle with a wooden spoon if proper manners weren’t observed by the younger members of the household. However, calling them by their given names amounted to a taboo in her book, a concept thoroughly confusing to Alex. He chose not to comment, merely smiling at her playful teasing. “I always do what I’m told to do… except when I don’t.” She chortled at her own joke.

Ignoring her behavior, as they’d all learned to do, Paul asked, “That’s pretty thoughtful of him, but why would he ask when he couldn’t be here to enjoy it too?”

“Beats me,” the housekeeper said. “He asks, I say ‘yes, sir!’” Even Alex, a seldom visitor, knew her claim to obedience to be stretching the facts a bit. Alfred loved Martha’s cooking and she had reminded Byron of his Great-aunt Lucille, so the household either politely ignored her little quirks or quietly accepted her eccentricities for their entertainment value.

After she’d filled their plates, Martha stepped back from the table, wiping her hands on her apron. “Is there anything else I can be gettin’ ya before I leave ya to your meals?”

“No, Martha, that will be all.” Alex smirked, noticing the wooden spoon peeking from the pocket of her apron. Some things never changed. Beneath the table he rubbed knuckles that still recalled the punishment for hands straying onto the bread platter without waiting to be properly served, though it’d been a good fifteen years since he’d last been reminded.

A sidelong glance caught Paul rubbing his own knuckles, and Alex bit his cheek to keep from laughing. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who’d occasionally forgotten his manners.

The moment the woman’s ample body disappeared through the kitchen door, the chandelier dimmed and then went out entirely, plunging the room into darkness. Before he had a chance to react, Alex heard retreating footsteps and, a moment later, the strike of a match. A brief flare highlighted Paul’s features as he lit a candle.

The hall door opened and Bernard stepped in, flashlight in hand. “Forgive me, sirs, it seems there’s an isolated power outage. I sent Isaac out to the fuse box to correct the problem. Would you like me to move your meals into the kitchen? It wasn’t affected.”

It didn’t escape Alex’s attention that Bernard arrived a split second after the lights went out. The butler must have been waiting outside the door until the proper moment. Keeping his observations to himself, Alex waited to see how the obviously staged scene played out.

Paul held the candle in one hand while shielding the flame with the other, slowly working his way around the room, igniting wicks, until the soft glow of a dozen tapers washed the walls in warm light. The flickering glow created an interesting play of shadows and light over Paul’s features, painting auburn highlights across his damp hair. A captivated Alex murmured, “No, Bernard, that’s all right. Evidently, we’re to dine by candlelight tonight.”

“If there’s anything further you need, please let me know,” Bernard replied with a stiff bow. He retreated into the hallway, pulling the door closed, not quite succeeding in hiding his satisfied smile from Alex’s watchful eyes.

N
OW
, how did that happen?
It would have been ingenious to manipulate an intimate, candlelit dinner between the nephews, but as much as he’d like to take credit, Byron couldn’t.

He found Bernard in the kitchen, dining with Martha. If Byron could have drawn breath, he would have sighed. Those wonderful meals, lovingly prepared by the peculiar old cook. How many times had he and Alfred dined at the same table where the boys were now seated, enjoying culinary masterpieces crafted by her skilled hands? Ah, to be young again.
Or to be alive again.
Byron frowned, though no one could see him to notice.

He was passing through the kitchen, literally, when a snippet of conversation caught his attention.

“I must arrange for an electrician tomorrow.” Bernard spoke dramatically, gracing his dinner companion with a conspiratorial wink. “I certainly hope there’s nothing seriously wrong with the wiring.”

“Ah, don’t get your shorts in a twist, Bernie. It’s nothing a flick of the finger won’t cure,” the cook replied with a lopsided smile.

“I beg your pardon?” Had Bernard always sounded so stuffy?
Must get his fusty airs from Alfred,
Byron commented to himself, snickering. As much as he loved the man, Alfred’s high-brow Boston raising had provided plenty of opportunities for teasing over the years, especially in light of Byron’s own small-town upbringing.

Martha cocked her head to the side. “Did you hear something?”

Bernard failed to hide his annoyance. “No, and neither do you, you deaf old crone. Now, don’t change the subject. What did you mean?”

“Jeez, there ya go again, getting bent out of shape over nothin’.”

“Martha, sometime within this decade, please.”

The housekeeper snorted. “And they wonder why you never married.”

Byron hovered nearby, floating weightlessly in the shadows. He loved a good argument, and the servants’ squabbling provided quality entertainment.

“As God is my witness, woman! Cough it up before I strangle you, killing you from asphyxiation and me from a massive coronary as I attempt to wring the life out of that thick neck of yours.”

“Touchy, touchy,” Martha groused. “If’n ya really must know, I was only doin’ what I was told.”

Byron snickered again at the woman’s guttural dialect, knowing she affected backward ways intentionally to goad the prim and proper butler, for he’d heard her on numerous occasions conversing as though to the manor born—when it suited her purposes. His attention switching back and forth between the two as though watching a tennis match, he eagerly awaited Bernard’s next volley.

“What were you told, and by whom?”

Bernard’s face turned an alarming shade of purple. In his fifty-four years, Byron had never acquired much medical knowledge, but it didn’t take a license to practice medicine to tell him “purple face” wasn’t a good thing.

“Mr. Anderson told me if a breaker marked ‘Dining Room’ was to be accidentally switched off, certain young men could have themselves a cozy dinner. I had Isaac take care of it.”

“Well, Alfred certainly gave you those instructions,” Bernard sniffed.

“Why ya say that? How many times ’ave I told you not to be callin’ Mr. Anderson by his first name? It’s not right.” Martha wrung her hands as if some great evil would befall them for his impropriety.

Bernard rolled his eyes, as did Byron. “I shudder to think of so massive a number. However, your efforts were quite unnecessary, I assure you.” The normally stoic butler smirked. “The hutch has been against the wall for years, and few remember a dimmer switch hidden behind it. I turned it off while you had their attention.”

It seemed the two seniors had independently worked toward the same goal. They began arguing over who’d actually succeeded, and Byron left them to their bickering, reminded wistfully of Douglas. He dearly missed their lively debates.