For a Good Time, Call

by Anne Tenino

  Nate laughed as much as he’d hoped, and Seth’s insides squirmed in Tark-ish delight.

  “Shannon said she’d see if the ‘food columnist’ wants to do a story on my shrubs.” As soon as he’d said it, he wished he hadn’t, although he couldn’t put his finger on why, exactly. Because he’d been bragging? Maybe?

  Nate’s eyes lit up. “That could really be a boost to your career.”

  Oh there was why—he’d given Nate an opening to lay some expectations on him. Except this is Nate. Nate, the guy who seemed to like him the way he was. You’re overreacting. Shrugging it off, he killed the subject as well as he could. “I think it’s more likely to be a boost to Ty’s career, since he’s the columnist.”

  It wasn’t until the sky was just starting to turn yellowish from the setting sun, and Seth was thinking about reeling in the Death Star, that they ended up talking about the knife.

  “It does seem like an old-fashioned mystery, doesn’t it?” Seth mused.

  “The story of the Chinese maid who came back and murdered Fennimore is a little too pat for that time period.”

  Experimentally, Seth tugged the kite string, and it bobbed in the sky, wavering and swooping for a few seconds. “What if I’ve seen too many British crime dramas lately?” He’d taken to watching them when he got home from work at 1 a.m., because they were interesting but not so absorbing he couldn’t fall asleep.

  Nate kicked at a rock in the sand. “Well, I haven’t, and for my money, this Edgar Gaines Monteith is a much more plausible suspect than Adeline, especially since he later absconded with Fennimore’s widow. Hell, maybe your great-great-grandmother was in on it.”

  As Tarkus came trotting up, he bent to scratch behind the dog’s ears. Tark sat panting, finally giving the Frisbee—and Nate’s arm—a rest, letting his master shower him with affection.

  “It makes sense. Even if we assume that Adeline’s baby was Fennimore’s, what would she gain by killing him? Seems like she’d be more interested in getting his help, or recognition for the child. But with the anti-Chinese prejudice at the time, she’d be pathetically easy to frame for the crime, especially if you happened to be the law officer on deck.”

  “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking.” Which reminded him of another thing . . . “The Larson family tree could have a whole, unknown, illegitimate branch. Is it stupid that I hope the baby was a girl?” He swallowed, because this part was what had made him want to come to the beach rather than talk to Grandma or Shannon. “Larson men have a history of bulldozing others to serve their own best interest. Like this thing with selling the house. My uncle is opposed to it because he thinks it makes him look bad, and he’s convinced my father to oppose it, also. They don’t think her feelings are important.”

  Nate’s brow crinkled up. “Is it that she wants the approval of her sons? Will she sell if she doesn’t have it?”

  Seth took a deep breath, bracing himself. He hated this. “Grandma’s husband—my grandfather—put the house and most of their assets into a trust before he died. He had terminal cancer and he wanted her to be ‘taken care of’ once he was gone. He named his sons, my father and uncle, as the trustees. None of his daughters, just his sons.” As far as Seth knew, none of his three aunts had ever even been asked their opinion about the estate.

  Nate’s eyebrows flew up, and he whistled soundlessly. “Throwbacks to pre-Nineteenth Amendment days, eh? Do you think they’re treating her like that because she’s not a ‘real’ Larson?”

  Seth shrugged, busying himself with rolling up the kite so he could fit it back into the tube. “Call me cynical, but I’m pretty sure that kind of chauvinism is a trait passed on from father to son, and it probably all began with Fennimore.”

  “Hey.” Nate’s palm landed on his back, and Seth froze. He hadn’t realized how cold he’d become out here, or maybe it was that Nate’s body heat was so potent. “Every family has its baggage. I told you about my mother. Strange as it seems to us, they do these things because they want to protect us somehow.” Before dropping his hand, he rubbed Seth’s lower back a couple of times, the way people did when they wanted to offer comfort.

  “Yeah, I guess.” He turned to face Nate. “That’s why Grandpa set things up the way he did, but it’s not working the way it should. Kirk wants to hang on to this legend he’s spun, and he doesn’t care enough about his own mother to see that’s not the best thing for her. I don’t understand how he could be raised by her but turn out like this.”

