by Cat Grant
"And now I can't wait to get back in the sack with him?” she retorted. “Well, since you've asked so nicely, I guess it's time for some brutal honesty. I enjoyed fucking Nick the other day. I'd forgotten how good it could be between us. And frankly, after all the crap you've put me through lately, I think I deserved the attention. So get over it. You cheated on me with him practically from day one of our marriage, and I forgave you. So if you can't find it in that Grinch-sized heart of yours to do the same for me, maybe we shouldn't be married."
He didn't say anything, just stared at the books on the table, a stunned expression on his face. At last he looked up, gesturing for her to come sit next to him.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about last weekend,” he said softly. “I had no idea it would upset you so much, which I know is an incredibly inadequate excuse, but...” He paused, forcing a rueful smile. “Someone's pointed out to me recently that I've become far too self-absorbed for my own good, or anyone else's—for which I fully intend to make amends, if you'll let me."
Now it was her turn to be stunned. My God, she thought, he apologized. He actually apologized! She pinched herself and she still didn't believe it. “O-Of all the things you could've said, I never expected that."
"So you don't think I'm capable of admitting my mistakes?"
"Eric, I knew what you were like when I married you. I've never expected you to change just for me."
"What better incentive could I have?” he replied. “Look, I know I've never talked much about my family, mostly because I'd prefer to forget the first twenty-odd years of my life. I didn't have a particularly happy childhood.” He took another sip of his drink before continuing. “When I was twelve years old, my mother discovered she had a rare heart ailment. Her doctors claimed the condition was treatable, but as soon as she heard the news, she went into an emotional tailspin. And of course, my father couldn't tear himself away from his mistress and his latest corporate merger to be there when she needed him. So she simply gave up. A year and a half later, she was gone."
Ally swallowed hard, unable to think of anything to say other than she was sorry, and that just seemed so inane and inadequate. God, how it hurt, hearing the pain in Eric's voice, realizing that he'd kept this from her for all these years out of fear of appearing weak in her eyes. At this precise moment, she knew she'd never loved him more.
"At the funeral, I met some of her relatives and old friends, people who'd known her long before she'd married my father.” His voice had taken on a deeper, more melancholy tone. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, encouraging him to go on. “When they told me about this bright, vivacious woman full of laughter, I didn't know who they were talking about at first. The woman I remember rarely smiled and spent hours alone in her room. Once she found out about her illness, she didn't even bother getting out of bed most mornings. My father's infidelities and neglect broke her heart and crushed her spirit, and I'm convinced that's ultimately what killed her. I could never live with myself if I did that to you."
"I-I don't think you ever could."
"Well, you obviously have more faith in me than I have in myself,” he replied. “I suppose I've behaved so abominably because I couldn't bring myself to choose between you and Nick. I never thought I'd find one person I'd want to spend the rest of my life with, much less two. Believe me, I never intended to make you feel like second choice. And I hope you'll give me the chance to prove how much I mean that."
She looked at him for a very long time, still stunned, trying to absorb it all. He'd never opened up to her like this before. In his own roundabout way, he'd just admitted that he loved her. “I've got a feeling there's a few demons down in hell lobbing snowballs at each other right about now,” she said with a smile.
He kissed her with infinite tenderness, then picked up one of the books from the coffee table and started reading. Leaning her head upon his shoulder, she wrapped an arm around his waist and followed along. She'd never put much stock in miracles, but the last few minutes had gone a long way toward making her a true believer.
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Chapter 4
Eric won the election by a landslide. Of course, Ally knew he would. When Eric put his mind to something, the concept of failure never entered the equation. Standing beside him while he gave his victory speech, she gazed out over the cheering crowd, beaming with pride.
Nick greeted them at the door when they got home, his own eyes bright with his own excitement. Throwing his arms around both of them, he steered them into the living room, where he had a bottle of champagne on ice. They drank a toast and sank gratefully onto the couch with Nick curled on the floor in between them, resting his head on Eric's knee.
