Timothy (28 page)

“Found who?”

“Timothy.”

I sat down hard in a chair, unable to believe what I was hearing. “Timothy?” I was having trouble breathing.

“I always knew they would find him, you know.” He sighed. “I'm so sorry, Mouse, I never should have married you and involved you in all of this.”

“I know you loved him—”

“Loved him?” He stared at me in shock. “You aren't listening to me, Mouse. A fisherman found him a few days ago—tangled in his nets. They only were able to identify him this morning.”

“I—I don't understand.” I gaped at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I didn't love Timothy, Mouse—I hated him. I hated him as much as any human being can hate another human. I've been such an incredible fool.” He rubbed his eyes. “A fisherman found him, Mouse, do you understand me? They found him, after all this time, like I always feared they would.”

“I—”

“I hated him, Mouse. I hated him, and I killed him. And now they've found his body.”

The room was silent.

I was very aware of the sound of my breathing, the beating of my heart. Outside in the far distance I could hear a lawn mower engine starting with a dull roar. Behind us I could still hear the workers talking and shouting to each other, sometimes laughing, as they kept up their efforts to return the back lawn to a semblance of normalcy, what it had been before the ball. If not for these distant sounds it seemed like time had somehow come to a stop, that we were frozen somehow outside of time and space, forever just staring at each for an eternity. I remember noticing there was thin coating of dust on the end table next to my chair, and idly thinking I would need to speak to Juana about it, and that there was stubble on Carlo's pale face.

I sat there, not saying anything, not knowing what if anything I could say in response, even though I could see the agony of suspense on his own face in addition to the anguish in his eyes. I was in some sort of shock. All I could do was sit there in my chair, looking at him, my mouth open like a fool, unable to think or say anything.

“How you must hate me now,” he said finally, his voice soft and sad, “although I can't say that I blame you. But please, let me explain. May I at least tell you how it was for me, for the two of us in our marriage? Maybe then you can find some understanding—and maybe even some forgiveness—in your heart for me.”

“Did you—did you ever love him?” I heard the words coming out of my mouth. My voice sounded hollow and distant, like I was speaking in another room.

“Yes.” His face became grim. “My parents were always very supportive of my sexuality, Mouse. I told them the truth when I was a teenager, and while they were clearly disappointed I wouldn't have any children, they also made it clear they loved me and would support me no matter what. They just wanted me to be happy—although I did wonder about that when they so clearly disapproved of Joyce's first marriage.” He rubbed his eyes. “I dated, of course, but I never really felt anything for the men I was seeing. There was always an initial attraction that seemed to wane the better I got to know them. I was never into casual sex—I don't think there's anything wrong with it, of course, it's just not for me.”

“Of course,” I replied.

“And I was always on my guard whenever someone showed interest in me. I know I'm not unattractive, but—” He sighed. “When you have money and social position, you never can be sure whether people are actually interested in you for yourself or for what you can do for them. Obviously, actors and dancers were always throwing themselves at me, hoping I'd use my influence to get them parts in shows I was financing—which I of course would never do.” He stood up and began pacing. “By the time I was in my thirties I had pretty much come to the conclusion I was destined to be alone for the rest of my life, that I would never find the kind of relationship I wanted, and I was fine with it, Mouse, really, I was. I wasn't looking to get involved with anyone.” He walked over to the big window and put his hands on the sill, his back to me.

“How awful for you,” I said, and I meant it. My heart went out to him. When I worked for Valerie, I'd learned very early on that many people thought that the best way to get to Valerie was through flattering me. As her assistant, I had access to her schedule and could slip someone in. They were stupid if they thought she ever listened to anything I had to say—Valerie always made up her own mind and never really listened to anyone else—but I never fooled myself that any of the minor celebrities who flattered me and sent me gifts and acted friendly actually cared anything about me. I was simply a means to an end.

Awful as that was, that was
business.
I couldn't imagine how much more awful it would feel never to be certain of anyone in your personal life.