  Nate cocked his head. “Are you worried that the Larson family Y chromosome has a douche bag gene? Because if that’s the case, don’t be. Attitudes are learned, not inherited, and even if they were, I’m pretty sure you escaped the taint.”

  For a moment, he thought Nate was going to hug him. He held himself as still as possible, hoping it would happen. Instead, Nate caressed him again, squeezing Seth’s upper arm with his fingers.

  They were still standing there, gazing into each other’s eyes, when Tarkus barked. Glancing over his shoulder, Seth found the dog halfway back to the car, looking at them like they were dumb humans who didn’t know when it was time to leave.

  “Guess we’ve been summoned,” Nate said, but he didn’t move. “Come back to my place for a while? No pressure. We don’t have to talk about this anymore.”

  “There’s one more thing you should know.” Seth swallowed. “I’ve kind of promised Grandma I’d figure out some way to help her convince Kirk and Dad to let her sell, and Shannon’s story is my first attempt.”

  Nate’s mouth quivered, as if he was fighting a smile. “And I suppose I’m helping you with your dastardly plan to undermine them? You’re using me for my investigative skills, aren’t you?”

  Seth laughed outright, and then punched Nate’s upper arm. “Yeah, that’s it. I only want you for your Google-fu.”

  Nate was grinning now, but Seth suddenly realized what he’d said. I promised I wouldn’t do that anymore. “Wait, um, you know.” He cleared his throat. “When I say ‘want you,’ I meant, just, you know, friendship . . . yeah.” Bad save.

  Rolling his eyes, Nate scooped up Tarkus’s abandoned Frisbee, then pulled Seth around so they were facing the parking lot, and nudged him until he started moving. “Don’t be a dork.”

  That didn’t seem possible. “I’ll do my best.”

  As soon as Nate opened the cabin door, Tarkus rushed in, slurped up half the contents of his water dish, and then flopped down on the rug in front of the fireplace.

  Seth laughed—and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, his cheeks pink from the sun and wind, made Nate’s breath catch in his throat. He’s happy. He can be happy with me. That didn’t mean Nate made him happy, per se. But he made me happy. I had a really good day, and it wouldn’t have been nearly as good if he hadn’t been in it.

  “I take it that Tarkus is one of those guys who just rolls over and goes to sleep as soon as he gets his way,” Seth said with a mischievous smile.

  “You . . . uh . . . you met many of those?”

  Seth shrugged. “Oh you know. My share, I suppose.”

  They stood by the door as awkwardness settled over them like a midnight fog. Seth shuffled his feet, glancing sidelong at Nate and then at the door. Does he want to leave or does he want to stay?

  Do something. Say something. But what? “The knife. You want it back, right?” He escaped to the living room, where he’d laid the knife, still wrapped in the T-shirt, on the mantel. He handed it off to Seth.

  “Thanks.” He tucked it in the pocket of his jacket. “It’ll help to give it back to Grandma when I confess about the newspaper article.”

  “I cleaned it. Well, you know that. You saw it. But . . . yeah.” Nate rubbed the back of his neck. “So. You probably have to get back home or work or meet a friend or something.”

  “Actually, I’ve got the night off, and Grandma is visiting her friend Eleanor.” For some reason, Seth’s cheeks turned even pinker. “And I’m with a friend alre
ady, right?”

  “Then . . . stay for dinner and a movie?”

  Seth’s smile was blinding. “Sure. I think I was promised mac and cheese at one point.”

  Nate grinned, the tension in his neck easing. “Not exactly a promise, if I recall, but I can do that. You like bacon in it?”

  “Who doesn’t? Um, hey, can I use your computer to send Shannon an email with what we found out?”

  “Sure. There’s no password, so just jiggle the mouse to wake it up.”

  “Thanks.” Seth trotted up the stairs, but stopped halfway up. “You are way too trusting. What if I was an evil spammer? You’d be totally screwed.”

  “I’m not worried. But if your evil spamming plans involve collecting millions of dollars from deposed Nigerian princes, I want my share.”

