“That would be wonderful. I know there aren’t many of those kinds of artisans left. Then there are these.” He gestured up at the stained glass windows, and Michael gasped softly, climbing closer to study them. It was impossible to see more than hints of the colors in the dark, but the images were clear. Here the peacock motif had been realized in all its glory; the two tall windows depicted proud male peacocks, beautifully arched throats and angled heads almost forming a heart, full feathered tails overlapping at the bottom. Behind the birds was a low white railing, and beyond that the delicate shapes of sailboats floated on a still lake.
“This looks like something Louis C. Tiffany did.” Michael bent at the waist, studying the bottom of the windows carefully. He was searching for a small rectangular shape with the distinctive signature…. When he found it, his hand shot out, touching the hundred-year-old window delicately. “Oh my God. These are Tiffany.”
“We have the paperwork from when they were ordered,” Richard said. “Again, O’Banyon wanted only the best for his bride.”
“These are worth a fortune.” David studied them closer.
“There is some damage.” Richard pointed to a couple of cracks and a place where someone had used duct tape to cover a missing piece in one corner. Michael had a strong desire to smack whoever had done it in the mouth.
“We know someone who can repair them, probably without taking them down.” David turned to Michael. “Make a note to call Elizabeth.”
Michael nodded, straightening. When he did, he felt a strong body standing close all along his back. He knew without turning who it was.
He glared over his shoulder, not at all surprised to find Gil looking down at him.
“Oh, sorry.” Gil took a step back, a slow smile spreading, dimples popping. “Was I in your way?”
“Oh no, not at all.” Michael elbowed him subtly in the side as he passed. Gil grunted softly, but his smile stayed in place.
When the five of them arrived on the second floor, Michael looked up at the mural on the ceiling and saw that yes, it was indeed a peacock painted there. A smirking peacock. He angled his head slightly, frowning. Why in the world would a peacock be smirking?
“Someone attempted to repair that at some point,” Gil said from beside him. Michael looked over to find Gil studying the mural. “They didn’t do a very good job of it.”
Richard laughed. “They did a horrible job of it. Have you ever seen a more condescending bird?” He pointed to a far corner. “There was water damage about a decade ago right there; a pipe burst. They brought in a well-known muralist to execute the repairs once that section of the wall was replaced. I don’t know what happened. Fortunately, when we were going through the attics, we found the original artist’s renderings.”
Gil’s expression brightened. “Really? I’d love to see those.”
“Are you the muralist? Mr. Snyder told me he knew an excellent one.”
Michael’s head jerked around, and he looked at Gil in surprise. A ruddy flush spread on Gil’s neck above his collar.
“I haven’t really had the time to do much mural work lately, but I have before.”
“He’s being too modest,” David said. “He’s amazing. He did the murals in the new wing of the children’s hospital downtown.”
“All of them?” Richard asked. Michael studied Gil, startled. He looked uncomfortable, as if unaccustomed to being the center of everyone’s attention. “We were there when the new wing was dedicated. The murals are really beautiful, Mr. Chandler.”
“Thank you.” Gil fidgeted, his face filled with hot color.
Michael gave David a pointed look. How could David know Gil was an artist but not have told him? Surely this should have come up. In Michael’s mind, Gil painted houses. Beautifully, but—the idea he didn’t even know this about Gil made Michael feel off-center. He didn’t like it.
As they continued through what had been bedrooms on the second floor, Richard explained his and his husband’s vision for the rest of the house. There would be private dining and meeting rooms, a special room for brides and bridesmaids to dress, even a large room set aside for a staff breakroom. At one time the house had fifteen bedrooms and nine bathrooms, and he had plans for them all.