“I, of course, knew who Timothy Burke was—who didn't in those days? His images were everywhere. He was one of the first male supermodels.” He turned and walked over to the sideboard, clunking a few pieces of ice into a glass before pouring whiskey over them. “I knew he was beautiful—who didn't? But I'd never met him, never dreamed…” He took a drink from the whiskey and closed his eyes for a moment. “I'll never forget the night I met him. It was here, at the Independence Ball.” He leaned against the sideboard, remembering. “He came with Dorothy Masters—she and her husband had an interest in the company he was modeling for.” His face twisted and he looked off into the distance. “He had the most amazing costume; he came as Apollo, Greek god of the sun and music. His entire body had been painted gold, and he had golden rays coming out from his head. He was wearing skimpy shorts painted the exact same shade of gold and covered in glitter. He had somehow mixed glitter into the body paint so his entire body sparkled in the light. Even his hair had been painted the same shade of gold. His body was just extraordinary…I had never seen anyone like him before—oh, don't get me wrong, I'd dated and slept with plenty of men, plenty of beautiful men, but Timothy was different. He looked like Apollo come to life…my first look at him and my breath was taken away. I was spellbound, unable to take my eyes off him. And he was aware of his effect on me…he flirted with me…and I had to have him.”

He polished off the glass of whiskey and poured himself another. “Looking back now, I can't believe I was such a fool. I wasn't thinking—all I could think about was Timothy. I couldn't stop thinking about him after that night at the ball. I pursued him…was obsessed with him. I asked him out on dates, and he kept me at arm's length, aloof and never giving me anything other than a chaste kiss on the cheek after the date was over. I was stupid enough to actually believe him when he said he wasn't the kind of man who slept with everyone he met—I actually admired him for his integrity. He always talked about his religious upbringing in Florida, and how even though he'd abandoned his faith when he came out, he hadn't abandoned his morality. He told me that he believed that casual sex was wrong, he would never do that unless he actually loved someone…was in a relationship. I bought him things—expensive gifts he would only accept if I understood his acceptance didn't mean I was buying his love.” His voice turned bitter. “He was playing me. He was playing for keeps. The more he pushed me away, the more he denied me, the more I wanted him. I was such a damned fool. And as soon as Massachusetts legalized gay marriage, I asked him to marry me.”

As his words washed over me, I realized I had been wrong, so wrong, so many times about so many different things, so many different times. What I thought was love for his dead husband—it must have been
guilt
.

“And you know, for the first year we were really happy—well, I should say that I was really happy that first year, and of course Timothy was happy—he had access to my fortune, and he loved being master of Spindrift.” He ran his fingers through his hair and refilled his whiskey glass. “Timothy was the one who got me into actual activism—before I would always just write a check—but he convinced me that, with his fame and my money, we should do everything we could to promote gay rights—that we were in a unique position to advance the cause. And so we started doing all the speeches, and talks, and…” He shook his head. “And by the time I found out what he really was…well, it was too late.”

“And what was he?” I leaned forward, almost afraid to hear the answer, but I knew I had to—otherwise there could never be any chance of healing.

Carlo's face darkened. “A monster. He was a monster wrapped in the most tender and beautiful flesh.” He laughed harshly. “You know that stupid saying about beauty being skin deep? Timothy was the proof of its truth.” He rubbed his eyes. “He had no conscience of any kind. I don't think he was capable of love, any more than a crocodile is. Nothing mattered to him except himself—he was utterly self-absorbed. It was when that Taylor Hudson came here to stay, at Timothy's invitation.” He closed his eyes and took some deep breaths. “I never liked Hudson, but tolerated him for Timothy's sake…they'd grown up together, were childhood friends…Hudson tried to seduce my sister…”

“Joyce?”

“She and Frank were having some problems…Hudson saw his opportunity and tried to take advantage of the situation…he saw an heiress with a rather inconvenient husband…I told Timothy I would not permit it, and Hudson was no longer welcome at Spindrift.”