"I think I'm even more excited than you are,” Nick said, holding up one hand. “See? I chewed my nails to the bone every time they updated the tally."
Eric laughed. “Well, as delighted as I am with the final results, I'm even happier that the campaign's over. Of course, now comes the hard work of actually doing the job."
"And juggling the logistics of how to spend time with each other,” Ally added.
"Look, I understand if you don't want me to visit you in Washington,” Nick murmured. “I mean, I'm assuming you'll come home once every month or so, right?"
"Of course I want you to visit,” Eric insisted. “We'll just have to be discreet about it. In fact, I thought the two of you could trade off visits every other weekend."
Ally smiled. “Sounds good to me."
"Actually, it sounds like you'll be pretty lonely,” Nick pointed out.
"Something tells me I won't have much time to dwell on that. But don't worry—we'll figure it all out, I promise.” Smiling, he glanced at both of them in turn. “You have my word on that."
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Chapter 5
One Year, Three Lives: Winter
Nick awoke to cold, pale winter light poking through the curtains of his old bedroom. He stretched, yawned and rolled out of bed, then padded to the window to peer outside, discovering the ground blanketed with fresh snow. Throwing on some old clothes, he tramped downstairs to the kitchen, where his father had just beaten him to the first fresh cup of coffee out of the percolator.
"What's a city slicker like you doing out of bed at this hour?” he queried with a playful grin, taking a sip from his favorite mug, an old, chipped thing with brown cows painted on it. Nick had made it for him in third grade.
"Hey, I'll have you know I get up at five every morning!” Nick retorted, grabbing his heavy jacket from a peg by the back door. “You and Mom trained me well."
"Evidently. But where d'you think you're going?"
"Since I'm up, I thought I'd do the morning milking."
"No need, I'll take care of it. You go on back to bed.” He reached for his own jacket, brow knitting in consternation when Nick refused to step out of his way. “Your mother and I didn't invite you here just to hit you up for free labor."
Nick laughed. “C'mon, Dad, I've been doing the milking on my own since I was twelve. Go enjoy your coffee and your paper, and tell Mom I'll be back in time for breakfast."
His father grunted, pushing his glasses up from the end of his nose. “Your old dad's not completely decrepit yet, you know."
"Consider it a Christmas gift,” Nick said, ducking out the back door before he could voice another protest.
The sun hung in the winter sky like a giant, hazy eyeball when he came back up the kitchen stairs, stamping his feet to dislodge the ice congealing on the soles of his work boots. He found his mother bustling about in the kitchen, the air filled with the mouth-watering odors of roasting turkey and sausages sizzling in a huge cast-iron skillet.
"Well, finally!” She glanced up from mixing a bowl of pancake batter, liberally dotted with Nick's favorite blueberries. “I was getting ready to send your father out to fetch you."
"I would've been done sooner, but the milking machine gave me all kinds of trouble. And the stalls looked lik
e they hadn't seen the sharp end of a pitchfork in days. If that's the kind of crappy job your part-time guy does, Dad should fire him."
"Oh, Frank took this week off. Went to spend Christmas with his mother in Buffalo."
"I wish you'd called me. I could've come down a couple days earlier and helped out."
"A dirty barn's nothing to get in a twist about. We'll cope, Nick. We always have.” Ladling batter into another skillet, she added, “Why don't you go fetch your father? Everything's almost ready here."
He didn't need to ask where Dad was—the TV blaring out the college football game led Nick to the living room like a siren song. He couldn't figure out how his father managed to sleep through it, but there he sat, mouth hanging half open, snoring loud enough to drown out the announcer. He came awake with a sharp intake of breath at Nick's gentle shaking of his shoulder, his eyes momentarily blurred with disorientation.
Mom had gone whole-hog on breakfast today, like she always did on Christmas, with scrambled eggs and some rather pricey French roast coffee in addition to the pancakes and sausage. Of course, Nick had two helpings of everything—and Dad wasn't that far behind him, though Nick couldn't help noticing that he'd taken much smaller portions than usual and spent more time thumbing through the sports section than eating. He wore thicker reading glasses now than the ones Nick remembered from the previous summer, and his hair had far more salt in it than pepper. Damn. He really did need to try and get home more often.
