by Lisa Gray
We have your cooler. Bring wine that goes with Thai food to condo number 83 tonight at 8. Come alone, or the cooler gets the deep freeze.
He perused his handiwork. Not bad at all. This should get a response.
Under cover of darkness he sneaked across the street—if hobbling on a cane, one painstaking step after another, qualified as sneaking—and wedged his note in the front door.
There. Done. Now all he had to do was decide what to have delivered for their first dinner together.
* * * *
The next evening, eight o’clock came and went, as did nine o’clock, as did Riley’s hold on his temper.
Damn it! He shoved the boxes of now-cold, congealed Thai food into the fridge and slammed the door. The black cloud of pique that had been brewing for two hours because his guest hadn’t shown up or even called was now a full-fledged tempest. Maybe Keir had a right to be angry. But how hard would it have been to just acknowledge the dinner invitation and say “no.” And maybe the joke about the cooler had fallen flat. But still, the man had accepted the gifts of toffee and vegetables. Didn’t that entitle Riley to at least a courteous refusal?
Riley wanted to believe it was just his sense of pride that was injured. But if he wanted to be truthful—and he was pretty sure he didn’t—he’d have to admit being so casually rejected hurt. A lot. All the more so because Keir was the first man Riley had tried to connect with since the accident. Bad enough his life had been upended, twisted around, and forced into unknown territory. On top of everything else, now he was being ignored.
Fine. Riley was fed up, pissed off, and done with Keir Moreau. All Riley’s efforts to reach the man had failed, so let him keep his secrets. And his distance. In fact, this whole damned condo complex with its perfect setting and perfect people and perfect tidy existence could kiss Riley’s broken-down ass.
Fuming, he grabbed a beer and headed for the living room. As he set the bottle on the table, he noticed the welcome wagon packet. Well, no need to keep that crap anymore. He heaved it toward the wastebasket. The weighty list of rules spilled out and landed at his feet, flipping open to the page entitled, Exterior Appearance Specifications.
He scooped it up and was about to toss it in the trash, when he stopped short. Exterior Appearance Specifications? Sounded important, didn’t it?
He skimmed through the three pages of rules.
Window boxes (maximum 18 x 5 x 4 inches), flowers (white or red only), nameplates (maximum 8 x 2 inches, Calibri font), lawn decorations (none), flags (U.S. flag on holidays only), trim and door color (Smoke Gray paint #57761, available at Fairmount Hardware), holiday décor (door wreaths permitted for one week before and after holiday)…
He stopped reading, and a wicked smile curled his lips. It’d be like flipping the bird to the whole damned place. Let’s see them ignore this.
First thing in the morning, he’d be banging on Fairmount Hardware’s door.
With a vengeance.
Chapter 7
Accompanied only by chirping crickets, Keir huddled on the park bench across from the Christian Outlook Church. After sunset, the temperature had dropped to an unseasonable chill that seeped inside his thin suit jacket. He should have given up and gone home hours ago. What was he doing camped outside an empty church anyway? That niggling little voice in his head promptly insisted there was always a chance Ethan was in there—or would be soon. Not that he had any real idea of what to do if the boy did turn up. But even the slimmest possibility of salvaging some good from this horrible day kept him glued to the hard stone bench.
He shifted his weight, trying to find a comfortable position. All he’d accomplished during these wasted, unpleasant hours was to review his actions over and over and wonder how he’d come to make such a foolish decision that morning.
He shouldn’t have done it; that much was obvious. Showing up at Ethan’s home had been madness. But for most of previous night, he hadn’t been able to get the idea out of his head. Sadly, there’d been no token of Riley’s continuing interest to divert his thoughts. Keir had been left obsessing about one desperate last-ditch effort to find someone to save the boy.
He’d awakened well before the alarm went off, itching to get through his insane plan. On the way out, he’d found a note stuck in the door frame, no doubt from Riley. Despite the tiny feather of excitement tickling him, he tucked the note into his pocket to read later. Right then, he didn’t dare let himself be distracted.
