The Lord Won't Mind (The Peter & Charlie Trilogy) (2 page)

“I just hope he’s aware of how lucky he is to meet me,” Charlie said lightly. He could no longer pass the room that awaited the visitor without indulging in fantasies about the days that would follow its occupancy. He and Peter were very alike. Could she have been so insistent on that point without meaning something by it?

THEY went to meet him at the station in the towering old Packard C. B. kept in the country. “You can’t miss him,” she said, remaining in the car while Charlie and Henry, the Negro driver who doubled as butler, were dispatched to wait on the blistering platform. “I’ve told you, he’s about your build and very blond.”

The train, pulled by a clangorous steam engine, was a long one so that Charlie caught his first glimpse of the arriving guest from a considerable distance. He was coltishly lugging a battered suitcase. Young. Much too young. His keyed-up interest died. They approached each other, they identified themselves, they exchanged a perfunctory handshake. It was over. The summer was to be like any other.

He left the back seat of the car to C. B. and the new arrival and sat in front with Henry. He was mildly impatient with the effusive warmth that marked C. B.’s welcome. They had barely started on the homeward trip before she exclaimed, addressing Charlie, “Now, tell me. Don’t you agree with me? Isn’t he utterly charming looking?”

Charlie turned to face them. “Now, stop it, C. B. You’re just embarrassing him. We can see for ourselves how beautiful we both are.”

His eyes encountered Peter’s and started to move on but were held by the clear blue innocence of the boy’s regard, openly responsive, with none of the guarded defiance with which young males generally eye their own sex. He smiled, and Peter smiled in return before quickly looking away. C. B. had been right, he admitted to himself. Handsome was too strong a word. He was beautiful in a just barely formed way. His eyes were big, his nose slightly tilted, his mouth full and soft, but there was strength enough in the line of the jaw and the curve of cheekbone. His golden hair frizzed slightly at the sides and fell in a smooth wave across his brow. His neck was smooth and strong. Charlie’s eyes dropped to the boy’s hands, and he experienced a surge of sharpened interest. They were big but not clumsy, with long, strong fingers. He felt an impulse to hold them, to feel their grip. His glance shifted automatically to the crotch. The swell of the trousers was promising but inconclusive. He became aware of the beating of his heart. The clothes were responsible for the unhappy first impression, he decided. A plaid shirt was all very well in wool, but it wouldn’t do in cheap cotton. Proper clothes would add to his maturity. He might even pass for twenty-one.

Charlie remained twisted around, facing the two in the back seat. He allowed himself to express his interest by asking friendly questions of a casual sort, but he was careful to divide his attention with C. B. When they drew up under the trees in front of the big old frame house set on rolling lawns, he helped her out with courtly solicitude, although he was hoping to make this a moment of decisive contact. He turned from her as soon as he could and was in time to put his hand on Peter’s shoulder before he moved into place beside C. B. The boy shot him a quick, gratified, slightly questioning look. He gave the shoulder a slight squeeze. It felt solid and well-muscled. He noted with satisfaction that he was a shade taller than the newcomer. “Leave your bag,” he said. “Henry will take care of it. We’ll get you settled after lunch.”

He was keenly alert for some sign of recognition from the boy, a look, a touch, but Peter only smiled and nodded and moved on, leaving Charlie with the feel of bone and sinew in his hand.

They had long, mild drinks in the rich gloom of a deep veranda. Charlie was determined now to dazzle, and since he and C. B. were a formidable team, they had no trouble reducing Peter to charming, helpless laughter. They engaged in wild flights of nonsense, scattering their shared knowledge of books and plays and people along the way, but Charlie was careful to modulate their performance to carry Peter with them. Peter revealed a lively mind and although a slight air of reticence clung to him, he was able to hold his own.