Afterwards, Dad retreated back to the living room while Nick cleared the table, taking the opportunity to sneak a peek inside the refrigerator. “You made candied yams and the red-and-green ribbon Jello!” he cried, giddy as a five-year-old.
"Of course I did! I know they're your favorites.” She dimpled. “Now would you mind setting the table for me? Eric and Allison should be here in a little while."
He fetched the extra leaves for the kitchen table from the hall closet and put them in before spreading out the Christmas tablecloth with pretty embroidered holly leaves around the edges. He remembered her sewing it back when he was about seven or so. Of course, he'd spilled cranberry sauce on it the first time they'd used it and he could still see a faint stain, scrubbed out and worn away by time. He let his fingers brush over it lovingly.
Six place settings this year—the three of them, as well as Eric, Ally, and Ally's widowed father Gabe. Up until about a week ago, Eric and Ally had planned to stay in Manhattan for the holidays, but she'd managed to convince him that a quiet Christmas in the country would prove infinitely more relaxing, especially before heading off to the wilds of Washington come January. Nick was happy to have them staying nearby at the house Eric had grown up in, across the lake from their Seneca Falls farm.
Finished with the task at hand, Nick joined his father for the last half of one game and the first few minutes of the next, before an idle swipe of his hand across his face reminded him he hadn't showered or shaved yet. Marching upstairs, he shed his work clothes and hopped under the warm spray, rinsing off the persistent scent of perspiration and cow. He'd just finished dragging a razor over his face when he heard a pair of familiar voices drifting up from the kitchen. Yanking on some clean jeans and a comfy red flannel shirt, he bolted back downstairs.
Eric's eyes caught his, flashing with a special soft, muted fire reserved for public occasions such as these. Nick took the case of wine he'd brought and set it on the center island, then gave him as long a hug as he dared with his mother in the same room with them. Unfortunately, even that brief a contact, coupled with the spicy scent of Eric's cologne, left behind an all-too-familiar aftereffect, as Nick's jeans grew suddenly quite snug in the crotch.
Tugging down the tail of his shirt, he grabbed a huge bowl from Ally's arms. “What's this? You planning to poison us with your potato salad again?"
"It's a green salad with all the trimmings. And you should talk, Mr. Salmonella-Burgers!” she retorted, standing on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, you dope."
"Merry Christmas,” he whispered back with a smile, his gaze flicking from her to Eric and back again.
Eric and Gabe joined George in the living room, while Nick mashed the potatoes and Ally put the finishing touches on her salad. But when Nick went to call them in to dinner, he halted in the doorway, frozen to the spot by the sight of Eric sitting there next to his father, laughing and cheering on the winning team.
"Pinch me,” he murmured, doing exactly that—twice.
"What'd you say?” Ally wondered aloud, sidling up beside him.
"Eric's watching football. Or maybe I should say, Eric's enjoying watching football."
"Why are you so surprised? He sat through every single one of your games in college. And I ought to know, since he dragged me along with him."
"Yeah, but ... he's watching it with Dad."
"You know Eric's always liked your father."
"Yeah, but Dad's never reciprocated, especially since...” Dropping his voice, he took her arm, steering her into a quiet corner. “I never actually told my folks about Eric and me, but after all the nights I spent at the lake house back in college, it didn't take them long to figure it out. They were pretty damn disappointed that I didn't have the nerve to confide in them. So I swore I'd never keep anything from them again, but now..."
"Now you've got another secret.” She sighed. “Well, if it's any consolation, I doubt they can tell just by looking at us. And even if they could...” She gestured toward the living room. “Your folks love you, Nick. Maybe they didn't like your relationship with Eric at first, but they've obviously learned to accept it. Would it really be so bad if they knew about the three of us?"