  Seth snorted a laugh and clonked the rest of the way to the loft. From the staccato tapping of keys that followed, he had a lot to say—and was a decent typist too. Yet another un-bartender-like skill.

  While Seth was upstairs, Nate put water on to boil for pasta and grated cheddar, parmesan, and gorgonzola. He minced bacon and tossed it in a skillet—he’d add cream too. Screw heart-healthy, at least for tonight.

  After coming back downstairs, Seth looked over Nate’s shoulder. “Can I use one of the stove burners, or will I get in your way?”

  “Go for it. What are you making?”

  “Simple syrup. I thought I’d handle beverages since you’ve got dinner covered.”

  “Cool. Saucepans are under the counter there, and sugar’s in the canister next to the fridge.”

  Seth hummed around the kitchen, occasionally brushing against Nate’s arm or back as he prepared his cocktail ingredients. Nate didn’t think it was on purpose—the kitchen wasn’t that big—but he took comfort from it anyway. This is nice. Even though they were working on different tasks—Nate had his back to Seth most of the time as he put the mac and cheese together—it was still . . . companionable.

  “Here.” Seth handed him a highball glass filled with ice and a colorless, slightly cloudy liquid. “Try this.”

  Nate eyed the mint garnish. “What is it?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “You mean you’re going to put more stuff in it?”

  “No, you dork. I mean I don’t know what I’m going to call it yet. I’m trying out a new idea.”

  “You made up a new drink just now?”

  “It wasn’t easy. Your liquor cabinet is really weird. I mean, Aperol? What the heck is that?”

  “It’s an Italian aperitif. A present from my father. You’ll note it’s unopened.”

  “Yeah, along with the orange-flavored vodka and coconut-flavored rum. Anyway, I had to get creative since I didn’t have any of my own secret concoctions.” Seth flapped his hands at Nate. “Go on. Don’t be a baby. Try it.”

  Nate took a cautious sip, and the flavors of mint and anise bloomed on his tongue. “That’s—” He took a bigger sip. “That’s great. I’m impressed.”

  Seth shrugged. “Well, I am a bartender.”

  “Still—” Nate sipped again. “Really, really good. Better than anything I had in Hollywood.”

  “Thank you.” Seth’s ears had gone pink at the tips.

  “Ever think of starting a drink blog? If you keep inventing stuff this tasty—” He savored another mouthful. “I bet you’d get a ton of followers. You’d probably be able to monetize it too.”

  “There are already a shitload of cocktail blogs.”

  “But do any of them have anything as good, as unique as this? I think you should consider it.” Nate offered an encouraging grin. “Think of it as an internet tip jar. And who knows? It could turn into more.”

  Seth’s brow crinkled up briefly, but then smoothed out again. “Nah. I don’t want to spend all my time trying to duplicate someone else’s success. Whatever. Let’s eat, because I may not have been promised mac and cheese explicitly, but the movie was a firm guarantee.”

  While they ate, Nate mentally reviewed his rather eclectic list of favorite films. They could always watch one he’d worked on, but Levi’s indie stuff was a little dark, and the Chad Eastwick flicks weren’t even something Levi wanted to think about. Besides, Nate wasn’t in the mood for dark or explosive tonight.

  As they cleaned up, putting dishes in the dishwasher and leftovers in the refrigerator, he got it—the movie that fit his mood for the day. “Have you ever seen Big Eden?”

  “Don’t think so. Is it sci-fi?”

  Nate huffed out a laugh. “Hardly. Although some people might argue that it’s fantasy. It’s a really sweet gay love story where the people in a small town aren’t all bigoted, homophobic assholes.”

  “Nate.” Seth singsonged his name, giving it about six syllables. “Are you a closet romantic?”

  Heat rushed up Nate’s throat. “I—”

  “Hey.” Seth gripped Nate’s shoulders and met his gaze. “I’m just giving you shit. There’s nothing wrong with a little romance. I mean, I can’t say I’ve had a lot of experience with it myself, but I don’t have anything against it.”

  Good to know. “It’s, you know, a relationship story.”

  “And for you, the relationship is the reason, not the result. I get it. Sounds awesome.”