At lunch, the two youths sat opposite each other and now their eyes met constantly. Charlie made no further effort to share him with C. B., although for her sake, he tried to keep some check on his response. To her, he would always be slightly aloof and superior, the wooed, never the wooer. When he caught Peter’s eye, he charged every look with significance without quite giving his hand away. If Peter recognized this as flirting, he gave no indication of it. His regard was open, admiring, untroubled, with no trace of the extra awareness that Charlie was eager to provoke. Of course, the eyes didn’t necessarily tell the whole story. He might be the sort Charlie had encountered not infrequently who took the outcome so completely for granted that he felt no need to underline it. That he might remain insensible to Charlie’s intentions was another possibility, which shook his natural self-confidence. He felt as if he might commit some frightful indiscretion if he didn’t soon get the boy to himself.

He knew that he had only to muster a little patience. It was C. B.’s invariable habit to retire to her rooms for the afternoon, immediately after coffee. The small room next to his own more spacious quarters on the top floor was waiting. The thing would take care of itself.

Soon after they had returned to the veranda, C. B. announced, “You two adorable creatures must have a thousand things to talk about.” She rose and went to Peter and held both hands out to him. He stood to receive the benison of her undisguised approval. “I’ll leave you in Charlie’s capable hands. I’m sure he’ll do you the honors.”

Charlie rose too, suddenly daunted at the thought of being alone with Peter. “Come on. We might as well go on up and see your room.”

They passed through the house and mounted the stairs together. In the first-floor hall, C. B. hugged Charlie’s arm. “We’ll have a long talk about everything later,” she said to him and hugged his arm again and was gone.

“Come on. It’s up here,” Charlie said. He gave Peter a brisk tap on the back and started up the next flight. His heart was beating rapidly. He didn’t dare look at the boy at his side. Only his duties as a host made it possible for him to speak naturally and maintain a surface equilibrium. “That’s my room,” he said, standing in the upper hall. “Your room’s here and that’s your bathroom down there. There’s nobody else up here so you’ll have it all to yourself.” His voice seemed to echo in the big, dark, suddenly silent house. He felt not just that they were alone, but that they were totally isolated from the world, existing only in each other. He pushed open the door he had indicated as Peter’s and stood aside to let him pass.

Here again, on the threshold of the bedroom, he hoped that the boy might reveal himself in some way, but he let the opportunity pass and simply entered. Charlie followed and put his hand on his shoulder once more as they inspected the room. Then, shifting his hand to the base of Peter’s neck, he retreated into comedy as he conducted an elaborate tour of the modest quarters, discoursing on the electric fan, the window, the bedside table and the books upon it. Peter laughed easily, but although he was held now in what was very nearly an embrace, he remained quite contained within himself. Charlie was suddenly oppressed by the difficulties inherent in the simple situation. All he wanted was to know. If it wasn’t going to work out, he would forget about it; but it would be too stupid to discover weeks from now that Peter had wanted it too, had been waiting only for an unequivocal move. At the same time, he couldn’t imagine risking a rebuff. He had had no experience in seduction. There had been at least an easily detected complicity on those occasions when the advances hadn’t been made by others. He had never considered himself a fairy or a pansy or any of the other words bandied about contemptuously by his contemporaries and himself. His sexual activities with other boys were a natural extension of the play he had been introduced to at school. He had always assumed that in due course there would be a girl and marriage and the usual developments of adult life; it simply hadn’t happened yet. By sixteen, his had been widely proclaimed the second biggest cock in the school and he had not been challenged thereafter. He felt quite sure that now he would have qualified for first place, although at the time he had refused to measure himself against the winner, whom he had found inexcusably ugly. His spectacular equipment had given him a certain sexual arrogance; he expected people to want to go to bed with him and to find it a not ordinary experience. He could more readily attribute Peter’s careful neutrality to shyness rather than disinclination. A hand brushing by accident against the crotch would tell him all he wanted to know. Perhaps if they fumbled together with the suitcase he would have his chance.

“Here,” he said, relinquishing the boy’s neck. “Let me help you with this thing.”

“Oh, lord.” Peter swung the bag up and dropped it on the rack provided for the purpose. “I don’t need help with that.”

