by Clare London
“So, can I come in?”
Greg couldn’t really say no, could he? Well, he could, but he knew Perry’s look would tell him how bloody churlish that was. Perry followed him into the studio, his gaze taking in the large window Greg had built into the seaward wall, which let in so much fabulous light in the mornings.
“This is great! No wonder you love being in here.”
“Aye.” Greg looked around as well, although the place was already familiar to him. But he turned as Perry did, slowly and appreciatively. It was great, wasn’t it? A burst of unfamiliar pride washed over him. The conversion had been all his own work.
“Is this your latest picture?” Perry paused by Greg’s easel.
Greg never thought to cover his canvas when he stopped work. Why should he, when he was always on his own? But now he felt stupidly scared of Perry looking at it. Perry would judge its immaturity: he’d have seen real art, London gallery stuff, not broad-brush, generic sea scenes from an island where there were no trees and nothing but sheep and sea birds for foreground interest—
“It’s fabulous,” Perry breathed, transfixed.
It was of the loch again. These were the scenes Greg was asked for most often, and the ones that sold well. Buyers seemed to like the pathways sweeping through the peat bogs to the dunes and overhead the terns swooping low for pickings from the sea. They liked the wide, clear stretches of sea water, with the occasional boat bobbing in the distance and fronds of grass at the shore. Their imagination was piqued by the mist of the early morning over the heather and the purple indigo skies of the evening.
“You’re very talented,” Perry said softly.
Was he trying deliberately to embarrass Greg? “Dunno about that.”
“You’ve drawn the beauty of the loch so well. Awesome, but in perfect, mutual balance with the land.”
Greg blinked. Perry had a way of expressing exactly what he, Greg, was thinking himself… how could that be?
“I can smell the air,” Perry said more softly. “Dammit, I can feel the cold of the water!”
Greg smiled. “Bring back happy memories?”
Perry chuckled. “God, no, thanks. The reminder of my one dip is enough for me.”
He leaned slightly toward Greg, and for a shocked, marvelous moment, Greg was tempted to draw him in and kiss him again. There was a hint in Perry’s body language that encouraged Greg to think he wouldn’t mind: he might even welcome it. Do it. Do it! And then Perry took a step in the other direction, tilting his head to concentrate further on the painting, and Greg… well, he lost his bloody nerve.
“You’ve captured it wonderfully. You have a real empathy with beauty.”
Greg shrugged, angry with himself, with frustration, with embarrassment. “Well, even an ugly painter can recognize beauty in such a scene.”
Perry’s head snapped around to face him. “Why the hell did you say that?”
“Hey. Forget it.” Greg frowned and shook his head. It had been a stupid comment, he knew, though it was genuinely thought. But Perry’s anger startled him.
Perry turned back to the painting. He’d been relaxed, smiling at Greg, but now he looked hurt for some inexplicable reason. “Well, I’m off for a bath and bed.”
“Um. Okay.” Greg picked up his palette, unsure whether to continue. “Thanks for making supper. That chicken pie was great.”
“No problem.” Perry shrugged off the gratitude. “Thank you for the viewing. I appreciate it.” He glanced again at Greg and seemed about to speak. Then he shook his head rather sadly, took one last, long gaze at the painting, and backed almost apologetically out of the studio.
Chapter Seventeen
SATURDAY night would be Perry’s first proper introduction to other villagers. Or so Greg had explained to him, when they turned up at the village hall for the ceilidh. Perry had nodded, wisely keeping his mouth shut. Greg was in a half-bad mood already, obviously irritated at having been tricked into coming to this at all, conveniently forgetting it’d been his own idea. He’d also had to iron a shirt—Perry had insisted—and find clean jeans to wear.
Perry himself had chosen to wear a deep purple, fitted shirt and smart black trousers. It was one of the outfits that he’d brought with him, and he momentarily wondered if he’d look too weird among these country folk, but he felt good in it. He felt right: he felt like Perry. He was also relieved to be proved wrong, to find most people in the village hall had dressed smartly. They obviously used the event as an excuse to show off the slightest bit of finery. Maybe it wasn’t London fashion, but the selection of kilts, blouses, and flowing skirts was a splash of fabulous color against the drab walls.
