The Foster Family (20 page)

Shuttering the uncertainty behind a shield of iron will, he smiled at Kerry. “Good boy,” he said very softly as Kerry turned his back to look for that salesperson. Kerry paused, an infinitesimal break in his stride, so subtle Malcolm might well have wishfully thought it into existence, then hurried off.

It decided him, though, the whole exchange. He would nurture this confidence in Kerry. The gardening and the Mr. Fix-It vibe he gave off were real skills to build on. Maybe it would grow into something the kid could live off that would keep him out of the beds of strangers and bullies.

Halfway back to the house, he turned off the route and counted down in his head from five. He got to three before Kerry spoke up.

“Wait!” He twisted to look behind them back to the highway and then straightened to lean forward and squint out the window. “Where are we going?”

“Hardware store,” Malcolm told him calmly, keeping the chuckle to himself. Charlie had never been like this but was always self-contained. Always calm and warm and steady. Kerry was an adventure in extremes.

“Why?” he asked, twisting behind his belt to face Malcolm. He pretzeled one leg up onto the seat, shin against the gearshift, jeans rubbing at the backs of Malcolm’s fingers where he held the knob.

Loosening his grip and letting his fingers curve over the nicely formed muscle of Kerry’s calf so easily within reach, Malcolm released a small breath, feeling his own calm wash over him. “You said you could fix the shelf, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have any of the things you mentioned needing to do it.”

“You don’t have a drill?”

He shook his head.

“Charlie doesn’t?”

“Charlie works outside. In the dirt. Shovel and snips. If he needs something built, he hires someone.”

“Who has a house for ten years but doesn’t own a drill?”

“A gay man who has the phone number of a really hot carpenter?”

Kerry didn’t seem to have an argument for that. He sat back and enjoyed the ride, facing forward again but showing off some excellent flexibility by leaving his leg where it had been, under Malcolm’s palm.

In the store, Malcolm watched him struggle. He didn’t want to choose the good tools. He was reluctant to pick out what he couldn’t imagine being able to pay for, but after the third time Malcolm asked if the hammer or chisel or screwdriver he’d chosen was going to break the first time he used it, he forced himself to pick the better, more expensive tools.

“Don’t forget,” Malcolm told him, offering the only partial consolation he had. “These are
my
tools. I prefer top-of-the-line. I can pay for them. You’re just borrowing them.”

“Right.” Kerry shot him what might have been a slightly disappointed gaze, but he stopped picking through the cheap made-in-China garbage and filled the small cart with sturdy brand names. Lucky Malcolm wasn’t prone to sticker shock. Good power tools were not cheap.

T
HERE
WAS
plenty to do while I waited for delivery of the shelves I’d promised to fix. We’d picked up paint for my room and all the necessary paraphernalia to do the work. I spent what was left of the day when we got back out in the garden, weeding and readying the beds for Charlie. I chose the most likely plants to share with the school, and since Malcolm had locked himself in his study, I decided to stroll over to there to have a look at where the beds were going. I needed some idea what they would have to order so I could get the job done.

I had the beginnings of a list in my head when I got back to the house and was glad to see Charlie’s car in the driveway. I was ready to pick his brain on what he had planned and find out if he’d contacted them and let them know I would be taking over.

Inside, the house was quiet and their bedroom door was closed. The study was empty, that door now ajar, but I backed away from it. Something told me it was the one place in the house that was off-limits to everyone but Malcolm. It had a very distinct air of seclusion about it. I wandered back to the main rooms and considered. I was getting used to the sound of do-not-disturb hanging in the air, but I couldn’t help thinking they might have at least left me a note or instruction.

With a sigh, I headed to the kitchen and poked around for something to make for dinner. I wasn’t much of a cook, though. About all I’d perfected so far was instant noodles and a version of scrambled eggs I’d seen Gordon Ramsey make on TV once. There were tomatoes and lettuce and cheese in the fridge at least, so I began slicing and preparing everything to put together tomato sandwiches once Malcolm let Charlie out of the bedroom.

My stomach was growling and I was tired of waiting long before they came out. That rule, though, haunted me. Make enough for everyone and serve them first. Did it apply if they weren’t actually at the table? I didn’t know. I didn’t want to chance it. Things had gone tolerably well so far that day, and I didn’t want to risk tipping the cart, so I waited, taking a glass of water to the couch with another of Charlie’s photo albums.

I hadn’t tired of looking at his art and wondered, again, why he wasted his time and energy on a job I hadn’t seen any sign that he actually liked even a little bit.

“You still looking at those?” His voice over my shoulder made me jump. I hadn’t heard the bedroom door open, nor had I noticed his bare-footed padding down the hall to where he stood behind the couch, looking over my shoulder. “God, those ones are old.” He reached over and touched a finger to one of the photos. “Mal bought me that camera when we first started going out.” He chuckled softly. “I left it out in the rain one day. Totally forgot I even had it out when he….” His words trailed off in wistful breath. “Yeah. God. Such a long time ago.”

What was I supposed to say? He sounded like he was remembering something long gone. But how could it be when the man he had it with was in the next room, probably still as sweaty and smelling of sex as he was?

“Hey. What’s going on in here?” Malcolm’s voice called from the kitchen, and we both turned to it. I, at least, was grateful for the interruption.

I set the book down and hurried back to my aborted supper attempt. “Supper,” I informed him.

“Did you eat?” He lifted the lid I’d laid over the sliced tomatoes.

“I was waiting.”

“For?” He peered at me, amusement in his expression.

“To serve you guys first.” Glancing between him and Charlie, I knew my cheeks were turning bright pink as they both broke into grins. “That’s the rule,” I said, wishing they would both stop looking at me like that. For a moment, I felt like I was the one and only item on the menu, then Charlie slapped me on the back and almost laughed.