They were in a room at the corner of the house. Dim and suffering from a heavy, musty smell, the room still had elements of charm. A window seat tucked in against a wall of windows was like an invitation to curl up there with a good book and a cup of tea. A fireplace with a spectacular white marble mantel only needed a crackling fire. “Of course, the paint is ghastly,” Richard said. He was right, it was. Dark red and mottled, it looked like blood. “But if you look here in the closet—” He opened the door, pointing to the interior wall. David stepped close and Michael looked over his shoulder. Wallpaper on the interior walls was faded and tattered, but remnants of its former beauty remained. The background was gray, with what looked like a satiny stripe. A repeating floral bouquet of red roses and pale green leaves climbed between every other stripe. “We found a book of wallpaper samples in the attic. I don’t know if anyone even makes something like this any longer—”
“Actually, they do.” David stepped closer, reached up to grab the rusted metal chain, pulled it, and flooded the inside of the closet with light. “We’ve worked with a supplier out of Philadelphia that reproduces old patterns specifically for vintage restorations. It isn’t glued like modern paper—”
“Which means installation is….” Gil grimaced.
“A pain in the ass?” Richard had a twinkle in his brown eyes.
Gil grinned, the dimple popping next to his mouth. Michael felt a wholly unwelcome pull in the center of his chest at the sight of it. It was why he was uncomfortable being around Gil. Most men fell into two categories for Michael: men he’d screw and those he wouldn’t. He’d given up on anything more than that a long time ago. He could certainly see himself sleeping with Gil, but the idea of doing it made his palms sweat and his mouth go dry with the fear there might be more to it. Why couldn’t the man be ugly, or short, or scrawny? That would have made things so much simpler.
“Yeah, it’s a pain in the ass,” Gil agreed, still talking about wallpaper. “The glue stinks and it’s backbreaking. Getting it on the wall can be time-consuming, and lining it up….” He shook his head. “But the old papers are thick, sometimes hand embossed. You can’t beat the quality. If you want vintage wallpaper, we can get it on the walls.”
Richard gave him a satisfied nod.
“Eventually we’d like to convert the attic into an apartment, so we could live on-site,” he explained ninety minutes later. They’d all taken seats on folding chairs around the lone round table in the ballroom. It was dwarfed by the room’s sheer size, and their voices echoed. “We have an alarm system, but we’re talking about an enormous investment here; we’d like to be on-site to protect it.”
“I can certainly understand that.” Jackson looked at David, and they shared one of those long, drawn-out, silent exchanges Michael saw so often. Half the time they didn’t even speak. They communicated with their eyes. He’d never had that level of understanding with anyone. Even when he’d thought he was in love the one disastrous time, there had never been that. He tried not to resent it.
Jackson turned back to Richard. “We should be able to have a bid for you by Monday, Mr. Lawrence. I don’t know who else you’re talking to, but—”
Richard raised his hand, silencing Jackson gently. “You really must use my first name, please. If we’re going to be working together, I can’t have you calling me Mr. Lawrence. I’m older than all of you, and that makes me feel like my father.” He leveled a kind, steady look on Jackson. “We aren’t entertaining other bids. I’ve checked out your business. Your company is new, but everyone you’ve worked with so far raves about your professionalism and your finished product. It takes a special touch to work on an old building, honoring the way it was made instead of wanting to change it.” He paused, looking around
the table at the tableau of startled faces. “Lyle and I stumbled on this purchase at the right time. The family who owned the house just wanted to be out from under the running expenses. We were very fortunate in our choice of real estate agent, and we paid far less for the place than it’s worth. We knew even before we closed that we were going to hire your company. Our budget is—generous. I don’t think you’ll have a problem staying within it. So—” He smiled, offering his hand to Jackson. “Welcome aboard. This should be a fascinating experience.”
They all stared at him in stunned silence. Finally David spoke.
“Seriously?”
“Very seriously.”
David turned a shocked look on Jackson. Michael feared for a moment he was going to cry. Instead David let out a sound that would embarrass the hell out of him later and threw his arms around Jackson’s neck.
Michael sputtered, unable to stop his laughter. Within moments they were all laughing. Jackson wrapped his arms around David, squeezing him with an indulgent smile. Richard offered his hand to each of them. “When can you start?”
“We have two small jobs to finish up”—Jackson glanced at the men around the table—“and we’ll want to confer as we write up the bid, just so you know what we’re thinking in terms of cost and time frame. But I think—a week from Monday?”
