by Josh Lanyon
That seemed weirdly detached, but Oliver was a restrained sort of guy. He’d always treated his brother and mother with disinterested affection. In fact, it was hard to imagine him getting passionately worked up about anything.
“Agathe didn’t hear her fall?”
Oliver snorted in answer.
***
When they reached the house, Miles once again invited Oliver to take anything he believed had been promised to him or that he simply wanted for sentimental reasons.
Oliver considered, but shrugged off the idea. “I got a lot of my father’s things after his death. The rest of this isn’t really my style even if I had room in my apartment.”
“Maybe a painting? Or one of the statues? A lamp? Or…you used to play piano. Would you like the piano from the conservatory?” Miles asked.
“Next you’ll ask if I want a suit of armor.”
“Would you—?”
Oliver laughed. “No. I would not. And I don’t have room for a piano either. Besides, I quit playing years ago. That was Mother’s idea, not mine. Piano lessons for me and clarinet for Lin. I think she wanted us to be able to play accompaniment any time she happened to burst into song.”
Miles grinned. That did sound kind of like Capucine.
Oliver said, “According to Lin, most of the artwork isn’t worth anything. If there is any good stuff, you could donate it to a museum. The rest should probably be on a junk heap; frankly, I don’t know the difference between either.”
“You know what you like.”
Oliver gave him a quizzical look. “True. And I can’t think of anything here I really like enough to cart home.”
That was clear enough, though surprising. The house was a treasure trove of beautiful and interesting things. It was hard to believe there was nothing Oliver wanted. But he was very precise in his dress, and his car, though not new, was expensive and immaculate. Maybe he was one of those people who knew exactly what they wanted and didn’t clutter their lives with anything extraneous. Maybe growing up with a rich pack rat for a mother had convinced him living simply was the way to go.
“If you change your mind…” Miles said.
Oliver thanked him, and then they went to his old room, and Miles helped—which really amounted to watching—Oliver pack the few things that were left. There wasn’t much.
“Ha. Look familiar?” Oliver held up a copy of The Tower Treasure.
Miles grinned. “Yes. You had different versions from my copies at home.”
“Yes, so you kept saying.” Oliver considered. “These are first editions. Maybe I’ll hang on to them.” He stacked the books on his old desk and knocked out another cardboard box.
“You know, Mother had quite a lot of jewelry. I think that goes to you as well, although I’m not sure how…” He changed what he’d started to say. “Thibault will know. I assume most of it will be in Mother’s safe-deposit box.”
“Oh. Right.” Miles said awkwardly, “Would there be something in there that you wanted?”
Oliver looked surprised and then thoughtful. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought— I wouldn’t mind having a look before you dispose of everything.”
“Of course!”
“If you do move here,” Oliver began a short time later as he was taping up the cardboard boxes, “would that be on your own? Are you— Do you have a partner, perhaps?”
It was asked cautiously, which for some reason amused Miles. Oliver didn’t want to presume anything, which was tactful, but Miles had recognized his own sexual inclinations early on.
Though they were the same generation, thirteen years made a big difference.
“No. I’m on my own.”
“Of course,” Oliver said in a bracing, big brother kind of tone. “You don’t want to rush into things at your age. Especially now.”
Right. Because now he was worth nine million dollars, and conceivably there were people who would want to take advantage of that—and him.
“What about you?” Miles asked. Oliver was not wearing a wedding ring and had not mentioned a wife, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
“Confirmed bachelor,” Oliver said.
In the old days, confirmed bachelor was code for gay, but Miles was pretty sure in Oliver’s case it meant middle-aged-heterosexual-used-to-having-his-own-way.
He asked—casually, he hoped, “Is Lin married now?”
Oliver made a disapproving nnnn sound. “He and Giles broke up a year or so ago. I think Lin is still bitter.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear it.” Miles didn’t remember Giles, whoever that was, but it did confirm his understanding of Lin. Which was to say, he’d always assumed Lin was gay, but no one had ever come right out and said so. Capucine had always seemed to regard her sons as amusing characters in an off-Broadway production that she happened to be financing.
Oliver said easily, “I think Lin finally got tired of making allowances for the artistic temperament. Not that I blame Giles. Lin would be hell to live with.”
“Do you see much of him? Lin, I mean.”
“No,” Oliver said. “He has a house up in Gore now.”
“Right,” said Miles, who had no idea where Gore was. He did not know much about Canada as a whole. That would have to be remedied. He was also going to have to brush up on his French. He didn’t want to be one of those people who always thought of themselves as ex-pats and didn’t fully embrace their new homeland.
“He’s always been a ski nut, and it’s only about an hour’s drive to Mont-Tremblant.”
Miles told himself he was relieved he wouldn’t be running into Linley, but the funny thing was it felt more like disappointment. Surely, after everything, he had outgrown that old crush?
“I feel like all we’ve done is talk about me,” he said. “What is it you do, Oliver?”
“I’m an enterprise architect for BEC Financial.”
“Enterprise architect. Is that something to do with IT?”
“It’s everything to do with IT,” Oliver said cheerfully.
