by Lanyon, Josh
On the third and last evening of the island stay, Keir sat on a rock overlooking a pasture with gentle-faced cows, and knew himself to be truly at peace for the first time in a very long time. For the first time he felt at peace with the decision he’d made to leave LAPD — and Rick.
It wasn’t easy, it still hurt, but here on the island he had a sense of the…ebb and flow of all things. Sometimes you won, sometimes you lost, but life went on — and he would be happy again one day. He knew it for certain sitting under the setting Irish sun, listening to a corncrake tuning up for the evening’s serenade.
When he finally walked back to the hotel it was nearly dark. Several guests from the tour were sitting on the green overlooking the ocean and listening to a local group of musicians. A brown-haired girl was singing “Danny Boy” while the others accompanied her on an assortment of guitars, fiddles, penny whistles. It had to be a request from the American tourists, but Keir thought he’d never heard a sweeter version.
The summer’s gone, and all the flowers are dying
‘Tis you, ‘tis you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow
‘Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.
He’d always thought it a trite little song — fake Irish — but that evening with the rush of waves and cries of the seabirds for added accompaniment — his throat tightened at the simple sweetness of the melody and words. Nothing wrong with a little sincere sentiment, was there? He felt an unexpected sense of the merging past and the present…his own Irish roots and the adventuring spirit of his ancestors that had led them to strike out for a new land and leave this tough, enduring loveliness behind.
He was probably never going to hear “Danny Boy” again without getting choked up. Rick would laugh his ass off.
And he remembered that soon Rick would be a memory too…like this evening, like this island. Except that Rick would be the most important of all his memories.
Or maybe not. He might get over it one day. But right now it felt like a grief that would never heal. Even if the ending had been written at the outset. God knows he should have seen it coming. Should have guarded his heart. When had any of Rick’s relationships lasted more than a few months? When had his?
He just…hadn’t had a choice in it. He’d pretty much loved Rick from the start.
In sunshine or in shadow.
The music was breaking up, people wandering back to homes and hotels to get ready for the night’s festivities. There was music on the island nearly every night during the summer.
Keir headed for his hotel.
* * * * *
After a very nice seafood dinner with the tour group — even the lobster tasted different in Ireland — there was an evening concert in the hotel rec room, and immediately following the traditional music concert, there was an informal ceili in the hotel pub. With the exception of the tour group, everyone in the place — which was packed — seemed to play an instrument or sing. There was a great deal of Emmy Lou Harris and country western in addition to traditional Irish fare.
Keir was at the bar getting another round for himself and the couple from Milwaukee — Ceil and Kris — when he caught the eye of the bartender.
As in…a blip suddenly flashed on the old gaydar. Keir had already noticed the bartender — Seamus, they called him — a very nice-looking young guy with curly, reddish hair and brown eyes, an easy smile and a nice laugh. About as different from Rick’s tall, dark and handsome good looks as it got.
“Another one for you?” Seamus asked. Somehow his accent made it sound especially charming.
Keir nodded, reaching for his wallet. When he glanced up, Seamus was eyeing him. Catching Keir’s gaze, he grinned.
“You’re the copper, are you?”
Keir winced and Seamus laughed.
“I asked about you,” Seamus admitted. And Keir started paying closer attention. “What do you think of our island, then?”
“Beautiful.” Keir was horrible at small talk, but he tried. “Have you lived here all your life?”
Seamus laughed. “I was a stockbroker in Dublin. Decided to leave the rat race and came here. Used to holiday here in the old days.”
“Must be a change.”
“Change would be a fine thing.” Seamus counted out Keir’s coins and winked.
Was that a pun or —? Keir said slowly, “Isn’t the saying, ‘Chance would be a fine thing?’”
“Aye, but this…change could happen.” Seamus was still smiling, but his gaze met Keir’s steadily, unmistakably.
Keir swallowed. “What time do you get off?”
