Too Soon For Love (35 page)

bustled over to where Michael sat with Jared leaning on the back of his chair and into his personal space, way in.

“I got it, Martie.” Jared straightened and his hand brushed Michael’s shoulder. Again.

This time Michael managed not to flinch. The kid was a toucher, which was bad enough all by itself. But he’d also been flirting hard with Michael ever since his arrival earlier that evening for the reading.

Now Michael knew why. The kid was a writer with a completed manuscript and not merely trying to get into his pants. Ah, well, he was too old for Jared anyway, even if he’d been interested, which he wasn’t. He pocketed the USB drive. What could it hurt to read the kid’s book and give him a little encouragement?

“Michael, sweetie, I’m sorry about that.” Martha leaned over him in her patchouli-scented cloud. “Jared is a writer, though I’m sure you already know that, and he can be rather enthusiastic about his work.”

Michael grinned. “Yeah, I sort of got that impression.”

“Yes, well,” she lowered her voice. “I think he’s a bit star-struck, having such a glamorous young writer right here in the shop.”

He laughed. “I bet you say that to all the writers.”

She chuckled. “Just the smokin’ hot ones.”

At Michael’s feet, Heidi stirred then got up and shook, sticking her nose under her master’s hand.

“Okay, girl,” Michael said and gave her ears a quick rub.

“Martie, is there someplace I can take my dog to do her business?”

“Of course, there’s a little patch of grass out back of the shop. I hesitate to call it a yard, more like a postage stamp. You’re welcome to take her there. Shall I show you?”

Out back Michael removed Heidi’s harness and let out her leash so she could sniff around. The night air was chilly and he shivered.

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“Have you made up your mind about Jared?” Martha asked.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, come now, sweetie. I’ve got eyes in my head. I’ve been watching him falling over himself all evening. I was just wondering …”

“What my intentions are?”

He should be put out at her nosiness, but instead he was amused.

“He’s a very attractive young man, and very sweet, if a bit overbearing about his work. Takes himself a bit too seriously, if you ask me.”

Jared had indeed asked Michael out for a drink following the signing, after assuring him that he was twenty-one and had the ID to prove it. Michael had even considered it, for about a half a second. And Jared had made it more than clear that he was amenable to anything the writer might want from him, which was the main reason, along with his youth, that Michael had tried, albeit gently, to decline the invitation, though he wasn’t entirely sure he’d gotten his message across.

“Jared’s really not my type,” Michael said.

“Too young?”

“And some other stuff.” He didn’t bother telling Martie that he was busy obsessing over someone else. That the someone else had, through no one’s fault but his own, probably been lost to him for good.

He should have gone with his gut and invited Alan to the signing. What did he have to lose after all? And he very nearly had done just that. But then he’d chickened out.

Probably all for the best. Who in their right mind would drive two and a half hours to a book signing for someone who had treated them like shit?

“Michael?” Martie touched his arm. “It looks like your little girl’s done her business.”

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“Thanks,” Michael said and crouched to put the harness back on the dog.

“You know, I very nearly had you set up with another young man tonight.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mm-hm. I think he would have been more your type than Jared.”

“With my luck, he was probably straight.”

“No, he was most definitely gay. A little older than you maybe, with lovely reddish-blond hair and the prettiest blue eyes. I think he had a little crush on you too. The whole time you were reading he was watching you.”

“So what happened to him?” Michael finished buckling the harness and straightened up.

“Oh, I tried to get him to come and let me introduce the two of you, but he said he had to go.” She sighed. “His name was Alan.”

“Alan? Alan what?”

“He didn’t say.”

Was it possible Alan had come to his reading and left without speaking to him? Of course, anything was possible. It was also possible that he was engaging in some pretty wishful thinking. He wasn’t even sure if Alan, his Alan, had red hair or not, and for the first time in his life, cursed himself for never having asked.

“You said you didn’t get his last name?”

“Unfortunately, I didn’t. But …”

“But what?”

