The Wish

by Winters, Eden

  Alex wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of the correct answer, which would have been “yes!” Instead he feigned indifference. “What happened to Martha?” He silently fought the urge to grind his teeth in frustration over the fact that whatever “Paul” offered, his uncle seemed to be buying.

  “Martha? Oh, we gave her the night off, didn’t we, Paul?” The affectionate overtones turned on the handyman/cook/fuck toy made Alex’s stomach churn. “Oh, forgive me,” Alfred said. “You have met Paul, haven’t you?”

  “We’ve met,” Alex confirmed, barely restraining an impulse to punch something.

  Clearly mistaking Alex’s meaning, Alfred beamed. “Oh, good. You know, I’m amazed the two of you never crossed paths before. Not once in all these years.”

  Years? “Years, Uncle? Exactly how long have you known Paul?” Alex spit the name like something vile.

  His uncle appeared confused. “How long? Well, his whole life, naturally. He was born a few years after Byron and I built this house. Don’t you remember? I’m sure I sent Victoria pictures.”

  “Pictures?” Alex’s harsh gaze cut over to the subject of those pictures, who defiantly ignored him by serving Alfred from the numerous bowls on the table.

  Suddenly, he recalled his mother showing him pictures of a chubby, bald baby before she died. “Paul Sinclair? P.J.?”

  “The one and only,” his adversary retorted from across the table. “Only no one’s called me P.J. since I was twelve.”

  Alex searched for signs of his adversary’s having won the first round. Instead of gloating, Paul appeared tired as he placed a filled plate before Alfred. Then the stress momentarily lifted from his features, replaced by a fond smile. “I hope it’s as good as you’ve been building it up to be.” Paul loaded his own plate and sat quietly, eyes downcast.

  Realizing with a start that they were waiting for him to begin, and seeing no graceful way out, Alex ladled small amounts from each bowl onto his plate before serving himself a modest portion of brisket, fully expecting a barely palatable meal. In his experience, beautiful men belonged in the bedroom, not the kitchen. That was what cooks were for.

  He reluctantly sampled everything, pleasantly surprised to discover the meal was, in fact, delicious. So the mystery man was Byron’s nephew. You couldn’t tell it by looking at him; the man bore no resemblance to any Sinclairs he’d ever met, which was why he hadn’t recognized the guy. Didn’t all Sinclairs have flaming red hair and milk-white skin? And being Byron’s kin didn’t prove Paul wasn’t after Alfred’s money. Byron and Alfred had never married, even during the brief period of legal gay marriage in California, but they’d been together a very long time. Perhaps Paul expected a share of the Anderson inheritance? He’ll get it over my dead body.

  Dinner proved a quiet affair, with Paul and Alex answering Alfred’s questions while never speaking directly to each other. If the old man noticed their suspicious glances, he gave no indication. After a dessert of fresh fruit, Alfred made his apologies and retired for the evening, leaving “you young folk” alone to get better acquainted. Alex silently glared at Paul for a full minute before pushing his chair back and stalking from the room without a backward glance.

  He knew his uncle wouldn’t mind him borrowing the BMW, and even if Paul’s suggestion had been made facetiously, Alex took advantage of the information and drove to the first club to catch his eye, searching for a distraction. He ordered his usual martini and leaned against the bar, already drawing curious glances from the sparse early-evening crowd.

  If he were being honest with himself, he wasn’t really in the mood for playing; he merely needed a release for his pent-up frustration. P.J. Sinclair. How Alex had tried to forget the name over the years, envying Paul a living mother and a father with the decency to die instead of walking away, never to look back except in a feeble attempt to make a profit from his late wife’s death.

  Through an endless stream of lawyers and deliberations, Alex’s poor excuse for a father never once asked to see him, even while seeking full custody—primarily for the money to be gained for Alex’s upbringing. Alfred fought tooth and nail, and in the end, the courts awarded Alex to his maternal grandparents. He knew Alfred cared for him, and he’d seen his uncle regularly, but usually when Alfred visited Boston or they vacationed together. His grandparents discouraged visits to the West Coast for fear Alex would be corrupted by “those Hollywood types” and his uncle’s sexuality, and when old enough to do as he pleased, his visits were brief and infrequent, at best.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a lean club boy in too tight jeans and a mesh shirt that revealed barbell-impaled nipples. He winked and sauntered over to pose provocatively against the bar. “Hey, handsome. I haven’t seen you in here before. New in town?”