Seamus’s grin was wry. “Depends on the seishun.” He nodded at the packed house of musicians and singers and tourists. “This lot…could be two or three in the morning.” He added, “But your boat’s not leaving until eleven-thirty tomorrow.”
Bemused, Keir carried the drinks back to the little table where Ceil and Kris sat.
“Making friends?” Ceil asked, and Kris chuckled.
One of the tour group requested “Danny Boy,” and the island musicians obligingly launched into a long instrumental version. The tour group began to sing — not very well.
“‘Tis you, ‘tis you must go and I must bide….”
Kris put her hands to her head in pain.
The pub door swung open on a newcomer. A gust of fresh, sea breeze wafted through the crush.
“But come ye baaaaaaaaack when summer’s in the meadow…” roared the singers.
It was like in a film where a long distance shot suddenly snapped into zoom focus. Rick — Rick — filled the doorway, the night breeze ruffling his dark hair, his eyes raking the crowded room.
“Wow,” Kris said. “James Bond just arrived.”
“I…don’t…believe it,” Keir said.
His friends glanced at him, then turned back to the newcomer. That was the last Keir noticed about the ladies from Milwaukee. He stood up. Rick’s eyes met his.
It seemed to Keir that he waited a long time to see that particular expression on Rick’s face. Maybe five years. Maybe his entire life.
Rick started to make his way through the gridlock of chairs and bodies and musical instruments. Keir moved to meet him. It felt like it took a long time, and then they were face to face, fingers brushing tentatively — and then locking on, gripping tightly.
“What are you doing here?” Keir asked.
Rick started to laugh. “I think that’s my line.”
“You couldn’t have just arrived. When did you get to the island?”
“Three this afternoon. It took me awhile to track you down.”
“Some detective.”
“For your information, this island is five miles long, has five villages, five bed and breakfasts — and three hotels. Although if you blink, you’re liable to miss any or all of them.” Rick leaned forward and Keir realized they were about to share their first public kiss. That was his last clear thought for several long seconds.
Warm mouth and faded aftershave. Rick needed a shave and a shower, but to Keir he smelled like…bright sunshine and gun oil and L.A. rain and the wind blowing through the open car window and the glint of sunglasses and the flash of badge and too many burgers and too many beers and talking late into the night and sheepish grins in the morning…and being held tight and told you were the one thing that really mattered — the only thing that mattered — from the one person you felt the same way about.
When they broke apart there was clapping, some laughs and a couple of whoops. It was okay. They were among friends.
Rick was looking around the pub. Keir looked too — no sign of Seamus behind the bar. He felt a twinge of regret. Not for himself. For Seamus. It must get lonely for a gay man on a little island in the middle of nowhere.
Rick said, “Is there some place we can go and talk?”
“You want to talk?” Keir raised an eyebrow. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Nah, I want to tell you this joke I heard.”
Keir nodded, patient. “Shoot.”
“Two Irish cops walk into a bar. The first cop says…” Rick’s voice dropped. He said gruffly, “I love you. Come home.”
Keir managed to keep his voice steady. “What’s the other cop say?”
The sweetness of Rick’s smile was like a kick in his chest. “That’s what I’m here to find out, boyo.”
The French Have a Word for It
The French Have a Word for It
I really enjoy the idea of exploring what happens after the curtain comes down on a very dramatic story. For example, all those bodyguard romances. What happens after the threat has been neutralized and there is no great, sensational catalyst for keeping two very different people together? How much of the attraction is just the aphrodisiac of danger?
“Colin?”
Something about the deep voice was familiar. Colin Lambert looked up from his sketch pad, squinting at the tall silhouette blocking the blanched Parisian sun. It was a golden autumn afternoon and the last of the tourists were crowding the cafés and narrow streets of the “village” of Montmartre. The background babble of French voices, the comfortable scents of warm stone and auto exhaust and Gauloises and something good cooking — always something good cooking in Paris — and the old world colors: the reds of street signs and awnings and the greens of ivy and window shutters and the yellow of the turning leaves and fruit in the grocer stands…all of it faded away as Colin gazed up, frowning a little.
