Marc Jillson & The Gazebo (Love Inscribed 2) - Page 20
I shook my head. “Nothing like that. I’m following a lead on our gazebo story.”
“Ah, okay. You’re here for the photos.”
I had no idea what she was talking about, but nodded anyway. “Someone is waving at you,” I lied, glancing over her shoulder. Hannah excused herself to scuttle off in that direction. Hopefully I didn’t send her on a complete goose chase. But I needed a moment with Hunter.
“Kyle Gable Green?” I said expectantly. “Could he be our K?”
“Maybe.”
Holy shit. That added a whole new level of difficulty to V and K’s relationship. The Gables had been prominent city figures for generations. Alongside Gable University, they founded a private hospital, and held a huge stake in the steel industry.
Hunter and I stared at each other, bewildered.
Could it really be K? I whipped out my phone and Googled Kyle Gable Green. Studied at Gable University from 1969-1974, graduating with a double master’s in business and humanities.
“He studied around the right time.”
Hunter glanced up from his phone. “And never went to war.”
Kyle took the podium. “On my way here tonight, my great niece gave me tips on my speech. She said, don’t try to dazzle them with charm, spout anything philosophical or intellectual, and don’t whip out the witty jokes. Just be yourself.”
The crowd chuckled.
“And she is right. Being true to yourself, no matter the obstacle . . . that is true courage.”
I knew in my gut this was our author. Not only had he started with a joke, like so many of K’s letters, I’d read those exact words on being true to yourself in there too.
“It’s him,” I said.
Hunter nodded. “Guess coming here was worthwhile after all.”
Kyle’s speech faded into the background as I looked at Hunter and his matching carnation. “It would have been worthwhile either way,” I murmured.
Hunter’s head tilted, and I pivoted toward the stage. Kyle spoke in a deep, husky timbre, constantly scanning the crowd. He paused for an awkward beat before continuing with a sad little smile. “After the varsity acapella choir performs, we’ll open the gallery.”
“There’s a gallery?” That was what Hannah had meant by photos. I perked up. “Maybe there’s a picture of the gazebo? Or something with K and V in it? Let’s look.”
“He said after the choir—”
“I know a side entrance.”
“Of course you do.”
I grabbed another flute of champagne and almost ploughed into a gentleman with a tiger-headed cane emerging from the gallery. Someone else had the sneaky idea to have an early peek. “Sorry, sir.”
The silver-haired man tipped his chin and caned off.
Hunter lifted a brow. “Sorry, sir? I didn’t know you could pull off polite.”
I shrugged. “Guess it’s part of the act.”
Hunter shook his head, and I opened the narrow door leading into the gallery. The air hummed with the opening harmony of “Somebody to Love,” and the voices vibrated through my champagne flute as I followed Hunter inside.
Bright overhead lights showcased hundreds of framed photos. Hunter rolled quietly beside me and caught me watching him.
“Why’d you do it?” he asked, touching the edges of his Willie Stroker nametag.
I shrugged. Champagne bubbles were fascinating.
He stopped moving and so did I. “Were you trying—and failing—to be funny?”
I glared at him, exasperated. Guilty. “I was trying—and failing—to make you smile.”
He stilled, brow pinching, the line of his mouth softening.
“It’s not the only stupid thing I’ve done tonight.” I laughed tightly over the sharp regret of telling him I was flirting without it meaning anything. “You should reconsider hanging out with me.”
Clutching my flute, I swiveled to the nearest wall of pictures. Hunter moved to the opposite wall.
Some pictures were set too high, and I hated that lack of foresight.
I found one picture of the gazebo with two fuzzy figures seated in the shadows. Pity the details were impossible to make out. The caption simply read Lover’s Loop gazebo. Adjacent was a picture of a young, determined K playing baseball, bat at the ready. Fingerprints smudged the glass, but his face was still recognizable as the older man onstage. At the corner of the picture, an autograph. K.
The K scrawled in the same loopy way as our—no longer anonymous—author.
Staring at the young man and having such an insight into his life at the time was surreal. I checked the date. Before the draft. After he’d met V. Had Kyle finished that game, found V, and made love to him that night? Had they laughed and bantered, and dreamed of their future together?
A frustrated grunt carried over the room. Hunter cursed, head bowed toward his lap.
“You okay?” I asked.
He spun off another “fuck”, and his back stiffened as I neared him.
I realized his predicament as soon as I stepped to his side. My fingers tightened on my flute glass.
A wet patch stained Hunter’s gray suit pants.
He struggled to lift his head and look at me. His cheeks were flushed red, his jaw tight. “I fucked up my timing.”
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