Into the Gloaming
Page 12
Heath settled into a shabby leather sofa that didn’t match the rest of the furniture. He noticed that none of the furnishings in the apartments seemed to match. They weren’t derelict, but they weren’t new either.
“We raided a second-hand store for the staff apartments. It’s funky, eclectic. And it was within the budget.” Austin sank onto the sofa beside him and turned into the corner to face Heath. He seemed to read Heath’s mind. His smile when Heath frowned… was like a punch to the gut. When he smiled… angels sang from on high.
“I wasn’t judging,” Heath blurted to cover his frown.
“You were judging… hard.” It wasn’t Austin who spoke. Donna pressed a glass of red wine in his hand and sat down in the oversized blue armchair facing the sofa and pulled her feet under her. She winked at him and raised her glass. “I like the furniture. It’s clean. It’s sturdy. It fits the brick walls and leftover horsey smells. But… I just want to know why Austin gets the big apartment with the chef’s kitchen and we get Motel 6?”
“Because I make the big bucks.” Austin quirked an eyebrow at her, and pulled his legs into the seat, his knee brushing Heath’s thigh. “So, why wasn’t I offered any wine?”
“Because you have a concussion, and you’re on drugs, and I want to know if you’re passing out because you need to go have that MRI and not because you’re drunk.” Rory handed him a wine glass with a dark red liquid in it. “Cranberry juice. Drink it. And don’t make faces or I won’t let you have coffee.”
“Bite my ass, Roar,” Austin growled at the bartender, but took the drink anyway. He looked embarrassed to have someone mothering him.
“Can that wait until after dinner? I’d rather not be here when the foreplay starts.” Jemma joined the group. Her long hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head. She’d changed into comfortable clothes and like Britney, she walked around in just her socks.
“We are not, no—” Austin started to say, but Rory cut him off.
“We’re not in a relationship. We’ve known each other too long to go there.” He pulled up a kitchen chair and flipped it backward to straddle it. The glass of wine dangled from long his delicate looking fingers over the back. And every eye in the room was on him, except for Austin’s.
“So… where did the two of you meet?” Jemma was the curious one. Britney perched on the arm of Donna’s chair, and she slid over to give her room to sit in the oversized chair. No one blinked at the familiarity there. Jemma’s eyes were all for Rory, but he didn’t notice.
“College. Sort of.” Austin explained.
“Austin was in college. I was… uh… dating his roommate. It was odd. I had more chemistry with Austin than I did with… what the hell was his name, Aus?”
“Etienne. Not even shitting you. A big ole redneck boy named Etienne. And Etienne had the thickest southern accent I have ever heard, and I’m from Tennessee. I couldn’t understand half of what he said. He was also one of those redneck boys with the big trucks with the gun racks and Buck Commander stickers on it. And he liked dick. The prettier the guy, the better.” Austin sipped his cranberry juice, a wistful smile on his face.
“And you slept with him?” Donna tilted her head to the side. She seemed entertained. “Your best friend’s boyfriend.”
“We weren’t friends yet. But yeah, that’s how we met. We were both… seeing Etienne. Meeting by accident when Etienne forgot he had a date with both of us and… we hit it off. Didn’t have sex. Rory gave me a job in his daddy’s pub. Kept me fed for four years and whenever I needed to take a break from Emory, I took it with him. We’re still together nine years later. Well, sort of.”
“Sort of? Looks together to me,” Jemma replied, her gaze trained on Austin’s lips. She blinked when she caught Heath watching her and looked quickly away. “What? He runs a pub right across the street from this place. Don’t tell me there’s nothing there. I’m calling bullshit on both y’all’s stories.” She pointed a finger at the two men, both of whom squirmed in their respective seats.
“It’s like… I don’t know… kissing my brother,” Austin was the first to answer. “Like… I love him. But… it’s odd. Like I’m not supposed to love him that way. But, yes, I do love him. We’re… non-sexual soul mates.”
“Bullshit,” Donna coughed the word. Her arm around Britney’s shoulders now, and Britney curled against her as if they were together.
The bartender didn’t say anything. He stared at the floor, his long reddish colored hair covering his face. If Heath read his body language correctly, the lack of sexual interest was one-sided. And he was working on changing his friend’s mind.
The friend whose knee was pressed firmly against Heath’s thigh. They weren’t seated so closely together that the touch could be accidental. And they’d held hands, however briefly, under the table.
“There’s a lot of noncommittal silence from the other party in question.” Jemma drained her wine glass and went to the kitchen for the bottle. Rory’s gaze followed her as she walked past him. Or rather, his gaze followed her ass.
He was interested. Very interested in what he saw.
Jemma, though, was hard to peg. She was blunt, almost too blunt in her words and mannerisms. She didn’t wear much makeup and her nails were short but well-manicured. She dressed comfortably for the job of opening crates of antiques and cataloging artifacts. Despite her dressed-down appearance, she was a beauty. All three of the women were beautiful. The two snuggling in the chair as different as night and day, in more ways than race.
And then there were the two gentlemen. One definitely gay. One possibly bisexual. Both incredibly handsome. They’d be perfect for each other.
