The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (35 page)

“It
is
incredible here,” Fletcher repeated for the benefit of their own party. “But,” he added, “nothing compares to Albert’s cooking.”

Albert repaid this impudence with a furious glare - for now. No doubt there would be a chance for suitable remonstrance later tonight.

McIntyre was looking surprised, flummoxed by this disparate information. Mortimer was interested. “You cook, Dr Sterne? Do you specialize in a particular cuisine?”

Silence. And then Ash belatedly attempted to remedy the situation. “Actually, Celia, I  really like the Cajun and Creole styles. Tell me about the restaurants in New Orleans.”

After a shaky start, Mortimer took up the conversation easily enough, answering Fletcher’s queries, with some input from McIntyre on how strange everything was down south, particularly the food.

To the practiced eye, Ash was by turns annoyed with Albert and chagrined with himself, but he apparently felt he owed it to McIntyre and Mortimer to continue to charm them.

After describing one of the Cajun dishes, Celia said, “The cuisine doesn’t exactly cater for vegetarians, though. Dr  Sterne would have trouble finding any authentic food to eat.”

“Doesn’t it?” Ash was wholly surprised. He looked quizzically across at Albert. “Would he?”

“Yes, everything includes seafood or meat. Even the red beans and rice dish comes with sausage.”

But thankfully Ash let Celia continue rather than ask Albert about his eggplant Creole and other variations on the cuisine’s themes. Ash had betrayed more than enough confidences for one night, and perhaps he had at last realized it.

A terrible cold silence blanketed the drive over the Potomac, past the Arlington Cemetery, and all the way home. Fletcher unlocked and opened the garage doors; then waited for Albert to park the Saab inside, let it idle for a precise thirty seconds, and join him outside. After securing the garage again, Fletcher led the way into the house, to the kitchen - and proceeded to brew himself a pot of coffee rather than, as was usual, wait for Albert to do it.

It was only then, with a mug of coffee steaming on the table and the two men standing either side of it, that Fletcher spoke. “That was pretty damned childish, Albert.” Unmistakably angry, if unexpectedly restrained. Perhaps a hint of the same bitterness that Albert himself was feeling. “Sulking through dinner and not saying a word. I  can understand you not particularly wanting to be there but you could have made some sort of effort.”

“You’re an expert on childish behavior, Ash, so I’ll take your word for it.”

“So you haven’t lost your voice,” Fletcher said - then, under Albert’s withering stare, he apparently realized what a pointless observation that had been. He continued, with renewed feeling, “What would you call it? Maintaining a quiet dignity? Well, it wasn’t dignified at all - it was just plain rude.”

“Really,” Albert said.

“Really,” Fletcher confirmed.

“If that’s all you wanted to say, I’ll retire for the evening.”

“Oh, no you don’t. Those people are willing to be our friends when we have damned few, and none in common except Mac. They’re entitled to be treated with respect and maybe even gratitude.”

“I don’t have a reason to make an effort. You think you need something from them, but I don’t.”

“Yes? What do I need?”

“The same as from me - assistance in chasing your pet murderer.”

Fletcher grinned humorlessly. “And it really burns you up that I value their help as well as yours, doesn’t it? Your pride is your most unattractive trait, Albert.”

“Why don’t you drop this petty argument about official and social dealings with the mundane and the gullible - and shout about the real issues?”

The grin grew wider, encompassing some mad sense of satisfaction. “I’d love to, Albert - if I knew what they were. Tell me. You’re the one who’s been in a foul mood all day. You tell me what the real issues are.”

Albert glared. “What makes you think  -”

“It’s so easy, really, to goad you into blurting out the truth. Yes, there’re real issues behind all this garbage. But you’re the one who knows what they are.”

Silence for a while, then Albert said as evenly as he could, “You don’t understand me as well as you thought, otherwise you’d know the answers already.”

“But I know some of your secret places all too well, don’t  I? Places you won’t look at, let alone admit to.”

“That’s enough.”

Fletcher nodded knowingly. “Finally abused the privilege of your friendship, have  I? Stepped well and truly over the line?”

“Many times,” Albert coldly informed him.

“But we’re both still here, aren’t we? I’ll tell you something, Albert, anyone else would have called it quits by now - the argument, the relationship. It just wouldn’t be worth all the aggravation.”

Albert looked elsewhere. “Perhaps you want a medal for endurance.”

“Both of us endure. Why? Because there’s something between that us we both want.”

“Indeed.” These last twenty-four hours of bitterness had left Albert weary, weary beyond all sense. But he wouldn’t sit down now, that would be too much a gesture of conciliation and weakness.

Never worried about such things, Fletcher sat, and sipped at his coffee, staring at the table and avoiding Albert. Quietly, Ash said, “Tell me about the real issues, Albert. Shout about them if you want.”

“So much for your famous instincts,” Albert taunted. “If they won’t serve you now, how can they ever be of any use? How can you rely on them?”

“I never said I was omnipotent!” Fletcher was definitely feeling defensive, glancing his resentment, then hiding his face. “But maybe,” he added, “maybe I’m too subjective about you. Maybe I’ve lost my judgment.”

“Don’t you think your subjectivity should help your insight? No wonder you waste most of your time in self-doubt.”

Silence, as if Ash was too wounded to reply. But then he said, “Tell me why the sex last night scared you.” Calm, level, on the offensive. Maybe he had only pretended ignorance and defensiveness in order to draw Albert out. Albert wished he could despise this man and his manipulations. Fletcher was continuing, “Why did it mean so much? And when we made love afterwards, in the bathtub, why did that scare you even more?”

