Blink (19 page)

“All right. Come by around six? You can help me pick out what to wear to this shindig.”

“Dad? No one says shindig anymore.”

We hang up. The thing that touches my heart is that every single time we talk on the phone, Tate never fails to tell me he loves me.

I get up from the bench and realize, with a little shock, that I’m happy.

I
CHECK
the address one more time and peer through the gates at the courtyard building at the east end of this street in Rogers Park. The building fronts Lake Michigan, and I can see a little of its wide blue expanse beyond the building. A chill wind, drawn across the water, makes me shiver. I wonder if Fremont’s building has a private beach. The building is old, white brick, with a fountain in the center of the courtyard.

I glance down at my watch and wonder if I should maybe go get a coffee from the café I saw on the corner when I was making my way here from the ‘L’ stop. I’m way too early. I’ve always had the curse of punctuality. My mother instilled it in me. She’d always tell me, “If you’re on time,
chiquito
, you’re late. Always be early.”

Still, it’s almost an hour before the party is set to start. Fremont might not be ready for guests yet. I grin, imagining him in his bathroom, shaving his head, a white towel around his waist. The white of the shaving cream and the towel make a brilliant—and stunning—contrast with his dark skin.

I realize I’m very much looking forward to seeing him again.

What the hell? I shrug and press the intercom button with the name “St. George” next to it. If I’m too early, I’ll tell him I can come back or, better yet, I can help. I can cut up crudités like nobody’s business.

Besides, my impatience to see Fremont again is pulling at me like some kind of tidal force.

Fremont answers immediately, his velvety voice sounding good even through the intercom’s tinny speaker. “Carlos! Come on up.”

I wonder how he knows it’s me, and then I look up and spy the camera mounted above the gates. He’s probably watching me at this very moment on some flat screen mounted on the wall. I hope I look okay. The older I get, the less I care about appearance and the more I care about comfort. Tonight it’s just a white button-down and jeans and the scuffed cowboy boots I’ve had forever. The leather in them is so worn now they’re almost as comfortable as slippers.

The buzzer sounds, and I hear a click. I push through the gate with my shoulder because I’m carrying a hydrangea plant. Its blooms are a lovely shade of pale green, and I hope Fremont will be pleased. I always like to bring people something alive as opposed to cut flowers, which last for such a short time.

I locate which of the six entrance doors is his and go inside. The lobby is hushed and really quite palatial, with marble floors, a simple yet elegant chandelier, and tall narrow windows looking onto the lake. The sky is a mix of violet and dusty rose above the water.

I head to my left and up the plushly carpeted staircase to unit 302, which I was smart enough to take note of at the gate.

When I get to the third floor, I hear a door squeak open, and Fremont steps out into the hall to greet me. He’s not wearing a towel but looks stunning anyway in a pair of crisp khakis and a white linen shirt. He’s barefoot, and his smile is beaming.

It’s nice to be on the receiving end of someone being glad to see you. I can’t remember the last time I saw such a welcoming smile.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Fremont’s voice booms down the hallway. “Look at you, all butch in your cowboy boots. Hey, pardner!”

I laugh and am truly at a loss for words. How does one respond to a greeting like that? I hand him the plant.

“Hydrangeas? My favorite! How did you know?”

“I can read minds. Didn’t I tell you that?”

Fremont pulls me into a hug and whispers, “Then I’m surprised you’re not blushing at the filth, absolute filth, that’s running through my head at just the sight of you.” He moves his head away to give me a deep and hungry kiss.

We’re interrupted by a feminine voice. “Daddy?”

We break apart to see a young woman I assume is Fremont’s daughter. Is it she the birthday party is for? Whatever. I feel ashamed to have been caught this way with her dad. What a way to make an entrance!

Fremont, though, seems unfazed. He pulls me inside the condo and closes the door behind us. “This is Abra. Abra, meet Carlos Castillo.”

Abra smiles, and I think
She’s beautiful.
Long, wavy black hair, amber eyes, and a smile that even makes an old homo like myself nearly melt. She’s runway worthy, dressed in a simple fuchsia sheath and cream pumps. “I’m very happy to meet you, Mr. Castillo,” she says, extending her hand. “I’ll just shake your hand for now. I’m not as effusive of a greeter as my dad.” She winks at me as we shake.