His anxiety rose, and, in response, he walked faster and faster. By the time he turned onto the Bradford family’s street, he was running, clutching his briefcase in his arms. Standing in front of the rather grand entrance to Ethan’s home, he straightened his tie, smoothed his hair with his fingers, and tried to calm his breathing. With a quick movement, he punched the doorbell, knowing if he waited any longer, his courage would evaporate.
Soon, a heavy, unsmiling woman in a maid’s uniform answered the door. She looked down her pointed nose. “May I help you?” The tone conveyed absolute certainty this disheveled commoner had no legitimate business with her employers.
An urge to pretend he had the wrong address and make a quick getaway seized Keir. But he straightened his spine. “I’m one of Ethan’s teachers. I’d like to see his parents, if they’re available.”
With no thawing of attitude, the formidable woman showed him into an elegant room with pale green walls and a gleaming wood floor. Before exiting to inform her employer, she gestured to the antique brocade sofa and ordered him to take a seat.
Too nervous to sit still, he paced until Mrs. Bradford entered the room.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Moreau?”
He stammered out his reply, cursing himself for his lack of sophistication. “I wanted to…I mean, Ethan needs…” Abandoning any hope of a clear, rational argument, he just blurted out, “You can’t send him to conversion therapy.”
Her polite smile disappeared. “You’ve overstepped your bounds, Mr. Moreau. This is an area of Ethan’s life you have no say over.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know. But if you only understood the risks—”
She held up one flawlessly manicured hand for silence. “We’ve discussed it with our pastor, and he assures us it’s safe and effective.”
“But Ethan needs—”
“What Ethan needs is to have every advantage. My son is destined to play an important role in society, and I’ll not allow anything to limit his opportunities.” Her tone was firm but unerringly polite. It was the stone-cold look in her eyes that held a definite threat—stay out of our business or suffer the consequences.
He found himself envying her poise and resolute certainty, even if she was dead wrong. “Yes, ma’am, I—”
“The subject is closed. If you’ll excuse me, Greta will show you out.” She swept from the room as the grim maid, who must have been listening in the hall, marched in and positioned herself squarely between Keir and Mrs. Bradford’s escape route. To get farther into the house, he’d have to tangle with Greta, and Keir had no doubt she’d swat him like a gnat.
Keir had failed. Again. He meekly followed the maid out of the room, out of the house, and likely out of a job. No way would Mrs. Bradford fail to report Keir’s impertinence to the headmaster of the academy.
He made his way to school in a daze, arriving late enough to raise quite a few eyebrows. Unable to drum up any enthusiasm for what might be his last day as a teacher, he plodded through his morning classes. His mind kept returning to the disastrous interview. Had he made things worse for Ethan? He sure hadn’t made things any better. And how long would he have to wait before being summoned to the headmaster’s office for dismissal?
He couldn’t face food at lunchtime, but did scan the cafeteria, hoping to see Ethan. If nothing else, Keir wanted to offer an apology for having failed the boy, but Ethan didn’t appear.
Keir returned to his classroom and waited for the next period’s students to arrive. That was Ethan’s class, so the boy would
no doubt attend. Keir would find a moment to speak privately with him then. But Ethan never showed.
Worried, Keir visited the attendance office between class periods. “Hey, Arlene, do you know if Ethan Bradford is in school today?”
The secretary looked up from her computer. “Yeah, he was this morning. But his parents came and pulled him out before lunch. I guess they’ve got some big plans for spring break and wanted an early start.”
A sudden coldness spread though him. He was too late. They’d taken the boy already. Maybe to avoid last-minute interference by Keir or rebellion by Ethan.
As the rest of the afternoon wore on, Keir worked himself into a state of panic, envisioning dire physical and psychological harm coming to the boy. As soon as classes let out, he rushed to the park across from the church to keep watch for Ethan. He had no hope of intervening. After all, what could he do, kidnap the boy? But the irrational compulsion to do something—anything—had driven him to the church, where he still sat hours later in a lonely, useless vigil.
