Chapter 8: Autumn Fields


Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.


The Princess, Part iv, Line 21 --- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was not supposed to be like this, he thought. Beautiful, brilliant foliage - gold and amber and russet and garnet and a dozen other jewel tones that glowed in the sunlight like new embers under a breath of air - was supposed to happen in Vermont or New Hampshire. Not California. But denying it was futile. This year, in this place, autumn had waved its magic wand, and the landscape had blazed to spectacular life with the turn of the seasons. 

November was supposed to be the beginning of the end, the first dire breath of winter, but instead, it felt like the whole world had decided to celebrate life at its most prolific and defy any looming threat of darkness.

The whole world seemed to be shouting to express an exuberant passion for living.

The whole world. Almost.

He was sitting astride his Harley in a lay-by at the brink of a long curving valley thick with western cottonwood and mountain ash - each specimen brighter and more colorful than the one before, all set against the dark evergreens climbing the escarpment across the divide toward a rough jumble of boulders at the cliff's crest that provided the foundation for a small waterfall that tumbled in stair-steps down the incline to find the narrow river at the valley's bottom.

The sun rode low now on the western horizon, pouring liquid gold onto everything beneath it. Life beautiful - squared.

He took a deep breath, savoring the crispness of the air. It had been a difficult summer, long and warmer than usual, and he'd kept himself busy, working multi-shifts at the pub, and even hiring out to one of the local vintners in his spare time, calling on knowledge of winery operations that he was surprised to be able to recall. He'd worked a couple of summer jobs in Ojai, for local winemakers, before the family had relocated to Pasadena, and he found that he remembered more than he'd thought he would. 

But he'd realized quickly that he needed to be careful. Revealing any extensive familiarity with the winemaking process might give rise to questions he was not prepared to answer. In the interest of discretion, he ignored any jobs available in skilled positions and stuck to various types of manual labor. He wouldn't even think about getting involved with the actual creation of the wines, but he saw no harm in exercising skills for packaging and shipping.

He had been surprised to learn that he didn't hate it as much as he'd expected to, especially since it turned out to be perfect for his true purpose. He didn't really need the money; he needed the focus. He needed something - anything - to occupy his time and his thoughts and keep him from dwelling too much on lost memories.

As summer waxed and waned, he had made a few casual friends - little more than acquaintances really - except for Belinda Bell and her husband, Charlie, a wheel-chair bound Vietnam veteran who had been elected mayor of the village the previous year and was kept busy with his civic duties, thus necessitating the hiring of a new bartender. Though the Bells had accepted Kevin into their lives and welcomed him into employment at the pub, neither had ever made any attempt to delve into his past. He was pretty sure that both had sensed his compulsive need to safeguard his privacy; equally sure that they probably discussed and speculated together. But he was endlessly grateful that they had never indulged their curiosity or subjected him to any kind of in-depth interrogation.

They liked him; they had come to trust him, and he had come to like them as well. Despite his steady determination to lead a solitary existence, he had found that it was not so easily accomplished. Even something as simple as having someone look up and smile a greeting as he came down the stairs from his loft apartment in the morning took on an astonishing amount of meaning when it was so rare.

Everything seemed to work well enough, although he would have been surprised to realize that he hadn't been quite as successful as he'd hoped, in convincing the people around him that he was just another common drifter, looking for a simple way to make a living. 

As it happened, hiding his history was not a terribly big deal; hiding his intelligence and his education was much harder, especially in unguarded moments.

He shivered slightly, noting the chill in the air and knowing that this glorious explosion of color and vigor would be short-lived, although nothing really was, any more. Not from a perspective in which time seemed to drag by at a snail's pace.

Six months.

That's how long it had been since he'd been Kevin Walker - attorney at law, son - brother - uncle. Husband.

Six months - AKA forever, with each day longer than the one before.

This one had been particularly rough, and he cringed now, remembering how stupid he'd been during one incredibly awkward moment after the departure of the regular lunch crowd.

From the very beginning of his attempt to integrate himself into the population of Piper's Canyon, he'd realized that he had to be very careful around the students from the local college, with its liberal arts and pre-law programs. It was fine to display a casual familiarity with popular movies and even best-selling fiction, but a comprehensive knowledge of fine arts, classic literature, or legal precedents - that was entirely something else again, something that no common bartender or ordinary ex-salesman would be expected to demonstrate.

He wondered if it would ever feel natural - this new skin that he was forced to wear. He wondered if the man he'd once been - the smart-ass, know-it-all, superior contrarian - would ever disappear completely beneath the placid, nondescript identity he'd assumed.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought, sitting there in the dying light of day, remembering that it had happened so quickly, so naturally, that it took a moment - only a moment but still too long - before he realized what he'd done.

The students from the local college had identified him in his first days on the job as new to the trade and potentially vulnerable to manipulation, so it went without saying that they just had to try their luck. He had been amiable enough, even pretended to play along for a while until one particularly precocious young stud muffin had stepped up to the bar and ordered Manhattans all around, for him and his best buds.

Kevin had smiled, had even picked up the bottle of Jim Beam and moved as if to pour. Then he'd paused, leaned forward directly into the college boy's face and replied with easy warmth. "Coming right up, Sport. Just as soon as I see that ID that you've got tucked away in your wallet. The real one. Not the fake."

"What makes you think . . ." The kid had spluttered, and Kevin's smile had grown wider as he realized he'd never actually seen anyone do that before. Cute kid - gray eyes, dark auburn hair, dimples, and a body (like most college boys) to die for, but completely off limits, for two reasons - totally straight and way too young, even if Kevin had felt some stirring of interest. Which he hadn't.

Somewhere along the path between the yesterday he had lost and the today he occupied, he had somehow just . . . lost interest.

Kevin had leaned back and let his eyes sweep the faces of the group gathered behind their brave leader - lovely faces, every one, but slightly tinted with embarrassment at that moment, as they realized that they'd been completely busted. One - a buxom brunette with startling green eyes - had looked back at him as if speculating on her chances of either changing his mind or . . . persuading him to make at least one exception. But he'd maintained his cool, unflappable demeanor, and she had eventually realized that she was wasting her time.

They'd never tried again - not that particular gambit anyway, although some of the girls had made a bit of a game of seeing which of them could attract the beautiful blue eyes of the new bartender. None were serious, of course; he was too mature and too far out of reach, but he was still handsome enough to qualify as eye candy, and they'd rather enjoyed the game.

Of course, not everyone who came into the pub was a student. There were, in fact, a fair number of unattached, attractive women who were members of the college staff, and some of them made no secret of their interest in the soft-spoken, perpetually quiet young man behind the bar.

He'd had to constantly remind himself to be extremely careful - showing some small signs of seeming enticed but never enough to make a reciprocal move. With the boys, it had been easier to find a way to avoid all suspicion; he'd simply pretended to be a combination of Tommy and Justin, and so far, it had worked out well.

Sometimes - usually when he was alone - he allowed himself a moment of regret, wondering if he would ever again dare to be himself.

But earlier this afternoon, he had been caught completely unawares, and he still wasn't sure that he'd avoided disaster.

David Blanchard was the boy's name - of the Santa Monica Blanchards - which said plenty about his origins and his pedigree and his future, and he definitely lived up to the image and the social status of a storied family tree that stretched back seven generations to the very foundations of the state of California.