“What?” Fremont feigns innocence, and not very well.

Abra rolls her eyes. “You and all your men, Daddy.” She looks to me. “He’s shameless! You’ve been warned.” She walks away, over to the kitchen area, where I spot trays of hors d’oeuvres laid out.

I look around. “Wow. You’ve got a beautiful place here.”

“Finally! It’s been what seems like decades of renovation, but it’s at last where I want it to be. Come on. I’ll show you around before everyone gets here.”

The place looks like something that could have sprung to life out of the pages of
Architectural Digest
. It’s sleek, modern, elegant, but softened by original-building touches like crown moldings, high ceilings, and those narrow, tall windows that now look out on a dark expanse, but which I know must have astonishing views of the lakefront during the day. The floors are hardwood, glossy, and stained black. Most of the furniture is white, and the whole thing is very open, like a loft. The entire south-facing wall is exposed brick.

“I tore down a lot of walls and plaster to get the place the way I wanted,” Fremont explains.

“It looks amazing.” I really can’t imagine, though, living here. I think of my own little condo in Ravenswood Manor that has
not
been renovated. It’s comfy and warm is what I like to believe; others may say shabby and run-down.

But it’s
home
.

Here, I’d be afraid to set down a glass for fear of leaving a mark.

Once he’s showed me the place—the four bedrooms, three baths, and the terrace off the kitchen that faces south and city lights—Fremont says, “We should have some music. What do you like, Carlos?”

“Hey, isn’t it Abra’s birthday? Why don’t you let her choose?” We’re now in the kitchen, and Abra is putting the finishing touches on a tray of canapés—what appears to be melon wrapped in paper-thin slices of Sorrento ham. I wonder if we’ll be listening to Pink or maybe Alicia Keys. Who
do
the kids listen to today, anyway?

Abra gives me a smile that, I think, thanks me for thinking of her. “I’ll put something on.” She grabs her iPhone and hoists it up. “Daddy got it all set up for me. Even with Pandora. Let’s see.” I watch as she scrolls on the screen. “Perfect.” She docks the phone, and in minutes the strains of a lovely sonata ring out through the small and surprisingly powerful speaker.

I cock my head, listening. “Rachmaninoff?” I wonder.

“You’re good,” Abra says, nodding. “Daddy, where did you find this one?”

“In the cabbage patch, where I get all my boys.” Fremont glowers and then breaks into a grin.

“Where are your other kids?” I ask, changing the subject.

Abra scoffs. “Those good for nothings? They’ll be late. I guarantee it.”

Fremont puts an arm around his daughter and gives her a squeeze. “Abra here is my overachiever. First in her class in high school and now doing great at Northwestern. She’s supposed to be setting an example for her brother and sisters.”

“One they all seem reluctant to follow.” She smiles at me, and I wonder if she realizes what she said might sound a tad harsh and a lot conceited. “I love them all, though, with all my heart.”

Fremont lets go of Abra and asks, “What can I get you to drink, Carlos? The specialty of the house is a Pimm’s Cup.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those. What’s in it?”

“Pimm’s, of course, which is spiced gin. I mix it with sparkling lemonade. It’s delicious.”

I agree to take one, and Fremont moves to the kitchen area to mix up my drink. “What are you studying, Abra?”

“English,” she whispers. She leans in closer. “I’m whispering because Daddy doesn’t approve. He doesn’t think it’s practical. He wants to me to major in something like finance or accounting. Puh-leeze! I’d rather die. I’ve always loved books and like to think I have a little flair for understanding them, so English was a natural.”

“It’s good to follow what you love, despite what the more practical-minded might tell you.” I allow myself to shift my gaze meaningfully to her father, who is cutting up what looks like a cucumber on a cutting board. “Would you believe I was once studying to be a priest?”

Abra laughs. “A Catholic priest?”

“The very same.”

“But Catholics hate the gays. At least that’s what I keep reading, anyway.”