“It is Colin, isn’t it?”
Gradually the black bulk resolved itself into broad shoulders, lean hips, black hair and gray eyes. Colin blinked but the mirage didn’t vanish, in fact it smiled — an easy, rueful flash of white. “You probably don’t remember me.”
“Thomas?”
Not remember Thomas Sullivan? Did anyone forget their first love?
Colin was on his feet, sketch pad tossed away, chair scraping back on cement. He moved to hug Thomas and Thomas grabbed him back in a rough, brief hug, laughing. They were both laughing — and then self-consciousness kicked in. Colin recalled that he wasn’t seventeen anymore, and that Thomas wasn’t —
And never had been.
He stepped back, Thomas let him go, saying, “I can’t believe how long it’s been. You look…” Words seemed to fail him.
Colin knew how he looked. He looked grown up. Ten years was pretty much a lifetime in puppy years, and he had been such a puppy back when Thomas knew him.
Knew him? Back when Thomas had been his bodyguard.
“How are you? Are things going right for you?” There it was: The Look. That keen, searching gaze — wow, Thomas’s eyes really were gray. Not just something Colin had imagined or remembered incorrectly.
Gray eyes. Like cobbled streets after rain or smoke or November skies.
And Thomas’s smile conveyed a certain…er…je ne sais quoi as they said over here. A friendly understanding. Like Thomas had been there, done that, and made no judgments — but nothing surprised him anymore either. It was almost weird how little he’d changed. A few faint lines around his eyes, a little touch of silver at his temple. What was he now? Forty-something?
Every woman in the café was looking at him. A lot of les hommes as well.
“I’m good. I’m great,” Colin answered.
“Yeah?”
And Thomas was still studying him. Measuring the boy against the man? Or just wondering about what scars the bad times had left?
Colin said firmly, “Yeah. I’m here painting.”
“Painting?” Thomas looked down at the sketch pad as though he’d only noticed it.
“Well, sketching just now, but yeah. I’m painting. What are you doing here?”
“You’re a student?”
“No. I’m a…doing this.” He nodded at the sketch pad, then reached down to flap the cover over the rough sketch of a steep flight of steps. It still sounded so…not exactly pretentious — or not only pretentious — but unlucky to say I’m a painter.
Thomas’s smile widened. “Good for you. And you’re making a living at it? At your painting?”
“Er…define making a living.” Colin laughed, and Thomas laughed too, but his gaze continued to assess and evaluate. Well, old habits probably died hard. Especially for a guy in Thomas’s line of work.
“What are you doing in Paris?” Colin asked again.
“The usual. A job.”
Well, whoever the client was, they were lucky to have Thomas on their side. Still, Colin preferred not to think about Thomas’s job — preferred not to remember that time in his own life. “How long are you here for?”
“Tonight. Just tonight.”
Colin was aware of an unexpectedly sharp jab of disappointment. “Oh. Right.”
They continued to stare at each other and then Thomas looked around at the small, crowded tables. “Do you have time for a quick drink?”
“I’d like that, yes.”
They had wine, of course. Beaujolais Nouveau. The waitress brought it out, chilled, with two fluted glasses, perfumed aromas of plums and blackberries wafting into the bright cold autumn air. And for the space of a glass of wine, they could have been alone in the world.
An occasional fat drop of rain splashed down; there were dark clouds rolling in from the distance, crimson and gold leaves scattered the sidewalk, bikes and motor bikes flashed past like giant insects. Neither man showed any inclination to hurry away.
“It’s beautiful here. I see why you love it,” Thomas remarked, leaning back and glancing around the crowded street as though only now recalling their surroundings.
“I do love it. You’re right.” Colin studied Thomas’s ruggedly handsome features. It was not a face that gave a lot away. “Are you still…what are you doing these days?”
