“A restaurant isn’t like other businesses. It’s not a competition. At least not the way I see it. People come to a place like this to eat great food but also to be part of the community. To eat the food that is grown in the area and cooked by people from the community. Isn’t that what you want to do? That takes time to build.”
I don’t tell him that I plan to flip this place to FunTyme Inc. as soon as possible and use the money to get back to New York so I can start making some real investments. I have no intention of being here a second longer than I need to. But I need to get this place open and start showing some money in the cash flow statement so I let him think I’m here for the long haul.
“It’s getting late and we have a lot to do tomorrow. Let’s get some sleep,” I say, cutting off the discussion.
“I can finish cleaning up in the morning. Just show me which guest room is mine.” Tack gets up and goes back through to the kitchen. I follow him and he grabs his duffel and stands at the foot of the stairs.
“I didn’t really get a chance to explain the arrangement the other day.”
“Explain what?” he asks.
I breathe in and out quickly through my nostrils. I don’t know why I’m getting so nervous about telling Tack that we’re sharing the owner’s suite. This is a business decision that benefits us both. Nothing more, nothing less.
“The last owner let the guest rooms deteriorate. I’ve hired a contractor to renovate all of them. The restaurant is the money maker. The rooms can happen later.”
Tack looks puzzled but not angry. “So where do I bunk?”
I point straight up and we take the back stairs from the kitchen.
“I didn’t know there were guest rooms up here.”
“There aren’t,” I say.
“So I’m sleeping in the attic?”
“No, it’s a fully furnished space. It’s actually in very good condition. Gorgeous views of the river on one side and town on the other.”
“So what’s the problem? As long as it has a working bathroom I’m in. I just want to shower off the day and hit the hay.”
“There’s only one space up here. We’ll be sharing the owner’s suite,” I say as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. I open the door to the apartment and dart through the small living room to open his door. I want to make it clear he will have his own bedroom. “This room is yours. The kitchen is small but in good condition. A few things need repairs. Some of the windows won’t open and the bathroom door won’t close all the way but they’re on Steve’s list.”
Tack drops his duffel on the floor just beyond the door. “So...we’re roommates,” he says, placing his hand on my shoulder. The feel of his body touching mine makes me lose composure. It was hard enough staying calm when he was filling my mouth with such incredible food but this pushes me over the edge.
“No, no, no, no,” I babble. “You have your own room over there and mine is way, way over here.” I take about three steps from one side of the small space to the other.
I feel a drip rolling down my forehead and I can see that Tack’s shirt is damp from perspiration. His sweat is the result of hard work. Mine is another situation entirely. “As long as I can take a shower, I don’t care,” he says and moves his duffel to the bedroom. “Do you want to take a shower first?” he asks.
“No, I will in the morning.”
“Good, because I need to get in there,” he says and peels off his damp T-shirt to reveal his smooth perfectly toned chest. There isn’t as much of a valley between his pecs as mine but he is definitely muscular from years of hard work on the farm. A thin layer of perspiration across his chest makes his whole upper body glisten. I’m having difficulty releasing myself from the state of suspended animation his half-naked body has created. “Is there something wrong with the bathroom?” he asks.
“I mean, the door needs to be fixed but it all works. Why?”
“You’re blocking the entrance like there’s something in there I shouldn’t see.”
The only thing that shouldn’t be seen is his half-naked body. I forgot that Tack was never the kind of guy to be self-conscious about showing some skin. He was always the first to strip off his shirt or get down to his underwear to take a swim in the river. I wore T-shirts three sizes too big for my stick-thin body, covered in a sweatshirt that could have doubled as a parachute. I break out of my stupor and step aside to let him pass.
“All yours.” I walk to my bedroom door, which is directly across the living space from the bathroom. “Good night,” I say as I almost close my bedroom door behind me. Once I’m in my room I keep the lights off.
What is it about being around Tack that makes me act like a teenager? I am a grown man. I should collapse on the bed and go to sleep. Instead I quietly look through the door I left cracked open just enough.
Tack turns on the water and then the show begins. He unbuckles his pants but catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror and runs one of his hands over his face and then past his forehead to brush his bangs back. He’s not preening. He never did that. Tack has always been comfortable in his skin. Now even with all this muscle and minimal body fat I still feel like a twerp in a locker room. Sure, I strut around like I own the place but it’s all bravado, not like Tack who is naturally easy in his body.
The hot water mixes with the cool night air and steam forms around the shower. Tack takes another sample of the temperature with his hand and then uses both hands to unbutton his khakis. In a single swift motion, his pants drop to the floor and his dick swings freely.
I like looking at dicks as much as any gay man but let’s face it, most of them look about the same, some longer, some thicker, but only occasionally do you come across one that is worth writing home about. Tack’s dick deserves a ticker tape parade made out of all the letters that should be written about his cock. It’s not just that it’s long, it’s actually pretty. It’s weird to describe a dick as pretty since an objective opinion would point out they actually look like sea creatures but Tack’s dick is actually pretty. No, not pretty—it’s handsome.
