A Madness Most Discreet

by Laura Lascarso

  “I don’t want to make any demands.”

  He didn’t want to make any demands? That reluctance, to me, was ludicrous. I’d been making demands all along. I’d give him anything he wanted, something I thought I’d made clear. I gestured grandly. “Arden, that’s all I’ve ever wanted was for you to make demands. Tell me what you want, for Christ’s sake. I’m here, and I’m willing.”

  I was frustrated, that much was obvious, but Arden didn’t falter. He’d prepared a speech as well.

  “I’d like you to come visit me. In a couple of months when I’ve got the boat all fixed up. I’d like for you to see it. To meet her. I don’t know what your publishing schedule is going to be like, but if—”

  “Yes,” I interrupted. “I will absolutely visit you in Florida, and I would love to meet your boat. Tondaleo.” I tried out the name for myself.

  “Okay. That’s great. That’s fantastic.” Arden beamed, then jumped to his feet and skirted the table to throw his arms around me. I was startled momentarily as I pulled him onto my lap and hugged him close. I relished his familiar weight and warmth, the contentment in having him right there in my arms again.

  Did he think he couldn’t ask for more? Was that really all he’d wanted?

  And that was when the revelation struck me, Arden was a humble man. Despite his beauty and his charms and my obvious adoration, he didn’t believe himself worthy of making such demands. It was his humility which I’d interpreted at times, as indifference and at other times, a willful obstinance. I’d told him he could ask for anything, but his own modesty wouldn’t allow it. And I’d taken that reticence as a rejection and personal affront. Because I’d never had such reservations. My whole life I’d been raised to believe that I was entitled to such things—shelter, comfort, attention, praise, an Ivy League education, a lucrative career as a bestselling author. And I took it all for granted. My own hubris was appalling. And that was the difference between us that Arden had been trying to articulate all along.

  “I interrupted you,” I said. “Were you going to say something more? Is there anything else you want?”

  Uncertainty flickered in Arden’s eyes, and he said, “No, this is more than enough.”

  A plan was forming in my mind. One that was half mad or perhaps it was all the way mad. Certainly, Liam would think so.

  We helped Arden pack up his things. He’d rented a small U-Haul truck, mainly to transport his books. Bitzy took inventory of his clothing and accessories and offered to sell the more valuable pieces for a small commission. Liam dove into ordering and packing Arden’s small library according to genre. He distracted us with literary arguments, which Arden indulged with enthusiasm, while Travis and I did the heavy lifting.

  Franco popped in on his lunch hour to see him off. They promised to keep in touch on more than just financial matters. We drank sparkling cider out of plastic cups and wished Arden good luck on his next adventure. I got a little emotional but tried to reign it in. Before Arden embarked on his long drive home, I pulled him aside and kissed him. He molded against me as if we’d never been apart. It did feel like the natural conclusion to our heartfelt goodbye.

  “Call me,” I said. I had no intention of letting him go.

  “I will. And Michael…” He placed both hands on my chest, bracing me for bad news. “If things change, or if this becomes too much, I’ll understand.”

  He’d said the same thing to me in the beginning. Arden was sweet to his very core, always giving without any expectation that he’d get anything in return. I resolved to never take advantage of this aspect, and if he’d let me, protect him from anyone who might try.

  I kissed his nose and then his forehead. “The only thing you need to understand is that I’ll be visiting you in six weeks, and I expect to be given the royal treatment.”

  He smiled. How I’d miss that adorable gap-toothed grin in the months we’d been apart. “I’ll roll out the red carpet for you, Mr. D’Agostino.” His hand gave a little flourish.

  I nearly said I love you, but that would have to wait until we were on more solid ground. “I’ll be seeing you then.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  He climbed into the truck, wearing a Yankees ballcap turned backward, and waved us all goodbye.

  He left me with a promise to reunite in Florida and the printed pages of his memoir. New York never looked so lonely.

  VIII.

  The captain was cremated, according to his wishes. His ashes would be spread in the waters surrounding their favorite island in the Bahamas, but in order for that to happen, the boat would need to be repaired. The engine wasn’t working properly, and there were tears in the sails. The boy didn’t trust the boat to make it there without sinking or being blown off-course. She was like the captain’s body in the end, ravaged by disease and fallen into disrepair.

  The boy’s aunt accompanied him to Caladesi Island where they drank beer to honor the captain. His aunt vomited most of her lunch over the side of the boat. The boy had forgotten what it felt like to be seasick. The boat’s unceasing rocking felt normal to him now, and it was only on land where he felt off-kilter.

  The boy told his aunt of their travels, the memories they’d made, his bitterness at his father’s seemingly senseless death. His aunt patted his shoulder while he licked at his own tears. Their salty taste had always been a comfort.

  “What will you do now?” she asked, not to frighten him, only to steer him back on course.

  The boy was broke and broken. Despite all his captain had taught him, he had few employable skills. Technology still largely mystified him. He liked working outdoors, but he didn’t have the endurance for manual labor. He’d never been good at keeping to a regular schedule either. School was a distant island, lost in his disastrous wake. He had his father’s rundown boat, a mountain of debt, and not much else.

