That was when he felt someone watching him, and he tore his gaze from the couple now kissing where they knelt on the floor to one of the three men standing just behind them.
Gilbert Chandler’s hazel eyes were also suspiciously bright as he stared at him, and he gave Michael a slow smile.
“Gotcha,” he mouthed.
Michael scowled and flipped him off. Gil’s lopsided grin deepened, and Michael looked away, focusing on one bright red rose in the riotous arrangement as he dashed at the tears on his cheeks.
CHAPTER THREE
MICHAEL PULLED his car to a stop, parking as close to the snow berm as he dared while still leaving room to open his door. Fortunately he was thin and could fit in the small space; even as he left the vehicle’s warm interior and straightened, traffic zoomed by inches from his car. The enormous house where he was scheduled to meet David and Jackson loomed above the wide, busy one-way street heading into downtown. He was relieved that even while parallel parking on the “wrong” side of the street was a bitch, at least he didn’t have to play Russian roulette with speeders while he navigated across two lanes of traffic. He’d only have to climb over the dirty, icy pile of snow the plows had left when they cleared the streets.
He grabbed his messenger bag, then cursed under his breath as he scaled the slippery three-foot pile of ice. A wide driveway cut in down the hill about fifty yards from where he stood, but he could see himself slipping and sliding on black ice and landing on his ass in front of rush-hour traffic. The winter had felt so long; he couldn’t wait for the temperatures to rise and some of the filthy snow piled all over town to melt. Going out after dark, when the temperatures plummeted, exacerbated everything.
Even with the parking negatives, when David told him where they were going for the bid, Michael grew excited about this possible job. Of course, David was pretty much excited about everything and had been since Jackson’s proposal two weeks before. Michael could give him a pass. Jackson was gorgeous, they were mad for one another, and he supposed a wedding was the natural outcome for couples like them. What wasn’t welcome or easily forgiven was the seed of longing watching Jackson propose had planted in Michael’s chest. He prided himself on his disinterest in the whole “happily ever after” pile of crap, believing it was impossible for a gay man to ever truly find his other half. Then he watched Jackson get down on one knee and ask David to marry him. He saw someone get his Prince Charming, and a longing unlike anything he’d ever felt rocked him to his core. He didn’t like it.
Once he was over the berm—skidding the last two feet until he could steady himself in the softer snow on the lawn—Michael finally straightened, looking up at the house they were going to tour.
Of course, he was aware of the Patrick O’Banyon Mansion. It was like the Mercer Hotel, the turn-of-the-century jewel the same man had built downtown. You didn’t live in the area and not know the story of the mining millionaire who was considered one of the founding fathers. Brash and egotistical, Irish immigrant Paddy O’Banyon had owned a silver mine in Northern Idaho and had his mansion built on the hill in eastern Washington in 1894 so his Boston-born bride would have other stylish people to socialize with. At the turn of the twentieth century, most of the local well-heeled crowd had made their fortune through mining or railroads or both. Michael hadn’t grown up locally, but even he knew the story of the people who’d built downtown. Some of the families had even stayed. Old money was currently being used by a new generation on remodeling buildings of similar age in the downtown corridor. But this house was the crown jewel, situated on the hill, visible for miles. Michael had heard the stories about the house, even though he’d never been inside. It was on the National Registry of Historic Homes and had been a bridal destination until the last few years, when the owners were no longer able to afford the upkeep. It had changed hands recently, but whoever purchased it was keeping a low profile.
Some said it was haunted. As Michael stared up at the Tudor beams and slate that decorated the front of the old house, he could believe it. A cross between an English country manor and a Craftsman, the house had a great stone arch above the fifteen stairs leading to a porch that wrapped around the entirety of the twelve-thousand-square-foot house. There was even a place on the side where the balustrade was interrupted so carriages could unload their passengers directly onto the porch. It was a testament to the era when the house was built, and Michael was surprised it had never been remodeled. In fact, the whole structure seemed an anachronism, an old-fashioned house in a modern world. It needed paint where it peeled from the heavy beams. The dusting of snow added a bit of charm to the roofs and chimneys and windowsills, but the slate rock that formed the foundation looked dingy, gray, ugly.