“Excellent!”
Once they were done talking, Richard showed them to the door, saying he’d await their estimate. They managed to get down the stairs onto the driveway before they lost their composure completely.
“Oh my God, David,” Michael laughed. “You squealed like a little girl.”
David bit his lower lip. Michael couldn’t see it in the dark, but he knew his friend’s face and ears were bright red. David brought his hands to his cheeks.
“Oh Lord, I did, didn’t I?”
Jackson encircled his waist from behind, pressing a kiss to his neck.
“You were excited. It’s okay.”
David melted back into Jackson, his body and horrified expression softening. Michael looked away. He loved them, but sometimes their displays of affection were almost painful to watch.
Gil laughed, wrapping Michael up in his huge arms and lifting him easily from his feet.
“Oh, put me down.” Michael pushed against Gil’s chest. The temptation to cuddle into the big body was too strong, the feel of the muscled stomach where Michael’s cock pressed too arousing. Desire rammed into him like a truck, and he knew if he didn’t get down, and soon, he was going to be fully hard, which was just a bit more illuminating than he wanted to be at the moment.
“Put me down.” He smacked Gil’s large bicep and wriggled in his arms.
“Aw, join the celebration, Michael,” Gil teased. “This means Jackson and David can put you on the payroll. That’s worth a celebratory hug, don’t you think?”
“I can join the celebration without being manhandled, thank you.”
“You’re so fucking prickly.” Gil laughed and let him drop onto his feet, but for a moment Michael thought he saw hurt in the hazel eyes. He turned to David and Jackson, convincing himself he’d been mistaken.
“This is going to be a huge job. Are we going to be able to do it and still keep our jobs at A.F.I.?”
David looked thoughtful. “It’s really mostly on Jackson and his guys, at least at first. It will be a couple of months before we’re even relevant.”
Michael scowled at him. “Speak for yourself, big boy.”
The look David shot him was tolerant. “You know what I mean, Michael. God only knows what they’re going to find when they start pulling plaster and rewiring. That kitchen alone is a major undertaking. We can start looking at wallpaper samples, fabric for drapes. Pricing the refinishing on the floors. Finding someone qualified to clean those chandeliers will take a major search.”
“But aren’t they cool?” Michael smiled as they started walking down the driveway.
“They are very cool. I’ve never seen anything like them.”
They paused to chat for another few moments at the end of the driveway, but it was cold. As Jackson and David began to say good night, Michael caught hold of David’s sleeve.
“Can I have a moment of your time before you take off?”
David gave him a concerned look, his brow furrowed. “O-kay.”
They separated, Jackson and Gil turning to look back at the front of the house, talking softly as Michael and David walked a short distance away.
“How is it,” Michael asked, leaning in to speak in David’s ear, “that I had no idea Gil painted murals?”
David leaned back to look at him, one brow raised. “I don’t know.” A corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Maybe I didn’t think you’d care. But you do, don’t you?” His expression evolved into a slow, slightly mocking smile. “Now isn’t that interesting.”
Michael felt his face heat and was glad it was dark. He did not blush. Not over Gilbert Chandler. “Oh, bite me, David.”
David chuckled, and Michael turned to make a purposeful exit. He started for his car, but he should have taken more care; he hadn’t gone five steps before he skidded sideways on the icy asphalt. His arms windmilled for a moment before he found his balance.
“Care for some help there, darlin’?” Gil called, laughter in his voice. Michael flipped him off without turning.
“I am not your darlin’,” he muttered, but it was during a break in traffic and his voice carried.
“No? How about sweetheart? Baby boy?”
Michael made a gagging sound, and Gil’s booming laughter followed him all the way to his car. He grabbed the hood, skidding again, but he wasn’t about to look back. He slipped and slid around his car, finally grabbing the door handle, and used his keychain fob to unlock the little Subaru.
“Oh, well done!” Gil applauded, and Michael was quite sure he’d never loathed anyone more in his life. He yanked the door open and nearly slid under the car before he managed to throw himself into the seat. Gil’s mocking laughter carried to him. Michael was fuming as he started the car and pulled away from the curb, his studded tires spinning before they caught. He refused to even look at the men still standing in the wide driveway. Except he couldn’t help but see the tallest of the three smiling in his peripheral vision. Damn him.