The room was filled with people of all ages, though he understood the younger children were taken home before the heavy drinking started. Greg homed straight in on the bar and forged a clumsy path for them both across the room. Perry decided not to make a fuss and followed meekly in his wake. He was surprised at how many people nodded to them as they passed. When he realized they were actually greeting him, he glowed from inside.
Greg, however, looked more irritated than glowing. “You’ve been in and out of Bridie and Dougie’s shop all week,” he hissed. “You said it was to stock up on food for the cottage.”
“It was,” Perry murmured back. Amongst other things. He’d learned swiftly where the fount of all knowledge settled on this part of the island.
Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Not just to nose around and gossip?”
“What on earth do you think I’m like?” But Perry couldn’t help a small smile. “The people here are charming, Greg, and very welcoming.” Unlike some I could mention, he was about to add, but to be honest, things had moved on since then, hadn’t they? Greg was no longer the totally aggressive, rude bear he’d been when Perry arrived.
What a difference a few days made! As they reached the bar, Perry sneaked a quick look at Greg in his smartly pressed clothes and his hair combed into some kind of style, his tall frame imposing at Perry’s side, his eyes bright, his scowl unable to hide the fullness of his lips—
“What d’ye want?” Greg asked abruptly. The gathering obviously accentuated his adopted Scottish accent.
“A beer, if ye will,” Perry bantered back, making sure to roll his Rs in the country burr he’d heard all around him tonight.
Greg blinked twice. Maybe he wanted to laugh, but was still wedded to his irritation. The bartender rapped on the makeshift counter to get Greg’s attention. As usual, where drink was concerned, one of Angus’s sons was on duty. They’d just moved the pub from their back room to the village hall. Greg rummaged in his pocket for his wallet.
“It looks lovely,” Perry said.
“What? The beer?”
Perry rolled his eyes. “The hall, I mean. The lights up at the windows, and the pots of heather along the sills. It makes it very sociable, almost festive.”
Greg stared at him, while Angus’s son waited none too patiently for Greg’s payment.
“You didn’t notice, did you?” Perry sighed. “I know you were keen for your beer but I think you should pay more attention to village events. I know this isn’t exactly Stringfellows, but someone’s made an effort to make it fun.”
“And that, my wee bairn, will be me!” cried Bridie gleefully, appearing beside them. She was wearing a gloriously vivid red dress with a plunging neckline and, Perry assessed, a bra that was two sizes too small. She looked a little drunk already, and Lisa—in dungarees, no less, but at least they were in patterned fabric—hovered at her shoulder as if they were attached by a short chain. When she caught Bridie’s eye, they beamed at each other.
Well, well, well.
“It’s great,” Perry said and clinked his glass against Bridie’s in cheers. After he poked Greg in the ribs, Greg grudgingly did the same.
“You’ve got a busy dance card,” Bridie said with a smirk to Perry.
“I’m sorry?”
“Old Mally wants to tell you another war story he jus
t remembered—”
“Which I suspect is the same as the one he told me on Tuesday,” Perry said with a smile.
“Louisa says you’ve promised her a drink, though she shouldn’t drink anything too strong on her medication—”
Perry lifted a hand in greeting to an elderly lady in a vibrant lilac skirt suit on the other side of the bar. She started waddling over to them, hobbled by her presumably unfamiliar strappy shoes.
“—and all the McAllister children say you promised to dance with them.”
“Good God,” Greg muttered, and took another slurp of his beer. “Where and when did you meet all these people?”
“Just round and about,” Perry said airily.
“Come and meet Alasdair’s grandson,” Bridie continued, pointedly ignoring Greg. “He’s only over from Inverness for the weekend. I think he’d like to meet you!”
Perry didn’t have time to wonder what that meant, because Greg caught his wrist and brought him up short.
