Home is the Heart (9 page)

“I think the coming storm is keeping folks away today,” Will assured him. “If we hurry, maybe we can get back to the boarding house before the rains come down.”

Brock nodded, still looking pensive. Will slung his arm casually around his “little brother,” and together they turned and made their way back across the meadow.

O
N
S
ATURDAY
morning Brock made his way to Penn Station. Having arrived early for his train ride to Port Washington, he purchased his ticket and then amused himself by craning his head back and gawking at the large windows and steel beams that arced high overhead. He’d never seen anything like this place, though since he’d arrived in New York, he’d seen plenty of amazing things. He only wished Will could be with him—but Will couldn’t skip even one day of work, not without risking that promotion to floor supervisor. Brock sighed. It wasn’t his future alone that hung in the balance, and that scared him down to his toes.

The train came into the station, belching smoke and screeching to a halt. Brock stuck his hands into his pockets and balled up his fists, wishing he had something to hold onto, preferably Will’s hand. He’d never ridden a train before, and in truth, it seemed too powerful a mechanism to be entirely safe. On shaky legs, he climbed aboard and got a seat. In less than half an hour, most of which he’d spent staring out the window watching the landscape go by at an amazing speed, he reached his destination.

At an information booth, he asked directions to Sand’s Point, the home of Roland and Diane Frazier specifically, and he was given exacting instructions. As he walked down the streets, he took in the sights. There were plenty of not-so-rich-looking people going here and there, hurrying along as if on important errands, and that made him feel a great deal better. He’d had visions of everyone walking about in evening apparel with cocktails in their hands. The main avenue he trod through town was lined with stores and businesses, as well as a scattering of stately houses. It wasn’t long before the scenery changed and he was walking past sprawling estates with manor houses surrounded by huge lawns. Eventually he came to the house that the woman in the booth had described.

“You can’t miss it,” she’d assured him. “It has a weathervane on the roof, but with an aeroplane at the top rather than a rooster or horse.”

Before he turned down the curving driveway, he looked at the pocket watch Will had given him to carry. It was nearly two o’clock. Perfect, he thought. While the train ride had unnerved him, the idea of going up to a house and asking for the lady of the house bothered him not at all. He’d cut his teeth doing just that—talking up strangers, selling them pots and pans when he was a child working with his mother, and more recently, horse-trading along with Emile and Galen.

A young uniform-clad woman only a few years older than him opened the door. She gave him a curt nod when he introduced himself and immediately led him to a large room with floor to ceiling windows. This was no cozy cottage—the place was larger even than the O’Sullivan manor house. Brock looked past Mrs. Frazier for just a moment, his eyes captivated by the sweep of lawn falling away to a sandy beach and the Atlantic Ocean.

Mrs. Frazier followed his gaze. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Brock bobbed his head up and down. “Ach, yes,” he breathed, “it is indeed.”

“You are on time. I like that.” The tall woman studied him carefully as she spoke. Then she seemed to come to some decision. “Come, then; let’s not dilly-dally. I’ll show you the stables as well as the carriage house, and we can speak as we walk.” She strode out the back door, leaving Brock to hurry after her.

“There are living quarters above the carriage house,” Mrs. Frazier commented as she walked across the manicured lawn toward a small riding arena. “I was thinking I might just offer them to you and your brother. That is, if you take the job.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Brock said, hurrying to follow after her. She stopped to throw open a set of double doors, revealing a small indoor arena. Beyond the riding ring was the stable. Mrs. Frazier led the way across the sanded surface, and Brock had to liven up his pace to keep up with her.

The stable was a large airy structure with five stalls, three on one side, two on the other. A tack room that doubled as a feed room took up the additional space. Brock wasn’t surprised to see that everything was clean and tidy. It fit with the crisp, no-nonsense manner of the woman leading the way.

Mrs. Frazier didn’t say much, just showed him every nook and cranny, watching him with her head cocked to one side.

Sampson hung his large head out of one of the stall doors and neighed loudly when his owner came near. She laughed and produced a carrot from her coat pocket, and the colt nodded approvingly. When the big horse shifted to look at Brock, he drew a piece of apple from his own pocket.