He was tall and well built, and he was twenty-two years old so he was legal and perfectly within his rights to sit at the bar and demand his favorite libation - a vodka martini, a concoction which Kevin had mastered after a few minor disasters, each misstep drawing snarky, condescending comments from the young socialite.

Blanchard definitely looked the part of the mover-and-shaker-to-be, and he certainly exhibited the necessary arrogance, the charm, the self-confidence, the physique, and - of course - the wardrobe to carry off the role. In fact, he had everything that he needed to succeed in taking on the life laid out before him.

Every single thing - except one.

David Scofield Blanchard had the intellectual capacity of a wild goat - and the tenacity to match.

His great grandfather had been a judge on the California Supreme Court; his grandfather had founded the law firm of Blanchard, Maxwell, and Scofield, which was now one of the largest in the state and continuing to grow under the oversight of his father. His mother was the daughter of Jonas Scofield, his grandfather's partner in that legendary firm.

It was therefore almost carved in stone that David Scofield Blanchard would become an attorney, would graduate summa cum laude, would pass the bar with flying colors on his first attempt, and assume his rightful place in the panoply of his family's existence.

This was what was expected, what was required, even what the Fates decreed.

The reality was something else entirely, and a simple demonstration of that fact was the thing that had led Kevin into dangerous territory.

He was polishing shot glasses and arranging them on the shelf when Blanchard the Younger (as Kevin thought of him) took a stool at the bar, and demanded the usual. His tone was brusque, almost rude, and Kevin took his time in turning to prepare his cocktail.

"Now!" the student almost roared, noticing Kevin's laconic response, and two men seated at a corner table, lingering over a late lunch, turned to watch and see what would happen next.

Kevin, as always, did not react well to being roared at. "Easy, Big Boy," he said steadily, as he moved to grab a martini glass and a bottle of Smirnoff. "Whatever's got your knickers in a twist isn't worth blowing an aneurism, now is it?"

"When I want your opinion . . ."

"You'll ask for it politely," said Belinda Bell as she moved out of the kitchen to approach the young man, arms folded and eyes bright with icy disapproval, "or you can haul your sorry ass out of here and find another place to swill your martinis. I think there's a saloon over in Hemphill - about fourteen miles east of here. Of course, it doesn't exactly cater to the college crowd. More of a biker bar, but when you're really thirsty I guess it doesn't make much difference."

Then she looked at Kevin and favored him with a fond smile. "What do you think, Kevin? Some of those bad boys would probably love to get their hands on this sweet young thing."

Kevin continued to prepare the requested martini, moving without haste, and not quite successful in suppressing the smile that touched his lips.

David Blanchard, fashionably shaggy haircut hiding his eyes, tucked his head and mumbled something, obviously trying to save face in front of the three young companions who had entered with him, and Kevin's smile grew wider. The kid must surely have known better.

"What was that?" demanded Belinda. "I didn't quite catch it."

"'M sorry," he said, just barely audible.

She studied his face for a moment, and it was obvious that she was considering whether or not to let it pass - or to make good on her threat. No one in the bar doubted that she could do exactly that. Given her husband's longtime disability, Belinda had been bouncing obnoxious drunks out of the pub for most of her adult life and had learned a thing or two about how and where to apply force over the years.

In the end, she let it go, but her expression made it clear that she'd almost gone for the alternative, so the young man decided to behave himself - at least in his treatment of the help.

Still, he was in a terrible mood, as he proved after Belinda chose to walk away, when he accepted the martini Kevin handed him and gulped it down, while his friends took seats around him and placed their orders. "God-damned Palmeroy!" he snarled. "He does everything he can to embarrass me. What fucking difference does it make if I know every friggin' word of his precious Gideon v Wright or . . ."

"Wainwright," Kevin replied automatically as he served up draught beers in heavy glass mugs. "Gideon v Wainwright.* And there's a famous quote that explains why you should know it. 'Judicial judgment must take deep account of the day before yesterday in order that yesterday may not paralyze today.'** It was Felix . . ."

Kevin fell silent abruptly as he realized that the entire room had gone dead still, and everyone in it was staring at him with mouths agape.

"What . . . what did you say?" That was Blanchard, who - at the best of times - didn't like being shown up.

But Kevin looked up and fixed the student with a cold stare that made the boy think twice before speaking again. He was not accustomed to being challenged by anyone, especially a common bartender, but he knew instinctively that - just this once - he would be wise to shut his mouth.

Kevin Wynter had always impressed young Blanchard as the most mild-mannered of men, but . . . something in those blue eyes - eyes gone bright with a hard glitter - made him think he might need to re-evaluate his opinion - and keep his smart comments to himself.

And that might have been the end of it as the group of students beat a hasty retreat. The problem was that they had not been the only ones paying attention.

Belinda Bell chose not to say anything, but her eyes - gray with occasional glints of mossy green - were alive with speculation. Still, she was very good at controlling her curiosity and giving Kevin whatever space he needed.

The same could not be said, however, for one of the other individuals who had observed the exchange with uncommon interest, and Kevin struggled to suppress an urge to sigh. Sometimes he thought that if he didn't have bad luck, he'd have no luck at all.

Brian Padgett was "Bad Luck" personified, and Kevin had sensed it from the first time he'd ever come face to face with the man. 

On that infamous September day, he had been nose-deep in his bartending guide, trying to find a recipe for a cocktail called a "Scarlet O'Hara" for a new customer - an assistant registrar at the college who hailed, originally, from West Monroe, Louisiana - when he heard someone open the front door and rush in, accompanied by the sound of a driving, wind-swept rain. He had looked up and . . . 

Time - for the space of a heartbeat - had ground to a halt, as hazel eyes met blue, and a spark of something - something odd and unexpected - erupted between the two. There and gone too quickly to analyze properly, but a bit too familiar for comfort.

The coloring was wrong - completely - and the clothing was entirely too posh. But the physique and the profile - a distinct shadow against the monsoon raging outside - had been heartbreakingly familiar, and, for a single moment, Kevin had almost allowed himself to murmur that name - that name he never spoke any more. Suddenly, he'd been so consumed with the despair of missing his husband that he'd almost forgotten how to do what he knew he needed to do, what he'd learned to do from the beginning: just breathe through it, and seek serenity in the mental mantra that had become his almost constant companion. "Everything passes with time."

On that day, he'd made certain to give no opportunity for speculation and quickly returned to his research, but the newcomer apparently had no such reservations.

"Christ on a Crutch!" he'd exclaimed, running long fingers through a thatch of dark brown hair. "What ever happened to 'It Never Rains in California'?"

Kevin hadn't quite been able to suppress a smile. "The Mamas and the Papas grew up and realized it only applies to LA. The rest of us just deal with the downpour."

Tall-dark-and-beautifully-built had peeled off a soaking wet Polo jacket, tossed it toward a convenient coat rack, and strolled across the room to take a seat at the bar, while Kevin had deliberately kept his head down, refusing to notice that the strolling definitely contained elements of deliberate provocation. But in the end, he had not been able to ignore the hand that was extended toward him - solid and tanned with long, strong fingers. "I'm Brian Padgett," the stranger had said by way of introduction. "I just started teaching at the college."

Kevin had looked up then, and allowed his eyes to perform a quick inspection and note the True Religion jeans and the Bugatchi sports shirt, before offering a response. "Let me guess. Fashion design."

Padgett's grin had been broad and brilliant. "No, smart ass. Anthropology. And what's your specialty?"

