“Please, show me more.”
I searched. “It looks like those are the only pictures.” Scanning the website, I said, “The B and B is on the Hudson River overlooking Storm King Mountain. It says there is hiking and kayaking. And lots of shopping and restaurants on Main Street.”
Freddy replied, “I never did any of that.”
“What did you do?”
“I made whoopee, of course.”
I groaned. “Of course.”
“Josephine Baker sang. Louise Brooks danced. Joan Crawford vamped. Coco Chanel modeled her latest gowns. And Greta Garbo sat alone in the bathroom.” He giggled. “Not to mention James, Israel, and Jacob wrote songs about me, which sent Nelson Barclift, Addison Mizner, and Oscar Levant into a three-pronged tailspin!”
I recalled that was Cole Porter and his lover, Nelson Barclift, Irving Berlin and Addison Mizner, and George Gershwin with Oscar Levant.
Freddy rested his large hands on my bubble butt. “But I’m happier now, living with someone I love and who loves me.”
We shared a tender, long kiss.
Gazing into his gorgeous violet eyes, I said, “I’ll miss you, Freddy.”
“I’ll miss you more.” He hugged me to his wide chest. “But it will only be for a couple of days. And when you return, I’ll cook you a gigantic feast and then watch you eat it.” He squeezed my bulging biceps. “Besides, what would you do here besides go to the gym each day? You worked hard all year at that school teaching little Fernando to play the drums and annoy his parents, and sweet Sarah to master the flute and summon every dog in the neighborhood. You deserve a short getaway.” Lifting my chin to meet his gaze, he added, “Just be sure to come home to me safe and sound.” He pinched my buttcheek. “And with all the news about my country home.”
“I’ll take pictures with my phone.”
He gasped. “It still amazes me that your phone can take photographs.”
I reached for my cell and called the bed-and-breakfast. “It may be a while before I can get a reservation.”
“Tell the gentleman who answers you are here with the original owner of the house and you are coming immediately.”
A well-spoken young man who identified himself as Nelson Russell answered my call. After I inquired, Nelson offered me the good news that, due to a last-minute cancellation, the last room on the second floor, room six, the music room—which happened to be Freddy’s old room—was available for two nights. After reading him my credit card number, it was a booking—to Freddy’s amazement. Next, I called Aunt Nia and my best buddy, Victor, to tell them about my trip. My aunt, who lived with her new husband, Detective Takoda Shawnee, in my childhood home—apartment 1B—promised to collect my mail. Victor, living down the hall in 3C with his boyfriend, Alexander Popov, said he’d have gone with me—if he hadn’t had an upcoming audition to play an enlarged prostate in a television commercial.
Excited about my upcoming trip, Freddy stripped to his undies, took me in his strong arms, and laid me in bed. As the moonlight covered us like a celestial blanket, Freddy ran his long fingers through my dark hair, and we made passionate love. Then we cuddled in bed all night under the Art Deco fanned headboard.
When I woke early the next morning, Freddy helped me pack, made me breakfast—crab meat eggs benedict with strawberry scones—and offered me a wet and wonderful kiss at the door. “Give my old house a big kiss for me.” He grimaced. “But don’t kiss anyone living—or dead!”
In my turquoise polo shirt and jeans, with my bag in hand, I kissed the ghost of my heart. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll be right here when you return.”
We shared a deeper and lengthier kiss. Then I waved to Freddy, headed down the two flights of stairs, pulled open the heavy silver door, and left the building.
In minutes I arrived at the Hoboken Train Station, where I took the PATH train to Thirty-Third Street and Sixth Avenue in New York City. Then I walked briskly to Grand Central Station, where I boarded a Metro North train to Cold Spring. I sat in a window seat, enjoying the amazing view of the glistening emerald river and stoic mountains bathed by the golden sunlight.
