WITH BEAU by his side, Philip tackled the mess room by room. The damage was concentrated in the living room. Elsewhere the vandal—or vandals—had tossed things about, making a mess without breaking much of anything. As far as he could tell, nothing was missing.
While cleaning up the destroyed Christmas tree, he found a wrapped box amid the broken bulbs and shattered ornaments with a tag: “To Philip, From James.” He stared at the gift, unsure what he should do. He and James would have opened presents together hours earlier, first thing Christmas morning.
He removed the silver bow and lifted the tape, being careful not to rip the shiny red paper as he unwrapped the box. The green velvet case contained a gold bracelet. He slipped it onto his wrist and struggled for a moment to fasten the clasp. He liked the weight of the thick links, but wondered which way his name, engraved on a curved plate in Old English letters, should face.
The gift was a replacement for a beautiful tennis bracelet James had given Philip early in their relationship. Two years earlier, it vanished. Philip had no idea how he’d lost it. He’d turned the apartment upside down four times in as many days before telling James the bracelet was gone. It must have fallen off on the bus on the way to work. Rather than the lambasting he’d expected, James had blamed himself and apologized for failing to have the bracelet engraved.
Philip vowed to hang on to this one.
Not for the first time, Philip wondered how James had found the money to buy such expensive jewelry. His tastes leaned toward the extravagant. The gorgeous clothes and accessories James found for the two of them at the thrift stores and yard sales he frequented while Philip was at work amazed him. Yes, James had been thrifty, but jewelry like the bracelet on his arm hadn’t come cheap.
“Is this James?”
Philip glanced at the frame in Beau’s hand. “Yes, that’s his senior picture.” He thought back to how proud James had been to graduate on time, despite having missed most of his junior year.
“Very handsome, with more than a striking resemblance to this guy I know—name’s Rudy.” He looked at Philip as if waiting for a reaction.
“Oh?” Philip hardly knew how to respond. Beau still made him uneasy, but he’d grown a bit more comfortable around him. Talking about James with him, however, was awkward.
“They say everyone has a twin.” Beau studied the picture. “His eyes are like limpid pools.”
Limpid pools? Philip bit back a groan.
They carried out armloads of trash and raided the cast-off furniture in the basement of the old building to replace the bookcase, a coffee table, and several lamps the vandals had damaged beyond repair. In a matter of hours, they had developed and launched a plan. The concept combined Beau’s salvage genius and creativity with Philip’s manual labor. His unease had abated, and he was grateful for Beau’s company and all his help.
“We’ll use the paint we found under the stairs to spruce up the walls and this old furniture,” Beau explained. “Instead of looking like a set from Ozzie and Harriet, the color will give the place a groovy, modern vibe.” He walked around the apartment as he talked, running his hand over the walls here, bending down to inspect a piece of furniture there. “There isn’t enough in any can for an entire room, so we’ll paint every wall a different color for an edgy, high-energy vibe, and paint the furniture the same way.”
Beau’s plan included a memorial to honor Philip’s years with James, but would make the apartment Philip’s more than had been possible when James was alive. Or at least, that’s what Beau had said. Philip wasn’t sure why they couldn’t just buy more paint, and wondered if the plan suited him, but agreed the multihued scheme would be a change.
They’d made a lot of progress, working until almost two in the morning, when Philip finally convinced Beau to go home to his own apartment to get some rest. Beau lingered at the door, waiting for a moment—like he wanted a kiss. Philip thought he must have been mistaken. No one was that insensitive. And with his accent, the man was from the South. Good manners went without saying.
“I’d be happy to come back tomorrow… if you like,” he drawled. “You know, to help you finish cleaning things up.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Philip said. “You’ve done so much. I couldn’t possibly impose on you more than I already have.”
“Nonsense,” Beau said, shooting him one of his million-dollar smiles.