Michael headed down the hill, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He didn’t understand why Gil riled him more than any man he’d ever met. David’s theory involved sexual tension.
Michael was sure David was out of his damned mind.
As he drove toward downtown, his irritation faded, and he saw the lights of the Sacred Heart Medical Center on the hill to his right. Without consciously planning ahead of time, he turned, taking the road that led between the hospital and the doctors’ building.
If there’s no parking, I’ll just go home, he thought. But there was a parking place where there was never any parking, and he pulled into it, letting his car idle. He stared through the tall glass doors of the hospital, wondering what the hell he was doing. After a moment he exhaled a rough breath, turned off the car, and snatched the keys from the ignition. If he was going to do this, he needed to get out of the bloody car.
He crossed the street, hands jammed in his pockets and shoulders hunched, almost turning back to his car more than once. The wind had come up and was tearing at his carefully combed faux hawk, pitching the long strands down over the frames of his glasses. He pushed at them in irritation as he entered the lobby, sighing in relief as the warm air brushed his chilled face. A directory hung on the wall next to a vacant reception desk, and Michael studied it even though he had no idea what he was looking for.
Pediatric Endocrinology and Diabetes, Pediatric Gastroenterology, Pediatric Hematology and Oncology. Michael shuddered, but it wasn’t from the cold. The idea of a little kid dealing with any of those illnesses was awful. Thinking about their parents was even worse.
“Can I help you?”
Michael jumped in
surprise and turned, his hands clutching his arms.
A very attractive woman with dark hair stood behind him. She had bangs and large green eyes, and the badge pinned to her blue jacket read Louise Pewsey, Administration.
“I—” Michael glanced back at the directory. “I was actually looking for….” He shook his head. “This is going to sound very odd, I think, but I’m looking for a series of wall murals? The artist’s name is—”
“Big Gil?” She smiled at Michael’s startled expression. “They’re on the fourth floor; hematology and oncology. They really are very special. Unfortunately, there are limited visiting hours on that floor for anyone other than families of the patients.”
“Oh.” Michael was surprised by how disappointed he was.
Louise seemed to see it, too, and she held up her hand with a slight smile. “Hold on.” Crossing behind the desk, she leaned over to take something out of a drawer, then scooted it across the counter to him. It was a volunteer’s badge.
“It’s really kind of late for volunteers to be on the floor, but if anyone asks, just tell them I know you’re there.”
Michael took the badge and clipped it to the front of his jacket. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
Louise studied him. “Do you know Gil?”
He gave her a weak, sheepish smile. “Not as well as I thought, apparently.”
Her answering smile was kind. “Take the elevator to the fourth floor, then walk across the sky bridge. You can’t miss them.”
“Thanks.”
Michael gave her another small smile of appreciation, then went to the bank of elevators. One opened on his pressing the button, and he stepped onto the empty car, pressing another button for the fourth floor. As the elevator ascended, he chewed on his thumbnail.
What was he doing there? He didn’t have an answer. He just needed to see, as if seeing Gil’s work could help him decipher the puzzle that was the man. He pushed away the thought that he shouldn’t care. When the elevator doors opened, he saw a nurses’ station directly in front of him. Phones were ringing, and nurses in bright scrubs answered and bustled about with charts and medication. Skirting the busy desk, he followed a hall to the left. A low buzz of conversation came from the rooms up and down the hall, and the lights were still high. It was dinnertime, he realized, smelling something surprisingly edible. It masked the medicinal smell that usually accompanied a hospital. Not far down the hall, there was a woman walking with a child. The boy—he thought it was a boy; what little hair was on his head looked soft, barely more than stubble—had a wheeled IV pole beside him. The woman gave Michael a slight smile as he passed them, and he thought it looked tired and careworn. Oncology, he suddenly remembered. Cancer. The sight of the child’s vulnerable, soft little head would probably stay with him forever.
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