When the conductor called “Cold Spring!” through the sound system, I departed the train and hurried the few blocks to the Welcome Bed and Breakfast. I couldn’t help standing in awe at the two-story Art Deco front lined with turrets, bays, and balconies. Fanned silver molding decorated each rounded doorway and window. I made my way up the curved white marble steps to the white front door decorated with silver-and-black images of women’s elaborate fans from the period. Upon opening the door, I headed down a crystal-chandeliered white marble hallway to a white marble counter. A handsome young man with muscles bursting out of his maroon short-sleeved shirt greeted me with a smile. “Welcome to the Welcome Bed and Breakfast.”
I returned the smile. “Thank you. I’m Andre Beaufort.”
“Nelson Russell. We spoke on the phone.” He glanced at his computer. “I have you reserved for room six, the music room.” He explained, “Each room has a different motif. Is this your first time in Cold Spring?”
I nodded. “So far I like what I see.” When his dark eyes darted away from mine, I explained, “I mean the river and the mountains.”
His broad shoulders relaxed. “Agreed.”
“Have you lived here a long time?”
“I grew up in this town. My parents and I moved to New York City when I was ten. We came back a year ago.”
“City life can’t compare with country life?”
“Not for my folks.”
“I can see why.” Glancing around me, I said, “This house is really something.”
“It’s authentic to the Art Deco period when it was built. There have been some repairs over the years, but not much else.” Thick dark hair slid over his forehead. “We’ve managed to inherit some of the original furniture as well.”
“It’s beautiful.” I couldn’t wait to take pictures for Freddy.
He handed me a piece of paper. “Here’s a map of the area. There are restaurants and places to shop on Main Street.” Two keys came next. “This key will open the door to your room. The other is for the front door, which is locked each night at 10:00 p.m.” Pointing opposite us, he said, “Feel free to use the sitting room any time you like. The bookcase is loaded with novels, and the chairs are comfortable. We serve refreshments in there at three o’clock each afternoon. If it’s a chilly day, we light the fireplace.”
Glancing behind me through the round-topped entryway, I marveled at the beautifully appointed Art Deco sitting room, which appeared even more spectacular than in the online photo. It was laden with chaises, wide armchairs, high end tables, tall thin lamps, a grandfather clock, and a baby grand piano. The fireplace fan, wallpaper, murals, mosaics, and statues highlighted famous people of the period, many of whom Freddy had mentioned to me.
Nelson continued, “Behind that is the dining room. There’s always fruit in a bowl on the buffet. And breakfast is served every morning between eight and ten.”
I chuckled to myself, since Freddy had told me he’d never eaten breakfast until noon, and it had always begun with a Bloody Mary.
“My father’s a great cook.”
“Was he a chef prior to opening the B and B?”
“No. My dad and I were both engineers in New York City.” Focusing back on his welcome speech, Nelson said, “The rooms behind me are my family’s private living quarters. Upstairs are the six guest bedrooms.”
I leaned over to see past the sitting room and gaped at the wide white marble staircase with elaborate silver molding.
“Can I help you upstairs with your luggage?”
I held up my small travel bag. “I think I can handle it.”
He glanced at my biceps—or rods as Freddy calls them. “Looks like you work out a lot.”
I nodded. “At my gym in Hoboken, New Jersey.” Returning the glance, I said, “You must have a gym here in Cold Spring.”
�
��We do. And I play football on my church’s team.” He had me sign my registration form. “You’re all set. I hope you enjoy your stay. Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything. You can ring the bell if I’m… someone isn’t here.” His eyes darted away again.
I wondered what he was hiding. “Thanks for the welcome at Welcome Bed and Breakfast.” I cringed at my own joke and then moved into the sitting room. After slipping the phone out of my pocket, I took a few pictures of different sections of the room, feeling as if I were back in the 1920s. I continued into the dining room.
“This is quite a place, isn’t it?” I spun around, coming face-to-face with an attractive middle-aged woman in a cranberry dress accented by thick gold jewelry. Her dyed blond hair was waved on the sides in a flapper style.