Now that he is naked he grabs some soap from the shelf next to the sink and gives his dick one good fluff before turning around and giving me a perfect view of his sculpted ass. I’m intently focused on his backside until my eyes travel up his body and notice him looking right through the open door toward my bedroom.
Damn. He knows I’m watching. I immediately cover my eyes and jump away from the door. Of course, he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to pull the shower curtain closed. I hear him turn off the water. He walks out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his tight body and comes right over to my bedroom door before I am able to close it.
“Good night, Vince,” he says with a cocky grin and waves his fingers at me through the crack. He knew I was watching the whole time. The towel struggles to stay in place as his convex ass cheeks flex with each step back to his room. I’m distracted by it just long enough to delay the feeling of humiliation by a few seconds.
He shuts his door and I seal mine as tightly as I can. He may be a few yards away and behind two closed doors but I can still feel Tack’s presence as deeply as if he were standing right in front of me.
Chapter Thirteen
Brightness penetrates my eyelids. I want to sleep more so I reach over to the nightstand to grab the remote for the blinds. One simple squeeze and the entire room will turn from being a few inches from the sun to the dark side of the moon. I reach out but there is no remote. My hands explore more and I realize there is no nightstand. It all suddenly comes down on me. I’m not in my sleek penthouse over Gramercy Park; I’m in a dilapidated inn in New Hope, Pennsylvania. Then the bigger reality hits me. I’m roommates with Tack O’Leary.
I open my bedroom door and tiptoe across the living room to look in Tack’s room. He’s gone. The tension that has gripped my upper body releases. He�
�s left some coffee on the stove and I pour myself a cup and grab my phone to check for what I missed while I was sleeping. A few of the apps have messages from guys wanting to get banged but I ignore those and open the three text messages from Barry. The first says, “Call me.” The second says, “CALL ME!” and the third says, “Call me asshole!”
I dial and hear a foreign ring which means Barry could be anywhere in the world.
“Do you have any idea what fucking time it is here?”
I forgot he’s in Tokyo. FunTyme has been buying up mom and pop noodle shops and Barry is the numbers guy there. He’s a loose cannon but a valuable asset. “Sorry, are you in bed?” I ask.
“Not yet but I’ve got a twenty-eight-year-old guy waiting in my room at the Park Hyatt so let’s make this quick.” Barry is in his late forties, married with two kids. He’s from Staten Island and made a small fortune in private sanitation. His great head with numbers turned a small fortune into a huge fortune. He acts like a frat boy, still spends summers on the truck doing the sanitation rounds, and sounds like a rougher version of Andrew Dice Clay. After spending a few decades raising a family he’s catching up for lost time making his search for dick a full-time job. The only catch is no one is supposed to know he’s into guys on the side. It’s the worst kept secret in real estate finance. “I had an opening so I pitched the Hide and Seek Inn before I left.”
“The Hideaway,” I correct him.
“Yeah, whatever. They love the location according to their demographics. It’s definitely on their radar. But look, you gotta have that place showing some activity. They won’t buy old dogs. And you got to do this by Labor Day. They have a group of investors and delays make them nervous. Labor Day is the deadline. You got it?”
“Got it.” It’s only the beginning of June so that should be enough time if I’m focused. I wanted to be out of here by then anyway. “Not a problem. Now go have some fun. Just don’t have another heart attack. I don’t want to fly to Tokyo to get you to the ER. Again.”
“Hey, that wasn’t my fault. If you had seen that guy’s dick you would have had a heart attack too. And you only had to travel like twenty blocks. Geez.”
“Goodbye, Barry.”
“Should have a good story for you very soon,” he says and hangs up.
I wonder if I should make a reservation for Labor Day weekend on Fire Island. Looks like I’ll have something to celebrate. I take a quick shower and head downstairs with more determination than ever to start making this place turn a profit. The sooner I’m in the black the sooner I’m back.
When I walk into the kitchen both Tack and Anita have their heads buried in their laptops. I walk over to the coffee and pour myself another cup. “I want us to open for dinner next week.” After my call with Barry, I’m hot to get this moving.
“Anita and I are still figuring that out.”
“This isn’t your office on Wall Street. You can’t just snap your fingers and the restaurant reopens for dinner,” Anita scolds me. My first reaction is to say, “Of course I can,” but instead I grab a chair from the table and sit down.
“I’ve got some ideas.”
“You do, do you?” Anita sighs. “So you’re a chef now? When was the last time you cooked a meal?” Anita asks, giving me a shrewd look.
“I’ve eaten in some of the best restaurants in the world. Cabaña las Lilas in Buenos Aires, The Savoy in London and they know me by name at Le Bernardin.”
Anita points to her blank expression. “Do you see this? This is my unimpressed look.”
“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Tack says. “Why don’t you take a walk around town and Anita and I will keep doing what we’re doing? This afternoon we’ll meet up and you guys can go over the marketing and budget and you and I can review the menu together to see how soon we can open.”
I have a sudden flash of his naked body entering the shower. In an attempt to tear the image from my mind I decide to let them do their jobs and head out of the inn. I do have a visit I should pay.