“Well, for one, when I entered the seminary, I don’t know if I even fully understood that I was gay.” I know that’s a lie, or at least a different shade of the truth. I knew. I always knew. I knew when I had to have that Bette Midler album when I was twelve, or when I would watch the shirtless boys on our streets from my bedroom window at night. I just hadn’t accepted it yet. There’s a vast expanse between knowing a thing and accepting it, especially when it concerns ourselves. I get back to Abra. “For another, the Church wasn’t quite so outspoken as it is today about homosexuality. I guess they didn’t have any reason to be. Back when I was in seminary, things like gay marriage and equal job protection were things no one had ever seriously thought of as possibilities.”

“So did you ever become a priest?”

I think back to Ryan, the other seminarian I couldn’t seem to stay away from, and flush the thought quickly from my mind. “No. I knew after a while it wasn’t the right thing for me.” I tell her how I taught elementary school for a time and then went on to work for Angels.

I wish we could have more time to talk, but just then, the door swings open and a handful of kids tumble in, loud, laughing, and all talking at once. I look over at them, and Abra rolls her eyes. “My siblings. God help us all. Enjoy that classical music, because it will soon be changing to hip-hop.”

Fremont’s kids are, every one of them, gorgeous. The boy, who looks to be about fifteen, already has his father’s broad shoulders and powerful physique, which is shown off by the tight-fitting Daft Punk T-shirt he’s wearing. He also has on a pair of skinny jeans that he’s perfectly entitled to wear and a pair of Converse with no laces. A little silver stud glints from his nose. Perched atop his head is a baseball cap, its bill at a jaunty angle. And yes, I realize he would shudder at this older guy’s referring to anything on him as “jaunty.” It’s only his face that gives him away and makes me estimate his age as fifteen. For one, it looks so smooth and poreless that I don’t think he’s felt the touch of a razor yet, at least not on a regular basis. For another, there is a certain exuberant innocence that radiates off him. It’s the remnants of childhood still clinging to him, despite his imposing size, already taller than his dad.

The girls are all as beautiful and poised as Abra, each of them dressed to the nines in what look like designer duds—dresses and slacks with cropped tops. No jeans here. Even the youngest, who I would guess is about eight, wears black slacks with a black-and-white-striped midriff top, her hair pulled away from her face to accentuate those large, impossibly emerald eyes.

Fremont comes over to me and hands me my drink. “My brood. Can you believe it?”

I really can’t. I sip the drink he’s stuck into my hand—it’s garnished with a wedge of cucumber, slice of orange, and several sprigs of fresh mint—and it’s one of the most delicious adult beverages I have ever had. Sweet without being cloying, refreshing but with a mysterious depth of flavor. I don’t think I’ll ever drink anything else again. I’m about to tell him so, but Fremont is rushing off to greet the kids.

I watch as he hugs each of them in turn. I smile at the joy he obviously takes in their presence. They all accept his hugs and kisses somewhat reluctantly, as if they’re far too old for such displays, but I can also see the glimmer of happiness on each of their faces as their father pulls them into an embrace.

One thing I don’t have to be a genius to figure out is the fact that this is a real family. Close. It makes me happy to see this man I just met so obviously enthralled with his children. It says good things about him. But it also makes me wonder, a little selfishly, if I could fit in here. I’m a dyed-in-the-wool introvert, not shy, but preferring either being alone or spending quality time with one or two other people at a go.
Like Harry
, I think, and for a moment I consider how very
small
our little family was. Small but complete….

Fremont leads the “brood” over to make introductions. Unlike Abra, whom I have to wonder how many times she’s been called Abra Ca Dabra and decide I will not dare ask her, the other kids have more common names. First, there’s Frankie, who gives me a fist bump and a shy grin, a little distracted. I resist the urge to ask him “’Sup?” for fear it will reveal me as the geezer I am on the verge of becoming.

“What is this crap?” he yells, moving to change the music. “This is a party, right? Not a funeral!”

The Rachmaninoff ends abruptly. Frankie quickly replaces it, not quite with hip-hop as his older sister predicted, but with the Black Eyed Peas. He does a little dance by the music dock, and I think he’s adorable. He’s going to be a heartbreaker.

Fremont brings my attention back to the young ladies before me and introduces Grace, Violet, and Mary Alice. The old-fashioned names are lovely, and I tell the girls so. They regard me curiously, perhaps not aware that their monikers are names that were popular in the States when my
abuela
was their age.