Kevin had been forced to fight off an urge to smile in return. "Saloon psychology, or - more accurately - How to Bust Up a Bar Fight Without Inflicting Permanent Damage."

Padgett's hand had remained steady - waiting for a response.

With a sigh to acknowledge the futility of trying to ignore the other man, Kevin had extended his own. "Kevin Wynter. Mixologist."

"Good to meet you, Mr. Wynter. And even better to discover an actual, honest-to-God pub way out here in the boonies."

Kevin had gone back to flipping through his recipe book. "And what would your sophisticated palette require on this rainy afternoon, Professor?"

"Maker's Mark on the rocks. And I'm not a professor. Just an associate, conducting a seminar for the semester. Come spring I'm gone again." He'd accepted the drink from Kevin and taken a deep draught, before continuing. "Adventure awaits."

Despite himself, Kevin had been interested. "What kind of adventure?"

Padgett had shrugged, and Kevin had refused to notice the play of well-developed muscles under the soft fabric of the forest green shirt. "Whatever kind I can find. I just got back from a dig in the Mexican Valley. Next summer, I'm hoping for Israel, which is . . ."

"The Holy Grail, for archeologists. Right?" Kevin had interrupted, still not looking at the man's face.

Padgett's laugh had been every bit as warm and rich as his appearance had promised. "No. That would be Egypt, but it's close enough. Until I get to the Amazon River Basin anyway. That's my ultimate goal, because it's all new. Almost unexplored."

Unable to resist the curiosity that had been his Achilles heel throughout his life, Kevin had looked up and found himself momentarily speechless as he confronted those hazel eyes, spotting glints of slate gray, and acid green, and dark amber within them. Up close, there was really no resemblance at all to that well-remembered individual who would remain nameless, but the lack of familiarity was almost a blessing and didn't change the fact that the man was ruggedly handsome. "What's there to study?" he had managed finally. "I mean, isn't anthropology the study of the rise of civilization? So what's to study in a place that hasn't really changed since . . ."

Padgett had settled himself on a bar stool, as he interrupted. "Ah, but is that really the case?" he'd retorted. "That's how the general public sees it - as if the region was frozen in a little prehistoric pocket of history. But that makes it the perfect place to delve into how civilization evolves - and how it doesn't."

They had never become friends, exactly. They might have - but Kevin knew better than to allow it. Still, they had occasionally indulged in conversations, exchanged opinions on current events, the latest scandal to rock the college campus, or who made the best bourbon in the country. And - once or twice - they'd gotten into bitter disagreements, mostly over political issues, something that Kevin tried to avoid, for he knew himself well enough to understand that allowing his passions to flare might very probably lead to words best left unspoken

But no amount of caution or wariness had been sufficient to prevent the little spark of interest that ignited in his mind every time the not-quite-professor dropped into the Pub - which had happened rather frequently. And no amount of deliberate ignorance had ever been quite enough to keep him from seeing the exact same spark erupt in hazel eyes.

Danger - squared. That was Brian Padgett.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He took another moment to enjoy the view and then glanced at his watch - the minimalist Seiko that he had purchased to replace the Rolex he dared not wear any longer. He had packed it away carefully, deliberately not looking at the engraving on its back. He did not need to look at it anyway; he knew it by heart.

"Our son - the lawyer. We are so proud of you."

He had not been able to convince himself to sell it, given its history - a history he no longer allowed himself to think about if he could avoid it.

A stray memory flared - the look on his father's face when his mother had presented it to him on the occasion of his graduation - magna cum laude, of course - from Stanford Law School, and receipt of multiple awards for his work with the Stanford Community Law Clinic during the course of his studies. But the memory of that grimace that was not - quite - an eye-roll was almost as painful to him as the recollection of the moment when he'd seen the pain in his husband's eyes at the moment of his Great Epiphany.

He shook his head, annoyed with his own overly dramatic inclinations. These days, he seemed to capitalize everything.

Time to go.

The ride back to town was short - only twelve minutes - and pleasant, but it was not particularly peaceful. 

He had taken the bike out in an attempt to settle his mind - to soak up the beauty of the hills and lay aside his concerns.

It hadn't worked.

Nothing would, he knew, until Brian Padgett had sidled up to the bar and asked the question that he'd been dying to ask since that awkward moment earlier in the day. Kevin had been braced for it, had expected it to happen immediately. But it hadn't. Padgett had simply finished his meal, paid his tab, and departed in the company of the sociology professor - a dour individual with a head that evoked memories of Yul Brynner - with whom he'd had lunch.

He had ignored Kevin completely, except for one moment as he was leaving, when he'd looked back to find the bartender clearing away empty glasses and discarded napkins. He'd paused for a moment, just long enough to force Kevin to look up and meet his gaze.

Then he'd smiled - a strange, slightly smug smile - and walked out into the golden afternoon sunlight.

Kevin had been filled with anxiety ever since.

He had thought it through completely and come up with an explanation that should be believable, that almost anyone would accept.

The key word, of course, was 'almost'.

He had learned over the course of their acquaintance that Brian Padgett was remarkably intuitive and thus, difficult to lie to.

But one thing was certain. The man might have managed to clamp down on his curiosity sufficiently to allow him to walk out of the pub without getting an answer to his questions, probably because he had other things he needed to do. But he would be back - and soon.

Probably tonight.

Kevin decided, abruptly, that he needed a drink, but only one. One stiff drink to take the edge off, but not enough to make him careless.

He parked his bike in the narrow alley behind the pub and climbed the exterior stairs to reach his tiny loft apartment - tiny, but adequate. In truth, almost anything would be adequate these days; he didn't spare much thought to the size or the décor or the ambiance of the rooms he occupied. The apartment was safe and convenient and clean and provided a place where he could go to lock out the world, and that was all he required.

Scotty would have been astonished, he thought. Then he flinched away from the thought.

Scotty would never get a chance to be astonished, because Scotty would never see it. He deliberately emphasized the name in his mind, allowing the pain to hit him hard and fierce.

The hurt would help him get ready for the confrontation that lay ahead. The fresher the pain, the greater his strength would be in resisting any temptation to reveal more than he should.

Another glance at his watch revealed that he had just time enough for a shower - a quick one with no opportunity for loitering or indulging in . . . well, never mind what he might want to indulge. There was no time, and that was the way he liked it.

The bathroom was tiny, but spotlessly clean (demonstrating the continued existence of one habit he retained from his previous life). It had only a small sink, a toilet, and a shower, but it was enough for its lone occupant, and the water was always hot and plentiful, for which he was grateful.

He didn't allow himself to cry much any more, but, when he did, the shower was the perfect place for it, the thick stream of water covering a multitude of sins.

But not today. No time.

He dressed quickly - choosing from the collection of Dockers slacks and Polo shirts that had replaced Armani and Louis Vuitton in his professional wardrobe, and headed downstairs where he found Belinda behind the bar, putting the finishing touches on a tray full of pina coladas.

"Let me guess," he said in lieu of hello. "A tourist bus?

"Worse," she replied, tucking little pastel umbrellas into the glasses. "I believe the Brits call it a 'hen party'."

He frowned. "Better you than me."

"Oh, come on," she replied with a grin. "They're in the party room, and I'm sure they'd love a visit from a handsome waiter - Chippendale-style, you know."

"You are a dirty old woman," he laughed, inordinately grateful for the way she had of setting his mind at ease.

"Who you calling old?"