“Yes, it’s beautiful.”
“Are you a photographer?”
I blushed. “An amateur one. I teach grade school music in New Jersey.”
She offered me a weak smile. “You picked a lovely spot for a vacation.”
“I agree.”
She offered her manicured hand. “I’m Cynthia Butler Russell, the owner and manager.”
“I saw your picture on the website.” Her hand was cold, like her glance. “I’m Andre Beaufort.”
Nodding, she replied, “The music room. You replaced our last-minute cancellation.”
“Yes. This is an amazing place. I can understand why you left New York City to purchase it.”
“Who told you that?”
“Nelson. He mentioned he and his father were engineers there.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I hope my son didn’t bore you with too much personal trivia.”
“Not at all.” Intrigued by the woman of mystery, I said, “Nelson didn’t mention what you did in New York City.”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“I have an inquisitive nature, I guess.”
After a pause, she said, “I was a judge.” She scoffed. “But you didn’t travel all this way to hear about my family. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
The manager of the Welcome Bed and Breakfast didn’t appear too welcoming. Anxious to see Freddy’s old bedroom, I climbed the tall stairs rapidly. After making my way to the end of the hallway, I nearly bumped into a young man coming out of room five. “Sorry.”
“My fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” His slight build, pale skin, and white T-shirt and shorts gave him an angelic quality.
“It’s easy to do in this place.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve taken so many pictures my phone memory must be full.”
I smirked. “Did the manager sneak up on you too?”
He nodded. “She asked me if I was a photographer, which I’m not.” His delicate hand felt like a feather grazing mine. “Gabriel Bennett.”
“Who isn’t a photographer,” I said, shaking his hand.
He smiled. “I’m an architect from Vermont. The minute I read about this house, I knew I had to visit and do some research.”
“Andre Beaufort. I teach grade school music in Hoboken, New Jersey.”
“Why all the pictures?”
I explained, “I’m taking them for someone back home.”
“A boyfriend?”
I nodded. “Good gaydar.”
He shook his head, and thin blond hair gently caressed his delicate features. “I grew up with three brothers. I learned how to read people.” His aqua eyes deepened. “Until I left for college.”
I realized something. “I feel like this is the first time I’ve been away from home.”
“You live with your folks?”
“With my aunt. Her apartment is two floors below mine.”
“You don’t live with your boyfriend?”
I thought about how to answer that. “He’s a frequent visitor.” It generally took me a while to warm up to strangers, but I felt comfortable with Gabriel. “How long are you staying here?”
“Three nights. A gift from me for my twenty-seventh birthday, which was yesterday.”
“Happy birthday. Belated.”
“Thanks.”
“Looks like we’ll be neighbors… for a couple of days anyway.”
Gabriel stared down at his white sneakers. “I should probably warn you about something.”
“You snore?”
“I’m a sleepwalker. It drove my parents nuts. So if you see or hear me wandering around the hallway at night, feel free to ignore me, or give me a push back into my room.”
“Not a problem.”
He glanced at my bag. “I should let you unpack. Nice meeting you.”
“Are you going outside?”
Gabriel nodded. “For a walk and to get some lunch.”
I was surprised to hear myself ask him, “Mind if I join you?”
His face lit up. “I’d like that.”
“Great. Give me a few minutes.”
“You got it.”
After unlocking my door, I stood in Freddy’s old room, wishing he were next to me. Scanning the space with phone in hand, I recorded a video of the two wide powder-blue armchairs at the white marble fireplace, the king-size bed topped by sculpted ivory dancers on the fanned headboard, a bay window seat, a balcony leading to a jaw-dropping view of the river and mountains, and a narrow writing desk. To my delight, in the corner of the room stood an upright player piano handcrafted from maple, mahogany, and spruce with elaborate molding of musical notes. Music rolls with punch holes in them rested in a bin next to the pianola. The room’s wallpaper featured sketches of famous singers and musicians of the Roaring Twenties, no doubt Freddy’s socialite friends. I quickly unpacked my things inside the fanned wooden bureau, closet, and attached bathroom—giggling at the clawfoot tub with silver feet, many mirrors, and silver molding.