It sounded really dull, but Oliver seemed happy about it.
Oliver finished boxing up the last of his books and model planes. He and Miles went into the English-style library with huge bay windows offering panoramic views of Montreal and beyond, walnut floor-to-ceiling bookcases, fireplace, and a neatly concealed wet bar.
“What would you like to drink?” Miles asked. It felt surreal to be standing in this dreamily familiar room with all its paintings and old books, fixing drinks as though he owned the place. Which, apparently, he did, but it did not feel like his house.
He was not sure it would ever feel like his house—but it was still amazing.
“There should still be a bottle of Yukon Jack in the cabinet,” Oliver threw over his shoulder. He stood at the bay windows, gazing out at the trees, toward the city and beyond, at the blue haze of the St. Lawrence River.
Miles searched and found the bottle of Yukon Jack pushed to the back. He located a set of crystal tumblers and looked for a shot glass. Memories of afternoons and evenings in this room, Capucine and his mother drinking cocktails and laughing about the “old days,” came to him. Funny that those memories were now his old days.
“Remember that funny silver shot glass? It was shaped like a hunting horn with a fox head on the end.”
“What a memory you have,” Oliver said. And then, “It was a pewter jigger. It belonged to my grandfather. It should still be there somewhere.”
That casual it belonged to my grandfather landed heavily on Miles.
“If it’s still here, why don’t you take it?” He began to hunt through the barware in earnest, but couldn’t see the fox-head jigger anywhere.
“Miles.”
Miles glanced up at the unexpected edge in Oliver’s voice.
“Stop feeling guilty. Pour us a drink, and we’ll toast to your future. I’ve got a dinner engagement.”
Miles abandoned the hunt for the fox-head jigger and hurriedly pour
ed them each a Yukon Jack. Oliver came to join him at the bar. Miles handed one short tumbler to Oliver. They clinked glasses.
“May the best of the past be the worst of the future.” Oliver swallowed the liqueur in a single, neat gulp and then hurled the empty glass into the fireplace, where it smashed into a million glittering pieces.
He took the house key off his ring and set it on the polished bar top. Meeting Miles’s astonished gaze, Oliver said crisply, “Good luck, Miles. Come see me anytime.”
With that, he was gone.
Chapter Four
When Miles had turned twenty-two, he had done something completely out of character. Something that still made him burn with embarrassment to remember.
It was one year after his mother had passed away. He had just got his teaching degree and had dutifully applied to a bunch of Southland high schools. In fact, he had one firm offer to teach art at Canoga Park. The school was less than half an hour drive from home, the student-to-teacher ratio was better than average, and he liked the staff and administration members he’d met so far.
It was an ideal position in a lot of ways, and he knew that accepting that job offer was the right thing to do. Or at least, the responsible thing to do.
But at twenty-two he had still been young enough, idealistic enough, or maybe just dumb enough to agonize over giving up his dream of doing art for a living. His mother had been a teacher, and he knew firsthand that teaching was not something you did on the side. Teaching was not a job—it was a vocation.
He understood with painful clarity that if he took the job at Canoga Park, he would be relegating his art to hobby status—maybe forever, but certainly for the foreseeable future—and he had not been able to bear the idea. At that time, art had been the single most important thing in his life. His mother had teased that he ate, drank, and slept oil paints, and that was not far from the truth. Art was his passion, and while he enjoyed sharing that passion with students—in fact, he had been more surprised than anyone by his aptitude for teaching—he did not want to spend his life in the classroom. He wanted to spend it doing.
So, in desperation, he had done the thing that still made him feel hot and sick at night when he remembered. He had phoned éclatant, the trendy Montreal gallery where Linley Palmer was making a name for himself as a hotshot art dealer with an unerring eye for the exceptional. In other words, he had called in a favor from someone who did not owe him any favors. Who barely remembered him.
To his credit, Linley had heard out Miles’s largely incoherent plea for help and guidance, and then instructed him to bring three of his best works to Montreal. Maybe Linley had been trying to discourage him by making things so complicated and expensive, but Miles had not been discouraged. He had been elated. He had selected three of his best canvases, packed them carefully, and caught the first flight he could get to Montreal.
It was excruciating to recall the excitement and hope that had accompanied him on that journey. He had been so sure he would receive the validation he desperately craved—that Linley would not only tell him to keep painting and never again consider taking a day job, but that he, Linley himself, would want to represent him.
God.
He had dreamed— Well, honestly, better not to think of any of that. He had been so young and inexperienced and…and gauche, to use a French word. To use the word Linley had probably used.
In short—and it should have been unsurprising—things hadn’t gone at all as Miles had fantasized.
Linley had been startled to see him—first clue right there—but he had examined each of Miles’s paintings with serious, almost stern concentration. He had asked Miles about his work and about his life, and he had let Miles talk himself to a standstill, and then he had told him to take the teaching job.
