Laying a Ghost (21 page)
It wasn’t that he didn’t understand Nick’s frustration. Christ, the man must be thinking he was pathetic, and the worst of it was that John agreed with him. He’d talked about not hurting people, but if he was going to be honest, the person he was most concerned about getting hurt was him. He’d seen what this island did to people who were different; how rough edges got smoothed off more than the rocks on the beaches. Seen how the pressure of a society still governed by tradition and the church could wear away at someone until they gave up, gave in, or left.
Oh, the new century had rolled around here, as well as everywhere else. Few homes were without TVs and computers if they had a teenager in them, and every year things got looser, more tolerant. But it was so gradual, it was barely perceptible, and the people who might have made a difference -- the rebels, the discontented -- well, they left, didn’t they?
Like Fiona. And now her son was back, bringing with him an attitude that was, quite literally, foreign to John.
Nick had obviously dealt with prejudice -- probably more so than John, whose worst memories were only of suffering through anti-gay jokes with a tight smile and the urge to throw up or hit someone rising behind his gritted teeth -- but it didn’t seem to have made him wary. All his secrets revolved around his ability to see ghosts, and that, to John’s mind, was something that the islanders would have accepted fairly easily, especially if he’d said he was a writer.
Even for the islanders, being gay was, it seemed, slightly more allowable if you were creative. Went with the territory. John had to admit that the lesbian couple who’d spent six months on the island weaving impenetrable scarves and shawls with wool from local sheep, dyed with natural berries and the like; well, they’d been accepted as much as visitors ever would be. Some raised eyebrows and clucked tongues, but they’d been in their early fifties, clearly well past an age where any man would want them, and so utterly unself-conscious that they’d compelled a tolerance John knew wouldn’t be extended to him.
Olivia and Diana had been strangers. He was family. Related to half the island, not an artistic bone in his body, and with a grandfather on his mother’s side who would’ve had his name out of the family Bible with a stroke of his fine-nibbed pen once he knew.
Sometimes John wished he knew how much of that dogmatic certainty had been passed down to his mother. His father hadn’t cared about such things; he’d gone to church to keep the peace but there’d been no conviction there, you could tell. His mother, though -- for all her outward practicality, Anne had a streak of Celtic mystery running through her like a gray rock banded with crystal, unexpected and sharply beautiful. Her religion married both sides of her nature, and John hated that when his father had died the minister had done more to comfort her than he could, murmuring quotations and assurances in her ear as she wept, her stoicism broken by a prayer, when he’d held her to him and not known how to make her let go and grieve.
“So,” Anne began, “you could have knocked me down with a feather when Stella told me who’d shown up in her place on Monday.” She nibbled at an éclair as if small bites meant fewer calories. “Ian Kelley’s nephew! I called you yesterday to ask you what he was like, but you weren’t in.” Anne licked cream off her finger and smiled at him as he sat opposite her, his face flushing. “You never knew his mother, of course, but I did, and she was a bonnie lass; does he favor her then?”
“How the hell should I know?” Her eyes widened, less at the fact that he’d sworn, although he didn’t usually, not when he was with her, and more at his tone. “Sorry, it’s just -- you said yourself; I didn’t know her.”
“And Mr. Sinclair said you were helping him settle; that’s kind of you, love. He’s nice then, is he?”
“He’s -- aye, he’s well enough.” John fought the urge to describe Nick in detail because he wanted to talk about him. “Doesn’t treat me -- people -- like we’re backward. Unlike that
bloody
minister.”
“John!” The reproof was immediate and sharp, color flashing into Anne’s cheeks. “I won’t have you speak of him that way.”
“And I won’t have him telling Nick to keep an eye on me in case I rip him off when he pays me for the work I’ve done!” John snapped. “He’d do well to mind his own business.”
“I’m sure you misunderstood him.” Anne’s face was troubled. “He’d have been joking, or just -- just looking out for the lad.”
“He’s no’ a lad. My age, in fact -- unless you think I still qualify as a kid?”