His willingness to spend a good part of Christmas Day with Philip suggested he had no place else to go. His expectant demeanor confirmed Philip’s suspicions. Nobody should be alone over the holidays. And Beau had come to his rescue—or he might still be lying in the snow. Philip relented. “If you insist, I could certainly use the help.”
Beau’s face lit up. “Great! I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Philip continued working until exhaustion forced him to lie down. But sleep evaded him, and after an hour of tossing and turning, he got up to get more work done.
Reinvigorated by a shower, Philip stood with his arms folded across his chest in nothing but his navy corduroy robe. Three coats of bright green paint on the desecrated wall had transformed the living room. The night before, he’d told Beau the color was too dark. Daylight changed his mind. Free of the purple velvet curtains James had adored, sun streamed through windows he’d never even noticed. The light made Philip want to try houseplants again.
He filled the Pyrex percolator with water and coffee, then set it on a gas burner turned to high. He retrieved the Washington Post from outside his apartment door and went to place the folded Lifestyle section on the placemat in front of where James sat each morning, drinking coffee and working the daily crossword puzzle, when he remembered. James wouldn’t be reading the Post this morning.
Dropping the paper on the table, he sat down hard and stared at the coffee pot as it gurgled and hissed on the stove. He’d made enough coffee for the two of them. Accepting James’s death still left him unprepared for his absence. The empty chair across the table drew his attention. How many hours had the two of them sat across from each other, drinking coffee and talking?
He’d have to ask James.
He sighed. How long would he keep thinking of things to tell James? He’d miss sharing what he was up to or things that interested him with his best friend. Philip tried to recall their last conversation. If only he’d known. So many things he’d have been sure to say. What had they talked about?
Not the meeting with his father. They’d covered that territory from top to bottom the night before. Regret washed over him. If he’d insisted on going with James, or resisted the temptation to buy radios for the boys, or waited until Christmas to drop them off at the shelter….
If only he’d known….
But he hadn’t known. Mary was right. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.
He and James had talked at breakfast about their plans to spend Christmas Day at Mary’s home in Silver Spring. James loved Thad as much as Philip did, and he had been at least as excited as Philip about witnessing the joy of Christmas through the child’s eyes.
Had Philip told James he loved him? Yes, he thought he had, as he assured him the suit he’d put on to wear for the meeting with his father didn’t make him look fat. Like anything could. His dancing dreams made him fear gaining weight more than nearly anything.
Did James believe Philip loved him? He wasn’t sure. If James had known, he wouldn’t have wanted to kill himself. They were in this together—a team—and together they could overcome any obstacle.
Or so he’d always believed. Now he wasn’t so sure. How well had he really known James? How well had James known him? How well does anyone ever really know another person?
Philip went over their morning together in his mind, trying to recall that last conversation. After turning off the stove, he poured milk into a mug, added sugar, and filled it with coffee. When he got up for a second cup, he remembered.
Philip had been about to leave for his last-minute shopping when James kissed him
on the cheek. With his arms looped around Philip’s neck, he announced that he had a question. Philip returned the embrace and gave James his full attention, gazing into sad brown eyes that always reminded him of Judy Garland when she sang “Over the Rainbow.”
“If something happened to me, could you ever love again?”
“Probably not.” Philip had kissed James’s forehead. “Who on earth could possibly replace you?”
James nodded, searching the ceiling as he absorbed that new piece of information. He studied Philip’s face, his eyes intense. “Could you ever forget me?”
“Forget you? Of course not.” Philip pulled him closer, but James resisted.
“But you could… if you wanted to… if you had to… you could forget me?” Enormous brown eyes implored him.
Philip had been amused. “Yes, James, if I really, really tried, maybe after enough time had passed, I could forget you.”
“Good,” he’d said with another nod.
At the time, Philip chalked it up to James being James. They’d had similar discussions hundreds of times before. No red flag there.
Or at least that’s what he’d thought two days ago.
He’d been wrong. The note he found on the floor by his desk when he and Beau were cleaning up contained James’s last words, intended just for Philip.
