Timothy

“I shall always be in his shadow, unable to live up to the standard he set at Spindrift, hoping that someday Carlo might love me the way he loved his lost Timothy…”

The memory of Timothy haunts every corner of Spindrift, the beautiful mansion on the Atlantic shore. His face was flawless, his body breathtaking perfection. Everyone who saw him loved him, desired him, wanted him—whether they first laid eyes on him in a magazine ad, on a billboard, or on a box of underwear. No one ever forgot him, once they had passed through his orbit. They remember his wit, intelligence, and sense of style. He was the perfect match for wealthy Carlo Romaniello. Spindrift was the perfect backdrop for the glamorous couple, and the unforgettable, fabulous parties they hosted there. But then tragedy took Timothy, and darkness descended on the beautiful house on the beach. Carlo closed the house, and its secrets remained hidden within.

When Carlo reopens the house as a home for himself and his new young husband, those old secrets begin to creep out into the light. And those secrets might just prove deadly for his new spouse, a young man who has to compete with the memory of the unforgettable Timothy…

Timothy

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Timothy

© 2012 By Greg Herren. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-811-7

This Electronic Book is published by

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 249

Valley Falls, New York 12185

First Edition: November 2012

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits

Editor: Stacia Seaman

Production Design: Stacia Seaman

Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

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Jackson Square Jazz

Mardi Gras Mambo

Vieux Carré Voodoo

Who Dat Whodunnit

The Chanse MacLeod Mysteries

Murder in the Rue Dauphine

Murder in the Rue St. Ann

Murder in the Rue Chartres

Murder in the Rue Ursulines

Murder in the Garden District

Murder in the Irish Channel

Sleeping Angel

Sara

Women of the Mean Streets

Men of the Mean Streets

Night Shadows

(edited with J. M. Redmann)

When I was growing up, I loved the novels of Phyllis A. Whitney, Victoria Holt, Mary Stewart, and Daphne du Maurier. This book is an homage to those wonderful writers, and my own humble attempt to write a Gothic romantic suspense novel.

I need to thank Radclyffe for giving me the opportunity to finally write this book. I've been thinking about writing it for at least thirty years, and there is no more wonderful feeling for an author than to have the belief and support of your publisher. Being a writer is very daunting, and it is so much easier when you have a publisher who believes in you and your crazy ideas.

Everyone at Bold Strokes Books, from the cover designers to the proofreaders to the production staff to the copy editors to my fellow authors, are the most amazing people. You have all welcomed me into the Bold Strokes family with open arms from the very first, and it is an absolute pleasure being a part of all of this. I especially must give a huge shout out to my editor, Stacia Seaman, for everything she does. Cindy Cresap never makes me feel like an idiot for never knowing what book she's talking about when she e-mails me for information. Sheri has given me the best covers I've ever had for any of my books from any of my publishers; I worship at your lotus feet, my dear. Sandy Lowe never ceases to impress me with her ruthless efficiency.

I worked on Timothy while I was in Palm Springs for a Bold Strokes Books author event, so I simply must shout out to my Salton Sea expedition buddies, Carsen Taite, Lainey Parker, Kim Baldwin, Xenia Alexiou, Nell Stark, Trinity Tam, Lisa Girolami, and Ruth Sternglantz. J. M. Redmann is a great travel companion, and it was an absolute delight to see Shelley Thrasher and Connie Ward again, and to meet Rebekah Weatherspoon and Ashley Bartlett for the first time, among many others whose names I am currently blanking on.

My coworkers at the NO/AIDS Task Force are wonderful people and make going to work every day a joy: Brandon Benson, Matt Valletta, Nick Parr, Josh Fegley, Mark Drake, Alex Leigh, Sarah Ramteke, and the always lovely Robin Pearce.

Julie Smith, Lee Pryor, Pat Brady, Michael Ledet, Bev and Butch Marshall, Patty Friedmann, Victoria A. Brownworth, Karissa Kary, Gillian Rodger, Stephan Driscoll, Stuart Wamsley, Nevada Barr, Al and Harriet Campbell Young, Konstantine Smorodnikov, Michael Carruth, and John Angelico are all wonderful people who enrich my life just by being in it. Thanks, all!

And of course, my wonderful, funny and brilliant partner, Paul, who makes every day a joy.