Then she was gone, lifting the tray and leaving him with a smile, as he heard her open the door to the party room which was more commonly used for children's birthday parties. There she was greeted with boisterous laughter and shouts of welcome.

He poured himself a double shot of Beam, wiped the bar - more out of habit than need - and settled down to wait.

He had no idea how long it would take, but he was virtually certain that the confrontation would happen before midnight - closing time.

The café side of the pub was busy, as usual - regular customers, families, students weary of the fare in the college cafeteria, truckers passing through, workers just getting off from their shift at the local box factory - and Belinda was busy, as was Georgia, the regular waitress, and Barney the cook, which left Kevin to cater to the bar patrons and the ladies of the 'hen party'. The latter he managed with a remarkable degree of aplomb, since the six girls in the group - college students all - were well and thoroughly inebriated by the time he entered with a new round of their fruity drinks, and they all welcomed his arrival with enthusiastic cheers, naughty suggestions, and more than a few gropes of his backside.

He managed to laugh it off, although one particularly determined young redhead succeeded in pinching his butt hard enough to leave bruises, to the delight of her companions. He learned later that she was the bride-to-be, the honoree of the occasion, and he figured that the young man who would be waiting at the altar for her the next day was in for quite a boisterous experience in the bridal chamber.

Business in the bar was relatively slow, which was not an advantage from Kevin's perspective. He would rather have been busy.

Still, customers drifted in and out, and a couple of employees of a local winery dropped in for nightcaps, inviting him to join them in a discussion about best vacation spots in Baja. He was enjoying the conversation, although making sure to keep his comments non-committal, when the front door opened and Brian Padgett walked in alone.

He looked neither right nor left, but came straight across the room to take a seat at the end of the bar, which was the quietest and darkest spot in the entire pub.

Kevin waved his good night to the winemakers before reaching for a new bottle of Maker's Mark and moving down to the corner, trying very hard not to look too anxious.

"The usual?" he asked, lifting the bottle and reaching for a glass.

Padgett nodded.

The silence between them was heavy, which was uncommon. They didn't always talk when Padgett dropped in for drinks. Sometimes, their exchange was limited to a nod and a softly spoken 'thank you', when Kevin poured. 

But this was different.

"Something on your mind?" That was Kevin, realizing that he'd rather have the question asked and answered than wait around anticipating the worst.

"How did you know?" Padgett's tone was cold, clipped.

"Know what?" Kevin replied as he poured out a generous measure of the whiskey.

Padgett drew a deep, impatient breath. "Don't play dumb. How did you know about that legal precedent?"

Kevin took his time answering, careful to be certain that his hand was steady, without tremor, as he topped off the drink. "It's a pretty famous case, you know."

"I do. Some would even say infamous. In certain parts of this country anyway."

At that, Kevin looked up, eyes narrowing. "And would you be one of them?"

"What if I was?"

Kevin looked down again, but not before a faint shadow of disappointment rose in his eyes - and was noticed. "A hell of a lot of people - those who think with their heads and not their dicks - consider it one of the most important decisions ever handed down by the Court." He looked up again, and didn't bother trying to disguise his impatience. "I never took you for a bloody right-wing redneck."

Padgett took a sip of his drink. "Nice try - but we both know that's not what this is about."

"No? Then why don't you . . ."

"You're supposed to be a down-on-your-luck ex-salesman, who took up bartending to put a roof over your head. So how the hell . . ."

"You don't know me, Professor." Kevin snapped, deliberately emphasizing the title, heavy with sarcasm and sharp with anger. "And you don't know anything about my life. So suffice it to say that I haven't always been who I am now. That I haven't always been alone."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

Kevin bit his lip, trying to suppress the outrage growing within him, an outrage that was old and bitter and had virtually nothing to do with the argument at hand. "Meaning - first of all - that it's none of your business how I know whatever I might know. And meaning that I once had . . . someone - someone important to me. Someone with whom I spent a lot of time studying things like legal precedents and court cases and, and . . . things like that. Someone who . . . was a big part of my life. Okay? Understand?"

"Kevin, I . . ." Padgett fell silent for a while, considering how to proceed. "I don't know what to say. I . . . I overstepped, and I had no right. Your personal history is your own, and I shouldn't have intruded. I really am sorry."

Kevin looked into shadowed hazel eyes and was stricken suddenly with a deep feeling of guilt. There was sincere regret in every line of Padgett's face, and Kevin found that he could hardly bear knowing that he had put it there by taking a semi-truth and twisting it around to conceal the facts of a life that he could not share, a life forever lost to him.

It seemed that every single day, he learned a little more about how deeply he hated living a lie.

"It's all right," he said finally. "I just don't like to talk about the past."

Padgett nodded. "Can I ask . . . were you married?"

Kevin sighed, and decided to tell the truth, in his own unique way. "Not quite."

Padgett finished his drink before looking up and waiting for Kevin to decide to meet his eyes, which took a while.

"She must have been very special," he said softly.

Kevin could only nod and swallow the discomfort of the deception, amazed to realize how much pain could result from a single, seemingly innocuous pronoun. "Yes. Very."

Awkwardly, still obviously embarrassed, Padgett got to his feet and turned to go. But then he stopped and looked back to study Kevin's face, his eyes now bright with a speculative gleam. "Hey," he said after a short silence, "you play tennis?"

Kevin almost gasped, almost felt his breath catch in his throat, and knew - immediately - what he should say, what he must say, but - somehow - what he couldn't say.

"I've been known to swing a racket or two in my day."

Shit! Why on earth . . .

"You free tomorrow afternoon?"

Once more, a voice in his mind was screaming at him; once more, he ignored it. "I could probably spare a couple of hours. Where?"

Padgett shrugged. "The school courts are adequate, but Amberwood Country Club is much nicer."

Kevin smiled. "Sorry. Not a member."

"But I am - courtesy of my faculty status - so . . . Three o'clock?"

Every instinct in Kevin's body was united in a chorus that shrieked at him to just say no.

"Three o'clock, it is."

Padgett strolled away, his customary easy good nature completely restored, as Kevin fought down an urge to groan, and pour himself another double.

He was, in fact, on the verge of doing just that when his cell phone rang. A quick glance at the caller ID generated the first real smile he'd experienced all day.

"Hey, Big Sister," he answered quietly, after a quick look around to make sure no one was paying him any attention.

"Who you calling big, Baby Brother?" replied Julia, a smile implicit in the warmth of her voice. "What's up?"

"I'm sitting here feeling sorry for myself, so please, please, please, tell me a story about my beautiful niece's latest escapade."

Julia laughed. "Why don't I let her tell you herself."

His hesitation was brief, but noticeable.

"Hey," she said softly. "It's okay. I told you it would be, and it is."

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temple with a weary thumb. "He hasn't been around, has he?"

"No." She did not sound angry or disappointed. Just resigned. "As expected. He has a new toy to occupy his time."

"I'm sorry," he replied, sparing a moment to wonder how he'd wound up with such a stupid ass for a brother - a man who could have played a huge role in his daughter's life, who might even have managed to regain his ex-wife's trust and affection, but chose instead to chase after the latest skirt to catch his fancy - a skirt who undoubtedly held a master's degree in pumping up the masculine ego.

"Don't be. It's not your fault. He does bother to call occasionally - mostly to make excuses and let me know how terribly busy he is. Apparently, he's in the process of becoming a real estate mogul. But enough about him, and on to what's really important. Would you like to hear the tale of the newest member of the household, not to mention the newest love of Lizzie's life?"

