The Haunted Heart: Winter (21 page)

Kirk’s wary and wondering expression watched
me in the mirror. “How did you do it?” he asked at last. “How did
you get her to let go?”

I glanced up, turned to face him. “It wasn’t
what I thought. It was the opposite of what I thought.”

“What was? What happened?

“I’m probably not explaining this well.”

“How did you know to do what you did? How
did you know to reach out to her?”

I said hesitantly, “I guessed that it
wouldn’t be any different for the spirit of someone dead than the
spirit of someone alive. I guessed…”

“What?”

I shook my head, trying to clear it. I
felt…not confused, but there was so much to sort through, to try
and make sense of. I said, “I finally realized you don’t help
someone, you don’t heal someone’s pain by closing your eyes, by
turning away, by running from them.”

He opened his mouth, said at last in an odd
voice, “How did you work that out?”

I recognized how much I liked his face, how
much I had come to like him. I felt my mouth curving into a smile.
Because I liked him so much — and because he didn’t begin to know
how much he had done for me.

I told him the simple truth. “I didn’t. You
did.”

* * * * *

I was brushing my teeth, still avoiding
looking directly at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, when I
heard the knock on my door.

I spat, rinsed, spat again and went to open
the door.

Kirk was in the process of turning away, but
he turned back when the door swung open. He looked
self-conscious.

“Were you in bed?”

I shook my head. “On my way.”

“I meant to give you this a while ago.” He
handed me a very old photograph, curled and yellowed at the
edges.

I stared at the portrait of a slight young
man in Victorian clothing. He had pale hair, light eyes, and a
beard. Except for the beard and the old fashioned clothing, it
could have been a picture of me.

Puzzled, I turned the photo over. There was
nothing on the back. No indication of who the man in the photo
might be. I looked inquiringly at Kirk.

“Your uncle gave me a book about a year ago.
That photograph was stuck between the pages. I only discovered it a
couple of months ago, after he died.”

“It could be me.”

“Yeah. It’s the image of Winston too, a much
younger version of him, of course. But the photo is too old to be
Winston. Maybe it’s your great-great-grandfather or a
great-great-great-uncle?” He shrugged. “I thought you’d probably
want it back.”

“Thank you.” I studied the photo again.

“Is something wrong?”

“Hm?” I raised my gaze to Kirk’s frowning
one. “No. It’s just weird. So weird.”

“The resemblance, you mean? It’s a little
uncanny, but some families do manage to stamp that genetic
watermark on every generation.”

“Yeah but…”

“But?”

“I’m adopted.”

“You’re…” For once Kirk looked genuinely
floored.

“Adopted. Yeah, I was adopted when I was a
baby.” I couldn’t help laughing at his expression.

“That is a little weird,” he said very
mildly at last.

I laughed again. “But not, you have to
admit, the weirdest thing that’s happened tonight.”

“Maybe not. No. True.” He smiled, looked at
the photo, looked at me.

I smiled too. “Anyway, thank you. I do want
this.”

Kirk nodded.

We neither of us moved.

It shouldn’t have been hard. It was. I said,
“Well, thank you again for everything you did. Not just tonight,
but since I moved in here.”

Kirk said, “No thanks necessary.”

“Goodnight.”

“Night, Flynn.”

I closed the door softly.

I studied the browned photograph. “That’s a
very nice waistcoat, Great-Grandpappy,” I remarked. I checked the
back of the photo again, but of course no information or date had
magically appeared during the past minute. “Who are you?” I asked
softly.

The face so like my own smiled wryly back
for the camera.

For that matter, who was
I
?

When I finally climbed into bed I could hear
Kirk playing his guitar downstairs.

I turned out the lamp and stared up at the
pattern of moonlight on the ceiling. The bed was warm and more
comfortable than I remembered. I thought I would sleep well that
night.

After a time I closed my eyes and listened
to Kirk strumming. Not random chords, not a haphazard scattering of
notes, just a slow, tentative introduction to an unfamiliar
melody.

It takes a village. Or a publishing house.
Or an awful lot of good friends and colleagues. Thank you to LB
Gregg, Laura, S.C. Wynne, K.B. Smith, Will, Caroline, and
Keren.

And thank
you
for buying this
book.

A distinct voice in gay fiction,
multi-award-winning author JOSH LANYON has been writing gay
mystery, adventure and romance for over a decade. In addition to
numerous short stories, novellas, and novels, Josh is the author of
the critically acclaimed Adrien English series, including
The
Hell You Say
, winner of the 2006 USABookNews awards for GLBT
Fiction. Josh is an Eppie Award winner and a three-time Lambda
Literary Award finalist.

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