No Place Like Home (4 page)

A fact I’d finally decided was for the best. What kind of man is named Malachi, anyway? I’d seen some photos, but there was always something wrong with them—a streak of light that obscured his face, or a weird blob of color that rendered him all but invisible. He was as big as Michael had been, and dark where Michael was fair, but that was really all I’d ever been able to make out. And that he was one of those rough and ready guys. I imagined him posing with a dead fish the size of a small boat or running with the bulls in Spain—something I knew for a fact that he’d actually done and struck me as completely insane—or putting his foot on the side of some precious animal he’d slain. He probably carried a knife in his boot and swilled liquor made of alligator blood.

A magpie flitted over the fields just beyond my feet, screaming a warning, and it startled me so much I realized I’d nearly drifted off. Blinking, I straightened and looked over at Michael to discover he had fallen asleep. It pierced me. In the bright afternoon light, the blue veins running beneath the thin white skin of his temple were clearly visible. His big nose, once so aggressively sexy, seemed to be only bone, and his beautiful hands were whittled down to knuckles.

But here, on my aunt Sylvia’s porch, he could doze in the quiet. He could look at the blue, blue sky and listen to birds twittering in the trees. He could sleep at night without hearing sirens or worrying about how we’d get the rent or any of those things. He had Shane. He had me. He had my sister Jordan, who knew how to make him feel better in ways that were beyond me and how to check his medicine and nag doctors when things didn’t feel right.

I wished he also had Malachi. I went inside to write another letter.

SHANE’S GREEN EGGS AND HAM

This was my favorite story when I was a kid, and my dad read it to me like 37 billion times. Even though it’s been a really long time, I can still remember him making all the voices, and he’s the one who cooked green eggs and ham for me all the time, since he was home in the mornings when my mom was working.

Mix 8 large eggs, 1 cup chopped ham,
¹
⁄
₂
cup chives, chopped to mush, grated cheese if you want, or even a little bit of blue cheese. Mix ’em up, and be sure and get the chive juice into the eggs. In a big iron frying pan, melt a big chunk of butter until it’s sizzling and popping. Pour in the eggs and scramble till they’re soft. Serve with sliced tomatoes and milk and orange juice.

Chapter 3

Shane finished the baseboards in less than two hours, and although I went through and examined them, I had to admit they were pretty decent. I’d expected it to take most of the afternoon and could tell by the glitter in his smoky blue eyes that he knew it, too.

“Good job,” I said, reluctantly.

He laughed. “Now what, master? And just for the record, am I working in the house to pay back my bail or is this just punishment work? If it’s work to earn money, could you let me in on how much I’m earning, so I’ll know when I’m done?”

“Two cents an hour,” I said, trying not to look at him. It was partly my fault that he was so bad—I mean aside from the name business. He charmed me. It was also very difficult to punish him, because he turned everything into a big game. In some ways, I guessed it was a blessing. I was also afraid it would get him killed.

“Cool,” he said, and leaned around the corner to check the clock. “Only five thousand hours to go.” He gave me a bland look and rolled up his sleeves. “What next?”

“Lunch. For everybody. I’m going to take a shower.”

“I don’t know if Michael will want anything. He ate a lot this morning. I made him some scrambled eggs and he ate every bite. Drank a big glass of orange juice, too.”

“Really? He ate an éclair, too.” It was a truly astonishing amount of food for him these days, and my heart lightened.

Shane bent—even though I’m five-ten, he’s taller—and gave me one of his spontaneous hugs. “Maybe he’s gonna have a good summer. Maybe your witchy aunt is casting a spell over him.”

I hugged him back, laughing softly. “Maybe.” I wondered if she had any spells hidden away for troubled teens. “Just fix lunch for us, then. I really want a shower.” Probably a nap, too.

The bathroom was badly in need of updating. It was a tiny room, barely big enough to hold a claw-footed tub, toilet, and tiny sink set on top of a truly ugly pressed-wood vanity that at least provided some storage. It did have one long frame window that let in plenty of light, and Aunt Sylvia had done her best to make it appealing with cloth shower curtains hung around the pitiful, added-on shower. A fern, overgrown in the moist heat, crouched in one corner. A small ceramic statue of a saint—I had no idea which one—perched on a little shelf above it, hints of mildew edging the folds of his skirt.