His smile was gentle. "Should I be jealous?"

"Not for a minute," she replied fondly. "Nothing will ever replace you in her heart. She's so excited to tell you her news that she's bouncing around like a ping-pong ball. You ready to listen?"

"Absolutely."

There was a brief rustling, and then Lizzie's voice filled his ear, not to mention his heart. "Unca Kev, guess what? Mommie and Jeff bought me a real live turtle, and it lives in my t'rarium, and it's name is Tock-a-lok, and it takes a long, long time for it to walk across the bottom, and Mommie says I have to be careful not to feed it chocolate, but it likes . . ."

The story wound on, and Kevin realized quickly that what his daughter was saying didn't matter in the least; what mattered was that she was the one saying it. He smiled and closed his eyes, luxuriating in the cadence of her words and the . . .

Wait! Mommie and . . . who?

He continued to listen, still reveling in the moment and in the love he heard in that adorable little voice, but now with a purpose, with a goal in mind once the story was done.

" . . . he even has his own lamp so he can sun . . . sun-bave if he feels like it, and he has food sticks and stuff. And ya know what? Mommie says I get to go to a tumblin' class next week and learn how to do tricks and stuff. Will you come watch me do tricks and stuff?"

He waited a second or two, just to be sure she was finished, before replaying. "Of course, I will. I bet you'll do the best tricks of anyone in the class."

Her response was a giggle that seemed to penetrate his heart and root around for a place to call its own. "Ya wanta come meet Tock-a-lok? He's really cool."

"Absolutely, I do. But I can't get away right now. Too much work to do. But soon, Baby Girl. Soon, I promise."

A gentle murmur must have prompted her to surrender the phone, because a quick, "Bye,bye, Unca Kev. I love you" was followed by the affectionate tone of Julia's voice.

"Did you get all that?" she asked. "I swear she takes after you. I used to think you were the only person I knew who could recite an entire soliloquy without stopping to catch a breath. So I guess she gets it honestly."

"Yeah," he admitted, touched by the ease with which she seemed to accept his unique relationship to the child of his loins. "But never mind that. Who - exactly - is Jeff?"

Julia could not quite suppress a sigh. "Oh, dear. You caught that, did you? I was rather hoping that it might get lost in the verbal deluge."

"Not a chance," he retorted. "The devil is always in the details, which is what we . . ." He stumbled into silence, realizing what he'd almost said, and understanding - again - that his glib tongue was sometimes his own worst enemy. "Anyway, you're dodging the question. Who's Jeff?"

"All right, all right," she replied. "I'll tell you, but you have to promise not to go all big-brother-protective on me. I haven't even told my father yet - for the same reason."

"Is that a discreet way of telling me it's none of my business?"

"No, Kevin," she said, very gently. "Because of Lizzie, it will always be your business.

"His name is Jeff Aldridge, and his son is in my kindergarten class. He's a widower, and his little boy has some learning problems. That's how we got to know each other, and he's . . . he's . . ."

Kevin smiled. "Let me guess," he said softly. "He's not like Tommy."

She laughed. "No. He's not. But - in some ways - he is like you. Except . . ."

It was Kevin's turn to laugh. "He likes girls. He really, really likes girls."

"Yeah," she admitted. Then she sighed. "Tell me something, Little Brother. How is it that you can always - or almost always - read my mind, and understand what I'm thinking?"

"I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with the genetic mixture that created Lizzie."

"Maybe. But I think I should tell you that there have been times when I wished with all my heart that you weren't gay. We'd have made a hell of a team."

He laughed again. "Feels just a tiny bit incestuous to me. So let's just say we're well matched, everywhere except the bedroom. Now, tell me more about the new man in your life."

"Well, he's a doctor - an anesthesiologist - and a very successful one. On staff at Seattle Children's Hospital and very much in demand because he's . . . oh, Kevin, you should see him with Lizzie and Robbie - that's his little boy. He is so good with kids. He's just . . ."

"Perfect?" Kevin clearly heard what she did not quite say. "So perfect, in fact, that he's scared the crap out of you, hasn't he?"

"Does it show that much?"

"Only to someone who knows where to look. But listen, Jules. You're gun-shy because of what you went through with Tommy, but if you let that ruin your chance to build a new life, then you're letting the old 'Walker curse' destroy your hope for the future. So just stop that. Tommy is an idiot; if you don't believe me, ask Justin. He'll tell you the truth. But don't ask Kitty or Sarah - or Mom - because they won't admit it, even though they know it."

"You approve then?"

"Not my place to approve, is it? But . . ."

"Wrong," she said quickly. "Your role in our daughter's life entitles you to a right to speak up, doesn't it?"

"OK, maybe," he admitted. "But here's the thing. If he makes you happy and he makes her happy, that's all that matters. Of course, the fact that he's a doctor and a specialist and probably makes gobs of money doesn't hurt either."

She chuckled. "Not a part of my criteria for judgment - but it can't hurt."

She paused then, and he felt the shift in the direction of the conversation - and braced himself.

"How are you, Kevin?" she asked finally, the level of her concern so obvious that it was painful for him to address it.

"One day at a time," he answered, pausing to refill a round of beer mugs for the small, raucous group seated at the bar and arguing about the 49'ers chances for the season. It was a relief to note that they were paying Kevin no attention at all. "It's not ideal, but it seems to work."

"Um, hm." She paused again, and he realized then that she was debating about what she should - or should not - say next.

"What's up, Jules?" he asked quickly. "I know there's something. You're never hesitant, unless you're debating whether to speak or keep your mouth shut. So just go ahead and say it."

"I just . . . I just don't know how much you want to know about what's happening . . . with Scotty."

"Sometimes I don't know either. But . . . is something wrong? Is he all right? He's not sick, is he, or . . ."

"No, no. He's fine, Kevin. Except . . . well . . ."

"Please just spit it out. You're killing me here."

She huffed a sigh. "It seems that Michelle is back in town, although no one seems to know why exactly, or whether it's permanent. She drops in to see Scotty sometimes, and he doesn't seem to be handling it too well. And . . . his mother is there, too. I don't know how long she's staying or what her plans are. Tommy doesn't seem to be too concerned, although he did say that Saul is complaining that she's driving Scotty nuts and interfering with things at the café."

Kevin took a moment to swallow around the knot in his throat as he fought to avoid speculating about what Michelle would be like now, and how painful it would be to see her, not to mention how much Bertha must have celebrated the news of his departure from her son's life. He was silent for a while, struggling to come up with an answer. In the end, he chose to ignore all the details and address his primary concern. "But he's okay, right? In the long run, that's all that matters."

She sighed again. "No, he's not okay, Kevin. He's miserable. Even Tommy - who has the sensitivity of a slug - has noticed that. He's far from 'okay'. He's just . . . lost."

It was Kevin's turn to sigh, as he looked around for a way to end the conversation. Luckily, a lively group of new arrivals was heading for the bar, looking thirsty and eager.

"Gotta go, Jules," he said quickly.

"But what about . . ."

He didn't wait to hear the rest. "He'll get over it."

And he rang off, before she could say anything more.

Everything that needed saying, after all, had already been said, and he had nothing else to offer.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


It had been a long day, and would grow longer still. Hours and hours and hours endured since an early morning start, and a domino-effect series of events that tested his patience and his stamina more extremely with every passing moment. And - unfortunately - it was not over yet. Still, he had needed a break - some private time, something that had been at a premium lately and that he was unlikely to find now, no matter how badly he might need it.

