Cherish & Blessed (17 page)

And here sat Evan—intense, OCD, exacting Evan—fully packed and totally Zen.

Ha. On both of them.

“We have to go to the store,” Matt said.

Evan looked up to find his boyfriend standing desolately at the end of the bed. “I know,” Evan responded as sympathetically as he could manage.

“To the mall.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I need things. Clothes. Labor Day weekend at the
mall
.”

Matt was skirting toward melodramatic in a hurry. It said something that he could handle the stomach flu sweeping through the house but buying clothes gave him hives.

“You do. And we should probably just pack the car and get going, stop on the way,” Evan said patiently. He’d done this on more than one occasion with the girls and Sherri before a trip, but he did not mention this to Matt.

Even if his cheek twitched with a contained laugh.

“Ugh,” Matt moaned before turning to his dresser. Underwear. Socks he held up in one hand, as if stricken with indecision.

“Do I need socks?”

“No. Unless you think you’re going to run in the mornings. Then you do.”

Athletic socks were thrown on the bed.

In the end Matt’s leather duffel contained his one pair of nice athletic shorts and a black T-shirt that had no rips or stains, running shoes, underwear, and a toiletry kit. The rest stayed empty in anticipation of polos and khakis and….

“I’m not wearing sandals!”

Footwear that wasn’t sandals.

Evan followed Matt’s stomping downstairs, anticipating a fascinating weekend in the Hamptons.

S
ADIE
C
ATHERINE
Ames couldn’t have just any baptismal celebration. With a February birthday followed by several weeks of shitty weather, Bennett and Daisy decided to wait until August turned to September and Labor Day weekend to invite their nearest and dearest to the Hamptons house for a celebration.

Three days at an estate right on the water, with a stunning view, gorgeous interiors, and a security system that rivaled Fort Knox, courtesy of Matt Haight Security.

He had business cards now.

His clients were essentially Bennett and a few of his überwealthy friends. It had gotten so actually like a real business that they had turned the extra room on the first floor of the house into an office, with a desk and computer and files.

Matt had files.

With Katie up at Boston College, Miranda newly graduated and on her own, and the twins at a capable stage in their life, Matt didn’t mind the extra work. He brought in great money, he could work at home except on consult or installation days, and it was interesting. He had purpose.

It felt good.

He felt settled.

Sure, he could get caught up in things and forget to make dinner, but who didn’t like Chinese food twice in one week? Evan chipped in when he could; Danny and Elizabeth did their chores.

It was good.

They were settled.

Of course, a side effect of this growing business was Matt suddenly having a schedule that didn’t revolve around car pools and dry cleaning pickup. Which meant quality time with Evan had to be penciled in, instead of Matt just waiting until Evan was home.

Now, sometimes, Evan waited for him.

Which was why they were heading to the Hamptons sans children. After a summer of Matt having his favorite kid around (not that he told anyone that), Katie was back at the dorms, and the twins were spending their last weekend of freedom upstate with their aunt Elena and her fiancé, Walt, at his family’s cabin.

Everyone Matt knew was getting married or having kids, and he was on his way to the mall to buy expensive clothes to stand around a grill in.

Life.

Evan drove the SUV through their suburb, farther away from nicely manicured lawns and kids riding their bikes to the more urban sections of Brooklyn. Matt hadn’t imagined this being where he felt most comfortable, where sidewalks were rolled up by nine most nights and the sound of crickets replaced the hustle and bustle of Manhattan. He felt content, leaning his head back against the seat rest, watching the last bits of summer being wrung out of the day.

He and Evan held hands over the console.

Life was good.

T
HE
MALL
trip utilized Evan’s expertise as a father who occasionally had to clothe his children. Just a few weeks earlier, he’d taken a full Saturday to usher Elizabeth and Danny through the same familiar shopping venue, with a credit card and incredible patience. The last year of middle school required a more specific wardrobe, and times were apparently changing, because he didn’t recall this with Miranda and Katie a few years ago. Social suicide by wearing the wrong shoes seemed to loom earlier and earlier over kids’ lives.

Matt drew the short straw for that weekend: driving Katie back to school in Boston, battling traffic and dorm move-in. Not to mention putting together some new furniture for her room. In Matt’s mind, he had gotten the better end of the deal.

At least Evan’s experience made Matt’s petulance dealable; they hit Macy’s and Nordstrom’s for everything, right down to boat shoes, the shopping for which almost sent his boyfriend over the final edge.

“No.”

“It’s this or sandals.”

“Oh God.”

Matt now owned boat shoes.

Bags in hand, they stopped for coffee and cinnamon rolls in the food court, which fortunately improved Matt’s mood. As they sat side by side in the crowded space, bags between their knees, Evan exhaled loudly.

“What?” Matt asked, midmovement to bring the coffee to his mouth.

“Nothing, just had this strange feeling overcome me.”

“Which was?”

Evan laughed, licking some sticky sugar off his thumb. “I’m relaxed. In a mall, on our way to battle traffic on a holiday weekend. And I’m calm.”

“Don’t worry. When we get to the beach and sit on lounge chairs, you’ll suddenly remember you forgot the monthly steaming of the seats of the SUV and freak out,” Matt said dryly.

Evan knocked their shoulders together and went back to his sticky confection. “I’ll probably think about the promotion and have a nervous breakdown—which will be your fault for jinxing my relaxed state.”

“Yeah, ’cause it wasn’t going to happen otherwise.” Matt wiped his mouth with a wrinkled brown napkin. “A few more months and then everything changes. I’ve already ordered a tranquilizer gun.”

Evan didn’t handle change well. Everyone knew that.

