"She's right, but not about the college part. You set her straight. "
"I did, but she's got a stubborn streak. "
"Thank God she's the only one in the family. It can be a pain when they're all infested with it. "
Thomas sent him a narrow glance, but Marcus said nothing further, just gave him a bland smile.
The Hill farm was five miles down from the hardware store, set back a half mile from the road. It was a rambling old farmhouse, built in the 1940s, in need of work, sitting on ten acres. Mr. Hill had died last year and Mrs. Hill was comfortably ensconced in an assisted living facility. It hadn't been an actual farm for ten years, but the Hills had had some small plots for a roadside produce stand to supplement their social security.
There was a barn with a loft, a storage building, as well as a well-laid-out yard that Mrs. Hill had once kept cultivated with flower gardens. A swing hung from the old live oak in the front yard, which also had the remains of a tree house from when the kids were younger.
"Have you been inside before?" Marcus asked as they got out of the car.
"Yeah. We grew up with a couple of the kids. Mrs. Hill baked a lot. We stole a pie from her window once and she chased us all about five miles up the road with a spoon. " Laughing all the way, Thomas remembered. He remembered he'd hung back to get the brunt of it because Rory hadn't hit his growth spurt and was too young to outrun her, shorter legs and arms pumping. He'd been shouting joyously, still too young to know what the word bitter meant.
Marcus was on the porch, had unlocked the door and was letting it stand open. He turned. Gestured to the barn. "Lot of space there. It has a loft. The whole thing would make a great studio. "
Yeah. It would. Thomas was gripped between anticipation and apprehension. He didn't want to think it, hope it, because he knew it wouldn't work.
"Marcus, what are you doing?"
Marcus studied him in that intent way again. "Just what I said I was doing.
Reclaiming my property. "
He tilted his head toward the door, then stepped in, disappearing. Thomas swore softly, went up the stairs and followed him. He'd always liked the big wraparound porch. Sitting on the bottom step, spitting watermelon seeds at Johnny and May Hill, keeping an eye on Les as his Mom and Mrs. Hill shared cake and talked.
There was no furniture in the big kitchen except for a dusty oak table that had been left there. The paper on the walls was harvest gold seventies floral and stripes, but the smell of old wood preserved by quality care and brought out at this particular time of day by the sun was soothing. There was a quiet to the house, as it waited to become a home again. Perhaps to the two men regarding each other across the room.
"We could restore this together. " Marcus put it out there. "Mix of old and new, traditional with our own tastes. "
"Marcus, you live in a penthouse. "
Marcus shrugged, settled back against the counter, crossing his arms, watching Thomas with those brilliant green eyes. A dragon's eyes. "I live anywhere I want to live.
I can maintain a residence here and in New York. There's a small airstrip nearby that can handle private planes. I can fly back and forth as needed to the gallery. Both of us could go there whenever we want to. I have an excellent general manager. She'd be delighted to take on more responsibility. "
"You don't belong here. You don't fit. You'd hate it after a week. Local theater consists of the high school's biannual production of Gershwin, or Rodgers and Hammerstein. No gourmet shops. "
"There's only one question relevant for you to answer. Do I belong with you?" Thomas swallowed, looked away. "That's not the issue. "
"I just made it the issue. Do you belong to me, Thomas?" A pause, a quick jerk of his head. He couldn't deny it, had said it before. Marcus' eyes flared, quick and hot, but still he didn't move. The room seemed to be getting smaller.
"Then, next question, same question. Do I belong with you?"
"That's not for me to say. I can't - "
"If it's not for you to say, then it's for me to say. Why the hell are you so afraid to take this for yourself? I say I do belong with you. To you. " Marcus' eyes traveled around the kitchen. "There's a good fresh market right up the road," he mentioned, changing the direction of the conversation, putting Thomas off balance. "The sign caught my eye. Strawberries, flowers and boiled peanuts. Ordinary things, put on a sign like the most amazing treasures. Reassuring, basic. I picked up some excellent tomatoes and green peppers from a woman wearing a purple and red hat that any pimp on the strip would envy. "
Thomas choked on a snort. "That's Mrs. Dorsey. "
"She gave me a recipe for a seven layer salad that calls for enough mayonnaise to give me arterial blockage. When I told her I'd bought this place, she said if I needed help making the salad for entertaining my friends, her divorced daughters - one or both of them - would be happy to help. " His eyes managed to glint with amusement without losing a watt of that immobilizing intensity. Something in Thomas was responding despite himself, like a bird waiting at the door of a cage that was inching open.
"At which point," Marcus continued, "her mother - who, by the way, looks like she sailed over on the Mayflower - elbowed her and said in a stage whisper, 'Betsy, he's far too good-looking. You know he's got to be one of those homos'. Elongated o's, by the way. "
Thomas' lips twitched. "I bet Betsy Dorsey just about passed out. "
"She was quite mortified. I took Mrs. Mayflower's hand, kissed it and said she had senses as sharp as a vampire's teeth. And I'd appreciate that help if the offer was still open, because I figured she was the one who taught her daughter how to make the salad to begin with. "