Scotty stood for a moment in the tiny vestibule outside his apartment - reflecting briefly over how strange it still felt to refer to it as 'his' rather than 'our' - and leaned against the door frame, running his fingers through his hair, and brooding over the fact that all days seemed long lately.

But not, somehow, as long as the nights - the nights that tested his resolve and his courage and his ability to endure the silence.

And now - oh, God! - now he had been forced to confront a new epiphany, one that he would have given almost anything to avoid. Now he knew that solitude - the echoing, bottomless sound of silence - was not the worst thing to endure. The worst thing was to have to deal with the loneliness, the guilt, the growing sense of despair, while biting his tongue to keep from threatening to kill his mother if she made one more nasty, vindictive comment about the husband he'd lost.

He knew what she was trying to do; understood that her attitude and her actions were simply clumsy attempts to help him find absolution for the sins he 'imagined' he'd committed - her word, not his - and discover a new focus in his life, to enable him to release his grip on the past and find a future to pursue. But he also knew what else she was hoping to accomplish - the part of that new future that she dared not actually mention, but wished for with all her heart nonetheless.

She had hated Kevin; no secrets about that. But that passion had existed on the surface of the troubled sea of her emotions. Beneath that surface, the deeper levels of her complex consciousness grew ever darker. She had managed, somehow, to cling to a measure of love for her son - or, at least, her version of her son - but she had hated what he was. Even more than she'd hated Kevin, she'd hated the homosexuality of her only child, and she'd grasped at the chance to blame someone else for his 'affliction'. Somehow, in her mind, she had succeeding in finding Kevin responsible for Scotty's gayness, even though Scotty had been gay for as long as he could remember, many, many years before his first encounter with Kevin Walker.

But Scotty knew that logic seldom entered into conclusions reached in moments of emotional desperation, so Bertha believed the lie she'd told herself, the one that was so much more palatable than the ugly reality.

But her self- deception didn't stop there. At this point, she had convinced herself that this was the big moment - the chance to put everything right. She had lost her husband (to that blond hussy). She had lost her standing in the community, and become the object of ugly gossip and mean-spirited ridicule among the pillars of her ultra-right-wing church, and - worst of all - she had lost her son to the vilest of sins. But now - now she believed that she had found a way to salvage him, to set him on the path to redemption and regain at least one of the things life had taken from her.

All it would take - she was certain - was the right girl. And she knew the perfect candidate, although it would mean a substantial adjustment in her own way of thinking.

During Scotty's high school years, she had never been fond of his friend, Michelle. She had, in fact, been deeply critical, finding the girl tacky and cheap and disrespectful and far too wild and promiscuous. But that was then. Now - now it seemed that none of those flaws really mattered much any more, because Michelle had one huge asset, one advantage that trumped everything else.

She was female, which meant that she could kill two very important birds with one perfectly-aimed stone; she could cure Scotty's horrible "affliction", thus saving him from eternal damnation, and she could produce a grandchild.

For her ability to fulfill those two functions, Bertha was willing to forgive her anything.

Unfortunately - for Bertha - Scotty was completely aware of what she was feeling and what she was trying to do, and he was rapidly running out of patience. He had tried every means he could think of to force his mother to understand that his sexuality was not a choice, not a sickness, not a curable disease, but she still refused to accept that it was a part of who he was, and that there was nothing to be done to change that. 

His mother's attitude, while bizarre and infuriating, had not really surprised him. But Michelle - Michelle was something else entirely. He was currently totally confused by her reactions to his mother's unsubtle ploys to bring the two of them together. Michelle had always known he was gay, and had never cared. Their friendship had never hinged on conventional sexuality, and he was pretty sure it still didn't. And yet, there was something . . . odd going on.

It had been Michelle who had called him earlier in the day to let him know that his mom had called and invited her for a casual brunch the following morning.

A brunch! That by itself was enough to set off alarm bells in his basic brain functions. Bertha Wandell had never prepared nor attended a 'brunch' in her entire life. He could, in fact, remember some long ago comments about the pretentiousness of the society wives who were members of Phoenix's Union Hills Country Club and talked incessantly about their "silly little brunches".

He could - and often did - prepare brunches for special occasions for some of the café's regular patrons, including some of Nora's charitable events, but could not imagine Bertha having any interest in participating.

And why was Michelle allowing herself to be used as part of Bertha's plotting? It simply did not make sense. Nor, for that matter, had Michelle's behavior over the last couple of months been in character for her. She had always dreamed of a career in New York, her heart set on becoming the next Vera Wang, but she seemed to spend an awful lot of time in LA lately, on regular visits with her mother. And therein lay another clue that raised speculation to a new level. For as long as Scotty could remember, Michelle and her mother had been at odds, wavering between weeks of mutually-indulged silent treatment and periodic shouting matches, often accompanied by glassware hurled against walls as one of them stormed out of the house, announcing a serious intent to never speak to the other again.

And yet now - by his personal knowledge, Michelle had made four trips to LA in the last three months, each lasting a week or more, spending a lot of time with her mother in her new house which was "out in the valley"; no real address ever provided. In addition, each visit was explained by vague references to meetings with potential clients and possible investors in a new store her boss was thinking about opening on Rodeo Drive. But when pressed, she had avoided providing even the most rudimentary specifics, even when Scotty had made some speculative remark about a possible investment in her newest venture.

She had mumbled something about never mixing business with friendship - which was, of course, a complete crock - and beat a hasty retreat. It had been three weeks before she'd dropped in again, and the subject had never come up. Not even when Scotty made some small attempt to broach it.

So he finally got the message, and accepted that she did not want him involved in her business - but that did not prevent him from wondering why.

He took a deep breath and decided that he was too tired to care - almost.

A quick glance at his watch revealed that he should have an hour or so to relax a bit, take a shower, and prepare for the gala affair of the evening. Another charity event, with eighty guests - including a number of A-List celebrities - raising money for a scholarship fund for medical students from inner-city schools.

This was the kind of project that Nora Walker often championed, although this particular benefit was not one of hers. Still, she would certainly approve his efforts - a fact that shouldn't really matter to him any more. Not since his own actions and his resentment of their interference in the trauma that had destroyed his marriage had created a gulf between him and Kevin's family. Except for Saul, of course, who was his business partner and who had - finally - realized that his continued carping and determination to convict Kevin for the failure of the marriage was not patching up the disagreement with Scotty; was, in fact, doing exactly the opposite.

So now, it was a subject that they did not discuss. One of many.

He had already done all the preliminary prep work for the buffet that would be presented to the guests. The tables were already set with vintage china and crystal, freshly laundered linens, and discreet floral arrangements. The wine was selected and waiting in the cooler, the entrees assembled and ready to go into the oven, the salads chilled and ready to be dressed, the side dishes completed and awaiting transfer to chafing dishes, and the desserts prepared and needing only sauce and garnish to be ready to serve.

So now . . .

He took a deep breath and opened the door, to find his mother seated on the loveseat, chatting away on her cell phone and smiling, obviously enjoying herself. A brief pause to listen told him that she was in the middle of a rave about the acclaim he'd received for his skills as a chef.

He confined his greeting to a quick wave of his hand before disappearing into his bedroom, not really interested in eavesdropping on Bertha's side of the conversation or learning the identity of the person on the other end of the line. But if he thought his speedy retreat would get him out of the uncomfortable mother-son conversation that had been a daily routine lately, he was sadly mistaken.

