Timothy (18 page)

The next print was a well-built Latino looking man lying in the bed in my room. He was completely nude, and this wasn't an artistic shot—he had an erection, and his left hand was gripping it. He was looking at the camera with a seductive expression.

The next one was even more graphic—it was the same Latino man, only this time he was on his hands and knees, and the picture was taken from behind. He had his ass cheeks spread apart—

I let the stack fall back.

I took a deep breath.

That picture was
pornographic.

Why on earth was Timothy taking such graphic nude photos? It didn't make any sense to me. The earlier images, while nudes or semi-nudes, had an artistic aesthetic to them—the lighting, the poses, the lines—they were the kind of nudes that could be hung and sold in an expensive gallery in Manhattan. The less revealing ones—like the model kneeling in the sand with the wave crashing around him—could have easily been an ad campaign for his underwear company.

I could think of no reason for the more graphic images—or for framing such enormous prints.

There was so much about him I didn't know.

“You're just as obsessed with him as Carlo,” I said out loud. Minette opened her eyes and looked at me, then sighed and closed them again. I crossed the room to another stack of prints. I frowned and tilted my head. The print was on its side, and I turned it so I could view it the way it was intended.

It was also a black-and-white shot of a nude man reclining on his back on what was clearly the big table in the formal dining room. His face was in profile, and his left leg was discreetly bent and raised in such a way that only some of his upper pubic hair could be seen.

If it wasn't Chris Thoresson, my tennis pro, then he had an identical twin.

I bit my lower lip.

Chris had posed for Timothy's camera—it wasn't much of a stretch to assume they'd been lovers.

“It means no such thing,” I said out loud. Lots of photographers focused on male nudes—it didn't mean they slept with their models.

But the Latino—the pornographic shots of him pretty much suggested he, at least, had been intimate with Timothy.

Did Carlo know about this?

People often kill people they love—that's why they call them crimes of passion.

I pushed that thought away. That was ridiculous. Carlo had loved Timothy—and still wasn't over losing him.

I was letting Nell's suggestions get to me—which was probably what she wanted, why she'd said it to me in the first place.

Timothy had drowned, period. It was a senseless accident, nothing more.

I started flipping through the rest of the prints. None of these were in the least bit pornographic, and I didn't recognize any of the models. These were all black and whites, definitely more in the artistic vein. He had been good—he could have been a successful photographer had he chosen to be.

Of course, he was good at everything—everything came easy to people like Timothy.

“Stop it,” I scolded myself, “it's crazy to be jealous of someone who's dead.”

I reached the last print and gasped.

It was Timothy, in all his glory, his head tilted back to one side with his eyes slightly open and looking suggestively at the camera. Part of the reason Timothy had been such a successful underwear model was because of the hint of what was underneath the underwear, the tantalizingly big bulge in the front and the perfectly shaped round buttocks in the back.

But in this image he was reclining in the sand, the white sand in stark contrast to the dark tan of his skin. I could see the veins in his arms, his lower abs, and his legs. His hair was wet, and beads of water dribbled down the remarkably deep valley between his perfectly shaped pectoral muscles. His big round nipples were erect.

I looked over at the mirror, and back to the picture.

I wasn't even remotely in the same league as Timothy Burke.

Why had Carlo married me, what could he have possibly seen in me that he would marry me, someone who was practically a stranger, and bring me back to this incredible house where Timothy's memory still lived on, where he was everywhere I looked but just out of sight—like there in the corner of my eye but when I turned my head to see him he wasn't there anymore.

If it was like this for me—who hadn't known him, hadn't loved him—it must be ever so much worse for Carlo.

No wonder he could hardly stand to look at me.

He knew he'd made a terrible mistake and was trying to make the best of a bad bargain.

I don't know how long I was there in the studio, but by the time I finally snapped out of whatever it was I was experiencing and walked Minette back to the house, it was almost time for dinner. I took a shower and looked at my sad, pathetic body in the mirror.