  “I don’t know,” the boy said.

  The months that followed were full of grief and resentment drowned in alcohol and sex. Even those were pleasures with ever-diminishing returns. His body was a piece of driftwood, carried along the current and battered against the rocks. And always with him was that burning cinder of fury that he tended to like a precious seedling because it was all he had left. His father had deserted him, again. Had taught him how to be first mate but never to be captain. What was his destiny now?

  The boy had become a man who knew how to survive the tempestuous seas with its many hidden and poisonous dangers, but he didn’t know how to navigate this treacherous land and its cunning inhabitants. So, the boy remade himself again, and in the remaking, lost a little more of who he was.

  21

  the reunion

  I kept myself busy over the next six weeks. I read Arden’s memoir three times, astounded by the talent that had been under my nose all along, gleaning from it every detail of his inner-workings. Though I didn’t think it possible, I fell in love with him even more in the reading of those pages, and I admired not only his skill, but his courage throughout all that he’d endured and his willingness to retell his experiences with such candor. No wonder Brown had afforded him a scholarship. I determined I’d do whatever I could to encourage him in his writing and to see his talent flourish, if he’d let me. But I wouldn’t push him. I’d let him move at his own pace.

  There was a lot that I must accomplish ahead of my trip to Florida. Finishing this novel was at the top of my list. The contract with the TV people had been signed as well, and I’d been in contact with the screenwriter already to discuss what aspects of the story might be simplified or fleshed out, what side characters might get more attention and how their own narratives might unfold.

  It was fascinating to see my book stretched out over several episodes, each one like a mini novel in itself. I resolved to read a few books on screenplay writing or take a class, so that I might be able to adapt future projects myself.

  I stayed in close contact with my frien
ds and made every effort to be social. I told them all what I was planning, and they told me, each in their own way, I was mad to even consider it. I dismissed their concerns wholly because for the first time, I felt I finally had all the facts.

  When at last, I wrote those exhilarating two words, The End, on my manuscript, I waited less than a day to fire it off to Bitzy with the expectation that we’d meet for lunch after her first pass. She wasted no time in reading it, and a couple of days later, we were seated together on a sidewalk café enjoying one of the last temperate fall afternoons before the winter chill descended.

  “It’s marvelous,” she said. “Your best work ever, but you probably knew that already.”

  “Never hurts to hear it,” I said.

  “Your father’s going to say we can’t sell it,” she said and before I could reply, “but I’m going to convince him he’s wrong.”

  “I’m not changing it,” I said stoutly. “My readers managed well enough when it was a heterosexual relationship. They can manage a homosexual one or find another author.”

  “We could potentially be looking at LGBT imprints or an indie house.”

  “I have no allegiance to Black Rook. They were the right publisher for Cold Lake Chronicles, but they may not be the right fit for this one.”

  “It’s just so damn good,” Bitzy said with a dazed smile on her face. “You think Arden will mind?”

  There were striking similarities between my main characters and Arden and myself, but they were by no means carbon copies.

  “Hazards of dating a writer. Besides, I changed the names.”

  She laughed. “Then you’ve done your due diligence, haven’t you? Well, Michael, I’ll make you a deal. I will tell you, in excruciating detail, how your father reacts to your story, if you’ll do the same for me after Arden reads it.”

  I shook her outstretched hand because I’d be seeing Arden soon enough, and I was feeling optimistic.

  “And, Bitz, we can always consider self-publishing. We can work out some arrangement outside of the agency where you still get your 15 percent.”

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we get there. I have a few editors in mind who might be interested.”

  We ended our lunch with a promise to keep in touch during the coming weeks via email. I visited Carousel that night with Franco, Liam, and their lovers. We drank and reminisced and professed our undying love and mutual respect for one another. They said they would miss me profoundly and wished me luck.

  The next morning, I boarded a plane for Florida.

  December in New York brought near freezing temperatures, but Florida’s Gulf Coast was trapped in a perpetual summer. That was my first impression as I exited the Tampa airport to a balmy 75 degrees. Sweat droplets sprouted almost immediately all over my face and neck, and I feared what an actual summer in the southern reaches might portend. How warm were the tropics without air conditioning?

  I’d told Arden earlier that week that I was wrapping up some business in New York and would be visiting soon, but I didn’t give him an exact date because I wanted to surprise him. Was I being reckless? Absolutely. Did I give a damn? Absolutely not.

  The car ride to the coast was fraught with peril. Partly it was my jitters and also the reckless driving of the locals. There were more people than I’d expected with swarms of cars honking in traffic, cutting one another off on the highway, and accelerating way too fast only to wind up stopped at another red light. I thought most Floridians were retirees. What the hell was their hurry?

  There were bridges to cross and water, water everywhere—bays, rivers, and stormwater ponds. The feat of engineering it must have taken to build a metropolis right at sea-level was astounding. Not so different from New York City, in fact. Boats float, at least.

  When at last I’d arrived at the address Arden had provided, it was late afternoon. The house was a wooden clapboard on stilts and could have been constructed entirely of driftwood judging by its worn finish. I was tempted to bypass the house and go straight to the dock out back, but I didn’t want to be rude or have the police called on me for breaking and entering.

