For a Rainy Afternoon (5 page)

The moment broke when Jason cleared his throat, then stepped away and down to the gate, his suitcase rolling over the uneven path and his laptop bag around his shoulder. I had a black sack of water-soaked clothes to carry and the bag of toiletries we’d rescued from the bathroom. Together we made our way back down the hill, again in silence. Only when we got inside did I feel like I wanted to talk. I had a lot of questions. Why wasn’t money a problem? Why did Maggie choose to leave the cottage to him and not to another branch of her long lost family? What kind of things did he write? He yawned widely behind his hand, and I saw the exhaustion that ringed his eyes.

“Jet lag.” He gave a rueful smile.

“This way.” I led him up the stairs and tried to remember the last time I’d had someone stay over in the house. I think it was two or three boyfriends back, but it had only been one night and he’d not stayed long. More of a stay over after getting pissed kind of thing. Certainly no sex or sleeping wrapped in each other’s arms.

I stopped abruptly, and Jason walked into me.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he apologized.

“No. Me,” I said. Coherence was not my friend. But the sudden images of me taking Jason to my bed were as clear as watching a very tasteful porno—as if the pictures of us together were being pushed at me with no way to avoid them. “This way,” I finally managed to say before gesturing Jason through into the small second bedroom, which was actually more of an office tucked into the eaves. He sidled past, but the doors were narrow, and sue me if I didn’t enjoy the feel of another man against me after all this time. He grinned at me, although he yawned again, which kind of ruined the effect.

“I’m gonna crash,” he said in his soft drawling voice all husky from exhaustion.

“There’s bedding in the box at the end of the bed, although it’s not been used in a while.”

“I don’t need that, I just need to lay down,” Jason insisted. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay the, uhmm, bathroom is that way.” I pointed behind me. “Although you know that.”
Fucking genius.
“Help yourself to anything in the kitchen when you wake up, whatever time that is. The post office part of this house is separate and locked up, and for security you can’t access the space outside opening hours.”

“What if I need a stamp?” Jason deadpanned.

“I have those if….” I realized he was trying to be funny, and my serious-host-persona subsided as quickly as it had arrived. “Arsehole,” I muttered and pushed against his arm with the flat of my hand.

“Night, Robbie,” he said softly before closing the door.

I
STOOD
for a moment rooted to the spot. For the first time since I’d left uni, I had a man living under the same roof. Okay, so it might only be for a couple of nights, and it was only as a favor, but hell, he was a gorgeous, sexy man, and I could’ve done with some of that in my life at that moment.

I made coffee and pulled out the old cookery book Maggie had given me. This thing, this object with all its flaws and additions and the stains and folded pages, fascinated me. I’d already picked up an awesome tip of adding mustard powder to beef stew that I resolved to try next time Mum and Dad visited, which wasn’t for another couple of weeks. That reminded me that I really ought to phone and tell them that I finally owned something other than my car and clothes.

They were supportive of me to the point they pretty much left me alone with my sex life, or lack of it. They never worried I was gay, but my dad frequently lectured me on safety in sex and safety in alleyways. I think my dad believes all the sex I will ever have will be in alleyways without condoms; that’s how much he worries about that part of my life. My mum is different. She wants me to find my forever guy, to see me settled and happy. She never mentions sex or alleyways. When I think of my forever guy, though, I never picture him as American. There again, I don’t know how I picture him, really. I know I am drawn to brunets with interesting eyes and wide smiles, which means Jason fits very nicely in the category I have for future husband, but that is all.

I laughed out loud and scared myself at the sound of it in the quiet kitchen. I was no longer tired, and I pulled out my sketchpad and pencils and doodled for the longest time until my neck muscles burned and my eyes ached. When I focused in on the random patterns, I realized I had drawn water rushing down some old stairs and Jason standing in the middle of it all with a surprised O forming on his kissable lips. Tracing the outline of him in pencil, I stared down at the picture, and when I woke up, it was to complete darkness and a pencil stuck to my cheek.