“Well done, sprite.” He grabbed the bread and opened the bag, tossing slices into the toaster. “I can take it from here. Go on and set the table.”

And just like that, my obedience to their rules smoothed over the cracks in Charlie’s titanium shell and eased Malcolm’s tense stance into something resembling relaxed acceptance. So I set the table, ate with them, poured wine and coffee, and cleaned up and all the while felt like a pretty flower stuck in a pot of barren soil.

Later, lying in my bed staring at the naked patch of plaster on my ceiling, I found, once again, I couldn’t sleep. Every foster home I’d ever lived in left me with this same feeling of unreality. Like I’d stepped out of my life and into someone else’s where my square peg didn’t quite fit the available round hole. Only Nash had ever managed to make his house feel like my home, like I belonged there.

A soft mewling at my closed door brought me out of that unhappy thought, and I went to let Miss Claire in. She promptly climbed the comforter, kneaded a few times at the pillow beside me, spun twice, and curled herself into a contented ball. The tiny fur monster was snoring kitten snores inside of five minutes. And like clockwork, Georgie made her imperious appearance to sit on the pillow next to Miss Claire and lick her head between her ears until Miss Claire snapped and swatted at her.

For the next few minutes, there was a general tussle of ginger fur and snarly cat insults as they vied for the spot Miss Claire had warmed. Georgie won. She always won. Miss Claire sat on my stomach, exuding indignation, until Georgie had settled. Then the smaller cat pranced over, curled next to Georgie, and laid her dainty muzzle over Georgie’s rumbling throat. Within minutes, the duo snored peacefully.

“Oh, sure,” I told Miss Claire, tracing a finger over the damp fur between her ears, “you can just fall asleep like you belong here.” I sat up, clicked on the bedside light—a clamp light I suspected Charlie probably used as a grow light for his seedlings—and picked up one of his albums I’d left on the bedside table.

It was like he had radar. I’d turned only two pages when a soft knock preceded him into my room, and he crossed the floor on near-silent feet.

“Hey.” I closed the book and rested it on my lap. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged.

“Malcolm asleep?”

He nodded.

“You having trouble sleeping?”

Another nod.

“Georgie got your tongue?”

He smiled slightly and perched on the edge of my bed but said nothing. For a little while, he fixed his gaze on the book in my lap. By the time I thought maybe I should say something, he lifted his focus to my chest but then let it fall back to the book.

“What, Charlie?”

“I have no idea.” He sounded lost.

I waited.

After a moment, he spread a hand over the cover of the album and sighed. “What is so fascinating about these?” he asked. “You keep looking through them like you expect to find some secret or something.”

“When’s the last time you took any pictures?”

The question went unanswered, which was answer enough, I guess.

“Why?”

That only got me another shrug.

“Charlie.” I laid the book aside, but not without a brief pause because he seemed not to want to let it go. “Why don’t you take pictures anymore? Why don’t you garden? Malcolm’s got all those plants for you to—”

“I know.”

“So?”

“When do I have time?”

“Make time.”

“When? Work is… and Malcolm needs me when I get home.”

“Malcolm can learn to stand on his own two damn feet. To take care of
you
, for a change.”

“He does. He gets me flowers and cameras and….” He sighed. “I’m so… spinning when I get home from work.” He made a vague motion in the general direction of his head. “I can’t turn it off. He turns it all off.”

I wasn’t sure I knew what he was talking about, but I nodded anyway and tried. “Gardening doesn’t turn it off? Or your art?”

He stared at me a long while.

“What?”

“Pictures of flowers aren’t really art.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Just a hobby,” he mumbled.

I shook my head and cupped his cheek when he still didn’t look at me. “Tell me you don’t believe that, Charlie.”

“It isn’t like I can make a living at it.”

“So?”

“What do you mean
so
? A guy has to make a living.”

He said that sitting here in the heart of his own home, surrounded by Malcolm’s seemingly limitless wealth and capacity to share it. “Explain that to me,” I said finally. “Because I think you have a boyfriend who’s dying to give you anything you want, and all you seem to ask for is a good solid dick up your ass. He could make everything so much easier for you.”

“He does.”

“I don’t get it.”

All he did was sigh and finally nod. “I know you don’t.”

And that didn’t help one little bit. “Did you want something?” I asked after we’d sat in silence for what seemed like forever.

“I thought I did.” But he continued to look at me blankly.

“Well?” I asked. “What?”

He opened his mouth, but I held up a hand.

“And don’t say you don’t know,” I warned him. “Because I think we both know what you want from me, only you’ve already decided you’re not allowed to have it.”

“What don’t you get about Malcolm being—”

“Boss. I know. I get it, believe me.” I stared at him a long time, then dared to reach over and touch his arm. When he didn’t move away, the touch turned to caressing, then to stroking, because the feel of his wiry hair under my palm was heavenly. “So tell me this,” I said. “If you believe it, why are you even sneaking in here after he’s asleep?”

Charlie was watching my hand as I traced a repetitive path up and down his arm. He wagged his head back and forth, but he didn’t speak.

“Charlie.”

He blinked and lifted his gaze to mine. “What?”

“Talk to me.”

He still moved his head, but now, the motion took on a new deliberation and he wrinkled his brow. “I didn’t come to talk.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“So far down the rabbit hole,” he muttered.

“And are you Alice?” I asked with a chuckle to cover the alarm. This was not the Charlie I was used to.

But he puckered his brow more deeply and turned his lips down at the corner. “He’s the cake. A bite of him and I’m so miniscule I think I’ll disappear.” He caressed my cheek. “One sip of you and I don’t even fit inside my own home anymore.”