“Don’t be long,” Greg said abruptly, then flushed. “I mean, it’s your round next.”
Perry considered him for a moment, his smile growing wider. “A thirsty man waits for no one,” he said to Bridie with a rueful shrug.
“A Scottish proverb of your own?” She smirked back.
“I wouldnae dare,” he said in his best “Scottish” and grinned back. “But men are the same in London or Scotland, ye ken?”
She broke out into loud, dirty laughter and started to tug him away across the room. When Perry glanced back to the bar, he saw Greg staring after him, shaking his head in some despair.
Chapter Eighteen
BY the time Perry managed to grab another drink and a quiet moment, Greg had moved to a free spot on the perimeter of the hall where a man could put his beer glasses on the windowsill and then watch everyone else moving around. Perry sidled up and took the spot beside him, leaning back against the wall. He met Greg’s gaze and smiled in greeting. Greg just nodded, then turned his attention back to the room. He’d seemed to take a breath of relief, but Perry convinced himself he’d imagined it.
Against the opposite wall, a group of musicians were tuning up. There was an old man on the drums, two teenagers on acoustic guitars, a woman on a cello, and a child who looked no older than six with a violin. A man sat a couple of feet away from them with what Perry recognized as bagpipes. Heavens. The Brit Awards it was not. But as they launched into a light, lively tune, he felt his spirits rise. He even started tapping his foot.
“Finished with the fan club?” Greg said.
Perry bristled. “They’re friends, Greg. I like talking to everyone, there’s always something interesting to—”
Greg’s hand landed on his wrist. “Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I like them too. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It was just a joke.”
Perry smiled and nodded. The hand on his wrist stayed in place. Greg’s palm was warm, and Perry’s heartbeat was faster than usual. He gestured at a group of men in Highland dress at the bar. “Are they wearing the kilts for a bet?”
“Of course not. They’re entitled to wear one. They like to show it off at social events.”
Perry admired the way the skirt settled on a man’s hips, and the selection of long socks highlighted several fine pairs of calves. “Do you have one?” he asked Greg.
Greg gave a scornful bark. “No, my family’s not Scottish. Well, not for many generations.”
Another tantalizing clue to Greg’s background, Perry thought, filing it away mentally. “So you could be entitled to one?”
“Hell. I don’t know. I haven’t bothered looking.”
Good grief. Greg really was an uphill battle sometimes. “Aren’t there guest ones you can wear? Just for dressing up?”
Greg laughed at last. “Are you always on fashion duty?”
Perry allowed himself to lean closer to Greg. The smell of Greg’s body wash was very clear to him, despite the perfumes and other smells that filled the hall. It was reassuring in a very deep, and perhaps worrying way. “You’d look so good. Your legs are perfect for a kilt.”
“What the hell?” Greg stared at him, his face suddenly red.
“For God’s sake.” Perry didn’t think Greg was so easy to embarrass. “I saw you in the wet suit, remember? And in your boxers, that first night I arrived. And you’re not exactly discreet when you wander back and forth to the bathroom in the mornings.”
Greg had now gone a strange shade of purple somewhere between scarlet and lavender. Perry liked it. After all, it was satisfying to get payback for all the times he’d embarrassed Perry, intentionally or not. Perry took another gulp of his latest gin and tonic and nearly choked. Angus’s boys were heavy-handed on the spirits, he’d say that for them. Braced for it now, he took another drink. The dancing was just starting in the middle of the floor, and he was getting into the swing.
Over by the bar, a young man laughed too loudly, surrounded by a small group of young women. He looked in his early twenties, stocky and handsome, and as fit as a professional sportsman.
Greg looked between the young man and Perry. “You met him?”
Perry nodded. “Alasdair’s grandson? Yes. I saw the resemblance, of course.”
Greg shook his head ruefully. “Yes, of course you did. I mean, you must have met the reclusive Alasdair at least once since you arrived, and now you can immediately recognize all his relatives.”