  The guy was unoriginal and flaming, which wasn’t Alex’s type. In his favor, he was available and passably attractive—particularly as, with pale skin and bleached-blond hair, he bore no resemblance whatsoever to the olive-skinned, dark-haired nuisance back at Uncle Alfred’s.

  With a pronounced sway to his hips, the man drew closer, licking glossed lips and trailing his fingertips along the edge of the bar. Batting his lashes and grinning wickedly, he ran his eyes suggestively up and down Alex’s body. “I’d be happy to show you… around.”

  Well, things couldn’t get any less complicated. “Let’s go,” Alex replied.

  JUST a little more…. After hours of intense concentration, Byron finally managed to move the book resting on the nightstand. Slowly and surely, he worked the heavy, leather-bound volume to the edge, waiting for the right moment, and once more….

  The book fell to the floor with a resounding thud. Byron smiled and counted the seconds until he heard hurried footsteps and the opening and closing of doors. Alfred, who slept like the dead, didn’t even flinch.

  “Alfred? Are you all right?” Paul hissed into the darkened room. Light spilled through the door from the well-lit hallway.

  Though he knew he couldn’t be viewed by human eyes, Byron instinctively pulled back into the shadows. With a relieved-sounding sigh, his nephew retrieved and returned the book to the nightstand. He paused for a moment, gazing down at the old man lying cocooned in blankets and pillows. Alfred settled himself more comfortably into his soft nest with a satisfied sigh.

  Placing a kiss on a crown of silvery hair, Paul whispered, “Good night, Alfred, sleep well.”

  A gentle smile played upon Alfred’s lips, and Byron watched his nephew’s mouth turn up in response. Apparently assured everything was fine, Paul turned and left the bedroom, easing the door closed behind him.

  The poor child. He’d lost his father and his uncle, the only two family members who truly understood him. His strict, Catholic mother cared for him in her own way, never quite grasping the significance of her son’s sexual orientation and choosing denial over attempting to fully accept her firstborn. Douglas, while he loved Paul, was married to his job. When Alfred passed, the boy would be very much alone.

  On several occasions Paul had brought home someone reasonably suitable. Unfortunately, most of his lovers quickly grew bored with his quiet lifestyle and unassuming ways. Then he’d met a colossal failure named Jordan, a highly unstable individual who’d ultimately broken Paul’s heart. Since their breakup, Byron knew his own illness had kept his nephew from pursuing an active social life, and Paul spent any free time in an effort to ease a dying man’s suffering and comfort a grieving Alfred.

  Since Paul didn’t know how to look after his own interests, it was up to Byron as uncle to ensure “old and lonely” never happened to him, and the wheels of phase two were now in motion.

  TWENTY minutes after his encounter with the willing stranger, Alex left the club, following a less than memorable servicing in the men’s room. It wasn’t skill the man lacked—his mincing mannerisms left Alex cold. Alex liked men, with a definite preference for men who were men. His most recent conquest bordered on too feminine for his tastes. Regar
dless, the lackluster blowjob beat sitting around pretending to be one big, happy family at his uncle’s… but not by much.

  The antique grandfather clock in the foyer announced the arrival of midnight as Alex quietly entered the seemingly deserted manse. Making his way toward the staircase, a hushed voice caught his attention. He stealthily eased down the hall toward his uncle’s bedroom. In the middle of the night, Uncle Alfred should be sleeping. Why would anyone be down there to possibly disturb him? Was something wrong?

  Sensing movement, Alex stilled and waited. It took a moment before it dawned on him that the voice he’d heard belonged to his uncle’s nephew-by-partnership, Paul. Why was he not surprised? He realized the time and narrowed his eyes, contemplating why the man might be leaving Uncle Alfred’s bedroom so late, clad in a pair of royal blue boxer shorts and nothing else. Even more disturbing was the sincere smile pasted to Paul’s face.