“Oh, very good,” Mrs. Frazier said approvingly, yet again giving Brock that careful once-over. “Let’s talk business, shall we?” It wasn’t really a question, so Brock just nodded. “I wish to be frank with you. I hope you don’t mind. I can offer you the amount of eighteen dollars a week, as well as the carriage house for your living quarters—we can see it next. You will be expected to tend to the horses, Sampson as well as my mare Lady Finger and her filly, Rosie. That will include feeding, mucking stalls, taking care of equipment and tack. And you must be on hand when the farrier comes each month; Sampson is a bear about getting new shoes, though he does quite well for our vet. Of course, you will need to have my mount ready when I wish to go riding. At times I will have some of my lady-friends over, and if we go for a ride together, it will be your responsibility to see that there is accord between the other lads and the horses as well. My friends will tip you, surely. So there is chance of extra income.

“My husband does not ride, so you needn’t worry about that. The silly man prefers riding in aeroplanes, of all things. It is a great hobby for him—and his work, as well. His company is working to develop an all-metal aircraft. I can’t imagine how anything so heavy could fly, but he assures me it is possible.” She stopped then and once again tilted her head as she gazed at Brock.

He held his breath; his head was spinning. She’d given him so much information in the last few minutes, he wasn’t sure he could retain it all. To his relief, she didn’t add anything else but gave a rueful laugh. “Oh, but I do go on, don’t I?” She smiled at him and resumed her brisk stride, exiting the stable and crossing toward a boxy stone building.

“This,” she announced as she led him toward a set of steps that led up to a second story door, “is the carriage house. There is only one bedroom, but you and your brother are welcome to share,” she added as they climbed. At the door, she drew out a key and unlocked it, and then pivoted to look Brock in the eye. “Will your brother be coming, too? A dear friend of mine, Edie Stillwell, is in need of a driver, as she abhors the train and goes everywhere in her new Model T. William was in the military, was he not? He knows how to drive?”

“Um, yes,” Brock almost stuttered in his surprise. How had the woman deduced such a thing during their brief meeting on the bridle path?

“I’m not clairvoyant,” she said with a light laugh that could only be called a giggle. “I saw the way your Will carries himself, like a soldier. My father is a military man. A retired general. He teaches at West Point these days. So you see I have a good eye for such. And I can just bet your big brother wants to be away from the smoke and noise of the city as much as you do.

“So, as I said, my friend Edie needs a driver. Her husband is a professional golfer and is frequently away. Bobby simply does not want Edith driving on the roads, so this is their little compromise. It won’t hurt that your Will is such a looker—Edie will like that, I can assure you. So, you’ll take the job, won’t you?” Mrs. Frazier asked.

“I-I—” Brock wanted the job badly, and the wage was generous enough, given that they wouldn’t be required to pay rent, but he felt a bit at sea with the idea of accepting on the spot. He thought he could live and work here without feeling he was going mad. No, it wouldn’t be as good as having the freedom to move from place to place whenever he liked, but he’d given up that life when he’d asked Will if he could come along on his journey to America.

Looking out the window of the apartment down on the expanse of green, Brock nodded slowly. “Oh yes, if everything works out, I’ll certainly take the job,” he said quickly, so he couldn’t change his mind.

On the ride back to the city, Brock began to wonder if he’d done the right thing. He’d had never made a decision that impacted another in this way. It made him feel queasy inside, as if he’d eaten too many of the scrumptious cookies Mrs. Frazier’s maid had served at tea, though he’d only had two. Resting his hand on his aching belly, he closed his eyes and tried not to think at all. It didn’t work, though. He immediately saw Will in his mind’s eye, standing tall as he strode through the crowd in the packed nightclub in Dublin. He’d caught the eye of many, Brock had noted. It made sense—the man was gorgeous, what with his chiseled jawline and lovely high cheekbones. The long straight nose and intense green eyes didn’t hurt, nor the broad shoulders and erect bearing. He was an eyeful, was his big brother William.