“Same thing.”
Colin’s memories veered sharply. Not a path he wished to travel. “So you never went back…to the FBI?”
“No. I stayed in the personal protection industry after I left your grandfather’s employ.” Thomas suddenly grinned. “I don’t know if I ever told you, but I was always proud of you for choosing to go away to college on your own terms.”
“Even if it did put you out of work?”
“Even so.”
Colin’s smile twisted. “You said you’d stay in touch.”
Thomas’s gaze dropped to the red-and-white-checked table cloth. “I shouldn’t have. I was always a terrible letter writer.”
That had hurt. Thomas had meant…a lot. Had probably even known how much he’d meant, so to just drop out of Colin’s life? Not even the occasional Christmas card? Yeah, that had hurt. There had even — embarrassingly — been a few tears shed over that.
“It was kind of hard to say goodbye,” Thomas admitted. “I guess I tried to make it easier on both of us.”
“Sure.”
Thomas seemed uncomfortable, so Colin changed the subject. He didn’t want to scare Thomas off. They had little enough time as it was. “So what’s the job? Can you talk about it?”
“Not really,” Thomas said. “Routine stuff. No drama.”
“Yeah,” Colin said dryly. “That’s what you probably said about my case to your buddies at the Bureau. It’s plenty dramatic when you’re on the other side.”
“Your situation was different.” For an instant there was a glimpse of the professional Thomas Sullivan. Despite the easy smile, the frank gaze, he could be brusque and hard as nails. He was the man who had — almost single-handedly — saved the life of the kidnapped fourteen-year-old grandson of one of the richest men in America. There had been a lot of media attention on Special Agent Sullivan after that daring rescue. It couldn’t have been easy for someone who valued his privacy as much as Thomas.
Absently, Colin moved his glass inside and out of the ring of wet on the table cloth. He really di
dn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to remember the ninety-six hours he’d been kidnapped and held for ransom by John Riedel, a disgruntled former security officer at one of Mason Lambert’s bottling companies.
It wasn’t a big trauma for him. Well, it probably was, , but it’s not like it haunted his days and nights. He had got past it, had moved on, and had even managed to forget a lot of it. Learned to trust people again, and — even harder — learned to trust himself.
Watching him, Thomas said suddenly, “You sure everything is okay? You hugged me hello like I was the cavalry and you were down to your last bullet.”
Colin chuckled, looking up. “I hugged you hello like you were the first familiar face I’d seen in nine weeks. I’m not quite as fluent as I thought I was. It gets lonely sometimes.” He thought it over and admitted, “Or maybe I was just kind of thrilled to see you again. I’d sort of given up on that.”
He didn’t mean it to come out like an accusation, but Thomas must have heard something. He gave another of those lopsided smiles and said, “I guess you sort of had a case of hero worship back then.”
“It wasn’t that exactly. Well, I guess it was, but it wasn’t only that.” Colin took a deep breath. “Um. I’m not sure you ever noticed, but I’m…gay.”
Thomas let out a sudden, soft exhalation — as though he’d been holding his breath. “It…crossed my mind a couple of times.” His tone was grave enough but he was struggling to keep a straight face.
“That obvious, was it? At fourteen?”
“Not at fourteen, no. At sixteen, sort of. Seventeen, yes.”
“Just another way I managed to disappoint Grandpappy.”
The amusement faded. Thomas said vaguely, “It’s probably not that bad.”
“No. Probably not.” Colin finished the last mouthful of his wine. He’d made it last as long as he could, knowing Thomas would be saying goodbye soon after that final swallow. He would have things to do and places to go. “I knew from the time I was little. And when I got older, I couldn’t help but notice that I didn’t find girls very interesting. Not the way my friends did. I was trying very hard to talk myself out of it. But then you came along. And I realized it wasn’t something I was going to grow out of.” He added quickly, “I hope you’re not offended, me saying this to you.”