  Alex’s heart nearly stopped. Yes, he’d already figured the guy was taking advantage of Uncle Alfred, but to desecrate his own uncle’s memory—and Byron not even buried! Alex didn’t believe his opinion of Paul Sinclair capable of sinking any lower, and he vowed to get the opportunist out of the house without delay and keep him out.

  Returning to his room, he tried unsuccessfully to remove the vision of a seminaked Paul from his mind. Without the “librarian” glasses, Byron’s nephew appeared far less bookish than during their earlier encounters, and far more sensual. Add to that the tousled hair and scanty attire and the guy practically screamed, “Come fuck me!”

  And that smile! When Paul smiled, it transformed him into a young, carefree creature, someone even a connoisseur like Alex found tempting.

  In his mind, that lithe body stood naked before him, Paul smiling for him. As much as he hated to, he understood the attraction. Perhaps Paul’s relationship to Byron tore down the boundaries that propriety should have built. Alex considered the danger Paul presented, his devious mind forming a plan. He’d seriously regret any pain his schemes might cause his uncle, but Alex needed to expose the usurper’s true nature, and the only way to do that was seduce Paul and prove he was nothing more than a fickle gold-digger.

  Lying in bed, Alex mulled over his plan, liking the strategy more with each passing moment. He conveniently pushed aside images of his uncle’s disappointed eyes and focused instead on the smooth skin and toned body of his target. Yes, like the slut from the club earlier, and many back in Houston, he considered this seduction already a done deal. Alex would lure Paul to bed, fuck his brains out, expose his duplicity, and slam the front door once Uncle Alfred tossed the whore out on his well-used ass.

  Satisfied with his plotting, Alex yawned and began to drift off to sleep. As consciousness slipped away, phantom fingers brushed an errant strand of hair from his forehead. In his dreams, he was nine years old again, Byron sitting by his bedside, comforting him after yet another dream about his mother under the discreet guise of “men talk,” as Andersons never admitted to weaknesses such as nightmares. Into the darkness, he whispered, “I’m sorry, Byron. I should have been here. I miss you.”

  In his dreams he heard a barely audible, “I know.”

  WORDS! He’d actually spoken words! And the book! Byron was gaining influence in the corporeal world beyond his greatest imaginings. Now, he lay on the bed next to his beloved, frantically repeating the things he’d wanted to say before the end. Though asleep, Alfred’s lips curved upward in response to Byron’s chants of “I love you.”

  6

  HOW disappointing. Last night miracles had happened, and now? Nothing. Not the first wiggle or twitch. Even if someone had been present, they couldn’t have heard Byron’s disheartened sigh. He knew this because no one came running during his earlier scream of frustration.

  He stared down into his nephew’s laundry hamper, sweeping his transparent fingers once more through the object of his intention with nary a movement to show for his efforts. Replaying the past few hours, he reached the conclusion that, as a creature of shadow, his strength increased during the night and peaked around midnight. It seemed the rising sun chased away more than darkness.

  It appeared he possessed one single power no matter what the hour, and with that thought in mind, his shadowy spirit passed through the closed bedroom door in search of Bernard, his unwitting helper.

  “GOOD morning, sir, I trust you slept well?”

  Bernard settled a breakfast tray on the nightstand and fussed about the room, opening the blinds and performing his normal morning rituals. A glance at the clock showed precisely 8:00 a.m. Byron often boasted you could set your watch by the punctual butler. He’d never once been late in his numerous years of service. No, not once in…. “Bernard, when were you born?” Alfred asked abruptly.

  The butler in stopped in his tracks. “Sir?” he questioned in mid-pull of a drapery cord.

  “You’ve been a part of my household since before Byron and I built this house, yet I don’t know your age. How old are you?”

  “Don’t you know? I’m sure it’s in my resume.”

  The evasion surprised Alfred, who was used to prompt, forthright answers. “I didn’t personally review your resume. The former Mrs. Anderson hired you, if I recall.”

  Bernard resumed his tasks with his back turned, his shaking hands causing the window blinds to rattle when he reached to straighten them.