  I knocked a few times on the front door and was greeted by a woman in her sixties with a cat draped lazily over one arm and a lit cigarette in her other hand. Aunt Janice, I presumed.

  “Who are you?” she asked, not unkindly. She had platinum blonde hair and a very deep tan, the kind that came from baking in the sun regularly.

  “I’m Michael D’Agostino, a friend of Arden’s.” I would have offered my hand but both of hers were occupied.

  “A friend, you say?” She took a puff of her cigarette. Her hot pink lipstick bled into the wrinkles around her mouth. I wondered just how much she knew of Arden and my relationship.

  “Actually, ma’am, I’m his boyfriend.”

  “Now, don’t go getting fancy on me,” she warned. “Arden’s not here, but you can come inside and get out of the heat. Have a drink with me, and we’ll get to know each other better.”

  Sounded innocent enough. I stepped inside the house. Her decor was an interesting mix of nautical kitsch, which included an astounding number of pelicans.

  “You must be a collector,” I remarked. There were carved wooden statues of pelicans and anthropomorphic knick-knacks, along with several paintings, ranging from life-like replicas to exaggerated cartoon figures.

  “Runs in the family,” she said. “I’m Janice, by the way. Arden’s aunt.”

  “Yes, he’s told me about you.”

  “I read your books. Arden bought me the entire set. They’re not bad.” She gave me a hard look, and I sensed this woman wasn’t free with her compliments.

  “Thank you. I’m glad you liked them.”

  “Arden said they’re going to be making a TV show out of them.”

  “If I’m very lucky.”

  “The amnesia thing is a little overdone, but you know, everyone loves a good amnesia story.”

  “It’s a very popular plot device,” I agreed.

  Janice brought me an iced tea with lemon and took the chair across from mine. We sat near a sliding glass door, which offered a view of the balcony, the backyard, and Arden’s boat, gently bobbing on the mostly flat water. It appeared to be in good shape and not nearly the eyesore he’d claimed.

  “Arden loves that goddamned boat,” Janice said, following my gaze. “Been out there damn-near every day fixing her up. Don’t know where he got the money. New engine, new paint. She’s looking better even than the day Jimmy brought her here when she was brand-spanking new.”

  James Evans, Arden’s father and the captain in his memoir. I knew from Arden’s writing that his father’s parents had died when he was a young man—his mother from lung cancer and his father from a stroke—and that he’d spent his meager inheritance on purchasing his boat. Interesting how both he and his son were orphaned at a relatively young age.

  I turned my attention to Janice, Arden’s only living relative. I wanted to make a good impression.

  “Do you sail?” I asked, not wanting to rely too much on what I’d read of Arden’s life.

  “Arden’s gotten me to go out with him a few times but never very far. I get seasick, you know?” She made a sour face.

  “Were you close with Arden’s father?”

  “Close enough. My dad let him keep his boat here for a few years. This was before our parents passed. Then he knocked up my sister and decided not to marry her. Bastard set sail right after. Never sent a birthday card or child support. Nothing. Then, he shows up at my sister’s funeral out of the blue and decides he wants to be a parent.” She shook her head and stubbed out her cigarette in a ceramic ash tray. Nothing but filter.

  “Must have been a shock,” I said.

  “I thought he’d died. I may have even prayed for it once or twice. I told Arden he could stay here with me, but he wanted to get to know his father. You know how boys are at that age.”

  “He told me that he misses the ocean and sailing.”


  “He loves it. It’s a hard life, though. And lonely at times.” She gave me an odd look. “You sail?”

  I shook my head. “No, but I’d like to learn, and I take direction well.”

  She tilted her head and studied me. “I do worry about him. Getting lost out there.” She gazed out at the water, similar to how Arden did at times. “He’s a wanderlust, for sure. That’s his favorite book, you know?”

  “The Old Man and the Sea?”

  She laughed. “No, that was his old man’s favorite. Arden’s favorite is Wanderlust by Danielle Steel. Always with his nose in a book, that one.”

  “He’s a romantic,” I said, voicing something else I’d recently discovered about my lover. I’d suspected it, of course, but had never truly understood until I’d read his memoir.

  “He had a hard time after his father passed. He was going out every night, doing God knows what with God knows who. Then he got himself a rich boyfriend and moved to New York City.” She eyed me again.

  “I’m the not-so-rich boyfriend,” I assured her.

  She laughed, which turned into a phlegmatic cough. We really must quit smoking. I drank my iced tea and waited for her coughing spell to pass.

  “Do you have any advice for me?” I wanted whatever insight she might be able to provide.

  “Treat him gently. And keep his bookshelf well-stocked. He’s a dreamer at heart, just like my sister.”

  She pointed then, at the dock where Arden was carrying a bag of ice in one hand and what looked like a piece of machinery in the other. He was tanner and blonder than I’d ever seen him, wearing cut-off jean shorts and white, canvas boat shoes. This was Arden in his natural habitat. My overly expensive suit was stained with sweat, and my styled hair had melted in the heat. I felt foolish. A fish out of water.