Surely there must be some trainer I could hire to come teach me how to work out—to put the weights in the exercise room to good use? I could ask Chris when he came for my next tennis lesson.

Feeling somewhat better, I got dressed and went downstairs. Carlo, Joyce, and a man I assumed was her husband Frank were enjoying martinis in the drawing room. I heard their laughter as I came down the hall, and couldn't help but feel my own spirits lift. I loved Carlo and was determined to show him he hadn't made a mistake.

I accepted a martini from Frank, who was finishing mixing a fresh batch in a tall crystal pitcher. I took a sip and felt the vodka burn all the way down to my stomach. But there was a sweet aftertaste to it that I kind of liked, and I smiled at him.

I was feeling a bit of a buzz by the time we sat down to dinner. They were talking about things I didn't know anything about, so I simply listened to them.

I was slicing my prime rib when Joyce said, “PLEASE tell me you're GOING to have the Independence Ball THIS year, Carlo. I mean, EVERYONE'S wondering whether you're GOING to have it again—they ALL understand why you didn't have it LAST year, obviously, but NOW that you've married again—everyone's DYING to meet him, you know—and what BETTER way than the Independence Ball?”

I paused and didn't raise my head, but moved my eyes so they were on Carlo.

His face was impassive.

I knew what the Independence Ball was, of course. It was the big costume ball Carlo and Timothy had hosted every summer over the Fourth of July weekend, the big fund-raiser for the Gay Men's Health Crisis in New York City—it had raised something like ten million dollars ever since they'd started having it. Last summer, of course, it hadn't happened because Timothy had drowned.

After what seemed an eternity of awkward silence, his rigid face broke into a smile. “What do you think, Mouse?”

Three sets of eyes turned to me, and I swallowed. “Well, it is a good cause,” I said, terrified I'd say the wrong thing, “but I don't have the slightest idea of how to throw a party like that. I'd be completely useless.”

“Don't WORRY your pretty little head about A THING,” Joyce enthused. “I'll take CARE of everything, of course with Carson's help. All YOU need to WORRY about is a costume.”

“As the host I claim prerogative in not wearing one,” Carlo replied.

“You're so DULL,
”
Joyce shook her head, winking at me. “He HATES to wear costumes, even when we were CHILDREN he wouldn't dress up for Halloween.”

“If Carlo isn't going to wear one—” I started to say, but she cut me off.

“Oh, no, you aren't BOTH going to be DULLARDS.” Joyce shook her head. “It's WHAT, six weeks? You have PLENTY of time to COME up with a costume—and I'll set YOU up with the COSTUMER in the city I use.”

I looked around the table at three smiling faces and nodded. “Okay.”

Joyce clapped her hands in delight. “Wonderful. THAT'S settled.” And she began making plans—really, thinking out loud, about music and decorations and the invitations and everything.

And at one point I looked up to see Carson standing in the doorway, looking at me.

When our eyes met, the corners of his lips twitched before he bowed his head and walked away.

It goes without saying Carlo did not come to my suite that night.

It was foolish of me to expect him, after everything that had happened during the day—especially my idiocy about the china dog—but I waited up for him until it was clear to me, around midnight, he wasn't going to join me. I turned off the light and got under the covers, trying not to cry as I made excuses for him—he was tired after his trip, and Frank and Joyce had stayed rather late.

Minette, of course, sensed my distress and cuddled up to me in the bed.

I don't know what time it was I finally was able to fall asleep. I was worn out both physically and emotionally, but it still seemed to take a long time for me to drift off. I do know I was woken up at three in the morning when a storm front rolled in from the ocean. A crack of thunder startled me right out of a strange dream. Minette was whimpering and shivering, so I let her climb into my lap and started petting her and murmuring soothing words to her. Rain was pelting down against the French doors and windows, and I could hear the wind howling around the house. Lightning lit up the room, and the thunder that followed was so loud the house shook. That was all Minette could handle—she dove out of my arms and scampered under the bed.