“Forget Me.”
He returned the crumpled note to his pocket, vowing not to look at it again. Though it was his last wish, Philip could never forget the time he’d shared with James Walker. They’d had five wonderful years together. He loved him and always would.
Three sharp raps on the door interrupted his thoughts. Philip walked to the living room. Pulling his robe closed, he tied the sash before opening the door.
Two men stood in the hall. The older of the two wore a tailored European suit and was maybe ten years older than Philip. Heavy gold cufflinks with button-sized diamonds peeked out from the sleeves. He seemed important—they both did. Philip couldn’t imagine who they were or what they wanted.
“Are you Philip Potter?” The question came from the second man, who was taller and younger—a real head-turner, about Philip’s age. He appeared to be successful as well, but in a more understated and reserved way.
Philip nodded. “Yes. Can I help you?”
“I’m George Walker,” the taller man said, his voice kind. “This is my brother, Roland. We’d like to talk with you about James.”
Chapter Seven
HAROLD CLARKSON sat at the table and poked at his breakfast, still brooding about the hideous clothes he’d found under the Christmas tree the day before. Not that he’d expected anything different. Year after disappointing year, Santa had ignored Harold’s whispered requests and pleading letters. Rather than the Barbie he’d wanted, Santa had brought a G.I. Joe with nothing but ugly uniforms to wear. Instead of an Easy-Bake Oven, he got a Creepy Crawler set and a scar on his hand where he’d burned himself pulling a multicolored spider from the mold.
As bad as Santa had been about selecting gifts for him, his parents were worse. They had no idea how to buy clothes for a thirteen-year-old with panache and a sense of style. For his always fabulously dressed mother to have such bad taste when it came to shopping for him made no sense—especially after her positive comments when he’d shown her the few wearable ready-made garments he’d found in the Sears catalog. Harold suspected Poppa was responsible for his disappointing holiday haul. Again.
“Ivy,” his mom said to Harold’s brother, “drink your milk and then go brush your teeth. Poppa is dropping us off downtown so we can return that Christmas sweater you don’t like, even though I think it’s perfectly adorable on you.”
Harold tried not to laugh. The garish sweater featured a snowman embellished with black pompom eyes, a bright orange pompom nose, a trio of red pompom buttons down the snowman’s chest, and a background of trees filled with brown pompom pinecones. His seventeen-year-old brother thought the knitted monstrosity too ugly to wear, and that was saying something.
Calling him Ivy was funny too. His brother’s real name was Simon Peter Clarkson IV. But unless Poppa was around, everybody called him Pete. Harold had learned a long time ago that calling him Ivy or the Fourth around his friends was asking for trouble he didn’t want.
Harold was named after his mother, Harriet, and had always been her favorite. He watched as she moved around the kitchen and wondered for the umpteenth time how she’d ended up with the Third. Sure, he was handsome—like a clean-cut, blue-eyed version of those cowboys in the cigarette ads. But Poppa would never mess up his wavy brown hair with a ten-gallon hat, any more than he’d cover the dimples at the corners of his mouth and on his chin with a bandana.
“Tripp, can I warm up your coffee for you?”
Harold’s father lowered the Washington Post he read at the table every morning and evening and nodded. “Thanks, gorgeous.” Nobody called Simon Peter Clarkson III anything but Tripp. When addressed by his first or middle name, or even Mr. Clarkson, he’d say, “Call me Tripp,” and add, “the third time is the charm” or “three times lucky” or something else about the number three that had nothing at all to do with being the Third.
Harold had never met or even seen pictures of the First or the Second Simon Peter Clarkson. They’d died in the Deep South—Alabama, to be exact—in some little town Harold had no desire to visit. He couldn’t remember living anywhere but Chevy Chase, which he’d be happy to leave for any place that wasn’t Alabama or Washington, DC.
