generous and grateful as he could be, leave on friendly terms, and that was that. He’d handled it badly before, like an immature child. Marcus deserved better than that.
So it went, a jumble of thoughts he recognized as nervous babbling and
rationalizations as his foot pushed down on the pedal even harder. Nineteen hours, and he never even turned on the radio, just letting the cacophony of his mind keep him company. A couple times on the Pennsylvania turnpike he thought of hurtling over the edge of a cliff.
Now at last, he made the turn off the two-lane highway and drove for a few miles into deeper forest until he was on a dirt road. When he saw the red cedar mailbox that was the landmark for the house, he made the turn.
As he went up the hill, he saw the brown wooden cottage, blending into the close surrounding foliage. It had the look of a custom-designed chateau. The house was on pilings with a generous shaded patio below, while the upper level had a glassed-in sunroom that led out to a deck with a lattice-enclosed area for a hot tub. Turning around, he saw the incline gave the house a view of the layered vista of hills.
There was only one car, Marcus’ Maserati Spyder. Of course, he could have brought someone. He could be in there with a lover. Thomas put the Nova in park, gripped the steering wheel.
Don’t be a complete pussy, Thomas. Get out of the damn car. But his mother’s tears, Rory’s accusing stare, the ache behind his eyes and in his back from driving like he had demons on his tail…the miles between this place, what it symbolized, and a farmhouse hardware store a handful of states away, loomed in his mind like a crash wall in a 32
Rough Canvas
driving test. Getting out would be like flooring a car that had no brakes. Nothing would stop him but the crash at the end of the road. The end of this week.
If Marcus had told him to come to New York, he couldn’t have done it. Perhaps
Marcus knew the quiet setting, the familiarity of trees and nature all around, wouldn’t only inspire his muse but reassure him, give him that final gentle push. He knew the Berkshires. Now that he was here, though, it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t get his hands to let go of the steering wheel, couldn’t reach for the door, get out. Who was he kidding? This was a mistake.
Then Marcus stepped out on the deck, glass of wine in hand. He wore slacks and a pale yellow shirt, open and fluttering loose, showing the smooth pectorals, ripple of muscled abs, the hint of his waist, the intimate crease of armpit as the breeze tried to edge the shirt off one broad shoulder. One hand was in his pocket and his feet were bare, his hair loose on his shoulders.
His green eyes were brilliant, even from here, filled with an intensity that washed over Thomas, drawing him into the fantasy of a tranquil, emerald lagoon where
everything else was sucked out to sea, to be churned in the surf where it couldn’t touch him. Not for one week.
He got out of the car, looked up at the other man. “One week.”
Thomas said it out loud first thing, because he knew it was the only restraint that would apply here. The limitation of time. From the look in Marcus’ eyes, he knew he understood that quite well.
What was that question, so often posed in movies between lovers in whimsical
moments? If you only had one week to have something you always wanted that you
could never have again, would you take it?
It was a banal reality show question whose significance he hadn’t appreciated
before. Yes. He would. Even knowing that walking away from it at the end of the week was more than he could bear.
“Leave your things for now and come up here.” Marcus nodded to the outside
stairwell that led up to the deck. “I’ve got a good Shiraz.” At Thomas’ grimace, he grinned. “But I can probably scrounge up a beer.”
“Now you’re talking.”
A nice, even conversation. Like everything was fine, like the air wasn’t so charged with energy
So it went, a jumble of thoughts he recognized as nervous babbling and
rationalizations as his foot pushed down on the pedal even harder. Nineteen hours, and he never even turned on the radio, just letting the cacophony of his mind keep him company. A couple times on the Pennsylvania turnpike he thought of hurtling over the edge of a cliff.
Now at last, he made the turn off the two-lane highway and drove for a few miles into deeper forest until he was on a dirt road. When he saw the red cedar mailbox that was the landmark for the house, he made the turn.
As he went up the hill, he saw the brown wooden cottage, blending into the close surrounding foliage. It had the look of a custom-designed chateau. The house was on pilings with a generous shaded patio below, while the upper level had a glassed-in sunroom that led out to a deck with a lattice-enclosed area for a hot tub. Turning around, he saw the incline gave the house a view of the layered vista of hills.
There was only one car, Marcus’ Maserati Spyder. Of course, he could have brought someone. He could be in there with a lover. Thomas put the Nova in park, gripped the steering wheel.
Don’t be a complete pussy, Thomas. Get out of the damn car. But his mother’s tears, Rory’s accusing stare, the ache behind his eyes and in his back from driving like he had demons on his tail…the miles between this place, what it symbolized, and a farmhouse hardware store a handful of states away, loomed in his mind like a crash wall in a 32
Rough Canvas
driving test. Getting out would be like flooring a car that had no brakes. Nothing would stop him but the crash at the end of the road. The end of this week.
If Marcus had told him to come to New York, he couldn’t have done it. Perhaps
Marcus knew the quiet setting, the familiarity of trees and nature all around, wouldn’t only inspire his muse but reassure him, give him that final gentle push. He knew the Berkshires. Now that he was here, though, it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t get his hands to let go of the steering wheel, couldn’t reach for the door, get out. Who was he kidding? This was a mistake.
Then Marcus stepped out on the deck, glass of wine in hand. He wore slacks and a pale yellow shirt, open and fluttering loose, showing the smooth pectorals, ripple of muscled abs, the hint of his waist, the intimate crease of armpit as the breeze tried to edge the shirt off one broad shoulder. One hand was in his pocket and his feet were bare, his hair loose on his shoulders.
His green eyes were brilliant, even from here, filled with an intensity that washed over Thomas, drawing him into the fantasy of a tranquil, emerald lagoon where
everything else was sucked out to sea, to be churned in the surf where it couldn’t touch him. Not for one week.
He got out of the car, looked up at the other man. “One week.”
Thomas said it out loud first thing, because he knew it was the only restraint that would apply here. The limitation of time. From the look in Marcus’ eyes, he knew he understood that quite well.
What was that question, so often posed in movies between lovers in whimsical
moments? If you only had one week to have something you always wanted that you
could never have again, would you take it?
It was a banal reality show question whose significance he hadn’t appreciated
before. Yes. He would. Even knowing that walking away from it at the end of the week was more than he could bear.
“Leave your things for now and come up here.” Marcus nodded to the outside
stairwell that led up to the deck. “I’ve got a good Shiraz.” At Thomas’ grimace, he grinned. “But I can probably scrounge up a beer.”
“Now you’re talking.”
A nice, even conversation. Like everything was fine, like the air wasn’t so charged with energy
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