“He did buy a copy of your book.”

Michael drummed up a smile for her. “Well, I guess that’s something.”

“You’re darn right it is, especially since he used a credit card.

Shall we go inside and see what we can see?”

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✧ ✦ ✧

The phone at the reception desk rang. Alan picked it up.

“Dr. Somers’s office. This is Alan. How can I help you?”

“Alan, it’s Michael Stricker.”

Like he wouldn’t know that voice anywhere.

Alan closed his eyes and pressed the phone against his ear hard enough to hurt. Keep it professional. This was his job after all and Michael’s dog was a patient.

“What can I do for you, Michael? Is everything all right with Heidi?”

“Heidi’s fine. She’s great, in fact. We just got back from a weekend at the beach. Rehoboth. It was nice.”

“I bet.”

There was a pause that seemed to stretch into infinity. In the back, Alan could hear Patrick talking to a woman who’d brought in a litter of kittens she’d found behind a trashcan out back of her apartment building.

“I’m afraid Patrick’s with a patient right now, Michael.”

“I’m not calling for Patrick. I’m calling for you.”

Michael was calling for him. God.

“I don’t understand.”

“I have a favor to ask you.” He laughed, a short, self-deprecating chuckle. “I know, you’re probably thinking what the fuck? Some balls this guy has, treats me like shit then calls for a favor, right?”

Wrong, or not entirely wrong anyway.

Alan deliberately relaxed his fingers on the receiver, deliberately made his tone casual. “You might say that.”

But all he could think was God, God, God.

“Not that I blame you,” Michael said. “In fact, I wouldn’t blame you if you told me to go fuck myself. But I hope you won’t.”

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Alan said nothing.

In the back, Patrick laughed and a moment later the kitten lady joined in. Outside a truck went by rattling the glass in the windows. On his credenza Alan’s computer beeped, indicating the arrival of an email.

“Alan? Are you still there?”

As quietly as he could, Alan took a breath and tried to steady his thudding heart. Was he really going to do this?

“I’m here. What’s the favor?”

He still couldn’t believe Alan had said yes and that he was actually coming.

Michael dumped an armload of wood into the wood box and once more checked the rest of his preparations.

Old newspaper? Check.

Matches? Check.

All the nerve he could muster? Check.

He sank to his knees before the fireplace. The chill penetrated the legs of his jeans and he shivered. The wood felt dry and rough and should burn well, provided he could get it going.

He remembered like it was yesterday, the arguments between Phillip and him when they bought this house with its four working fireplaces, including the one in the master bedroom, and he had insisted on learning how to build a fire. Remembered Phillip’s insistence that there was no need for him to build fires.

“Because I’m here to do it,” Phillip had said, or shouted, really.

Even after he’d worn down Phillip’s opposition through pure unwavering stubbornness, Michael could count on one hand the number of fires he’d been allowed to build in the years they had lived in this house. Each time he began arranging the wood, Phillip would nudge him aside with his standard line, ‘You’re making me nervous’—which was what he always said when he thought Michael was doing something dangerous.

Now there was no one to get “nervous” as he arranged the wood, no one to nudge him out of the way and take over the process so he wouldn’t accidentally burn himself, no one to wince as he struck the extra long match against the side of the box and held it to the dry newspaper, listening for the crackle when it caught.

He spent five matches before he finally heard that crackle and
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felt the triumph of success.

“Yeah, baby!” There on the floor, with just himself and the dog, Michael grinned and pumped his fist in the air. He closed the screen and got to his feet then dusted his hands on the legs of his jeans. Now if he’d done it right and the sucker stayed lit, he was golden.

Michael walked to the coffee table and, crouching down, ran his hands over the freshly dusted wood. There was the journal right where he’d left it. Beside it, on a tray, stood the wine, already opened and left to breathe, along with two glasses.

He wasn’t at all sure about the wine, whether or not he should have put it out, whether by doing so he was presuming too much.