She chuckled. “Sometimes, aye, I think you do, for all that you’re my eldest.” She put her plate back on the table. “Never mind. Tell me about him; is he married? Does he have children?”
“He’s got no one.” John took a secret comfort in the knowledge that that wasn’t true now. Nick had him. “His father’s -- he’s not around anymore.”
“Poor Fiona.” Anne sighed. “She’d have liked to have seen her grandchildren before she died.”
From the little he’d heard of her, nothing seemed less likely. “You don’t know that,” John objected. “Maybe she wasn’t all that bothered about them.”
Anne smiled serenely. “All women with sons want to see them have children.” That showed a stunning lack of regard for the facts as John could think of several exceptions right there on the island.
“Well, don’t hold your breath waiting for me to add to the throng of grandchildren you’ve got.”
“When you find the right one, you’ll change your mind,” Anne told him. “When you stop wishing for what might have been.”
Irritation at the fiction he’d created chafed at John. “If you’re meaning Sheila, I’ve no thought for her that way, and it’s been many a year since I did.”
Anne studied him as if judging his sincerity and then smiled. “Well, that’s good to know, son.”
“Aye, but it still doesn’t mean you’re getting more grandchildren.”
“Why ever not?” Anne straightened up, looking indignant. “You’re a fine man and there’s not an unattached woman on this island who’d turn you down!”
“They won’t be getting the chance.”
John felt a strange exhilaration fill him, as if years of hiding, years of having this conversation, with very different dialogue, were in the past, never to be part of his future.
“Well, we’ll see about that on Friday.” Anne gave a determined nod of her head. “At the party. I’ll not have you getting up to mischief, but if you were to see someone who took your fancy --”
“Party? What party?” John gulped down his lukewarm tea and glared at her, the moment lost. “There is no party!”
A quietly confident smile passed over Anne McIntyre’s face. “I’m turning sixty, Stella’s cleaning like she’s got the inspectors in, your sister took me shopping for a new dress, just in case of something she didn’t go into details about, and people keep smiling at me in the shops, and looking so full of a secret it’s all I can do not to poke them and watch them pop. Of course there’s a party.”
Defeated, he narrowed his eyes at her. “If there is, you didn’t hear it from me. God, Stella’s going to have the hide off me, if Janet leaves her any.”
“I won’t say a word if you tell me when it is so I’ve time to get ready,” she promised.
“Eight. It’s at eight. And that’s it. Not another word, woman.”
She stood up, her mouth pursed in a gleeful smile. “Not another word.” As she reached the door, she turned back. “Why don’t you ask Nick to come? If he’s nice, and if he’s staying, it’ll be a good chance for him to meet people.”
“I don’t think he’d be comfortable -- he doesn’t know anyone -- it’s a small do -- it’s just family really.” John stopped babbling, got up and followed her to the door.
“It hadn’t better be small,” Anne said crisply. “And he
is
family. His mother’s cousin was --”
“Your Uncle James, aye, I know.”
She nodded. “That’s right. And he knows you, doesn’t he? And you’ll take care of him until he finds his feet?”
John leaned forward and kissed her cheek, surprising them both. “Aye. I’ll take care of him for you.” He grinned. “So shall I break
She blushed. “And what makes you think I’d say yes to either of you?” She smoothed her hair back. “
“He’d like to be more,” John said.
Anne’s mouth set firmly. “I’m a widow and still in mourning.”
“We all are,” John told her. “But if you think Dad would want you grieving forever --”
“It’s too soon. Now have done, John.” Anne turned and began to walk away. “And think on,” she called back. “I want to see you dancing with someone on Friday!”
* * * * *
By the time John set out for Nick’s house, it was later than he’d anticipated it being. Not too late for a late supper, but late enough that the sun was setting, the colors of it smeared across the sky like someone had painted it with a wet brush. John snorted at the fanciful notion and reminded himself that he didn’t have to go completely daft just because he was in love.