He had barely discarded his stained chef's jacket when the knock sounded at his door.

He managed - but only just - not to sigh as he called out a weary, "Come in."

Bertha, despite being deliberately obtuse about many things, retained enough of her natural maternal instincts to be attuned to his physical and emotional condition.

"You look worn out," she observed, as she bent to retrieve the jacket from where he'd dropped it. Since the day of her arrival, he had been telling her that she was not expected to do his laundry, but she had continued to ignore his admonition and do it anyway.

"Mom, please just leave the jacket. I have someone to do that for me, and . . ."

"And while I'm here, you don't have to pay for laundry service. Don't be ridiculous."

He sighed, tired of the argument.

"Can I get you some coffee?" she asked. "Or tea? Tea might be better - more soothing."

"Mom, I don't need soothing," he retorted, his impatience putting an edge to his words that he could not quite suppress. "I just need to rest for a while, before I shower and change for the evening."

"You work too hard," she replied, unperturbed by the sharpness of his tone. "You shouldn't have been left alone to deal with all this . . ."

"I am not alone," he snapped. "And I wish you'd stop with all this thinly-veiled innuendo. If you have something to say, better to just say it. Then you can feel free to go back to Phoenix and live your own life, leaving me to live mine."

"Now, Scotty, you know you don't mean that. You're just . . . "

"Just what, Ma? Just too stupid and immature to handle my own life? Just too needy to figure out what I want? Or just too much a faggot to be trusted to make my own decisions?"

Bertha refused to be perturbed. "Please don't use that word."

"Why? Because it's an ugly, filthy, horrible word - which it is - or because it makes you think about the things I might do when you're not looking over my shoulder?"

She shuddered. "Please, Scotty. I don't want to think about that. And it's better if you . . ."

He huffed a deep breath. "What? If I don't think about it either? Is that really what you think - that if I don't let myself think about it, I won't want to do it anymore. If I refuse to remember how perfect it was when he made love to me, that I'll be magically cured? Is that really what you think?"

She could not quite bring herself to answer him.

"Jesus Christ!" he muttered. "Just . . . just do us both a favor and leave me alone. I need to rest for a while."

She nodded and moved toward the door as Scotty sprawled back on his bed. His bed - not their bed. He closed his eyes against a wave of fresh pain as his mother paused at the doorway. "But don't forget," she said softly, firmly, "your friend is coming for brunch tomorrow. It'll be nice to see her again - won't it?"

She waited a bit for a response, but he remained stubbornly silent, sighing with relief when she finally gave up and closed the door.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Saul was busy with the last minute preparation of the remoulade sauce for the crab cake and shrimp puff appetizers, leaving Scotty free to check the serving tables and determine that everything was perfectly arranged, and to review the guest list to make sure nothing had been overlooked.

The buffet was beautifully set up - pleasing to the eye and tempting to the palate. The grilled asparagus and melon salad made a vivid display against the forest green damask of the tablecloth. Large chafing dishes held savory roasted fingerling potatoes and fragrant carrot soufflé, and ornate silver platters, lined with greenery, awaited the beef Wellington which was just coming out of the oven, golden and perfect. Close at hand, silver gravy boats would hold the accompanying sautéed wild mushroom sauce.

A separate table, covered with antique lace, held a tiered tray with assorted petit fours, and a huge crystal bowl of praline charlotte russe, along with a silver pitcher of butterscotch sauce, and, on a sidebar in the kitchen, linen-lined baskets were waiting to hold an assortment of fresh-baked breads, which would be served at individual tables.

Everything was perfect.

Scotty smiled and gave a quick thumbs-up to his helpers, eliciting pleased smiles. Praise from their boss was always much appreciated, but had been in somewhat short supply of late. They all understood that it had not been that he did not appreciate their efforts; he had simply been too distracted to pay much attention.

He sat down at the reception desk and turned his attention to the guest list.

The Worthys were at the top of the list, of course, since Alicia Worthy was chairperson of this particular fundraising committee, and Scotty made a mental note to prepare a tiny take-away box of his signature red velvet cake for her son, Allan. A beautiful autistic 12-year-old, Allan had once declared that eating Scotty's special cake was better than buttered popcorn at the centroplex - a rare compliment indeed from a child who rarely spoke at all and loved his weekly trip to the movies better than anything else in his life.

The Plimptons would be attending, of course; they rarely missed any charity event that the café sponsored. And the Drapers, the Guidrys, the Seguras, and the Maxwells - regulars all.

Then he looked down to take note of the celebrities involved: Cass Tremont, the hostess of a local morning television show; Tanya Palmiere, a pianist and former Miss California; Roddy McClure, a sculptor recently contracted as part of a new four-artist exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art; Pete Beringer, a young comedian just concluding a sensational stint at the Laugh Factory comedy club; and . . . Chad Barry.

Shit!

Scotty dropped the list and rested his forehead on clinched fists.

He didn't want to see Chad, although a small voice barely audible in the back of his mind insisted that maybe - this time - maybe he would succeed in convincing the actor to give him the low-down, to tell him why he had called for Kevin all those months ago. He knew it probably didn't matter; knew it would probably not be important - certainly not important enough to give him some way to save his marriage - but still the nagging suspicion persisted.

It was illogical; more than that, it was stupid. What could Chad Barry possibly know that would reanimate a relationship that was fundamentally dead?

Kevin was gone; Kevin had disappeared into the ether, and all indications were that Kevin was never coming back. Since his exit from their lives, Nora Walker had established a small ritual, which never varied. Once a month, she called Scotty; once a month, she asked how he was, observed that she hoped he was all right, invited him to visit her any time he liked, and then asked the one true question: "Have you heard from Kevin?"

And every month the answer remained the same - the same as hers when he turned the question around and asked her.

And both of them - at that moment - would invariably share the same thought: Maybe - just maybe - there might have been some hope for Kevin's return if he had kept in contact with anybody, even if the contact was something as simple as an occasional text to announce that he was alive. But with nothing at all on which to build hope, both of them would come that much closer to accepting what the rest of the family had finally come to believe.

Kevin was never coming home.

They had all insisted that it was just not possible - that Kevin was just throwing another one of his royal snits and would find out soon enough that he couldn't live without their help and support.

Now, they all seemed perpetually amazed that he had proven them wrong.

Scotty poured himself a quick shot of whisky and downed it.

And now, he had to face Chad Barry again. It wouldn't be the first time they'd come face to face since that strange, enigmatic phone call, and Scotty did not look forward to another confrontation, because . . . well, he couldn't really explain the reason for his reluctance. Except to acknowledge that - on those other occasions - he had seen something in Chad's eyes, something cold and almost brutal which suggested that the actor knew more than he was saying, and that what he knew had served to confirm the low opinion he'd always had of the man he blamed for stealing Kevin away from him.

The fact that Scotty had not, in fact, stolen Kevin - that Chad had actually pushed Kevin away in a desperate attempt to hang on to his reputation as a heterosexual playboy - didn't seem to make any difference in his feelings about Scotty.

All of which did nothing to address the question. What on earth could Chad Barry know that Scotty didn't - and how had he learned it? And, most important of all, what difference would it make - if any?

Maybe - Scotty sighed, knowing that it was a very thin maybe - tonight would see that question answered.