Anyone else would call it quits
, Albert reminded himself.
Why don’t I
? He ground out, “I  wasn’t the one who ran away to sleep in the guest room.”

“I wasn’t running away. I was giving you space.”

“Then give me some space now, Ash.”

The man frowned up at him as if Albert was a tricky case that needed to be solved. “No,” Fletcher said. “And I shouldn’t have last night, either. You weren’t rebuilding your dignity - it was your defenses against me.”

“Wrong again, Ash.”

“Sorry, but I don’t think I am.”

The fury, which Albert had sorely missed that evening, abruptly returned, hot and potent.
If you think I’m well-defended right now, you’re a bigger fool than I took you for.

“I’ve handled this badly.” Fletcher was musing. “All of it, from asking for the sex in the first place, through every reaction since. What would have happened, do you think, where would we be now, if I’d done the right thing last night, and not given you any space?” He gazed up at Albert, thoughtful. “What would we have between us today? The truth, I imagine, and I bet it would be pretty wonderful.”

A number of sarcastic observations occurred to Albert, but he couldn’t find the voice for them. Fletcher’s hot blue eyes were too busy taking him apart and re-making him in some petty
pretty wonderful
image. Albert dearly wanted to halt any such speculation.

“As it is, what do we have between us but space?”

“Then why don’t you do the expected thing,” Albert said, “and call it quits?”

“Why don’t you? Because you still wouldn’t change it even if you could.”

“I told you before you shouldn’t rely on that.”

“But I do, I continue to rely on it.”

Why?
Albert wanted to ask both Fletcher and himself.
Why can’t I finish this?
For a disorienting moment, he thought of that photo of Miles and Rebecca hidden away in his study. He even turned as if he’d go to it and ask, because surely they had an answer if anyone did. But then he was overwhelmed by the foolishness of such a gesture. There could be no answer from a photograph, from two people who had been dead for decades, or from the child he had once been. How futile and sentimental. Nevertheless, the urge remained, and he had to force himself to face Ash again. “This discussion is pointless,” he said, suspecting his voice betrayed his weakness. “I  suggest we retire for the night.”

“Albert, if you’d  -”

“Perhaps you would like to sleep in the guest room again,” he suggested with forced urbanity.

Fletcher stood. “All I want right now  -”

“If you find it unsatisfactory  -”

“Stop it! Just
stop
it, Albert. I want you to listen to me.”

The very air threatened with all the truths and ultimatums that had been spoken, and all the many more that had, until now at least, been left unsaid. The air was so thick with them, Albert found it difficult to breathe.

“If you can leave me,” Fletcher said quietly, “after all that’s happened - I  mean, if you can go to your bed alone right now without some kind of reassurance from me - then you’re far stronger than me.”

“You said you relied on me not changing this.”

“Give me a break, Albert. Pretend I deserve it.”

“I don’t see  -” Albert started. Why verbalize what was so disastrously evident? “I  will not be fair to you,” he said, surprising himself. “I  will not.”

Fletcher was frowning. “All right,” he said quickly, offering reassurance to someone who would give none. “It’s all right.”

But Rebecca and Miles had expected a lot from Albert, and they always expected him to be fair. He raised a hand to stop Ash from moving, either closer or away. And, at last, Albert said, “You’ll visit for the weekend, in a fortnight’s time?”

“Yes,” was the immediate and relieved reply. Then Fletcher was saying, “Goodnight, Albert. How about I lock the place up for you?”

No.

“Trust me.” Fletcher essayed a smile. “You go on to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

After a moment Albert nodded, then walked to his bedroom. With the door safely closed behind him, he forced himself through the night’s routine: hang and fold his clothes; dress in a clean pair of pajamas; brush and floss his teeth. All the while reminding himself that he
hadn’t
forgotten to check the house, Fletcher was doing that. Briefly, he listened to the footsteps from one room to another, Fletcher testing each window, each door. Then Albert turned his bedroom lights out, arranged himself in the bed, and waited for sleep to grant him oblivion.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WASHINGTON DC

JANUARY 1985

Arms sliding on treacherous white marble, hands grasping for holds that weren’t there, legs wildly swinging over empty space: Fletcher clung to the ledge of some damned stupid Washington monument, trying not to think of the stone pavement far below. Albert was standing above him, mere inches outside his arms’ reach, mocking Fletch for his weakness, taunting him.

It was all very well attempting to goad Fletcher into scrambling up. The angry desire to save himself, if only to throttle Albert, might give Fletch the necessary adrenalin, the strength and determination. But that wasn’t what he needed from Albert. And Fletch had rarely responded to or even cared about Albert’s scathing insults. Instead, Albert was supposed to help him, supposed to reach for him, lift him up off the edge of the abyss. That was why they’d become lovers, wasn’t it?

“You love me, Albert,” Fletcher reminded him, gasping for breath. Albert poured more abuse on him. Didn’t Fletcher have the imagination to want something different, better? Would he never break free of his disastrous, middle class notions of romance? Couldn’t he make his own mold, his own pattern, rather than forever trying to conform to society’s discards? “Help me, give me your hand,” Fletcher tried again. “If you love me, do it.”

“No. Climb up here yourself. Forget your weakness, and find your fortitude. You’re as bad as Drew Harmer. Throw out all the Prince Charming garbage - you don’t need anyone else to save you. Rescue yourself.”