  “Bernard? Is something wrong?”

  “No, sir. Why would anything be wrong?” His trembling voice belied his words.

  Alarmed at the unexpected reaction, Alfred did something he’d seldom done before—he gave a direct order. “Bernard, come here and sit down.”

  “As you wish,” Bernard murmured, shoulders slumped in defeat. He struggled to move an armchair closer to the bedside, and Alfred suddenly noticed, for the first time, what familiarity and daily contact blinded him to. The hands fiercely gripping the padded leather armrests were as wrinkled and age-spotted as his own, the hair on the man’s head just as silver. There was also far less of it.

  Bernard’s thin lips were trapped between teeth that Alfred knew soaked in a glass at night on the bedside table, and eyes once capable of spotting a speck of dust from across the room studied the patterns in the carpet through the thick lenses of bifocals.

  When Alfred reached out his own weathered hand and covered the long fingers fiercely gripping the chair, his butler finally peeked up. “What the matter, old friend?” Alfred asked. “Why does the question bother you? I was merely wondering if and when you planned to retire, and if I’ll need to find a replacement. Not that there’s a hope in hell of replacing you,” he hurried to add.

  Cloudy gray eyes filled with tears, and the thin lips trembled. Fearing the worst, Alfred demanded, “Bernard, what’s wrong? How have I upset you?”

  Barely intelligible words escaped between choking sobs. “I don’t want to leave! Got… no place to go!”

  Surprising himself with his own strength, Alfred pulled the frail man from the chair and onto the bed. He enfolded Bernard in his arms and rubbed lulling circles on a bony back. “Shh. Why do you think you’d have to leave?”

  Again he listened carefully to hear the words through the force of pitiful crying. “I’m too old! I can’t… can’t do my job anymore. I’ve outlived my usefulness, and I… I have no family left with time for me, save one great-niece, and you and your nephews.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t do your job? I’m not questioning your work performance,” Alfred assured the distraught man. “I merely wondered if you’d like to retire and do what you want to for a change.”

  “I… I’ve been doing strange things. I find myself in places… I don’t know how I got there, or why I’m there.” The wracking sobs eventually began to subside, though still frightening, particularly as Bernard never exhibited such behavior before. “You clearly told me to put Paul upstairs, but I forgot. I… I’ve moved things around and I don’t know why.” With a final wail for good measure, he added, “And I
am doing what I want to, sir!”

  Alfred chuckled softly and crooned, “It’s all right, Bernard. Memory loss and misplacing things comes with getting older. The same things happen to me all the time. In fact, I’d be totally lost without you to keep my life organized.”

  His attempts at comfort only inspired louder sobs. Realizing Bernard needed to get the stress out of his system, Alfred held him close and rocked him, patiently waiting out the storm. When the heartbreaking cries reduced to weak hiccups, he resumed the conversation. “Bernard, I’d like to offer you a new position.”

  Watery, suspicious eyes rose to meet his. “A new… position?”

  “Yes. Think of yourself as butler emeritus, if you will. It’s come to my attention that I need to hire new domestics.” He quickly held his hand up to discourage more tears. “No, hear me out. You’re the best butler and the best friend a man could ever ask for, and I speak for Byron as well as for myself. What we’d have done without you, I shudder to think. However, we need to be totally honest with each other. My time is coming to an end.” Again Alfred raised a hand to cut off protests. “Deny the facts all you want; you know it’s the truth as well as I do. My only regret is that I couldn’t live to the end of my days with Byron at my side.” A bittersweet smile crept across his face. “I suspect we won’t be separated long.”

  Holding Bernard’s gaze, he explained what he had in mind. “I want you to train new staff and prepare them for the day when this house will have new masters.”

  “Masters?” From behind lined lenses, Bernard watched him closely, expression wary.

  “Yes, Bernard: masters. This house will be the joint property of Alexander Martin and Paul Sinclair upon my death. I’ve added a stipulation that you continue to live here for as long as you like—as a retired family member, not a servant. I’ve been putting aside a fund for your retirement, and for the other employees of this house. It’s quite a tidy sum, even by my standards.”