God. There’d been times he’d never thought he’d find someone, and now that he had, he couldn’t help but think that it was a hell of a lot more complicated than he’d ever imagined. Not that he’d thought it’d be easy, mind, but the fact that Nick was on the island and planning to stay made it a bit less simple than it’d have been if he’d been on
As he neared Rossneath, dirt and stones crunching under his boots, John saw that the light was on in the garage. Frowning, he headed for it, wondering if they’d left the light on earlier or if Nick had come out to look for something.
To say that he was surprised to find Nick sitting in the driver’s seat of the car would have been an understatement. Nick didn’t seem to know that he was there, the car being face-in, so John stopped and watched. Waited.
All he could see was the back of Nick’s head and the steering wheel. As John watched, Nick lifted his hands and put them on the wheel, gripping it tightly, and then letting them drop down into his lap again.
Pity and admiration held John in place, unwilling to leave in case Nick needed him, not wanting to step forward in case he broke the resolve that had let Nick go this far. He settled for stepping back, out of Nick’s view if he glanced into the mirror, and waited.
Nick raised his hand to the key, holding onto it, but didn’t turn it. It occurred to John that Nick might not be capable of shifting the gears, what with his weak wrist being on the left, but somehow he doubted it was going to be an issue. He thought it was more that Nick was testing himself.
Dropping his left hand back into his lap, Nick put the right onto the steering wheel again and leaned forward, resting his head on his arm. John could see his shoulders rising and falling with each breath, but he didn’t think the man was weeping.
Then, just as John was thinking that he’d go to him, Nick straightened up and got out of the car. He shut the door, keys in hand, and flinched when he saw John standing there, clearly startled. “Shit. How long have you been here?”
“Not long,” John said awkwardly, wishing that he’d handled it differently now. Nick’s face looked -- not hostile, no, but closed off. It seemed as if every time they left each other, even for just a few hours, they had to start to get to know each other all over again. “I didn’t want -- you didn’t look like you wanted company. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Nick’s expression changed to something more like sheepish, and he put a hand into his pocket. “I thought it might be easier without an audience. But I’m glad you’re here. I walked into town and got food. How’s your mom?” He moved to shut off the light and stepped outside, shutting the door.
“She’s fine.” They turned to walk towards the house. “She, ah, wants to meet you. We’re having a birthday party for her on Friday night at Stella’s and she wants you to come.” John frowned. “It was
supposed
to be a surprise but -- och,
“
“Aye,
Nick opened the door to the house and John followed him inside. The lights were on in the kitchen, the room warm and filled with a rich smell coming from a pot on the range top. At John’s look, Nick explained, “Chicken soup. It’s about the closest thing to real cooking I can manage. Plus it’s a good excuse to eat garlic bread.”
“Homemade soup seems like real cooking to me.” John sniffed appreciatively. “I don’t starve if I have to feed myself, but I eat more at Stella’s than I probably should, if only so I’m not left with a lot of dishes to wash.”
Nick kicked off his shoes and went to the sink, setting the car keys on the countertop and washing his hands. There was a foil wrapped loaf on top of the range beside the soup pot. “Can you show me how to work the oven?” Nick asked, moving over to stir the soup. “I figured out how to work the burners, obviously, but it’s been a long time since I used a gas stove, and I have to admit I was a little nervous about blowing the house up.”
“That’s probably the stove your mother would’ve cooked on.” John joined him, eyeing it a little warily himself. “You’ll need to have a match ready, turn it on here, and shove your head inside and light the burner at the back.” He shook his head. “Not one for moving with the times, was your uncle.”
“Apparently not.” Nick reached for the box of matches that was over the stove and opened it, taking out one match. John opened the oven and watched as Nick crouched down in front of it. “So someone really thought it was a good idea to build these things so that you had to have your head inside a metal box that holds fire?”
John chuckled, although he could understand Nick’s concern. Nick lit the match, turned the knob, and leaned in. A familiar whooshing sound confirmed that he’d managed to light the stove.