What Michael saw in front of him would be an enormous job, even if it was just the exterior. But David had told him they were there to see the first two floors. This was a job that might, as David suggested, make it so they could actually get Delta Restoration, Renovation, and Design up and rolling. There were seven of them at the first meeting, all who had conditionally joined the business. They were doing smaller jobs, and their sign, the delta triangle with elegant black script, was currently in the front yards of three vintage homes on the hill. But something like this? All of them would be able to pull a paycheck. Michael didn’t care if the ghosts were playing Parcheesi in the parlor; he was in.
He walked across the snowy lawn, paused on the walkway to stomp the snow from his boots, then hurried up the stairs. His feet were freezing, but they had been all day. He was about ten minutes late for the meeting and hoped he hadn’t missed too much. Pausing before the enormous door, Michael studied the leaded glass window above it as he rang the bell. The half-circle window was in the shape of a peacock, and Michael admired the detail as the door swung open. To his surprise, David stood on the other side.
“Well, hello. Are you playing Lord of the Manor?”
David grinned. “I could with this place, couldn’t I? No, I knew it was you, and our client got tied up with a phone call.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Michael stepped over the threshold, immediately admiring the hardwood floors. They were darkened with age but still beautiful. “I got tied up in traffic.”
“I figured. So, what do you think?” David closed the huge door behind them.
Michael looked around the enormous entryway. To the left, a solid wooden staircase climbed along the wall to a landing, then turned and followed the back wall to a second floor. The balcony, bordered by the wooden balustrade, curled around the entirety of the cavernous space. It was hard to make out the ceiling far above; Michael could see there was a mural, but it was dark outside, so there wasn’t any light coming through the stained glass windows on the wide landing. Michael thought it might be a peacock painted there, its ornamental feathers spreading around the edges. The sconces in the entry looked dingy, and a dark chandelier hung from the center of a plaster medallion that appeared to be missing sections. It was all beautiful but reminded Michael of an aging beauty queen, still lovely but beginning to show her mileage. “Peacocks, huh?”
“Apparently.” David looked around. “But isn’t the woodwork glorious?”
Michael turned to reply to David’s comment but paused when he heard voices. Jackson came through a large doorway from the next room, and just behind him, tablet in hand, was Gil Chandler. Michael stiffened and turned his back. “Why is he here?”
“Who?”
“Who?” Michael gave his friend a dark look. “Who do you think? I knew Jackson would be here. I didn’t know his cohort would be.”
“We need him here, Michael. The walls are damaged in pretty much every room, and Gil’s our wall and paint guy. You know that.”
“I guess I didn’t realize he was part of the bidding process.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders.
“Please play nice. We need to look professional. This job could translate into tens of thousands of dollars, and the publicity alone wou
ld be priceless. You know what people in this town think of this place.” He lowered his voice further. “Can’t you imagine our sign on the lawn, how much attention it would get? We could really use this one, Michael. It would do more than just pay the bills—it could set us all up.”
Michael sighed. “I’ll be good.” He hoped he could manage it.
“Well, hello, Mr. Crane. Aren’t you looking fetching this evening.”
Michael stiffened, but he bit back the snarky retort on the tip of his tongue before he turned. Gil was standing behind him, his large face wreathed in a teasing smile. He wore khakis, a green shirt, and a slightly darker green jacket. The color did wonderful things for his hazel eyes, and Michael took a deep breath. “Mr. Chandler. Allow me to return the compliment.”
Gil pressed a hand over his heart in mock surprise. “Be still my heart. The man just gave me a compliment. Is the sky falling?” He looked toward the ceiling as if expecting it to land on him. Michael opened his mouth to retort and saw Jackson elbow Gil in the ribs. Gil grimaced and was rubbing the spot when another voice echoed in the empty room.
