Cricket (15 page)

Nell studied him for a moment, frowning. “And you thought this would matter to me?” she asked.

Henry simply gaped. “Well, yeah. Does it?”

She sighed and looked out the window. It was raining, just lightly, enough to distort the image through the glass.

“You know I wasn’t an only child,” she said quietly.

Henry decided this was a rhetorical question and sat back to let her talk. The lady had a way of weaving a story with her words. Even the tone of her voice carried wisdom and history.

“I had two older brothers, William and Albert. Bill was two years older than me, and Bert was five.

“We lost Bert to Hitler’s men. He was only a boy himself when he joined up to fight, but he believed in God, Queen, and country and was willing to fight for it. He was given an award for bravery, you know. People’s lives were saved because of the actions of Albert Richardson. That brought my mother some peace.”

“Albert’s grave is in the churchyard,” Henry said.

“Yes. You went to look for it?”

“I took him flowers.”

“That’s nice,” Nell said. “That’s good.”

“And your other brother?” Henry asked.

“Bill was a good man too,” Nell said softly, smoothing down the blanket that covered her knees. “He worked our farm during the war. He was too young to sign up and fight himself. And Father was too old. He and Mother met later in life, and she had us children in her late thirties. That was old for a woman back then. Many thought she was too old, or barren. But she had us all the same.”

“Bill?” Henry prompted gently.

“Bill never married,” Nell said. “But he spent a long and happy life with his companion, as we called him. Clive was also a good man.”

Henry’s head reeled for a moment. “Do you mean—?”

“I mean to say I never asked,” she said primly. “It wasn’t my place to. But Bill and Clive lived together from when they were in their twenties until the day they died.”

“Wow,” Henry breathed softly.

“They died,” Nell repeated, her voice wavering with emotion, “on the same day. The third of June, year of our Lord 1992. They were both in the hospital up at Weston. Bill went in first, for a problem with his heart. They weren’t sure what. Clive went in a few days later. It took some wrangling, but we had them put in a room together. Then Clive slipped into a coma, and Bill died in his sleep. And Clive never woke up.”

“On the same day?”

“On the very same day. They’re buried in the churchyard too, next to each other. It’s not my place to say if they were lovers. People kept their business to themselves back then, and it was nobody’s business but Bill and Clive’s what they were to each other. But you ask me if it matters that you’re a homosexual, then no, Henry. It doesn’t.”

He took a deep breath, an attempt to clear the lump that had lodged itself in his throat, and nodded as he exhaled.

“Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for,” she said, waving away his words. “I guessed you were trying to tell me that you don’t have plans for children.”

“Not in the immediate future, no,” Henry said, smiling.

“That’s okay. You’re only young. You may change your mind one day. Or you might not. Children are a blessing.”

“But you only had the one?” Henry asked.

“Yes,” Nell said, “my Henry. Having him very nearly killed me, unfortunately. My husband and I fostered children right up until we were in our late fifties. Oh, I lose count of how many now. My Henry went to work in America, in New York, when he was nearly forty, took his wife and daughter with him.”

“This was before my dad was born.”

“Yes, your father was born in America. I confess I only met him the once, when the family came back over for a visit when he was still a baby. Your aunt Christine is a little older, of course.”

“But don’t say that to her face,” Henry said, smiling. Then his demeanor changed. “You could have contacted one of her children. My cousins.”

“I could,” she conceded. “But, I confess, when I heard your name was Henry, my decision was made.”

“That’s one hell of a leap of faith.”

Nell nodded. “It was. But I think it’s paid off, don’t you?” She waited a moment, then looked at him again with her piercing stare. “Henry, you need to stop faffing about. The world is not going to wait while you decide what sort of stamp you want to put on it. You need to make your own destiny, your own future. And I, for one, will not stand in the way of you doing that.”

“Thank you.”

He stood, stopped Nell from doing the same, and brushed a kiss over the back of her knuckles before leaving.

It was a strange situation. They were possibly as different as two people could get, yet there was something between them that forged a connection. Maybe it was as simple as blood. No matter what else, they were family. Maybe that was good enough.

Eleven

A
LTHOUGH
it was midsummer, they’d not yet had any of the deep, humid nights that Henry had secretly loved so much. They were the sort of nights that brought storms—thunder as the heat broke and lightning that lit up the sky. He’d asked Stella, and she’d told him they didn’t get so much of that weather here.

It was getting warmer, although that was compared to the general temperature level that they’d had all spring, not properly hot. When one of those hot, sultry nights finally happened at the beginning of July, all Henry wanted was to disappear into the village somewhere, to find a place where he could sit and watch it and maybe smell the tang of rain on wet tarmac.

The windows in his attic room were thrown open wide to let what little breeze existed float through, but the air seemed stagnant as it too waited for the storm. When he decided he couldn’t possibly wait another moment, he pulled on his sneakers and headed for the back door.

As he pushed it open, another sound layered over that of the night.

Henry crept out and leaned over the small balcony. Ryan was sitting on the back porch in one of the deep chairs he kept out there, a guitar on his lap and Hulk at his feet.

His fingers stole over the strings, picking out one melody at a time, sometimes blending one song that Henry recognized into another, sometimes playing a tune he’d never heard before.

Their relationship was still undefined. They’d moved past that of landlord and tenant, and he was confident in referring to the other man as his friend. But there was still that afternoon in the kitchen at the back of his mind, and Paul’s words, and he was left not really knowing where he stood.

It felt voyeuristic to stand on the balcony and listen, watching and waiting for a signal that it was maybe a good time to start descending the stairs. But the longer he waited, the more it felt like an intrusion.