The dreams that had chased me out of the kitchen and up to my bed were the weirdest I’d had in weeks—a garden with a tree and a very naked Jason imploring me to eat an apple. Not being the religious sort, I wondered why the hell I was dreaming the Genesis story with Jason featuring as Eve. Too tired to care, I stripped to my boxers, made sure my alarm was set, and fell into bed.

I really hoped the dreams followed me again.

I
OPENED
the post office and shop, and a quarter of my working day had passed before Jason appeared at the door separating the living and work areas. He was dazed, like he’d woken in a strange place and was confused as to why he was there. Luckily the shop was empty and no one sat on the sofas with books and coffee, so no one but me could see his adorable sticky-up bed hair and his sleepy expression.

“Jet lag,” he explained with another yawn. He peered at his watch. “It’s 5:00 a.m. at home.”

“Have a seat.” I gestured to the sofas, and he near fell into the closest one. I made him coffee, which I took over to him immediately, and bacon rolls, which followed a little later.

“Thank you for last night,” he said after a while. Probably after enough caffeine had hit his system.

“You’re welcome.” I’m sure I’d already used that term with him, but I couldn’t think of something else to say. “And you’re fine to stay as long as you need to. I have the room.”

“I’ll pay—”

“You don’t need to. Just cover groceries every so often.”

“Can I use your kitchen table?”

For what?
I thought immediately. Images of me bent over the table were instantly vanquished as Jason continued talking.

“I wouldn’t use much of your bandwidth, but I have some writing groups I join in with, and once I set up the laptop, you won’t hear from me.”

Now that would be a shame. I quite liked listening to him.

“What is it you write?” I took my mug of tea and sat on the sofa opposite him, praying no one needed anything in the shop before I finished it.

“Drama, mystery, romance.”

“Gay romance?” I blurted out. I’d read a bit of that and was partial to a happy ever after.

“Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I have to write gay stories,” Jason offered. Well, that answered the question of Jason’s inclination. He was indeed a living, breathing, tall, slim, sexy-arsed gay man, and he was in my house. All I could hope then was that he had a fondness for redheads with freckles.

“I didn’t mean that….” I was flailing a bit, and I knew I was probably scarlet. One of the curses of my coloring was being unable to hide any form of embarrassment.

“I’m teasing you,” Jason smiled and finished off the rest of his coffee. “As it happens, my books always have strong gay characters, either at the front of the story or in supporting roles.”

“Are you published?”

“I have four books with a publisher, but the one I am working on now is something different, and I’m not sure who will want it.”

Intrigued was an understatement. I was also kind of in awe that I had an author sitting opposite me. One who was probably successful when I partnered it with the money-is-no-object thing. I was an artist as well, although selling my work wasn’t something I took lightly. What if people hated my quirky pictures, my watercolor takes on the irrationality of life?

Nope, I’m not taking that chance. I don’t need to now that I own a house and the business inside it.

“Are you allowed to say? What you’re writing about, I mean?”

Jason tilted his head a little and looked thoughtful, all narrowed eyes and cute. “Can I trust you?” he asked very seriously. Then before I could launch into my speech about keeping secrets, he continued. “It’s my first historical, set in the Second World War, with the GIs over here and a mystery revolving around a baby.”

“You’re in the right place, then. RAF Chelveston is just up the road, I could take you there if you like.” I was eager to show I could help Jason, be useful, and I loved Chelveston, or what was left of it.

“Station 105,” Jason said. “That was what it was called in the war. My great-grandfather flew B-17Fs with the 352 Bomb Squadron.”

I sat back in the chair. The coincidence was too much to skip over. Jason’s great-grandfather was stationed up the road, an American over here, just like Maggie’s dead love. What were the chances that Jason’s great-grandfather and Maggie’s lover were one and the same? But then, Jason said his great-granddad was married to Maggie’s sister. This was all too confusing to follow, and I should just listen instead of adding two and two to make five.

Jason blew my theory out of the water anyway. “He died last year. He was in his nineties. Three children, eight grandchildren, and at current count, there are twenty-one great-grandchildren and even three great-great-grandbabies. A good life, but he spent a lot of time last year back in the past. Alzheimer’s.”