Dinner went off without a hitch, and by the time everyone retired to the living room for pie and coffee, the butterflies in Nick's stomach had quieted their wild fluttering. Collecting the dessert plates, he carried them into the kitchen, where he found his mother and Ally finishing with the dishes, giggling like a pair of high school girls. He heaved a huge inward sigh, relieved that all his worrying had apparently come to nothing.
The sky outside had deepened to the color of charcoal when their guests shuffled out the door at last. Eric leaned in to give Nick a hug, whispering, “We'll see you later, all right?” Nick darted a quick glance at his parents, who were standing three feet away, and nodded.
He danced on pins and needles for the rest of the evening, waiting for his parents to go to bed. At last he threw on his jacket and slipped out the back door to his dad's beat-up old Ford truck. It took him twice as long as it usually did to make the ten-mile drive to the lake house, creeping over icy roads with the truck coughing and sputtering in the bitter cold.
Eric had left a key for him peeking out from under the doormat. Slipping quietly inside, Nick padded past the imposing original Picasso in the foyer down the hallway to the living room, where he found Eric lounging on the plush leather couch, a fire blazing in the fireplace, a snifter of cognac within easy reach on the nearby table. He sat up straight when he saw Nick approaching, shifting to offer him a place beside him.
Instead, Nick slid to the floor, shrugging out of his jacket, resting his head on Eric's knee. “Now I can finally relax,” he murmured, smiling dreamily at the feel of Eric's fingers threading through his hair. “Where's Ally?"
"She went straight to bed. I think she might have overindulged a bit on your mother's wonderful cooking."
"Yeah, well, we've both done that more than once."
Eric chuckled and picked up his snifter, swirling the brandy, taking a sip.
They sat together in lazy, companionable silence, until Eric got up and ambled over to the huge, gaily-decorated Christmas tree in the corner, scooping up a small square box tucked beneath it. “I know we agreed not to exchange gifts this year, but I wanted to get you something special."
Nick unwrapped the shiny silver paper with care, discovering a dark blue velvet keepsake box emblazoned with Tiffany's insignia. Nestled inside, he
found a ring—a simple, unadorned platinum band that fit perfectly upon his ring finger. Eric wore an identical one on his own left hand.
"There's an inscription too,” Eric pointed out.
And so there was—an E with an A and an N entwined on either side of it in a plain yet elegant filigree script, with the year engraved beneath the initials. “Eric...” he breathed, “I-I don't know what to say."
"Well, from the look on your face, I'm assuming you're pleased?"
"Completely stunned, more like! I wasn't expecting anything like this."
"I've given one to Allison as well. They've replaced our wedding bands."
Nick stared at him, fully aware that his mouth hung open like an idiot's. “Eric, you didn't need to do this, not for me."
"It's not just for you, it's for all three of us. Perhaps we can't marry legally, but in my heart I feel that we are married, and Allison's in complete agreement with me. I don't see anything wrong with us having a tangible reminder of our commitment to each other."
Nick didn't believe it possible for his own heart to burst with happiness, but when Eric bent to kiss him, deeply and thoroughly, it nearly did. Laughing, he pushed Eric back on the couch and started unbuttoning his shirt, kissing a hot, wet trail down his chest. He hesitated for a few tantalizing moments at Eric's belt before sliding down, ripping open Eric's fly and burying his face in crisp, springy ginger curls. He loved it all—the texture, the musky fragrance, the soft, helpless moan Eric always made when Nick took the tip of his cock between his lips for the first time. Nick lived for moments like these.
And as usual, it flew by far too quickly. He tried to make it last as long as he could, licking, sucking and slowing down, torturing Eric with ecstasy. But when he felt Eric's fingers winding urgently in his hair, and hot, salty-bitter cream spurting onto his tongue, he knew it was over. Another perfect moment gone forever, except for the memory of it, and that familiar old twinge of despair curling in the pit of his stomach.
He saw a light burning in the kitchen window as he tramped up the back porch stairs and found his mother sitting there at the table, sipping a cup of her favorite herbal tea, the morning paper spread out in front of her. “Couldn't sleep?” she asked, her tone the tiniest bit too bright.