The Wish (20 page)

Despite his own health worries, it seemed Alfred intended to keep his promise to unite the boys, even involving the help.
Speaking of Alfred, time to check in on him at the hospital
. But first, Byron wanted one more quick peek at the nephews before he went….

“
N
OW
, isn’t this cozy?” Alex gazed at his dinner companion from across the table. Paul’s glasses reflected the candlelight, eyes appearing to flame. Alex’s breath caught in his throat as he recalled the scene from his bedroom such a short time ago: Paul’s profile, partially hidden in shadow, before he locked their lips together, like kissing Alex was the most important thing he’d ever done. A few short days ago, Alex’s arrogance would have said,
“It
was
the most important thing he’d ever done.”
Ironically, the part of him that sneered at lesser beings remained quiet. Maybe because there were no lesser beings present.

“Yes, it is,” Paul replied, and Alex had to think hard to recall the question. “You know,” Paul confided a moment later, “I’ve always loved Martha’s cooking, but I’m also a bit afraid of her.”

Alex chuckled. “When I was a child I thought my grandmother was the most intimidating woman on earth, until I met Martha. I never knew a wooden spoon could be wielded so lethally.”

Paul threw his head back with a hearty laugh.

Well, damn. For all his quiet intensity, he was capable of genuine laughter. Such a charming laugh, too! Alex didn’t know whether to blame Paul’s lack of wariness on the wine, the dinner, or the earlier apology, but during the course of the meal, Paul slowly unwound, and no longer appeared coiled to spring and run.

“How often did you visit?” Paul asked, refilling their glasses, a gesture not wasted on Alex. Far from being the spoiled plaything of a wealthy lover, Paul behaved in a thoughtful and kind manner, serving others without a second thought. Not as a servant, more as a polite host—as Byron had been.

When Alex thought about the question, his smile fell.

“S-s-sorry, didn’t mean to be nosy,” Paul stammered.

“No, it’s all right.” Alex had nothing to lose by being candid and answered honestly, “I didn’t visit nearly as often as I would have liked.”

“Why not? They both adored you. I’m sure they were thrilled whenever they had the chance to see you.”

Alex sighed, wondering how much the man truthfully knew about his life. “You know my grandparents raised me, right?”

“Yes,” Paul answered. After a moment’s consideration he blushed and added, “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh.’ My grandparents didn’t disown Alfred when his orientation became public knowledge. They didn’t dare, even if they weren’t exactly thrilled with their only son ‘flaunting his perversion’ in polite society.”

His grandparents’ treatment of Alfred was a sore subject for Alex, who idolized his uncle, considering him incapable of wrong. “They only allowed me see him on vacation or when he visited Boston. They did everything in their power to keep me from coming here, fearing too much exposure to his ‘proclivities’ and the ‘LA lifestyle’ would taint me.” His gloomy expression turned into a self-satisfied smile, and he raised his glass in toast. “If they could only see me now.

“The rest of the family back in Boston, a useless bunch of hangers-on, gossiped and backbit, but none dared speak ill to Uncle Alfred’s face. He’s too powerful, even for them.” Alex shuddered to think what the wolves might have done if Alfred possessed his partner’s easy demeanor, recalling his self-righteous grandmother’s scathing remarks about Byron Sinclair.

Voice subdued, Paul ventured, “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, it’s none of my business, but I’m curious because of what I’ve heard about them. Were they hard on you when you came out?”

“I didn’t come out,” Alex admitted, his words laced with bitterness at yet another example of cowardice. “They went to their graves thinking it a matter of time before I found the right stuck-up debutante, settled down, and gave them a great-grandchild to ignore.” While he hadn’t intended to demean his family publicly, keeping his feelings bottled up for years took its toll. The floodgate now stood open; he might never be able to close it again.

“It’s different with Alfred and Uncle Byron…,” Paul began.