A small bustle at the front door announced the arrival of the first guests, fashionably late - LA style - and Scotty stood quickly to straighten his jacket and welcome the new arrivals, a small courtesy which had become something of a ritual for these catered charitable affairs.

The contributors enjoyed a chance to chat with the celebrity chef; a lot of them - both male and female - also enjoyed a chance to look their fill and enjoy the view.

Scotty was still beautiful - would probably always be beautiful - but the very discerning among his audience sometimes saw something in his lovely eyes - something just a shade too dark or a bit too sharp - and wondered what tragedy he might be hiding.

Strangely, those persons found at that moment that they no longer took much pleasure in the looking.

But Scotty was careful to keep smiling. It was all a part of the job.

Coming in immediately after the first arrivals, a gorgeous young man in a beautifully-cut Armani tuxedo stepped into view and favored the chef with a smile warm enough to melt frozen butter, huge, aquamarine eyes - the color of a tropic sea - providing a startling contrast with dark auburn hair and flawless golden skin, and Scotty felt something strange flutter in his belly. 

What on earth . . . Then it dawned on him. Kevin had been gone six months, and during that time, he had never felt the tiniest nuance of sexual interest in anyone. Not even enough to inspire him to reach for the lube to indulge himself in a thorough hand job.

Not once. Now the sensation was so bizarre that he barely recognized the stirring for what it was - which turned out to be a good thing because - on the heels of the Armani-clad vision - Chad Berry strolled through the door and fixed Scotty with a look sour enough to curdle fresh cream.

Oh, yes; it was definitely going to be a long night.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Alicia Worthy, all aflutter in gossamer lavender silk - Marchesa, by the look of it - was as fresh-faced and lovely as a debutante, courtesy of the skills of Beverly Hills' finest plastic surgeon, no doubt. And she displayed a personality that exhibited traits of frivolity and easy humor. In truth, beneath the froth, she was a sharp, well-educated, cunning business woman, who was almost as good at fundraising as in handling and refining corporate mergers - the profession which earned her a hefty, six-figure salary every year.

The fundraiser had been a rousing success, producing almost $60,000.00 in profits, and she was delighted with Scotty and his staff, tipping everyone generously, even though they all assured her that her generosity was unnecessary. Scotty and Saul, of course, refused to accept any gratuity, both aware that the woman's patronage - and that of her friends, clients, and associates - would be enormously profitable for them in the future. Though somewhat costly initially, these charity affairs always proved to be an excellent investment, guaranteed to generate enormous future revenues.

The crowd was thinning now, all replete and content and feeling good about themselves and their generosity. 

The guest celebrities had performed well, their warm participation spurring the contributors to open their wallets just a bit wider and pledge just a bit more. And Chad Berry had been the star of the evening, charming and warm and approachable to everyone.

Almost.

Since the affair stretched on for several hours, it would have been logical to expect him to take advantage of his first opportunity to escape from the crowd, tucking his incredibly beautiful young boyfriend under his arm and racing out to the Lamborghini parked in the reserved spot near the front door. 

But he didn't, and - somehow - Scotty was not surprised. Somehow - he had expected the actor to linger.

When the Worthys made their departure - a stack of go-boxes in hand - the staff breathed a sigh of relief and bade Scotty and Saul good night, while Chad and his lovely young morsel - whose name was Donovan, as it happened - sat in an intimate booth near the back and proceeded to enjoy a bottle of very expensive champagne.

At that point, Saul offered to stay, and allow Scotty to call it a day. But Scotty had been aware throughout the evening of Barry's eyes, often following him, occasionally projecting a speculative gleam.

It was time, he decided, to put an end to . . . whatever it was that the actor was withholding.

"Scotty," Saul said very softly, "I don't think it's a good idea for you to . . ."

"Saul, just stop. I'm not a child, and I'm not afraid of Chad Berry. I think it's time we cleared the air, so just go. I'll finish up here."

Saul frowned, obviously still having misgivings, but finally did as he was asked. When he was gone, Scotty approached the table, where Chad had loosened his tie before pouring out another serving of champagne and pushing it toward Scotty, gesturing for him to take a seat.

Unwilling to slide into the small booth, Scotty pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat, accepting the stemmed glass and taking a sip.

"How've you been, Scotty?" The actor's eyes were very dark now, filled with some emotion that Scotty could not quite identify.

"What's the phrase?" he replied. "As well as can be expected?"

Chad nodded. "So you still haven't heard from him."

"No. Have you?"

"Me?" The actor's laugh was stage-perfect - and patently fake. "Why would he call me?"

Scotty shrugged. "Maybe he wouldn't. But maybe - I don't know - maybe somebody else would. Somebody who knew that you two were . . . connected."

"But we're not connected, are we?" Chad reached out to caress his young lover's cheek - a gesture of consolation. "Not any more. Certainly not like the two of you . . . were."

"We were married," Scotty said sharply. "Or, at least, as married as the state of California allowed us to be. And, as far as I'm concerned, we still are."

Chad sat back and regarded the chef with a strange smile. "But there are other ties, aren't there? Ties that might be more important - more meaningful?"

Scotty swallowed hard, feeling outrage flare within him. "What the fuck are you talking about? What could possibly be more important in my life than Kevin?'

"Maybe you should ask yourself that question," Chad retorted. "What - exactly - would be enough to convince you that he didn't matter any more - that you had better things to worry about?"

Scotty stood up. "What are you doing, Barry? Is this just some kind of cheap trick to make me feel worse - to make me miss him more, or regret that I wasn't good enough to hold on to him? What are you . . ."

"Save the act," snarled the actor, getting to his feet and pulling his semi-inebriated companion with him. "You may have everybody else fooled; you probably even managed to fool Kevin, because Kevin - in love - can be the biggest fool of all. But you haven't fooled me, Pretty Boy. I know all about your little arrangement, and - just in case you think I'm bluffing - why don't you ask your little sweetheart about the last time she ran into me. The look on her face was priceless. She was desperate to come up with an explanation, but nothing she said could change what I saw in that first moment. She actually turned around and ran - right off the plane. But it was too late. The damage was done."

Scotty shook his head. "I have no idea what you're talking about. If you want to accuse me of something, you need to speak . . ."

But the actor was on his way to the door now, his smile deliberately venal, bordering on vindictive. "I've got better things to do with my time. I start shooting on a new film next week, up near Yosemite Falls, so I'll be out of touch for a while. But when I come back, maybe you'll have something to show me. It's funny, you know. All that time, you were so scornful of anybody who stayed hidden in the closet. And now . . . " He paused, and the glint in his eyes were suddenly vicious. "Now, what are you hiding, Little Man?"

With a final wave that felt a bit like a dismissive gesture from royalty, they were gone, and the restaurant was plunged into silence, but it was not the serene, comforting silence of a job well done; it was heavier and filled with a strange foreboding.

Scotty's eyes were huge as he stared into nothing, his mind racing and tumbling and trying to make sense of what he'd been told.

But there were no answers, although . . . 

Something - something he could not explain or anticipate or identify - was stirring in the darkness around him. Something that would change his life - forever.

He did not know how he knew it. He only knew that it was real and it was there, and, in the end, there would be no way to avoid it.

November in LA had never felt so cold.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

TBC

* Gideon V Wainwright - a 1963 landmark case in US Supreme Court history, unanimously ruling that state courts are required under the Sixth Amendment of the United States Constitution to provide counsel in criminal cases for defendants who are unable to afford their own attorneys. 

** Felix Frankfurter