This is for BECKY COCHRANE, who read and loved the same books when she was a teenager that I did.

“Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft, where we are hard, cynical where we are trustful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is very difficult to understand.”

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Rich Boy”

“Sometimes despair is just being realistic, the only logical thing for certain persons to feel. Loss. Despair. I've faced them and actually they have—fortified and protected, not overcome me at all…”

—Tennessee Williams,
A Lovely Sunday in the Creve Coeur

You can never truly escape the past—no matter how hard you try.

We pretend, though, like it never happened—as though that summer on Long Island no longer matters, and the things we lived through and experienced have no bearing on our present life. But we never settle anywhere—it's always hotels and rental villas, suitcases to unpack and later, to pack again once we decide on our next destination. It is a glamorous world of airports and limousines, trains and boats, of expensive restaurants with rich food and rare bottles of wine and champagne, of outrageously priced clothing in the most exclusive of stores.

Sometimes I long for New York City, and the beautifully decorated penthouse we might someday be able to return to, with its stunning views and marble floors. Sometimes it's a little thing, like longing to hear someone speak English without an accent or being able to walk into a delicatessen for a hot pastrami sandwich and a small bag of greasy potato chips, or get that day's issue of the
New York Times.

But I don't know if we will ever be able to go home again.

There's nothing to keep us from going back, of course, other than having to endure looks and wagging tongues and gossip. He doesn't want to deal with it anymore and I cannot say that I blame him. He has endured it for far longer than I, of course—and my own little taste of notoriety was not something I particularly enjoyed. Fame, notoriety, stardom—so many people long for it, crave it, and would do anything to achieve it. But I am not one of those people. I prefer to live quietly and peacefully, out of the limelight, away from the stares and the mean-spirited who always find it so much easier to believe the worst than to hope for the best.

I am often reminded that I am far too young to have such a cynical view of my fellow human beings. I look into the mirror and still see a young man's face, still flush with the glow of youth. That is what most people see when they look at me—a young man with a golden life they envy. But they don't look close enough to see the haunted eyes.

The bags that developed under my eyes from sleeplessness are long gone. I sleep quite well now, and most nights now I do not dream. I no longer need the pills.

I feel as though I have already lived a lifetime. I saw a very kind therapist—Dr. Caroline Weisbrook—during the time we stayed in London, when my sleep was constantly disturbed by the dreams. She was highly recommended by friends, widely considered to be one of the top therapists in the world, and had written multiple best-selling books about finding the path to happiness through forgiveness. I liked Dr. Weisbrook the very first time I sat down in her office. She firmly believed that as more time passed, that summer in the Hamptons would gradually fade into nothing more than blurred memories of an unhappy time—and with the coming of greater age and more life experience, a certain nostalgia would develop in my mind for those days—a nostalgia that might eventually make those bitter memories more sweet.

It is still quite impossible for me to imagine that I will ever look back and smile.

She urged me to find forgiveness in my heart—and most of all, to forgive myself for the role I played in the events of that summer.

But of course, Dr. Weisbrook never knew the whole story, the truth. There was simply no way I could share with her a truth I could not share with anyone else. As I sat there in her comfortably yet expensively decorated office, a copy of her latest bestseller strategically placed on her desk where I could see her smiling face on the cover while I nervously clenched and unclenched my sweating hands, I couldn't bring myself to tell her—despite my overwhelming need to tell her—someone, anyone—everything and unburden myself completely.

So instead I fed her bits and pieces, little scenes I had already reviewed, dissected, and analyzed from every possible angle and consideration before finally deciding those memories were indeed safe enough to share with a woman I could never completely trust. I told her stories carefully calculated to elicit the advice I thought I needed to get on with my life and put that haunted past behind me once and for all.

Foolishly, I thought she would be able to help me move on.

The responsibility for the failure of our sessions lies entirely with me. She knew she wasn't helping me, and it frustrated her. She somehow knew I wasn't telling her everything. The sessions became a game, with her probing carefully, trying to provoke a response and me resisting her, putting up more walls to keep her outside. After a few weeks of this I finally gave up. It was an exercise in futility, a waste of my money and her time. There's no point in seeking help when you cannot be completely honest about the things that haunt your dreams. If you cannot strip your soul bare and expose yourself entirely to your therapist, raw and naked, to be probed, questioned, evaluated, and prodded, the therapy is predestined to fail.