Now, Keir hung his head in defeat. God, he’d messed this up so badly. It was time to accept his failure and move on. There just wasn’t anything more he could do for Ethan.
The wind buffeted him again, so he pulled his jacket tight around him and tucked his hands in his pockets. His fingers touched the note from that morning. A spark of warmth kindled in all the darkness within him. He pulled out the note and unfolded it, letting the light of the streetlamp shine on it.
At first, the sight of letters cut out from a newspaper confused him. But as he read the top line, a tentative smile curved his lips.
We have your cooler.
A sound somewhere between a laugh and a moan escaped his throat. The guy just didn’t quit, did he?
Even mired in depression, Keir still found solace in Riley’s persistent interest. Letting his hand drop to his lap, he closed his eyes and envisioned the large, impatient man bent over a pile of torn newspaper, painstakingly gluing together words. Keir’s smile widened. Riley had gone to considerable trouble to brighten Keir’s day and elicit a laugh. That meant a lot.
He raised the note again and read the rest of it.
Bring wine that goes with Thai food to condo number 83 tonight at 8. Come alone, or the cooler gets the deep freeze.
A dinner invitation. Keir checked his watch. Almost ten o’clock! Crap. He was already two hours late, had no wine to bring, and would need at least another half hour to get home, shower, and change. It just wasn’t possible. If he’d read the note earlier, he could have at least gotten a message to Riley, begging off. Now the man likely believed himself rejected, without even the barest courtesy.
Keir tucked the note into his pocket and stared at his empty hands. He’d messed up with Ethan, and now he’d lost any chance with Riley.
He forced himself off the bench and stretched to ease the stiffness from sitting so long in the chill wind. Hurrying toward home, he planned to stop and at least apologize to Riley, but when he got there, the condo was dark. It was Friday night, and the man had been stood up. Of course Riley had gone out with someone else. Likely one of the beautiful young men in those framed photos.
Uncomfortable with the sharp point of jealousy pricking him, he admonished himself to be content with whatever small interest Riley offered, even if it wasn’t exclusive.
Once inside his home, all he could think of was a long hot shower to banish the chill. After that, he’d hide in bed and pull the covers over his head. Eventually this wretched day would be nothing more than an awful memory.
He’d deal with the fallout tomorrow.
* * * *
After a restless night, Keir could barely open his eyes when the phone rang in the morning. It was too much effort to find his glasses and take the call. Instead, he lay there waiting to hear what message might be left.
“Mr. Moreau! This will not be tolerated!”
Oh, great. Mrs. Prendergast, on a tear about something yet again.
She drew breath and continued, her voice rising in pitch. “You must deal with this immediately.” A pause followed, and Keir thought he heard her choke back a sob. “In all my years, I’ve never seen such willful, vicious desecration of our beautiful community.”
That sounded bad. He slid on his glasses and grabbed the phone. “Mrs. Prendergast? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, you’re there. Thank God! I just can’t bring myself to speak with that man—that horrid, horrid man!” She wept freely, her voice thick and her words drowning in tears. “I’ve devoted my life to make Huntington Hill a place of beauty and taste. An extraordinary setting for extraordinary people. Now I’m faced with this?”
“Mrs. Prendergast…Madeleine…tell me what happened.”
“Just look out your window!” Her anguished wail cut off when she broke the connection.
In the silence, Keir stared at the phone, puzzled. Look out my window? He slid out of bed, ran down the stairs, and opened the living room blinds.
Oh, my.
Across the street, in the full blazing sun, the door of the condo glowed brilliant, searing chartreuse. The glare off the neon blast of color actually made his eyes water and the image waver. But there was something hypnotic about it. Keir couldn’t stop staring.
He tried hard to share Mrs. P.’s outrage. Very hard. But the bubbling amusement rising in his chest refused to be ignored. A moment later, he doubled over, clutching his sides as gales of laughter rolled through him. Oh, that man—that horrid, horrid man! And if Keir ever stopped laughing, it would be his job to confront Riley and try to rein him in.