In the end, Henry crept back into his room and shut the door, then headed through the house to leave by the more often used kitchen door. He flicked the lights on in the kitchen as he passed through, a signal, if Ryan wanted it, to stop playing.

When he crossed through the mudroom and out onto the deck, Ryan was still sitting, still playing, still watching the night.

“You can see for miles out here,” Henry murmured without thinking.

Ryan hummed in agreement, his fingers not stilling over the strings. “It’s nice. Especially on nights like tonight.”

“Do you think it’s gonna rain?”

“It might.”

Henry laughed softly, under his breath.

“Probably not,” Ryan amended and finally set the guitar aside. “The weather forecast says this will probably break tomorrow. I hope it does. Working in this weather is disgusting.”

“It’s not so bad,” Henry said, leaning back against the rail that ran around the outside of the deck. “I spent a few weeks in Georgia last summer when one of my friends got married, and the heat down there was awful. Well, it was the humidity more than the heat.”

Ryan nodded. He reached under his deck chair and pulled out a bottle of gin.

“I thought you said it wasn’t ready yet,” Henry said, smiling.

“This is one from last year. The last bottle from last year, actually. Want some?”

“Hell yeah.”

“There are tumblers in the kitchen,” Ryan said. “I’m not getting up.”

Henry rolled his eyes but went back into the kitchen to collect a glass. They hadn’t really had a chance to speak since their post-gin-tasting argument, and he couldn’t help but think that more alcohol probably wasn’t the solution to their communication problems.

There was so much Henry wanted to say, but didn’t dare to for fear of the power his words held. Ryan needed space and time, and living on top of each other didn’t afford them either of those luxuries.

Back out on the deck, Henry let Ryan pour a generous measure of gin into his glass, unsure of whether they were mixing it with anything. The color told him this was sloe gin, the rich, deep purple suggesting it had been brewed for a long time.

“It’s good,” Henry said after taking a sip, resuming his position leaning against the deck, his elbows propped up behind him.

“I know.”

Henry didn’t want to ask how much Ryan had already had to drink. He didn’t feel like it was any of his business. The way Ryan was looking at him, though, like those eyes were studying him rather than just watching—that was all up in his business, even from six feet away. Henry looked away, to anywhere else, and eventually turned around completely to lean out into the night.

“I came out to Nell,” he said softly, not sure why Ryan needed to hear that.

“Oh? What did she say?”

“Apparently one of her brothers was gay. Spent his life living with another man, right here in the village.”

“Wow,” Ryan said softly. Nothing passed between them for long moments, until Ryan spoke again. “Are you telling me this for a reason?”

“No,” Henry said, and despite his best efforts, he was unable to keep the edge of defensiveness from his voice. “It’s just conversation.”

Henry downed his glass of gin, set it aside, and bit his tongue. He wanted another but wasn’t about to ask.

He felt the air move as Ryan stood and took the few steps that covered the distance between them. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as his glass was once again filled with purple liquor.

Ryan set the bottle down and, to Henry’s surprise, stepped in closer. Barely daring to move, to
breathe
, Henry waited. Eventually, Ryan’s hands came to rest on his hips, not even sexually, but Henry leaned back into the touch, letting him know it was okay. After a moment, Ryan leaned forward, and his head came to rest on the back of Henry’s shoulder. It was nice, a comforting sort of hug rather than anything particularly erotic, although Henry was well aware of how big a step it was for Ryan to initiate this kind of connection.

When Ryan sighed deeply, Henry reached for one of his hands, dragged an arm around his stomach, and held it there. This was a step toward the intimacy he was craving… another tiny baby step.

“Henry,” Ryan started, then faltered and let the sentence trail off.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know.”

He tried to pull away, but Henry held tight to his wrist, wanting to keep the connection, hoping by the fact he wasn’t
looking
at Ryan that the other man might, maybe, open up a little bit.

When Ryan closed the gap between them again, he went a step further, curving his chest around Henry’s spine, pressing their bodies together. Henry was suddenly hyperaware that his ass was now neatly lined up to Ryan’s groin, although a cursory, explorative wriggle suggested there was no erection pressing into his ass cheek… which was a pity. Still—baby steps.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Ryan admitted to the back of Henry’s neck.

Henry suppressed a shiver. “Neither do I.”

Ryan’s snort of amusement sent a puff of air across Henry’s skin. This time he did shiver.

“No, really,” Henry said. “I’m breaking all the rules with you.”

“There are rules?”

Straightening and turning should have caused Ryan’s arms to become dislodged, but somehow they both managed to rearrange themselves, Ryan now holding on to the balcony in a strange echo of their position in the kitchen. When they’d kissed. And it had all gone wrong. Henry forced those thoughts from his mind.

“Yeah, there are rules,” he said.

“Can I hear them?”

“You won’t like them.”

“I want to know.”

Henry sighed and took a large swallow of his gin.

“I don’t usually date guys who are more than ten years older than me—”

“I’m not!” Ryan interrupted.

“I know that. I’m just telling you the rules. I don’t date guys more than ten years older than me. I don’t date men who are bisexual. I don’t date guys who are in the closet, and I won’t get involved with someone who is already in a relationship with someone else.”

Ryan frowned, and Henry resisted the temptation to run his thumb over his forehead, smoothing out the lines.

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been in all those situations before,” Henry said gently. “And they all ended up with me being badly hurt.”

“Oh. I suppose that makes sense.”

“But,” Henry said quickly, before Ryan could come to any conclusions, “you make me want to break the rules.”