Alex cut him off. “As far as Uncle Alfred knows, I’m bi. He’s never discouraged my relationships with men, even though he’s reminded me often enough that I’m the last of the Andersons.” Byron correctly said Alfred never voiced such a thing; Alex read between the lines, completing the thought with words of his own. “He wants me to father children and continue the family line.”

Paul’s outrage, on his behalf, warmed Alex more than he cared to admit. “Surely you’ve spoken with him?”

Alex shrugged, staring into the depths of his wine glass. “You know the man and love him as much as I do. Could you tell him no?”

Paul’s reply caught Alex by surprise. “Actually, I have no intention of saying no.”

“What?”

“I don’t intend to disappoint him or Uncle Byron. Like you, I’m the last. The last Sinclair.” Paul leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Gawd, that sounds dramatic! Like
The Last of the Mohicans.”

Even in the semidarkness, when Paul grinned, Alex noticed a crooked front tooth. Rather than detracting from his appeal, it added a certain “mischievous little boy” quality that Alex found endearing, particularly in comparison to his normal “perfect at any price” lovers, with their nips, tucks, and overly bright, bleached teeth. Lately Alex had come to appreciate Paul’s natural appearance and attitude.

“What do you intend to do about it? The children thing, I mean?” he asked. “Forgive me for being blunt, but I can’t imagine you settling down with a woman.” Again, a wonderful belly laugh washed over Alex’s senses.

“Heavens, no!” Paul exclaimed. “I mean, there will be a mother of my children, God willing. We’re just not planning on stripping down and doing the nasty.” He visibly shuddered. “Besides,” he added with a cheeky grin, “Lee could kick my ass to hell and back if she had a mind to.”

“Lee?”

Leaning in, Paul asked, “Did you ever meet Bernard’s great-niece, Cecelia?”

“That’s Lee? It’s been a long time; I haven’t seen her in years. Didn’t she grow up to be…?”

“A stereotype?” Paul supplied.

“I was going to say ‘tattoo artist’. I suppose ‘stereotype’ works too. How’s she doing?” A faded image came to mind of a pudgy little girl with brown hair and freckles who hated dresses and ribbons and who held her own in any kind of competition, from chess to fistfights.

“Let’s say that ‘Lee’ suits her better than ‘Cecelia’ these days.” Paul winked.

Alex deadpanned, “That explains a lot.”

“Yeah, it does. Anyway, Lee’s agreed that when I finally—” Paul rolled his eyes and mimicked the throaty voice Alex remembered from his youth, “—‘find the man worth the grief’, she’ll carry my child as a surrogate—artificially inseminated, of course.”

“Of course.” Alex snickered. Chances were Cecelia Landers had surprised absolutely no one when she made her big announcement, if her outing even required an announcement at all, for as Paul had pointed out, she had prided herself on living up to stereotypes even in her teens. The more Alex deliberated, the more he admired Paul’s having hit on the perfect solution. Lee was practically family, but not incestuously so, and if memory served, good people. Paul planned for fatherhood someday. For a moment, the old envy returned.

Alex never even considered the possibility of having children the way Paul intended to, resigning himself to a brief, loveless relationship followed by a slew of lawyers and custody battles. He’d win, of course, because he held all the cards, not to mention the money. It would still be costly and painful, particularly for the child. For that reason alone, Alex hesitated to consider such a possibility. However, with a friend, someone willing to help out of the goodness of her heart…. “Wait a minute,” he asked, voicing his suspicion, “what’s in your arrangement for her?”

Paul’s smile broadened. “Well, she’d still be a part of the child’s life, only not a traditional one. We’re old friends, and she says she’ll do this for me and our uncles. The thing she says she wants most from this is”—again with a spot-on Cecelia impersonation—“she wants ‘to show all those skinny bitches in the minivans they got nothing on the dyke on the Harley.’”

Alex laughed at the image of a heavily tattooed and pierced, noticeably pregnant biker flipping off a soccer mom in a minivan.

The two men, caught up in their conversation, barely noticed the time, or that they supposedly didn’t like each other.