Pinning up my hair, I thought about Shane and what Michael had said. The kid really was a lot like me in ways—the fact that he cooked to Michael’s appetite was a good example, and he did it without being asked. It was his own little quest, to discover and cook all the things Michael most liked and prepare them perfectly. He’d learned a lot about cooking when Michael had the restaurant, so his offerings were a cut above the usual teen fare.

Damn. Drinking and driving—that wasn’t the life I wanted for my child. How could I convince him that was an idiot move?

I turned on the water in the shower and let it warm up. Outside, a motorcycle cut through the quiet, roaring by the front of the house in obnoxious noise. It sounded like it stopped, and I worried that it might be one of Shane’s new buddies—the troublemakers—but the only one who could drive was Justin, who had been arrested with him last night. I suspected he would not be driving again for a very long time.

Whoever it was, they could wait. I stepped into the shower and washed away the grime of cooking and the sweat of running all over town. In the shower where no one could see or hear, I let myself have a good cry over everything—the struggle of single parenthood, the pressure of trying to make ends meet, Michael’s illness, my father’s rejection, all of it. It doesn’t always help to cry it out, but I’ve found it doesn’t hurt.

I didn’t hear the voices on the porch until I got to the bottom of the stairs. Three of them, very animated. One belonged to Shane. One to Michael. One to our mysterious visitor, a voice I didn’t recognize, and although it was indistinct, it was one of those baritones that carry in the best possible way—much too deep for any of my family members.

So I was grateful I’d taken a shower and didn’t look like something the cat dragged in. I smelled coffee brewing, and as I made my way through the room Sylvia had called the parlor and we used as a dining room, Shane popped back in through the screen door and gave me the funniest look. Pleased. Abashed, even. An expression I didn’t see much anymore and that had once been reserved for his father, the odd celebrity, or a dazzlingly beautiful girl.

“Who is it?” I whispered, trying to see out the window to the porch. The lace curtain blocked everything but the shape of a man’s shoulders. Fairly burly shoulders topped by a dark head.

Shane said, “I gotta get to the lunch,” and grinned at me, ducking away before I had a chance to corner him.

So there wasn’t really anything to do but be glad I was clean, even if I didn’t have any makeup on and had tossed on some comfortable, ancient jean shorts and a tank top in preparation for a good nap after lunch. I stepped out on the porch.

Michael was facing the visitor, who had his back to me, and whoever it was, I smiled, because Michael was laughing. Laughing the way he used to, the way that infected everyone around him and made them laugh, too. That was the big thing that drew people, not just the size and beauty of him, but that infectious zest. He loved everything, and it made you want to love things, too.

“Jewel!” Michael said. “Look who’s here.”

And instantly I knew who it was, a man so large that I had a sense of him unfolding as he stood up and turned around. There was something familiar about his movements, the shape of his shoulders, the set of his head.

Malachi.

Other than body type, the brothers could not have looked more different. He was as dark as Michael was fair—hair the darkest shade of cinnamon brown, eyes the color of bitter chocolate, skin tanned as dark as Brazil nuts because that’s where he’d been, leading an adventure tour down the Amazon.

He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of jeans and heavy boots for riding that motorcycle I’d heard. Covered with road dust, hair sweaty from the helmet that sat on the ground near his chair, and obviously exhausted, he still kindled a flash of instant lust.

And to my dismay, I could see it was hitting him, too. His eyes touched my arms and body, my knees and hair. Especially my hair.

The lust didn’t appear to make him any happier than it made me.

I had at least five years on him, maybe more. And guys like this, they want girls—emphasis on girl—with pierced belly buttons and skinny thighs, neither of which I own. Forget about it, I told myself.

“Malachi,” I said.

“And you’re the famous Jewel.”

I wanted to slide my eyes down his body but didn’t, kept them firmly fastened to his face. “Or infamous, depending on which tabloids you read.”

That made him grin. “Right.”

Shane came out, bringing mugs of coffee. “Milk and lots of sugar,” he said, like a waiter, putting one down on the little table for Malachi. “Black,” for me. “White,” for Michael.

“Thanks, babe.” I picked up my cup, glad of something to do.

Michael said, “Malachi’s been in Brazil. Just got back three days ago and blazed out here. He seems to think I’m in dire straits.”

“Oh, surely not!” I met Malachi’s eyes, hoping he’d give me a chance to talk to him before he went further. He blinked, slow as a cat, and I took that as agreement. “I’m glad you got my letter, though. If you’d gone looking for Michael in New York, you might have been pretty worried.”

He gave a nod. “Yeah.” And he wiped his face in a telling gesture.