* * *
When I was a kid, New Hope was an open secret. A place to be hidden and seen all at the same time. Everyone knew that the town had a queer history but that history lived peacefully alongside the narrative that New Hope was also just another picturesque river town. I could visit without having to confront my sexuality in ways I wasn’t ready for. It wasn’t an inclusive paradise but it was better than any local alternative.
Radley’s Bookstore is in the center of New Hope, next to the Bucks County Playhouse and across from an antique shop. Reading used to be an escape for me. I could tune out the world as long as I had a book with me. My mother used to say, “When you have a book with you, you’re never bored and you’re never lonely.” But once college started I was reading for classes and by the time I finished my MBA and started working, it didn’t seem like there was any time to read for pleasure.
I walk farther away from the inn and toward Radley’s. Most of New Hope has remained the same but there are a few changes. Wax On which sold candles and incense is now Cupcake-a-rooni and what I think was a women’s clothing store called Rebekah’s Remarkables is now a pet shop called Paw Time. The front sidewalk of The Beautiful Things Shoppe is still crowded with rusted antiques that have been sitting out there since I was kid. I have no idea how that place stays in business.
Radley’s looks exactly the same. A two-story stone and stucco building with bright fire engine red double doors flanked by two large square-paned bay windows. The one on the left has book displays and the one on the right has the register and two overstuffed wingback chairs covered in a floral print for customers who want to jump right into their purchase or have a leisurely preview of a first chapter. Two cherry trees guard the sidewalk, their blooms in full regalia.
From across the street I try to look through the windows to see if Tom, the owner, is there. He was good to me as a teen. He knew I was gay before I was willing to admit it to myself and he always listened to me and found the exact book I needed at the exact time I needed it. But I feel ambiguous about seeing him. He’ll ask too many questions about why I’m back and what my plans are. I also don’t want to answer questions about why I left the area without staying in touch. I guess I could tell him that after my mom died and I sold the house that there was nothing to come back to. But that’s not true and Tom will know it. I was gone the moment I left. If it wasn’t for this deal and my need to make a quick profit, I’d never be standing where I am again. Still, I owe him a visit or at least I need to let him know I’m in town.
I see a woman at the register through the window but wait a few minutes to see if Tom is about. I don’t see him and I’m not even sure he owns the place anymore. I decide to take a risk. I cross the street quickly and open the door to the bookstore. The familiar bells alerting the entrance of a customer ring and I quickly move past the entrance into the stacks.
I’m safely in nonfiction when it hits me. The smell. Old paper mixed with sandalwood and jasmine. Tom loved a particular incense he found on a trip to Paris with a lover and purchased it regularly to keep the place reminding him of his “assignation” as he called it. Either Tom still owns the place or he had a rider in the contract that insisted the new owner keep the incense burning—not a complete impossibility considering how sentimental Tom is. I take a deep breath and look around at the shelves of neatly arranged books.
I hear the clicking of heels and realize the woman I saw behind the register is coming toward me. The clicking heels get closer until she is right in front of me.
“Well, Vinny Amato. I was wondering when you would come over to see your old friend.” She holds her arms opens wide. I immediately recognize her. I knew she could never sell the bookstore. I walk over to her open arms and accept the hug like it’s something I’ve been waiting years for. As I hug her she whispers in my ear, “It’s Toula now.”
“You look fantastic,�
� I say. I step back and survey the full bosom, flowing peasant skirt and bright auburn-plum hair with gray streaks that hangs to her shoulders. “By the way, it’s Vince now. Not Vinny.”
“I heard,” she says with the same knowing smile she has always had. “Let me get you a cup of tea and I’ll explain,” she says. “Chamomile and mint still okay?”
I haven’t had herbal tea for years. By this time of the late morning I’ve usually poured at least a few shots of fine espresso down my throat but right now her homemade blend of chamomile buds and mint from her patio garden sounds perfect.
“Sure,” I say, smiling.
“There’s a copy of a book of poetry by a new queer poet on the table next to your chair. The cover is dreadful but the poems are inspired. You dive in and I’ll be over in a jiffy. I’ve been waiting for you to come in.”
I do as I am told although I wonder how Toula knew I was back in town. I wind myself back through the shelves of books to the seating area by the north bay window. The same easy chair I sat in as a teen waits for me. Toula always preferred a wooden rocker for herself because she said it was easier to get in and out of in case a customer came in.
I sink into the cushions and they welcome me back like old friends. I see the book on the small side table next to the chair. White words announce Disquisitive on the front and the cover truly is horrible. I think about opening it up to read a few poems but poetry can take a lot of work and, for me, it was sometimes like a hallucinogenic drug. Just a few lines in and my mind would explode with thoughts or images. I don’t need that right now. I need to stay in control.
I hear the rattling of cups and saucers as Toula approaches and hands me my teacup. “Here you are, dear,” she says. I take a sip of the pale yellow liquid and for a second, I’m a teen again, but I push the present into place to stop any flood of memories.
Toula settles into her chair and then stares at me. “It sure took you long enough to stop by.”
The Hideaway Inn Page 7