I got out of bed and walked over to the French doors. The rain was pouring down, and in the dark it was almost impossible to see. A gust of wind rattled the door, and involuntarily I stepped back. There was about an inch of water on my balcony. I was about to reach for the balcony light switch when I noticed there was a light on in the studio. I looked back at my alarm clock. The red digital numbers glowed 3:04 in the darkened room.

Who could be out there at this hour, in this weather?
I wondered. But as I watched, the light went out. I peered through the darkness, but couldn't see anything.

There was another bright, blinding flash, followed almost immediately by the roar of thunder. The wind was whipping around the house, and I shivered. The swimming pool was filled with whitecaps and breaking waves, and just beyond the pool I could see the hedges on that side bending and being whipped around by the wind. Over the incessant pounding of the rain I could hear the sea waves pounding away at the shore. I pressed my face against the glass, watching the studio, but I didn't see anything or anyone in the darkness.

Finally, I gave up and went back to bed, deciding to check it out in the morning in daylight.

But the rain didn't let up for several days, and the gloom was depressing. I got an umbrella and sloshed through the rain to the studio the next morning, but everything looked the same as it had the day before.

I tried to take Minette with me, but she flatly refused to go outside. I tried again later in the day, but she would have none of it, refusing to budge. Olivia advised me to just put down newspapers in my bathroom—which made sense, since Minette seemed determined to spend most of her time cowering underneath my bed.

Things with Carlo were going better, the incident of the dog apparently forgotten. It wasn't the way things had been in Miami and Manhattan, but it was better. Every evening after dinner we would watch a movie in the rec room together on the big flat screen television—he liked old black-and-white movies, which was fine with me since I hadn't seen any of them. Afterward, he would come up to my bedroom with me—and I would have to close Minette up in the bathroom. I would fall asleep in his arms, but when I woke up the next morning I was alone, other than Minette curled up next to me.

I spent most of my time during the day either in the library reading art books or trying to figure out what costume to wear to the Independence Ball. I was going crazy from boredom—my tennis lessons had been canceled, obviously, so I started Googling images from past balls to try to get costume ideas.

My father didn't believe in Halloween when I was a child. He always turned off the porch light so trick-or-treaters wouldn't disturb us. Sometimes I'd spent the evening staring out my bedroom window at the kids in their costumes with their bags, going around collecting candy. I so envied them, and the ones whose parents dressed them in costumes to wear to school. I never knew exactly what my father had against Halloween—but there was always a reason. I had always wanted to wear a costume, and since this was my first opportunity to wear one, I wanted something clever and original, something no one had ever done before. I was excited and spent hours Googling costume ideas and looking at pictures.

“I don't know WHY you won't let ME help you,” Joyce groused at me one afternoon when she'd come by to plan the ball. “I'm wonderful at costumes. Frank would be LOST without my HELP, and people ALWAYS comment on how BRILLIANT our costumes are. I'd LOVE to help you.”

“I want to do this on my own,” I insisted, even though I was beginning to weaken. I couldn't think of anything, and my costume searches weren't helping.

Joyce was as good as her word. She took charge of the ball planning with a vengeance, and I quickly learned that it was best to stay out of her way. All she needed from me was my approval—Carlo just waved her off whenever she tried to present her plans to him. So, every day I met her in the library to approve her thoughts on food and hors d'oeuvres, music and alcohol, decorations and color schemes, music and little details I would have never thought of in a million years. Obviously, I couldn't help with the guest list—so I told her to just invite the people who usually were invited.

She made a weird sound when I said that, and I looked up from the book about eighteenth-century fashions I was paging through, hoping for any inspiration about what to wear.

She was gnawing her lower lip, and looked uncomfortable.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

She closed her eyes. “Well, Mouse, you see—” She paused again. “Timothy always took care of the ball invitations.” Her voice was small and sounded embarrassed.