“Mr. Snyder?”
An attractive man entered through a side door, his step light on the wooden floors. He was perhaps fifty, with short, dark brown hair, a slightly receding hairline, and an elegantly silvering goatee. Slender and graceful even in the casual jeans and sweater he wore, the red of his top was exactly the same shade as his Nike running shoes. Something of a shoe whore himself, Michael had been looking at those for months. Now that he’d seen them on this classy man’s feet—well, it was only a matter of time. The potential client offered his hand to David, and Michael noticed the slender gold band on his ring finger.
“Mr. Lawrence.” David gave him a small smile.
“Richard, please. I’m sorry about the delay. And I’m sorry my husband wasn’t able to be here.” He looked from face to face as David introduced everyone. When he shook Michael’s hand, Richard’s was warm, the skin soft.
“No worries,” Jackson assured him. “We were just looking around a bit. I hope that’s all right.”
“It’s fine.” Richard pressed his palms together. “You can see the potential, yes?”
“Absolutely.”
“Shall we take the tour?”
Michael took his tablet out of his messenger bag and pulled its stylus free, trying to pay close attention as Richard gestured around where they were standing. Gil at his back was a spicy-scented distraction. Michael didn’t know what cologne he wore, but whatever it was made his mouth water. He shifted a few steps away.
“This, as you see, is the foyer.”
Michael looked around the huge room, incredulous. “This is a foyer?” It was bigger than his entire apartment.
“Oh yes.” Richard gave him an amused glance. “Back in the day, guests would enter through the side doors, there.” He pointed toward a huge set of double doors. “Depending on what was on the agenda for the evening, they would either go through into the green parlor to wait for dinner to be announced, or they would move on into the ballroom. Some evenings they would set chairs up in this space for musicales. You can see the spots on the hardwood where a piano sat for nearly a hundred years.” He gave Michael a smile when he bent to see that, yes, there were three indentations on the floor where the piano legs must’ve sat. “There will be another instrument in that spot when we finish the renovations. The ballroom is through this way.”
He led them around the corner. “Good Lord,” Michael muttered.
Richard’s smile widened. “It seems a bit over the top for a private home, doesn’t it?”
“Not if they planned an indoor skating rink.” Michael looked around the massive space, suitably impressed. Richard chuckled. It was a warm, pleasant sound.
“No, but they did a lot of business in this house during grand events. Railroad expansions were discussed here, and mining revenue. The men who frequented this home back in the day were the Warren Buffetts and Bill Gateses of their time. At least for this part of the country.”
Michael looked at it through new eyes.
The ballroom was at least fifty by a hundred and fifty feet, floor-to-ceiling windows with dark velvet drapes along one side, mirrors on the other. Four crystal-and-brass chandeliers hung from the ceiling at intervals, like giant metal-and-glass flowers blooming from elaborate plaster medallions.
“Those are stunning.” David’s awe showed on his face. Michael agreed. He’d never seen anything like them. They were almost steampunk in their use of metal, the shapes organic and yet mechanical.
“Aren’t they? We’re excited to see what they look like when they’re clean.”
Fireplaces centered the walls at either end of the large room, with black marble facings and mantels. Fine plasterwork decorated the walls, like the swooping swags of fondant on a wedding cake. Whole sections of the designs were missing, lending what was once no doubt a stunning room a sad, neglected air. An ugly Pepto-Bismol pink covered the walls, and the brass on the wall sconces was tarnished. Gil walked past, looking intently at the wall. It afforded Michael a chance to study him without getting caught.