In the past few years, he’d lost his wife, fallen in love with a man, taken over raising four children, done his job, and been offered a captaincy. He still had his stomach lining—most of it, anyway—and at this moment, he was sitting on a hard plastic bench next to a man he loved, clearly a couple, clearly together, and all his concerns in the world fell down to “don’t get icing on your khakis.”

For a rigid SOB, Evan Cerelli was doing okay.

T
HE
RENTAL
car was making a clicking noise Jim feared was a transmission issue. Every mile farther away from Albany and toward the Hamptons added another layer of worry and irritation to his shoulders. The way things were going, they were going to be higher than his head by the time they arrived.

Oh look, the check-engine light. Jim knew his clicking noises, thank you very much.

Last year at this time, they were in Hawaii, being beach bums and living a life of hedonistic bliss. Now? They were rootless in a way that Jim didn’t always feel comfortable with. Like driving a shitty rental car for seven and a half hours instead of his truck. Trading one packed suitcase for a smaller one, working out of the guest room of Griffin’s childhood home.

They’d returned in early January when Richard suffered a mild heart attack and just never left. Part of it was because Griffin was so fragile after his father’s health scare and staying in the house to assist with his recovery made the most sense. Griffin could work anywhere there was Wi-Fi, and Jim—well, he just needed to be where his boyfriend was. Then it was close to Daisy’s due date, so why bother to fly back to Washington when they’d just be coming back?

So they stayed.

Jim bought a few hundred dollars’ worth of equipment and spent time with Griffin’s dad upstate, learning the joys of fly-fishing. Richard’s personality and Jim’s meshed nicely, and he tried not to think about the fact that sometimes he had more in common with Griffin’s father than with him.

Sharing space with Richard wasn’t a problem. They had their own space, and Richard was an easygoing guy who was very low maintenance, even recovering from a heart attack. Griffin’s frequent train rides down to the city to see Daisy or have meetings about his movie left Jim with plenty of leisure time. He called and talked to his old partner, Terry, back in Seattle and commented with the proper level of enthusiasm on the endless stream of texts and pictures he received about their friends’ children and pregnancies and house-buying decisions. He read a lot of books. He worked out in the makeshift gym in the basement.

It was nice.

For about two weeks.

Then Jim started to think about being three thousand miles from the place he’d called home for over twenty years. He thought about being officially retired. He read the legal papers and updates regularly sent to him about the upcoming civil case being brought against him, and the department, by douche bag criminal Tripp Ingersoll. So many delays and motions, mostly by Tripp’s lawyer, as the asshole tried to keep his name in the headlines as much as possible, led to postponement after postponement.

He thought about Tripp Ingersoll a lot.

Having that piece of shit running around, enjoying his life after laying waste to the entire Kelly family—it gave Jim nightmares. Tripp had killed Carmen, the innocent verdict killed her mother, and cancer snatched her father away a year later.

Of all the unsolved and unresolved cases, this was the one he was taking to his grave. Double jeopardy meant nothing could ever be done, even if by some miracle a clue appeared to slam dunk the case, and Jim couldn’t abide by that.

And Griffin being gone so much—well, Jim’s brain filled the space with unhealthy thoughts.

He didn’t mention any of this to his boyfriend, who was currently tapping away frantically on his iPhone, muttering to himself. The radio was off—Griffin “needed to think”—and the only sound beyond the phone was that fucking clicking noise.

“This car is a piece of shit,” Jim announced as they crawled a bit farther on the congested highway. That check-engine light might have gotten brighter.

“Huh?” Griffin jerked up his gaze from the screen to Jim’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“This car. Is a piece of shit. And it’s making a weird noise. And the check-engine light is on,” Jim enunciated slowly. He shut off the air-conditioning and rolled down the windows, making Griffin frown.

“Will we make it to the house?”

Jim checked the GPS, scanned the traffic in front of them, which currently resembled a four-lane parking lot, and sighed. “No.”

T
HEY
GOT
off at the next rest stop, a crowded mecca of fast food, bathrooms, way too many people selling sunglasses from little carts, and a farmer’s market, inexplicably set up in the parking lot.

“Buy some pies,” Griffin said as he held his phone up to his ear. “I’m calling Bennett.”

“He’ll probably send a goddamned helicopter,” Jim muttered, wandering over to the plastic-covered tables to read the tiny white labels.

Boysenberry.

Rhubarb.

Peach.

What, were apples so hard to find?

In the end he found a few apple pies under a stack of lemon, bought all three and some fritters for the ride. Griffin hadn’t joined him yet, so he headed inside to find the bathroom.

When he got out, Griffin was standing next to the car, looking like a pissy college lacrosse player—someone Jim would have gone to school with, all money and attitude.

The white polo shirt—collar up—and the navy shorts showing off Griffin’s nicely muscled legs. The expensive sunglasses and artfully styled hair. An entire package of “too cool for you, son.”

It was strangely alluring.

Maybe they could make out in the car until assistance arrived.

“Did you take the pies into the bathroom?” Griffin asked, hands on his hips.

Well, so much for that.

“Yes. They had a lovely time.” Jim walked around his boyfriend to put the pies in the car, which was starting to feel like the inside of a kiln. “Is Daddy Warbucks sending the plane?”

“You talk a lot of smack for a trust-fund baby.” Griffin pulled his phone out of his back pocket, and Jim enjoyed the view. “He’s sending a tow truck and a car to bring us to the house.”

“Of course he is. By the way, if it’s not a limo, I’m going to be upset.”

Griffin punched him in the arm.

T
HEY
SAT
on a picnic table under a tree, a rare and desired piece of real estate shaded from the sun. The traffic eased up a bit; the constant flow of drivers and passengers seeking potty breaks and seventy-two ounces of hot or cold caffeine did not. Jim shared his water with Griffin, passing it back and forth as they waited.