Brock snickered at the thought because he’d not been thinking of Will in the way a younger brother might. Oh no, not at all. He ached to get back and seek Will out and do a whole host of unbrotherly things to the
bréa
, muscular body of his own love—

The ding of the bell that signaled a stop jolted Brock from his reverie. With anticipation singing in his veins, he clambered off the train. He’d only gone a few steps when he saw Will standing by the benches, waiting for him. He wanted to leap straightaway into the man’s arms, but he reined himself back.

Will greeted him with the cry of “
A dheartháir
,” as if they’d been apart for months and not hours, and then wrapped his arms around him in a hug that brought Brock off his feet.

Laughing, Brock planted a kiss on Will’s cheek. “How are you here? It’s not even dusk. Why aren’t you at work?” he asked as they walked together toward the exit.

“I told them you were sick—deathly ill, in fact. If you got the job, I will tell them you are so sick I must leave their employ to care for you. But if you didn’t, well, your recovery will be nothing short of a miracle,” Will explained with a chuckle.

“I—” Brock began, but Will cut him off.

“I can tell just by looking,
a leannán
,” Will said quietly, so only Brock could hear. “You got it.”

Brock grinned. “Oh, but I can do ye one better. Mrs. Frazier has a lady friend who desperately needs a driver. I have the woman’s card for ye, and Mrs. Frazier says we should just pack our belongings and get to her home as soon as we can possibly manage. Oh, and she has a carriage house with living quarters above it, and that is included in my earnings. Ach, Will, I can’t believe it,” he said, and he fairly bounced at Will’s side for he couldn’t contain his joy.

But when Will looked down at him, his face gone somber, Brock halted in his tracks. Will also stopped. “Ach, then I needs go back to the factory on Monday and tell them of my brother’s terrible decline,” he said in a weepy voice.

Brock gave him a proper punch on the arm. “Ye do that,” he chortled, then he made his own voice solemn. “I suppose that means I must spend the next few days in bed. And, certainly, a young lad so near to death’s door must have the constant companionship of his dear brother.”

“Oh indeed,” Will agreed with a laugh, pulling Brock tight against his side and giving him a quick smooch on the top on his head. “Most certainly.”

Epilogue
Sand’s Point, Long Island

I
T
WAS
nearing dusk as Will edged the car into the carriage house and climbed out. Miss Edie, as his employer wished to be called, was likely already ensconced in her drawing room in front of the fire as her lady’s maid served her a hot toddy. Making sure his coat was buttoned and his scarf wound tight around his neck, Will lowered the heavy wooden door and headed out into the cold.

Though it was not yet December, winter was definitely here, and the usual wind coming off the water was fast turning into a full scale gale. Will hurried along, thinking of what awaited him at home.

Home.
What a delicious term. He’d become quite fond of the word since he and Brock had begun living in the apartment above Frazier’s carriage house. They had a tiny little kitchen, really barely big enough, as he’d found he didn’t mind one bit cooking for the two of them. The living area was a tad roomier, with a large bay window that looked toward the sea as well as what Mrs. Frazier called a Franklin stove for warmth, which was almost as good as a hearth. But the bedroom was Will’s favorite room. It wasn’t very big and held only a bed, a chest of drawers, and one chair. But best of all it had a good strong lock on the door.

Will grinned to himself as he thought of all he and Brock got up to in their bedroom in that wide feather bed.

As he turned down the lane that led to the carriage house, he could see even at a distance the spill of light coming from the bay window. Of course Brock was already in, and of a certain, the animals in his keep were well groomed and fed and tucked away in their stalls. Will also looked forward to being tucked in by Brock, as long as his own was tucked in alongside him. There was time for that, though. Time to sit at the table and have a bite together, to exchange the news of the day, and then for a reading lesson. Brock would insist on that.

Then they would settle on the sofa in the living room. Will would tell him of the jobs he’d read about in the newspaper as he’d waited for Miss Edie to do her shopping. This time it was the opening of a new Ford Motor car facility in Dallas, Texas. Brock would love to hear about that—he still dreamed he’d one day get to meet an Indian. And wasn’t Texas still the Wild West?