Usually Gil wore worn, paint-splattered jeans and long-sleeved ribbed shirts, a dark apron covering him from barrel chest to stocky thighs. Even with Gil so completely covered, it was impossible for Michael to ignore the tapered waist to hips, the thick biceps, the broad shoulders. Dressed as he was now, Gil’s muscular physique was even more obvious. He reached up to touch the wall, long, tapered fingers spread on the plaster. He had such big hands. Michael jerked his gaze away, feeling an unpleasant quivering in his midsection.
“Lath and plaster?” Gil asked.
“Throughout.” Richard walked to Gil’s side, studying the finish. “The color is awful, of course.”
Gil shrugged. “That’s easy to fix. You do want to keep this treatment, don’t you?”
“Where we can, absolutely. I’m big on preserving as much as possible.”
“Good.” Gil wrote quickly on his tablet. “So are we, and we can do it. It might mean removing some of the damaged plaster, but in this era they knew what they were doing underneath. There won’t be termites, so it should still be solid. As long as there’s no mold.”
“God forbid,” Richard said meaningfully.
“Word.” Gil sent Richard a smile, that dimple popping next to his mouth, and Michael felt something uncomfortably akin to jealousy. He didn’t like it a bit.
Gil continued to scribble notes, his smooth head gleaming slightly in the soft light. Michael hated that he wanted him, had pretty much always wanted him. Michael felt the electrical hum of it from his head to a stirring at the base of his spine, one that was directly connected to his cock. It twitched unhelpfully. He forced himself to take a step back and look away. For whatever fucked-up reason the universe had for anything it did, Gil Chandler appealed to Michael on a purely physical level. But just because he wanted to climb the man like a tree didn’t mean he’d ever act on it. He forced himself to turn back to the ongoing conversation.
“Our thought,” Richard was saying, “is to use the ballroom and the grounds out back as a wedding venue during the season from April through July, while leaving the rest of the house open to the public as a restaurant. We can divide the space with these.” Richard pulled out pocket doors between the main entry and the ballroom, and Michael thought Jackson was going to have an orgasm of sheer joy.
“Oh my God.” He reached out to touch the dark wood. “Are all of the doors throughout the house original?” He stroked his fingers over the dark wood with a lover’s caress, following the carved detail of vines and flowers. If he were David, Michael thought he might be jealous of the old doors.
“As far as we know.” Richard watched him, smiling faintly. “They aren’t all this elaborate.”
Jackson looked like a kid who’d found the best toy ever under his Christmas tree.
As they continued through the downstairs, Michael could start to see
why Richard and his husband had bought the old house. He also felt Gil’s eyes following him almost as often as his followed Gil. He was trying to ignore him, but it was difficult. At one point there was a fleeting touch on the back of his neck. He glared over his shoulder, only to find Gil carefully studying the surface of a wall, a picture of innocence. Michael turned away with a huff.
They wandered through the rest of the downstairs rooms. An enormous kitchen that needed to be completely gutted for Richard’s husband, Lyle, occupied a back corner of the house. Lyle was a Michelin Star chef who would be running their restaurant and catering. It looked as if the appliances had been replaced during the last thirty years, but the tiles were all original. On the floor they were small hexagons, white and black, and around the wide upper crown molding, there were bigger tiles in pale rose, featuring geometric patterns.
Michael had been notating each of the areas that needed repairs on his tablet, and before they ever climbed to the upper floors, the list was impressively long. He could see this job taking months. He could also see it being very lucrative for Delta, which was really exciting. He was the one who’d had the original idea for them to form a business of primarily gay men. Now he felt a vested interest in its success. It wouldn’t hurt his personal bottom line either. His dream was for him and David to be able to leave A.F.I. and not look back.
Richard led them to the main staircase that ascended to the landing. “There’s some minor damage to the wood.” He gestured toward some nicks in the railing. “We want to preserve as much as we can.”
“Of course.” Jackson’s hand had followed the wood from the ground floor, over the elaborate newel post at the landing, and now he bent to study the expertly turned balusters. “I know someone who can reproduce these, if necessary.”
Michael, Reinvented Page 4