After dessert, Paul took Alex on a brief walk through the garden, discussing a few planned additions and then, astonishingly, asking for opinions. Although Alex didn’t know much about gardening, that didn’t prevent him from being fascinated by his companion’s animated explanations and plans, reminiscent of their earlier conversation about the renovations to Paul’s old store building.

Evening fell, pleasantly cool without being frigid, and the full moon hung low in the sky, augmenting the pathway lighting lining the walkways through the garden. Paul yawned, and Alex suggested they call it a night.

As they entered the house, Alex couldn’t help himself. “Paul,” he breathed softly, brushing his lips lightly over Paul’s, the briefest of caresses. “Good night, sleep well.” He spun and strode purposefully from the room. If Paul chose to remind him of his promise, he didn’t want to hear it. It took every bit of his willpower to limit himself to one kiss, and if he didn’t get upstairs soon and away from temptation, he might do something that genuinely would horrify the servants.

He wasn’t surprised to find his suitcases from downstairs had been brought up and unpacked, but everything he’d taken to the hotel the previous night had been returned as well.

14

A
FEW
days later, hard at work in the office, paying bills and arranging for the running of three separate households, plus vacation homes, an epiphany struck Alex. The house in Boston stood empty most of the year, requiring staff and utilities even when unused. If he truly meant to relocate his life to LA, he wouldn’t need another full-time residence. Besides, the stately mansion held bad memories, and he’d avoided staying there whenever possible. Technically, the decision fell to Alfred, but Alex felt certain his uncle would probably agree to sell or capitalize on the house’s historical value and earn a tidy tax write-off by donating the monstrous money pit to some preservation society. The house in Rhode Island, he’d keep.

Preparing the Houston condo for the market, he acknowledged that he’d never truly considered the glass and chrome showplace home, always referring to his dwelling as “the condo.” He mused on what it meant to finally have a real home, until a soft tapping caught his attention. “Come in,” he called.

The door eased open, and Paul stepped into the room wearing a snug T-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting shorts. From the looks of it, he’d recently returned from his morning run and taken a shower, for his hair fell in a riot of wet strands around his face. And he was barefoot. Alex couldn’t stop staring at those pale feet, toes curling into the plush carpeting.

“Are you all right?”

Glancing up guiltily to find Paul studying him, Alex stammered, “I’m a bit tired, I guess.”

“Well, maybe you should take a break.” Paul placed a stack of envelopes and periodicals on the desk. “I brought in the mail.”

Alex sighed, contemplating the new arrivals. The last thing he needed—more bills. Normally the accountant handled the brunt of it; unfortunately, since the accountant had proved untrustworthy, the chore became Alex’s. Also, Alfred insisted that Alex become intimately familiar with all aspects of the Anderson empire, including little windowed envelopes arriving like clockwork to demand money. In retrospect, Alex appreciated Alfred’s insistence, for he’d never have known of the accountant’s duplicity otherwise.

He rolled his gaze upward again. Sympathetic eyes studied him. “You do look tired,” Paul said. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

Alex didn’t feel quite right treating the man like a servant, but a cup of tea sounded good. “Please.”

“I’ll be right back.” Paul hurried from the room, faint traces of a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. He seemed to find pleasure in doing for others, an alien concept to Alex, and one requiring further study.

Thumbing through the stack of mail, Alex began triaging: stacking items requiring his immediate attention in one pile, interesting magazines in another, and items he couldn’t figure out in yet another. He knew without asking that Paul had already thrown junk mail, fliers, and sales ads into the recycling bin.

A small, square envelope caught his eye, hand-addressed in calligraphy to Mr. Alfred Anderson, from Edmond Strickland. If Alex wasn’t mistaken, it appeared to be an invitation of some kind. Well, no point in opening the gold-embossed envelope. His uncle was in no condition to attend a party. About to drop it in the trash, he paused mid motion when Paul returned, bearing a tray.