Perry wrinkled his nose at Greg. “You’re just jealous.”
“Of what?”
“Of me meeting the gorgeous, gay grandson.” Pleased with his witty alliteration, he took another slurp of drink and leaned against the wall again. He almost misjudged it but covered up his stumble by guiding his hand behind him.
Greg’s drink seemed to catch in his throat. “Gay?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Yes, I did, but I didn’t think anyone else did.”
Perry looked at the way the young man moved, the way he put his arm on one girl’s shoulder, the way he chinked his glass of wine against another young man’s. “Oh definitely, I’d say.” At that very moment, the grandson’s eyes lifted and caught Perry’s gaze. And he winked.
Greg must have caught the wink too, because he snorted. “He’s been slavering over you ever since Bridie introduced you.”
“Slavering? You make him sound like Rory.”
They both laughed. Greg was silent for another moment, then said, “You could go and chat to him. Have a drink. Dammit, you could probably dance with him.”
Perry wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but the gin had souped up his courage, and he really liked standing here close to Greg, bantering away. “Dance? Here?”
“We’re not completely medieval, you know. Some of the old guys wouldn’t cope well, but no one’s going to burn you at the stake for gay practices nowadays.” Greg took a quick look at the other end of the bar where some of the elder statesmen of the village were frowning over at the grandson. “Well. Maybe some of them would.”
Perry peered at Greg over the top of his glass. “They know you’re gay? In the village, I mean?”
“I don’t advertise it. Bridie and Dougie know, of course.”
Perry suspected that meant that everyone on North Uist now did, but he wisely kept his counsel. “So the grandson… he’s not your type?”
Greg laughed, spraying a little beer into his beard. “God, no.”
“What is your type, then?” Perry asked mischievously.
Greg paused for a significant moment, then said, “I’m not talking about that now.”
“Seriously. I don’t mean to embarrass you, I just want to know. I mean, where do you go?”
“Go?”
“For God’s sake, Greg Ventura, talking to you is like trying to get blood out of a stone. I mean, when you want male company. Gay male company.” Perry lowered his voice and hissed, “Sex!” Beside him, a young married couple and their teenage daughter shifted a few feet fa
rther away, the daughter wide-eyed. Perry ignored them and continued. “I can’t believe you’ve gone without all these years. You’re a very passionate man. So what do you do?”
“Oh Christ,” Greg muttered. “If you must know, I go into Stornaway. Or over to the mainland now and then.” Greg was blinking really hard as if he didn’t want to tell Perry. He couldn’t be shy, could he? “Not that I have much more choice there. I suspect it’s similar to the London clubs, even if it’s a smaller community. They’re all looking for the young and the handsome.”
“Like you,” Perry said with spirit. And drank some more of the spirit in his hand.
Greg laughed, rather too loudly because the family beside them tried to move even farther away. An old man at a small table on the edge of the dance area turned around and glared at them both.
“Keep y’r sassenach ways t’ y’self, lad,” he grumbled. “We old ’uns wannae hear the music, not y’r guffawing.”
Guffawing? Perry had an irresistible desire to laugh, but knew that’d be the very worst thing to do. Instead, he jabbed Greg in the ribs. “See?” he hissed, half under his breath so, hopefully, only Greg would hear. “You’re a lad around here, not some old codger who can’t pull a twink to save his life.”
Greg’s lavender face was back on show. “I don’t…. Perry, things are very different here. We don’t have any twinks.”
“Nonsense! You have Alasdair’s grandson.” More gin gave him more courage; it was fascinating how that worked. “You have me. Let’s dance, then.”
“Perry!”
Perry didn’t listen to Greg’s protests, just grabbed his hand and dragged him out onto the dance floor.
Chapter Nineteen
FOR a few minutes, they were lost in the melee of other dancers, swinging off others’ arms and tapping boots in time with the music. Perry had been right—Scottish dancing was like a line-dancing session, though less regimented, and much more fun. He slid a hand around Greg’s waist and concentrated on one of the more tricky bobbing step sequences.