“I’m sorry.” And I
was
sorry for the loss that put a bleak sadness into Jason’s eyes.

“I was closest to him, but I rationalize he had lived a long time and seen things that meant his life was full. He told me about his last bombing run, when he took a hit over Germany, and he managed to get the plane back to England and won a medal of honor for it. Said he wanted to get home for my great-grandmother, Annabelle. She was from Chelveston, worked in a pub there.”

“The Red Lion?”

“I don’t know. He couldn’t recall, but all I do know is he loved her so much, but she died young in the early sixties. He didn’t remarry. This book I thought could be based around their story.”

I leaned forward in my chair again. “That’s amazing. I love old stories like that.”

“Me too.”

“God, your family must be pissed,” I blurted out, then wished to hell I could call the words back. “I mean, losing this place.” I waved around at the house I called home and the post office and the shop and the cozy seating area we were using. “I’m not even related.”

Abruptly I imagined standing in court and fighting for the right to keep my home and wondered if perhaps I should even be talking to Jason.

Jason shook his head. “No one wanted this place or the cottage, you know, no one except me. I don’t know how she knew it should come to me, although I think my uncle may have been in correspondence with her. She said in her letter to me that she knew I had a writer’s soul.” He closed his eyes, briefly recalling the words in his letter, I assumed. “And that I would find a story in Apple Tree Cottage, and probably love as well.” He opened his eyes, and I was lost in the depths of the gray-green again as quick as a flash.

“That’s weirdly worded,” I pointed out.

“I know. You don’t find love, it finds you.”

I ignored the poet in his soul that made him create pretty words and continued with my own worries. “But the money from this place. Will I have your family contesting the will?” I wanted honesty from Jason, some kind of heads-up, and hoped he would recall I helped him on two occasions and that I was a nice guy who loved his home. Seemed like Jason knew where I was coming from.

“You never have to worry about that. Money is not something that worries my family. We have enough to last a thousand lifetimes. No one will come to England or want your home, I promise. It’s yours. Maggie left it to you for reasons only she knew, the same as how she specifically left me the cottage. So it’s okay to set up in the kitchen?”

The abrupt turn in conversation had me struggling to follow, but then I got what he meant. “Yeah, yeah, of course. The Internet isn’t really hot here, but it’s enough. The password is ‘postoffice’, all one word, but switch the o’s to zeroes.”

He stood and smoothed the front of his jeans, which looked perfectly unwrinkled to me. I doubted there was even a chance of wrinkling them given how snuggly they fitted him. I realized I was still sitting there staring at where he’d been for the longest time after he’d gone when I was actually roused out of my thoughts by the door opening and the small bell tinkling to warn me of a customer.

Going back to work with a lot of thoughts vying for attention in my brain was hard on the concentration, but somehow I muddled through the rest of the day. Maggie had a sister, who moved to the US with her American bomber crew boyfriend. I wondered why she’d never spoken of a sister to me. We’d grown quite close over the last ten years, enough that I was the only person to have been given the recipe for the applesauce cake. Not even Doris had that recipe, much to her dismay.

I guessed maybe if her sister died in the early sixties, then she’d been a distant memory. But what about her family? Clearly she had a whole group of people in the States who were related to her. I grabbed toast for lunch, and apart from a quick smile from Jason, he didn’t stop typing at the keyboard, totally engrossed in whatever story was in his head that was somehow making its way to paper. Or laptop.

Between customers, I worked on a sketch of him on the laptop, the artist capturing the writer, and when I finished it, I made sure the sketchpad was turned to a blank page. I’d known this man less than a few days, and I wasn’t ready for him to see my schoolboy crush in the lines on a page.

Locking up was delayed when Mrs. Wilkes absolutely had to, as priority, get stamps at one minute past five. I didn’t point out that even if she put something in the post now, it wouldn’t be picked up until eleven the next morning. That wasn’t the purpose of this place. The shop-café-library was there as a comfort to the people around who knew that we would be there if needed. The station house was a hub that villagers and beyond relied on, and I liked that I was playing an important part in the landscape of Burton Hartshorn. It felt permanent and wanted.