  “I like the actor who plays Henry, the lead. He was a friend of my mother’s—they’d done a couple of shows together, so I knew him when I was a kid. He’s a quirky-looking guy, really interesting performer. I love how Pike, the other lead, hides what he’s doing, how he’s taking care of Henry.” Actually, Nate suspected Pike might be grace, like him, but that could be wishful thinking—him looking for some kind of cinematic affirmation of his own personality. “Besides, there’s a dog in it, and I think Tarkus has a crush on her.”

  “Excellent. I’m always up for new things. Let’s go for it.” Seth poured them each one of his magic concoctions and wandered over to the sofa while Nate grabbed the remote.

  As soon as Nate sat down, Tarkus got up and trotted over, staring balefully at Seth and heaving a huge doggy sigh.

  “What did I do?”

  “You’re in his spot. That’s why there’s a blanket on that cushion, and why your butt is now probably covered in dog fur.” He spread his hands out in surrender. “Yes, I’m one of those annoying people who allows their pets to sit on the furniture.” Because frankly, he liked the closeness and the company.

  “Guess I’d better move, then. The chair or . . .?” Seth glanced pointedly at the middle cushion, eyebrows raised. When Nate nodded, he scooted over.

  Nate pulled the movie up on Netflix, and as soon as the first post-title shot appeared, Seth tapped Nate’s knee excitedly.

  “Hey, I recognize that guy. He played a serial killer on Criminal Minds.”

  Nate smiled at him, at the enthusiasm that was such an integral part of Seth. “He played a killer—or at least a potential killer—in Minority Report too, which is really weird, because he’s the sweetest guy. This movie is a lot more like I remember him.”

  Nate leaned back as the scene played out, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to throw his arm across Seth’s shoulders.

  After one startled glance, Seth smiled and snuggled in to Nate’s side, Tarkus’s head on his knee.

  Nate couldn’t remember ever enjoying a movie more.

  The morning after their beach day, Seth began getting caught up on chores he’d been slacking on to hang around with Nate. While he was spreading oat straw over the garden, putting it to bed for the winter, he found most of a hide and one hind leg of the rat-creature that had started all of this. “This” being the current situation he found himself in—apprehensive about the next issue of the Bluewater Bay Beacon, and preoccupied with a guy who was supposed to only be a friend.

  He’d never bothered figuring out exactly what kind of animal it was, which proved how consumed he’d been with other thoughts. After he put the tools away in the garden shed and took the sta
irs two at a time to his place, it only took a few minutes on the internet to identify the rodent as a woodrat. Related to a packrat, but not actually a rat at all. It was supposed to be pretty rare around here, so it made sense that he’d never seen one before.

  Sitting at the computer after all that physical activity made his muscles cramp, so he stood, stretching his arms high over his head and then out to the sides, when something caught his eye. Across the room, but visually right at the tip of his fingers, was the knife. He’d brought it home from Nate’s last night, intending to give it to his grandmother. Not that he really thought it would make up for not having told her in the first damn place, but it was all he had to offer.

  Damn it. It was time to stop stalling and go find Grandma before it was too late to yank the story.

  Shannon was probably already of the opinion that it was too late.

  The thought of what would happen if Grandma did insist on killing the article almost stopped him. He’d be trapped between two angry women, was what would happen. He avoided putting himself in that position, especially since the last time he’d found himself there—when he was chaperoning a gay-bar-hopping trip for a group of thirtysomething bachelorettes (minus the bride for reasons Seth had never understood) and had felt it necessary to cut some of them off. After that disaster, he’d promised to never intentionally incur the wrath of more than one woman at a time.

  That particular fiasco had been Lucas’s fault, and there was someone he’d made a promise to. The first time Seth had run into him after the incident, he’d sworn revenge to Lucas’s face. He still owed the guy for that. That had been six months ago, he really needed to get on it.

  Later. For now, he grabbed the knife, wrapped in a clean shop rag, and made his way to the main house. He found Grandma sitting at the kitchen table in her lavender “track suit”—her version of the housecoats some women her age wore when they were at their leisure.