He swallowed. “I'll never forget that night as long as I live. He was in the red suite, sitting at his desk and writing thank you notes. He sat there with his back to me and didn't say a word while I raged about Hudson…and when I finished, he sealed an envelope like I'd said nothing and turned around in his chair and laughed at me. He laughed at me…and then, he told me the truth of who he was…”

He proceeded to tell me of Timothy's darker desires, the passions that drove him, and what he turned the studio into. “The studio I had built for him, so he could pursue his artistic desires, in privacy away from the hustle and bustle and noise of Spindrift, so he could focus on his work and not be interrupted, he'd turned it into a place for orgies and sexual games of the darkest and most debased kind. I was sickened, horrified and appalled. All I could think as he told me what he'd kept hidden from me the entire first year of our marriage, through the entire year or so we'd dated, was how badly I wanted to kill him. I could feel my hands on his throat as I choked his miserable life out of him, as his oh-so-beautiful body went limp in my hands. The entire time…when I'd drop him off after a date and got a chaste kiss on the cheek—he would go up to his apartment for a night of debauchery, or off to a sex club…and he laughed at me. He laughed at me. The entire time, the entire time I'd been falling in love with him, imagining our future together, the entire time we'd been married, he'd been laughing at me with his lovers, laughing at me…”

I couldn't speak, I couldn't respond to the litany of perversions and horrors he'd recited, the things that had gone on in the studio. They sickened me yet at the same time they made me curious; even as they disgusted me I couldn't get the images out of my mind, the images of Timothy and that beautiful body, a lusty and lascivious look on his face as he played his games of sensuality and sexuality, satisfying his dark desires of dominance and humiliation, always trying to satisfy the lusts that drove him.

“He was smart, so much smarter than the fool he married,” Carlo went on, sipping his whiskey, and giving me a sad look. “I hadn't made him sign a prenuptial agreement, of course, and in the crazy madness of love I put his name on the deed to Spindrift after we were married. He was smart, so very smart, and he manipulated me very neatly. I was a fool, Mouse, a total fool. If not for Spindrift. I would have done it, I would have gotten rid of him, divorced him no matter how bad it looked for us to split up, in spite of the damage it might have done to the marriage equality cause…”

The house
, I thought,
of course it was the house
.

“When I told him I didn't care, I wanted to divorce him, I would do it in New York and argue that the Massachusetts marriage law had no bearing on property in New York state, he laughed, oh how he laughed at me. I'll never forget the contempt and loathing on his face. ‘You'll never get Spindrift back from me,' he said to me. ‘I'll draw this out and make it as ugly and nasty as I possibly can. No prenuptial agreement, remember? By the time I'm finished I may not get a dime of the Romaniello money, but your name will be mud—and gay marriage? Not a chance—every time it comes up the haters will use us as an example of why we can't be permitted to marry. It will be the ugliest divorce in history. Why not? What do I have to lose? And think about your companies, and how the value of their stock will drop every day some new horror comes out in the press about your private life…are you willing to be that humiliated in public, Carlo?'”

I felt sick to my stomach, hoping it would end. It was horrible, all so horrible, so much worse than I ever could have imagined. Who would have ever thought such evil lived behind that beautiful face? But it wasn't over. Carlo kept talking.

And awful as it was, I had no choice, I had to listen to it all.

“We finally came to an arrangement—only on rare occasions would we ever be in the same residence at the same time. I bought the penthouse in New York—I'd been wanting to get a residence in the city for years anyway—and we negotiated a compromise about special events and things we'd need to appear at as a couple. He promised he would be discreet—there would be no whispers or talk or hints in the tabloids about his activity, and he even put it into writing that should any scandal ever be attached to his name, he would voluntarily give me a divorce, would take no money, and would surrender any claim to Spindrift. Oh, and I also had to fund his underwear company—but if it failed, it failed—I insisted on that—there would be no more money after my initial investment.” He shook his head. “But of course it was a huge success. Everywhere, it seemed, that I would turn, there he was. Oh, he kept his word, of course—not a whisper of scandal, ever. We kept pretending we were happily married, and once the fund-raiser or the event was over, we went our separate ways. It galled me. I hated him so much, Mouse, you have no idea how much I hated him. We would stand there, at HRC dinners, posing for the cameras and smiling, and all I could think about was wanting to kill him, wishing he were dead. I thought about killing myself, I can't tell you how many times I thought about suicide, the times I took the
Rhiannon
out to sea and thought how easy it would be, to tie myself to a weight and jump overboard…”