“My Da had his eye on the property across the street for a few years. There was no point in buying a crumbling building on a dead street. When Austin got the curator job, we watched the real estate listings for the place. They did a great job of restoring the building. Mostly. There are still some issues.”
“Like the heat doesn’t work upstairs and the water heater is always broken,” Austin chimed in, eyeing the bottle of wine Jemma left sitting on the coffee table in front of him. He looked up to Rory, who sighed and shrugged.
“One glass, and then you eat. No more passing out.”
“Yes, Dad.”
Rory sighed again. And shook his head. There was some tension between them, Heath noted.
“Anyway, I wanted the chance to show my father, I was ready to take over. So, we bought the old bar. So far, it’s been smooth sailing. Don’t expect it to stay smooth. Going to have the big grand-opening week starting tomorrow night. If the weather clears. We’ll see how it goes after the new wears off.”
“And you expect the new to wear off?” Heath’s interest in the conversation finally piqued. “We did extensive market research. This area was prime for restoration. The city has grown substantially around this area in the past decade. It’s between two colleges, both private and progressive. There are new subdivisions on the outskirts that are closer to this area than to the city. Test markets—”
“Test markets haven’t run an Irish pub for more than a hundred years.” Rory cut him off. “Right now, this market is very viable, but it’s also very niche. There aren’t enough businesses nearby to support small family-owned establishments this far from the city center. And, unfortunately, people prefer the familiar. They’ll go to that Starbucks or McDonalds for coffee before they drive out here. The surrounding community will only come in for so many pints before they go back to drinking Bud Light in their underwear. That’s how business is. This place is new. And beautiful. But there’s nothing to hold the interest of the locals once the new wears off. And don’t say some old mansion full of old furniture is well off the beaten tourist path in a city that doesn’t see much tourism as it is. There’s nothing here but locals to support the businesses on this street. And if you want my opinion, you’d have been better off turning the house into a B&B than a museum. You’d make more money. Maybe put the val
uable stuff in a museum wing and—” Something started beeping in the kitchen, ending the bartender’s rant. “Excuse me, I need to check dinner.”
Austin leaned back on the sofa, his eyes closed, his face pale. He held the cold wine bottle to his head. “He’s right. Hate to say it. I mean, I’m grateful for the job. But… once we place everything, that will be the end. There’s not much of an interest in old houses anymore. Especially old houses of people no one has ever heard of. And before you get upset, Mr. Cortlandt, even though your family helped found the city, it’s not that newsworthy. A bed-and-breakfast, with a museum wing, gift shop, and the tea room would bring more interest. Maybe open the ballroom up for weddings and stuff like that. Bring people here. To stay here. To spend their money in the shops that are here. Eat their meals here. Then go back to where they came from.”
The women watched the discussion with great interest. Heath’s gaze landing on Jemma, waiting for her to insert her two cents.
“Don’t look at me, I’m still just a grad student… but I have a business degree. And… yeah, unfortunately, I have to agree. It’s not like this is the Lizzy Borden house. Or the Winchester mansion. It’s some southern mansion with some southern furnishings and pictures of people who died a long time ago. There’s not even a ghost to make a good human-interest story,” Jemma said, and Austin snorted, then choked. He sat up quickly, trying to catch his breath. His gaze darting to the bartender in the kitchen whose shoulders stiffened.
“Are you okay, Austin?” Donna fixed her gaze on him, an eyebrow raised in curiosity.
“Swallowed wrong. My head is starting to ache. It’s too warm in here. Pick one.” He answered as soon as he could speak. His voice tight. And not from coughing.
“Yeah, sure, I guess. But… has anyone else had the feeling they’re being watched? Not in the house. Out here in the…” Donna looked at the rafters of what used to be part of the servant’s domain. “Slave quarters.”
“The Cortlandt family never owned slaves.” Heath tried not to sound offended. And he tried not to offend, but… “They came to the area after the war, and hired the Irish immigrants that came from Savannah looking for a better life.”
“In the south, we call those people carpetbaggers… and, honestly, that’s not much better, considering how the Irish were treated.” The bartender joined them again, his wine glass replaced with an amber long neck bottle.
“Still, the Irish were not slaves.” Donna glared in Rory’s direction, tension bubbling in the air.
“I didn’t say they were. I said not much different. The English had centuries of hate for my people, long before this land was colonized. They made comfortable lives off the backs of our respective peoples. One way or another. This place out here has Irish blood as its foundation. Just sayin’. Go one plantation over for African. Still not the better life any of us were looking for. Escaping one tyrant for another.”
“And on that note.” Jemma jumped out of her chair and pulled the journal out of Austin’s embrace. “You, Mr. Cortlandt, are the absolute spitting image of the young man in the photographs we’ve been hanging the past few days. And that is damned unnerving.”
Heath noted the tension between the intern and the bartender. His fault, he’d started the conversation and let it get out of hand. Austin seemed distant, as if he was trying to stay out of what was probably an old argument. Or maybe he wasn’t feeling well… the temperature around the sofa seemed to plunge as the color drained from Austin’s face. He sat up quickly and took off his glasses, blinking rapidly, he rubbed his eyes.