Check. There was nothing more he could accomplish here. Retreat was indicated to plan more definitive tactics. “Look, why don’t you unpack and then come on next door when you’re ready? Wear anything you like. Shorts would be fine. We may want to go to the club later.” In order not to break the tenuous contact established between them, he gave his arm a little squeeze and smiled into his eyes. “Don’t be long.”

“No, it’ll only take a minute.”

Charlie went to his room and stripped off his clothes and hurried to the bathroom. He smelled of the tension he had been through. He showered thoroughly while he considered abandoning his project. Yet the eyes had been telling him something—if not offering an invitation, at least hinting at assent. Peter couldn’t have looked at him as he had if he weren’t susceptible, even though he might not yet be aware of it himself. C. B. had chosen him with unerring taste; it was too perfect not to work out. He longed for a friend, here under the same roof with him for the weeks to come. Affection expressed physically made friendship so complete and binding. The thought of it suffused him with a piercing sweetness. Only the achieving of it promised to be a ridiculous bore.

He must find some way of getting him out of his clothes. Perhaps he could manage something at bedtime tonight. He looked down at himself, stirring now with his thought, and smiled. Wait till Peter had a look at that.

He finished his shower and powdered himself and splashed himself liberally with cologne. He was combing his hair, a shade less blond than Peter’s, when he heard tentative knockings at the door and his name spoken.

“Come in. I’ll be right out,” he called. He gave himself several long-practiced caresses and then twisted the towel around his waist and went out. Peter was already seated, but he sprang up and hitched up his pants with awkward charm and stood with his head back, slightly defensive, as if prepared for flight. He was wearing a white shirt and shorts that suited him much better than his traveling clothes. In the filtered light of the big room he looked golden—golden hair, golden skin. Charlie’s breath caught at his beauty. The way his shorts were bunched at the crotch suggested that under them he was wearing some sort of jockey shorts that held him strictly confined. Charlie started toward him. He was aware that the heavy swing of his sex, partially aroused, must be visible beneath his towel and he waited for Peter’s eyes to be drawn to it, but they remained unwaveringly on his eyes. He stopped just out of reach of the boy, feeling the wide gulf between them that remained to be bridged somehow.

“I was hot. I took a shower. So how do you think you’re going to like it here?”

“Very much. It’s a wonderful place C. B. is fabulous.”

“She is. She’s wonderful.” He gazed into the eyes that were level with his and only a few feet away, eyes softened by long lashes so that they seemed to melt into his, yet remained tantalizingly, maddeningly unflirtatious. It wasn’t safe to go on gazing; things were happening under his towel. He found his voice. “By the way, how old are you? C. B. doesn’t seem to know.”

“Nineteen. Practically twenty, really. My birthday’s in August. I lost a lot of time at school when I was a kid. We were always moving around.”

“Well, hell, that explains it. I knew you couldn’t be all that much younger than me. Just a little over a year’s difference. Has C. B. been going on at you about how much alike we are?”

Peter smiled. “She has mentioned it.”

“I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Why?”

“I mean, being told you look like me.”

“Gosh no. You’re terrific looking.”

Charlie’s throat tightened. If his damn towel would drop off, if the two or three scraps of cloth covering Peter would vanish, they would know each other and there would be no more problems. He attempted laughter. “Well, thanks. The same to you. A mutual admiration society. Hey, I know what.” He turned and strode to his desk, finding relief in activity. This was going to be a fairly obvious play, but better that than to go on wondering. He could imagine it rapidly becoming an obsession. He wasn’t used to being at such a disadvantage with anybody; if he could satisfy himself that there was no chance of anything happening between them, he could dismiss Peter as just a pleasant enough guy to have around.

He fumbled in the drawers and found a tape measure and turned back with a smile. “Before I get dressed, let’s see how much alike we really are. Come on. I think I’m a little taller than you. Of course, not when you have those things on.” His eyes traveled down the long, smoothly fleshed legs to the big feet strongly molded by sandals.