His mom filled Poppa’s cup with coffee and scanned the breakfast table for anything else that might require her attention. “Harold, finish your eggs, please. We’ve got a busy morning ahead of us.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He speared a piece of toast with his fork and dragged it through the yolk of his over-easy egg. Except for a few times when he’d been sick and she’d come to check on him in the middle of the night with cold cream on her face and toilet paper wrapped around her bouffant, he’d never seen her without full hair and makeup. She was ready for the red carpet, like a movie star, all the time.
Harold dreamed of a faraway land where nobody teased him for wanting to be beautiful like her. She’d caught him playing in her makeup drawer enough to have locked it up years ago in an overnight bag she kept on the top shelf of her closet. A twisted bobby pin granted access whenever he needed to cover up a zit or dark circles under his eyes. He longed to wear her teal eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, and every single garment in her underwear drawer, but he didn’t have the nerve. Poppa had mentioned a special summer camp to toughen him up. Harold imagined two weeks of brutal calisthenics in a horrid uniform, peppered with Bible verses to memorize and topped off with bad food. No telling what Poppa would do if he caught Harold admiring her girdles, garter belts, lacy bras, delicate panties, and silky hose that were lighter than air in his hands.
“Harold, have you decided if you want to exchange those pants?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The second he saw them. The color was bad enough, if one considered navy blue a color. Better than brown, gray, or black. And that, ladies and gentlemen, completed the color palette for men until Memorial Day, when the very daring might pull out a white linen suit. Anyone could see the boxy cut of the slacks was wrong for his lean frame. Never mind the polyester.
“Where are they?” Her heels clicked on the linoleum as she returned the milk to the refrigerator.
“In my closet.” With the rest of the shapeless, boring clothes she’d bought for him. Why did clothes for guys have to be so drab and ugly?
“Why on earth did you put them in your closet? Run to your room right now and get them. I hope you didn’t remove any tags.”
“No ma’am. I didn’t.” He grabbed a piece of toast and bolted from the table.
HAROLD FOUND a morose Pete in the room they shared, sitting on his bed with his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and the atrocious sweater wadded up beside him. Being Poppa’s favorite was more of a burden than
a reward. Pete studied hard, made good grades, played sports at school, and was popular with his classmates. But none of that was enough for Poppa. Harold didn’t envy him.
“What’s wrong?” He sat on his bed and faced his older brother.
Pete avoided making eye contact. “Poppa.”
“What did he do?”
Pete watched the toes of his shoes knocking together. “Nothing really. He was in the bathroom when I got out of the shower. Same thing he’s done once in a while for years, only now he’s there almost every day—and he’s different. He doesn’t even pretend like he needs something out of the medicine cabinet. He stands there, watching me towel off, with this weird expression on his face.”
Harold retrieved the ugly pants from the closet. He knew the look Pete was talking about, but he had never seen Poppa direct it his way. His mother didn’t warrant that kind of attention either. The admiring stare was reserved for Pete and other attractive men—like the mechanic who tended Poppa’s fancy yellow Continental.
“Come on, boys!” Harriet called down the hall. “Your father is already in the car.”
Harold felt sorry for Pete but didn’t know what to say. “Come on. You know the Third doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Chapter Eight
ROLAND WALKER, the flashier-dressed of the two men at Philip’s door, pushed past George and Philip into the apartment. He stopped in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, glaring around him in disgust. “I thought you fairies were supposed to be good decorators.”
Philip’s face grew hot. His hands trembled as his annoyance raced past miffed, ticked, and angry to something beyond furious. “Did you just call me a fairy?”
The man’s hands fell from his hips, fingers twitching. “Yeah. I did. You’re the one that made my son queer, aren’t you?”
He saw the resemblance. Roland shared James’s eyes and nose, and he had obviously inspired his son’s flamboyant sense of style. The likeness made Philip even madder. “After kicking him out, ignoring him for years, and destroying his dreams, now you want to call James your son? You’re a pathetic excuse for a father.”
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