Hell, of course he was, but it was a night for taking chances. If not now, when?

And Alan had come to his book signing, the credit card receipt had confirmed it. Though why Alan had left without speaking to him remained a mystery. Why would he drive two and a half hours, presumably to see him, then slip away, like the proverbial thief in the night?

Not that it mattered. He’d been there and he’d heard the story.

An incredible stroke of luck that, if Michael did say so himself.

Why he’d chosen to read the new story he still didn’t know. It was just one of those happy accidents of fate, and who was he to question the Fates?

Hopefully the three sisters were still on his side tonight.

Michael checked his watch for what felt like the hundredth time in the past ten minutes. He still had time before Alan would arrive. He sat on the couch. Maybe he should have a glass of the wine.

No, bad idea. If things didn’t go well, alcohol would only make him maudlin.

He picked up Phillip’s journal and held it. After a moment, he opened it at random and ran his fingers over the page. He knew there was writing there, could feel the indentation made by the pen. Phillip had had a heavy hand.

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Michael lifted the journal and pressed his lips to the writing much the way he’d done with Phillip’s cell phone all those weeks ago. Even after everything that had happened and everything he now knew, he was still compelled to hold onto these talismans of his dead lover.

“Oh, Phillip.”

He ran his lips over the page as if by doing so he could drink the words and absorb them into himself.

The phone rang.

Damn.

Could it be Alan calling to say he’d changed his mind?

Michael sat still and let it ring. Two rings. Three. Four. The voice-mail picked up.

Don’t let it be Alan.

He was a freakin’ coward for not answering. But if it was Alan and he’d changed his mind…

No, don’t think that.

He waited for what felt like an eternity before he rose and went to the phone. Heart pounding, he lifted the receiver and heard the staccato beep of a pending message. With an unsteady hand, he entered the code and listened.

“Michael, it’s Alan.”

No!

“I’m running a little late. Oscar had an … incident, and I need to clean up before I leave. I should be there in about a half hour.

I hope that’s okay. I’ll see you then.”

Relief weakened Michael’s knees and he propped a hip on the edge of the desk. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and smiled.

Okay, so they were still on.

✧ ✦ ✧

“You are never going to make it as a guide dog, pal.” Alan
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lifted the dustpan filled with dirt and plant detritus, and dumped it into the trashcan.

Oscar watched from his crate where he’d been banished after Alan had gotten home and discovered the most recent chapter in what he thought of as Oscar’s Reign of Terror.

Today his guide dog wannabee had tipped over a huge wicker basket that held three plants and a pot of dirt. Well, mud actually since Alan had just watered the plants that morning before he left for work. Oscar had then destroyed the basket and tracked muddy paw prints all over the apartment before, or possibly after, settling down to chew the plants to pieces.

After a panicky call to Patrick to make sure Oscar wouldn’t be poisoned by his afternoon vegetarian snack, Alan had shut the unrepentant Oscar in his crate and started to clean up the mess.

Halfway through the clean-up job, Alan had glanced at the clock and realized that, thanks to Oscar, he was not going to make it to Michael’s on time.

So, great.

Then when he’d called, Michael wasn’t even there. And what the hell did that mean?

Alan’s phone rang.

God, what if it was Michael calling to cancel? Maybe that would be a blessing in disguise. Yeah, and maybe he was full of shit.

Alan dumped the last of the dirt into the trash and went to answer the phone.

“Hello?”

“Bro, I heard you and Oscar had another adventure today.”

Tommy could barely get the words out, he was laughing so hard.

“What happened? Did he get another pair of your shoes?”

“No, this time his victims were innocent house plants. And how did you hear about it anyway?”

“Patrick’s here. He told me. Is Oscar okay?”

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“Yeah, he’s fine. I can’t say the same for my plants though.”

“Ah, well, it’s just a plant. You can buy more.”

“That’s not really the point. He’s supposed to be a guide dog in training.”