Then I hurried out the door and met up with Gabriel on the landing. As we walked down the two massive flights of stairs, Gabriel said, “They must have had great parties back then.”
Thinking of Freddy, I said, “I’m certain they did, serving dishes like oysters Rockefeller, salmon mousse, tea sandwiches, and bourbon-glazed ham.”
“I’m guessing they drank a lot.”
“Champagne mostly, I imagine.”
Once outside, we walked down Main Street and stopped inside a sandwich shop, where we bought takeout turkey pesto sandwiches on multigrain bread with peach smoothies. As we ate and walked past quaint touristy shops, I spotted a Batik string kaftan in a window. “My aunt Nia would love it here.”
“Is she the aunt who raised you?”
I nodded. “My mother’s sister. My parents and my baby brother died in a car accident when I was four.”
His sweet face turned solemn. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“I never knew my parents.”
“You said your sleepwalking drove your parents nuts.”
“That’s my adoptive parents.” He grinned. “This is the time when someone usually asks me when I knew I was adopted. My parents never hid it from me or from my brothers—who weren’t adopted, by the way.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You didn’t.” Gabriel crossed the street and walked on the mowed grass into a gazebo.
I followed him. As we sat on a wooden bench, gazing out at the tiny waves of the Hudson River tickled by the sun, I said, “Beautiful spot.”
“Sure is.”
An exhausted-looking woman held a little boy’s hand as he screamed, “Let’s go to the park next, Mommy! You can push me on the swing!”
I said, “I wonder if she’s having second thoughts.”
“About going on vacation or having a kid?”
“Both.”
We shared a smile.
“People want kids for lots of reasons.” He stared at the jagged mountains standing majestically under the clear azure sky. “I think my mother adopted me for someone to do chores around the house.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Now I c
an cook, clean, sew, do laundry, woodworking, and take care of myself.”
“Good point.”
“My dad thought a full house was a happy house.” He sighed. “He was naïve.” Since we were finished with lunch, Gabriel threw our trash into the can next to us. “Let’s walk by the river.”
Obliging, I changed the subject. “When did you decide to become an architect?”
“I always enjoyed drawing. It was a great outlet for me.”
We arrived at an artist sitting on a stool in front of an easel. He held a paintbrush in one hand and a paint tray in the other. The young man was short with jet-black hair, a lean, cut build, olive skin, and the most piercing eyes I had ever seen.
Gabriel admired his work. “You captured the shadow of the mountain over the lake really well.”
“Thanks.”
“But I’d add more white to the water ripples.”
He asked Gabriel, “Are you an artist too?”
“An architect.” Gabriel offered his hand. “Gabriel Bennett.”
He rose, wiping his hands on his burgundy T-shirt and paint-stained jeans. “Zian Raye.”
As they shook hands, their eyes met.
Gabriel offered him a warm smile. “We’re staying in the Welcome Bed and Breakfast.”
Zian grinned. “So am I. Room two, the art room. Appropriate, right?”
“Did you come here to paint this amazing view?”
Zian nodded. “And for a break from New York City to meditate in the country.” He added, “I’m a Buddhist.”
“Lapsed Protestant from Vermont in room five, beach motif.”
They shared a giggle.
Noticing the attraction between Gabriel and Zian, I hesitated before offering my hand to Zian. “Andre Beaufort.”
Zian asked quickly, “Are you two a couple?”
I explained, “We just met today at the B and B. I’m staying in room six, the music room.”
“Andre’s a grade school music teacher from New Jersey,” Gabriel added.
Zian stayed focused on Gabriel. “Will you be at the B and B’s afternoon snack?”
“I never turn down free food.”
Zian guffawed as if Gabriel had made the most amusing joke on the planet. “We have that in common.”
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