“I’m sorry, Miles. I don’t see the necessary spark,” Linley had said in his cool, crisp voice. “Color, focal point, movement, yes, you’re more than competent, but there’s already enough of that to go around. Too much, really. What I would need to see… Well, I’m looking for that special…” He had made one of his characteristic graceful, restive hand gestures. “I’m not sure how to phrase it, but when I see it—”
“Je ne sais quoi,” Miles had said woodenly.
Linley had flicked him a glance, their eyes had locked—Linley’s eyes were almost shockingly blue in his thin, dark face—and Miles saw Linley absorb exactly what this rejection had meant to him. He saw Linley’s instant discomfort, his wish to unsee what Miles’s expression had revealed, even a flash of something like dismay.
So that was that.
One part of Miles’s dream did come true. Linley had asked him to dinner. He was dining with friends that night, and he’d told Miles he should come along.
Miles, standing in the blasted rubble of his dreams, had thanked Linley for his time and his advice, regretted his inability to join him and his friends for dinner, and walked out of the gallery. He had tossed his three canvases in the first dumpster he passed.
As soon as he arrived home, he had taken the teaching job.
He did not paint for almost an entire year.
But then the old fever sprang back to life. Maybe he didn’t have The Necessary Spark, whatever the hell that was, but he still wanted to paint. Needed to paint.
So he did. He painted solely for himself, for his own pleasure, for his own satisfaction. He grimaced when friends and students told him he should go pro. He had it on the best authority he should not. He had learned the hard way that passion was the most overused word—and sentiment—in art.
If he’d had to continue to earn his daily bread teaching, painting would have remained a hobby forever, passion notwithstanding. But Capucine’s bequest had changed all that. He could spend the rest of his life painting. He could organize his own art shows and exhibitions if he wanted.
It was an exhilarating thought.
Maybe a little frightening too.
Be careful what you wish for, right?
He had made difficult choices, charted out his life, and now everything had been turned upside down. Once again, everything was possible. The difference being that this time it wasn’t youthful naivete propelling that notion. This time everything was possible.
Money really did change everything.
***
After Oliver left, the house was eerily quiet.
Miles wandered through the rooms, reacquainting himself with old friends like the twin suits of armor guarding the staircase, meeting new acquisitions like the bronze replica of Botero’s fat-horse sculpture at the top of the landing.
So. Much. Stuff. Without Oliver’s comfortable presence, the house felt more like a museum than a potential home.
But that was on Miles. It was up to him to separate the fondly remembered past from the future he hoped to build here.
Ten years was a long time, and despite Oliver’s comment on his memory, many of the rooms were quite different—larger or smaller, wider or narrower—than he recalled. He had never been inside most of the bedrooms. Wandering through the master suite Capucine had shared with three husbands definitely felt like trespassing. It was a beautiful room: gorgeous light pouring through bay windows, cathedral ceiling, glossy hardwood floor. But—taking in the blue and silver peignoir draped across the foot of the bed, the little gold-topped bottles and jars on the dressing table—no way could Miles picture himself sleeping in there.
Was it strange that no one had cleared out Capucine’s belongings? Maybe not. Maybe it was a matter of legalities. But it certainly was unsettling that everything was laid out as though in wait for her return.
Was it now his responsibility to dispose of her clothes and personal effects? It seemed like a job for loving family members. Or at the very least Agathe Dube.
It reinforced his feeling that Capucine’s relationship with her sons had been seriously strained.
For the first time it hit him what a huge endeavor this was—to leave his job, his friends, his home. To leave
everything and everyone he knew for…a dream.
A well-financed dream, but still a dream.
Was he really going to live in this giant house all by himself?
Maybe it did make more sense to sell everything and use the money to build his “new” life in familiar surroundings.
As Miles considered that option, his heart sank, so perhaps that was his answer. Yes, this move was in some ways a daunting prospect, but it was thrilling too. He didn’t want the safe and sensible. His entire life had been safe and sensible. He wanted adventure.
Shouldn’t he take into consideration that Capucine had wanted that for him?
He had been given the chance of a lifetime. Surely the right thing to do was seize that opportunity with both hands?
From her gold-framed portrait across the room, Capucine smiled enigmatically.
***
His decision to investigate the grounds that evening was a good one. Not only did he feel refreshed and invigorated walking in the cool evening air, he discovered Oliver had left the main gate unlocked.
He locked the gate, then strolled around the courtyard and gardens. The autumn air was sweet, the fading light luminous. There was something particularly magical about autumn light, and he began to itch to get out his paints. He could smell woodsmoke and see the lights starting to twinkle to life in the city below. He walked along the brick paths winding through the gardens—flowers fading with the approach of winter—climbed up and down stone steps leading to small private terraces, tested the iron chairs on the colonnaded terrace behind the house.
Yes, the house was too big for one person, but he didn’t plan on always being alone. In the summer he would invite Robin and her husband and kids to stay for a few weeks. He would invite other friends to visit. Maybe Canada—Montreal—would be good for his personal life too. Maybe he would settle down with a nice guy and they could raise a bunch of kids. That was one of the unexpected things he’d learned teaching. He did actually like kids. He hoped to be a father one day.
Back home—rather, in California—he had dated a few guys, but it had never really gone anywhere.