“Can you stay for a while?” I asked. “We have plenty of room.”

“I’d like that. Got some time.” His voice was devastating, even more so than Michael’s. Not only that carrying baritone, but laced with a drawl as slow as a Southern river. “Thank you.”

“Good,” I said. “Shane, why don’t you get the bed made in the blue room? And put out some clean towels.”

“Got it.” He hopped up with a kind of enthusiasm that made me frown. What about Malachi caused this excitement?

“You looked wiped out, bro,” Michael said. “Why don’t you go grab a shower and some sleep? I’ll make a big supper and you can tell me about your adventures.”

Malachi pushed his fingers through that thick, damp hair. “All right.” He stood up and then bent down again, all long legs and arms, and gave Michael a hug. I liked him for that—a lot of men these days won’t hug even their brothers.

“We’ll eat in a few minutes,” I said. “Sure you don’t want to wait and have some sandwiches first?”

“I’m pretty beat. Had some doughnuts at a quickstop a little while ago.” His smile was rueful.

“Come on, then, and I’ll show you where you can put your stuff.”

I waited in the living room for him to get some things from the bike—an impressive thing, by the way, with saddlebags and all the extras. A bike for long trips, and one that had made many by the wear on it. He took a heavy, well-worn canvas bag off the back.

I watched him from the shadows where he wouldn’t be able to see me. He was a very watchable man. A sex god. My type exactly, even though you’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now.

Don’t mistake me—I’m not talking about pretty. Or just good-looking. Most really good-looking men are so self-centered they aren’t worth bothering with. I’m talking about an entirely different quality.

Billy had it. So does Shane, even though I try not to think about it. Michael, for all his beauty, doesn’t, because he’s gay. I guess maybe gay guys see the same thing in him because he never lacked for love, but I’m talking strictly the man-woman thing.

Malachi moved easily in his skin, rare in anybody, but really rare in a man who must have to duck under doorways constantly and buy his clothes from special shops. He was that big. Lean, but very powerful through the shoulders and chest, probably from that hale life he led. At least six-six, and neither skinny nor ripped-up like some silly wrestler, but perfectly in proportion so that you wouldn’t really notice he was so big until he filled a doorway.

And his size doesn’t say it, either. My dad is five-six and he has that quality and a name to go with it: Romeo. Women have been falling all over my father since he was a baby. I’m sure they’d been doing the same for Malachi.

It’s a look, a way of moving, an awareness quotient. A man who is present now, in this minute, his attention on whatever is right in front of him. I knew he’d be able to tell somebody that my eyes were brown, that my hair reached my waist, that I had more flesh on me than was strictly allowed these days, but that it was arranged in a way that people could call voluptuous instead of fat. I suspected he might be able to tell the color of my bra, too, because I’d almost caught him taking a long look down my shirt when I stood up. He lifted one eyebrow, like
couldn’t help myself,
which is really the most natural response. A man who pretends he’s not looking or a man who makes a big deal of it are both annoying. One’s prissy, one’s a lout.

Anyway.

Sex. That’s how I was thinking from the first minute I saw him, and it wasn’t all that easy to lead him up the stairs because I’m sensitive about those not-skinny thighs. I chattered to make myself feel calmer, and wished I’d put on jeans instead of shorts. “It’s kinda hot up here as the summer moves in, but we’ve got a million fans and you should be all right.”

“I’ve been in Brazil, darlin’.”

I smiled over my shoulder. “Good point.”

The room was tucked under the eaves on the north end of the house. He dropped his stuff on the bed Shane had made, and I showed him to the bathroom, still pretty humid from my shower, and illustrated the wonky controls. “That’s really it.”

As I said, the bathroom is tiny, tiny. Malachi just stood there in the doorway, filling it up entirely. “Tell me about Michael,” he said. “How long has it been AIDS?”

I took a breath. “Two and a half years.”

“After Andre died,” he said. Not a question.

“Yeah.” I blinked, looked down at my toes. “It took a lot out of him, losing Andre, then the restaurant.”

“And he’s dying,” Malachi said.

“Yes.”

“What about drugs? All the antivirals and whatever?”

There were times that the reality was almost more than I could stand, and a wave of that hit me just then. “He was HIV positive for a very long time, Malachi, since the late eighties. He took the drugs then, and they worked, but he developed resistance to some of them and allergies to some others, and he can’t tolerate anything anymore.” I raised my eyes. “He’s pretty much down to some antibiotics and some pain meds, but that’s it.”