“What is it?” Ever attuned to the friend he claimed was just a friend, Rory lurched to his feet, concern in his voice.
Austin stood up quickly, grabbing the bartender’s hand for balance. He looked back at the space he was occupying, his eyes going round with alarm… almost as if he saw something that scared him. Heath followed his gaze to the arm of the chair. Where he could have sworn, he saw—
“Nothing,” Austin said quickly, too quickly. “Just… almost fell asleep and got a little dizzy. I need food. And I shouldn’t have drunk wine on an empty stomach. That’s all. Probably the pain meds. Just… let’s move to the table or something.”
He lied. Heath could smell his fear. It was palpable. And… infectious.
Heath could have sworn he heard a horse whinny.
“I agree. Shall we all move into the dining room?” Heath blinked as the smoky blur surrounding Austin’s chair, dissipated. Pretending he wasn’t letting Austin’s fear influence him, Heath rose and stretched. “Too much time sitting. I might fall asleep.”
“Still doesn’t explain why I saw a full team of ghost horses the other night,” Donna said, blinking as if she too had seen the… he wouldn’t say ghost… hovering around Austin just before the temperature plunged.
“Oh, god, thank you, I thought I was going crazy,” Britney said, her voice shrill. Heath couldn’t tell if it was from excitement or fear. “I walked outside last night and straight into a man leading a horse past our room. I said excuse me and everything. And he just disappeared.”
Britney detached herself from Donna and bounced around like she had the energy of six kittens. “We need cards. Or Monopoly. Or… we could play Charades. Has anyone ever played Charades? I’ve always wanted to play Charades.”
Jemma was the last to stand. She didn’t look at the corner of the sofa. Her gaze was fixed on the curator and the bartender whispering in the kitchen.
Austin wrapped his arms around the taller man’s neck and leaned into him, shivering in his arms. The bartender stroked the back of his head and whispered calming words as he rocked his friend… loverlike.
Jemma’s eyes lost their sparkle. She looked up at Heath as she passed him. “Ever played Texas Hold ‘em?”
“I don’t believe that I have,” he replied tearing his gaze from the lovers who protested too much. “You’ll have to teach me.”
“My pleasure. Austin, where do you keep the poker chips?”
Austin stepped away from the bartender as if he’d been caught making out by his parents. “In the cupboard on the TV console, there are several decks of cards and some games. I have no idea why. They were there when I moved in. Help yourself.”
The bartender dropped his arms, the look on his face almost sorrowful. He wanted what he could never have. The glance he shot Heath before he turned his attention to the oven spoke volumes.
And the bartender blamed—
Heath.
Chapter Nineteen
May 1917
The girl is quick again. Two miscarriages since the stillborn. I hold out little hope of this one making more than another month. I have taken to preparing her a special tea that will strengthen her womb. She doesn’t vomit as much with this one as she has in the past. If all goes according to plan, we will have a Christmas child. Her parents will attend the birthing of this one. They have written to inform us of their plans to join us for the holiday season.
If HC would only allow one of those talking hellophones into the house, we could dispense with letters and be done with it all. I’m sure the cost would not be as substantial as he believes. But that is an argument for another day.
The nephew did not take the news of impending fatherhood well this time. That is not to say that he has ever taken the news well. This time, though, there was a murderous rage in his eyes.
He spends too much time across the lane in that publican house that dared defile our lives. HC did not even try to block its conception. I think he aided the builders and suggested the location. Just a short jaunt from the portico under cover of night and back again with no one in the household being any the wiser.
Nephew has taken to foregoing grooming. He sometimes resembles the ragamuffins who traipse up and down our lane day and night. But without fail, he is up with the sunrise to ride the trolley to the mill and back at sunset. He does not stay beyond supper. I believe he is sleeping in the old groom’s quarters in the stable.
HC travels to Atlanta in July to secure the details of her betrothal. The boy is lovely. A graduate of Emory Law. Very polite. And I am told he will curb her rebellious nature. We shall see.
The child, Ruth, cut her hair to the root. I have given up claiming the child as our own. I’ve let her sleep in the yard as is her wont. I feel no remorse. The nephew takes her into the stables when it’s cold. She seems happy there.
He does not occupy the same room as I since our falling out at his wife’s bedside in January. The accusations he hurled were those of a man demented.
~
On the seventh day of Christmas…
The MRI came back fine.
All of Austin’s marbles were where they belonged in his head. He should be fine. The constant headache seemed more stress-related now than from the lingering effects of the concussion. His arm had stopped hurting as much unless he banged the cast on something. His bruises were all but healed.
Yet he still had bouts of blurred vision. Usually in his apartment. And sometimes in the courtyard between the apartments and the main house.
Austin scratched his forehead with the edge of his cast. The dull ache behind his eyes subsiding as he read.
“What was the name of the second Heathcliff Cortlandt’s wife?” He flipped back through the journal, hoping the mysterious author would have mentioned it somewhere. She only mentioned the nephew by name once, in the very first entry in 1912.
Jemma sat across from him at the worktable going through a family photo album. “I have no idea. She isn’t mentioned often.”