Now that was a sobering thought. Just how did one go about approaching a man whose invitations and gifts and overtures of friendship had all been flatly ignored?
A peace offering?
Maybe one made from asparagus, rhubarb, honey, and chard?
Smiling, he hurried to his bedroom to change out of his pajamas, all the while devising plans on how to combine the ingredients. At last deciding on asparagus-chard salad with a rhubarb vinaigrette, he spent the next hour or so simmering rhubarb, mixing it with honey, white wine vinegar, Dijon mustard, and pepper. He slowly blended in olive oil to make the dressing. For the salad, he used a vegetable peeler to slice the asparagus into ribbons, then rolled the chard and sliced it as well and put the vegetables into his mother’s favorite crystal salad bowl. Even though it was cheating to add extra ingredients, he sprinkled a few julienned radishes and some chopped chives on top and put everything in the fridge to chill.
Upstairs, he changed into a blue dress shirt and tight black jeans. Checking his appearance in the mirror, he thought he looked just fine. It wasn’t vanity. No, not at all. Looking his best could only help advance Mrs. Prendergast’s cause.
As well as his own.
Back in the kitchen, he drizzled the rhubarb vinaigrette over the salad and covered the bowl with plastic wrap. It was just about lunchtime, so maybe Riley would welcome the peace offering.
A minute later, he stood in front of the chartreuse door, wishing he’d worn sunglasses. He gingerly touched the freshly painted wood with one finger. It felt dry enough, so he knocked.
And held his breath.
Chapter 8
Dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, Riley stood in front of the open refrigerator, trying to scrape up interest in a lunch of last night’s untouched Thai food. A knock sounded on his bright new front door. Aha! The first salvo was being returned. Eager to meet the enemy, he turned too fast and winced in pain. He’d left his cane upstairs when he cleaned up after painting. Well, it would take too much time to retrieve it now.
Grimacing, he limped through the hallway, prepared to verbally shred whichever self-important ass had been sent to scold him. He took a deep breath, flung open the door, and snarled, “Yes?”
On the porch stood Keir.
The air in Riley’s lungs gushed out in a kind of wistful sigh. The man looked delicious. A soft, uncertain smile graced his lips, and the birthmark was
untainted by the ugly makeup. His deep blue shirt brought out the gleaming highlights in that dark cloud of hair.
Keir held out a bowl. “I thought you’d like to try asparagus chard salad with rhubarb honey vinaigrette.”
A bark of laughter escaped Riley’s lips. So the clever man had managed to combine all the stuff from the farmer’s market. “Well, it doesn’t look dangerous.” He moved aside. “Did you want to come in?”
Keir’s smile widened as he stepped over the threshold. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you about your dinner invitation last night. That was rude.”
Instantly forgiving the man, Riley answered, “No problem. I should have realized you’d have plans on a Friday night.” The intensity of Riley’s gut reaction took him by surprise. Keir with another man? Hell, no! Keir was his, if for no other reason than all that time spent watching and waiting for the man. He gestured down the hall. “Kitchen’s over there.”
“I know the way. Our condos are mirror images of each other.” Keir entered the kitchen and set the bowl on the small bistro table sitting in the middle of the room. “This is cute. I like intimacy.” The man’s blush at the accidental double entendre was delightful. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean. This is more than enough for me. I’m not expecting to have crowds banging on my door.” Riley watched in dismay as the rosy color vanished, leaving Keir’s cheeks ghostly pale. Shit. Why did he have to mention the damned door? Despite softening the encounter by arriving with a salad and a friendly face, Keir must have been sent by the property owner’s association to deal with the door issue. The pleasant encounter might be coming to a quick end.
Hoping to salvage lunch at least, Riley offered, “Hey, have a seat. I’ll get some plates, and we’ll try your salad.” He opened a cabinet next to the sink, pulled out paper plates, plastic forks and cups, and grabbed napkins that had been delivered with the take-out food. Turning, he saw Keir staring at the scars crisscrossing up and down Riley’s leg, a look of dismay on his face.