Cricket (8 page)

“Shenal’s a sweetie,” Stella said. “We go up to the theatre together sometimes, when there’s something good on. Judith would be good to keep on your side if you go ahead with converting the manor. You could arrange group discount deals for people who want to stay in the village.”

“I filled her in on some of the stuff we talked about earlier,” Ryan said, a note of apology in his voice. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all,” Henry said. “It’s not a secret. I meant to ask you, actually—what do you think the people around here will think? Of me opening the manor up again, I mean.”

Stella pursed her lips. “Be prepared for some skepticism,” she said slowly. “And maybe a little bit of negativity. I think, once people see that you plan on restoring rather than renovating the place, they’ll be more receptive to the idea. Also, if you can really make something of the fact that you’ll be bringing more people into the area, local economy and creating jobs, blah blah, then you’ll get the locals on your side.”

“People are going to look at you as an outsider,” Ryan said. “That can either be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on how you spin it. It’s only a little community here, so you don’t want to go making enemies.”

“I definitely don’t want that,” Henry said.

Stella dug her elbow into her brother’s ribs, altogether unsubtly. “You’ll be fine, darling,” she said. “Take your time, don’t rush things, call on local people for work as much as you can. I think you’re doing a good thing. People in the village have been saying for years that it’s a travesty that the manor was all closed up. They want it done right, but they do want it open for people to see.”

“Also, don’t underestimate how
nosy
people can be,” Ryan added. “They’ll want to look in, see what you’re doing.”

“This is a lot of information all at once,” Henry said.

“I’ve got to go back to work,” Stella said and drained her glass of water.

“I should be heading back too,” Henry added.

“And so should you,” Stella said to Ryan, giving him a pointed look. “You’ve got to be up for your chickens in the morning.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he said lightly. “Need a ride back, Henry?”

“You’re driving?” Henry asked incredulously. The man had drunk at least three pints of the cider, and it was pretty potent stuff.

“Yeah, that’s my tractor parked around the back. Didn’t you notice?”

“Ryan, stop teasing the poor man,” Stella scolded. “Get out of my pub, the both of you, or I’ll kick you out.”

The moon was hanging low in the sky, which Henry was grateful for, since it was pretty much the only light to see by.

“Don’t you have streetlights?” he asked Ryan, who hadn’t driven his tractor at all.
Bastard
, Henry thought.

“There are some in the village,” Ryan said. “Not many out here, though. If it’s overcast, I usually bring a torch, just in case.”

“A what?”

“A….” Ryan searched for the translation. “A flashlight.”

“Oh! Okay.”

“Clearly, I’ve watched too many American sitcoms,” Ryan said as they made their way back toward the hotel and the farm, guided by the light of the moon.

“Clearly, I haven’t seen enough British ones,” Henry added.

The lack of streetlights did have one advantage though—nearly every star was visible against the infinite black sky. Every few steps Henry paused to look up, unable to tear his eyes away from the clearness, the brightness. It was beautiful.

“I think this is you,” Ryan said, interrupting the stillness of the night.

Henry startled and looked around. Sure enough, they were on the opposite side of the road to the hotel.

“Oh yeah. Well, thanks for walking with me.”

“No problem.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay getting back?”

Ryan laughed. “I’ve been walking this route for nearly ten years now. I could do it in the dark.” And he winked.

“Okay. Well, I’ll see you again.”

“Sure. Good night, Henry.”

“’Night, Ryan.”

His room seemed especially lonely when he returned, even though he’d done a fairly good job of making it feel homey. Henry knew that it had been stupid to hide himself away, but fear was a strong motivator, and having Ryan by his side was reassuring. He wasn’t afraid of being gay-bashed with Ryan around—the man looked like he could handle himself in a fight.

The night had felt like a revelation. He could go out and have fun, and even though it was a million miles away from what he was used to, socializing wasn’t going to kill him.

On top of all of that… Ryan was cute. Hot wasn’t the right word to describe him; he wasn’t sexy and toned like Henry’s last boyfriend (the one who had dumped him for a much younger model) or even muscled and sultry like Scott. Ryan was his own brand of appealing, sweet, and nice, and friendly, and… warm. Henry could imagine being wrapped up in Ryan’s arms and feeling safe and secure.

Henry stood in front of the bathroom mirror and sighed. His heart ached. Even if—and it was a very big if—even if Ryan was gay, who was to say he’d be interested in a guy like Henry? He tried to force those thoughts away, but they lingered as he changed for bed, and hung around in his dreams.

Six

E
ARLY
on Sunday morning, the phone in Henry’s room rang.

“Hello?” he answered groggily.

Judith’s voice chirped down the phone at him. “Good morning, Mr. Richardson. I have a call for you.”

“Yeah, okay, put them through,” he said, sitting up in bed and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Henry, it’s Ryan. I’m outside, get up.”

“What?”

“Get up. I’m coming up to get you.” And he rang off. Henry collapsed back on his pillows and checked the clock on his nightstand, which said it was just after 10:00 a.m.

True to his word, a few minutes later Ryan knocked on his door and called through the wood.

“Henry, you lazy bastard, get up.”

Henry opened the door. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Ryan beamed. “We’re going to church. Get dressed.”

It took Henry a few moments to absorb and process this information. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Come on. Put a shirt on.”

Suddenly aware of his almost-nakedness, Henry rubbed a hand self-consciously over his chest and turned back to the room.

“It’s too early for this. Go away.”

He was ignored as Ryan strode past him into the room, headed for his closet, and searched through his clothes. A few moments later, a white shirt and a smart pair of jeans were thrown on the bed.

Henry wasn’t ashamed of his body, even if it was only covered by very tight underwear, but the thought of showing it off to Ryan was causing some unwelcome feelings for this time in the morning, particularly when Ryan kept mentioning church. He also wasn’t really sure why Ryan had come or how he’d found out which room Henry was staying in. It was confusing. His brain wasn’t good at picking apart information like that this early.

“Come on, get dressed,” Ryan said. “Don’t make me do it for you.”

Henry groaned. “I’m not going to church, Ryan. I’m Jewish.”

A snort turned to a giggle, which turned into a laugh. “Not anymore you’re not.”

“I’m gay.”

There. It was out.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Fifteen minutes later, Henry found himself in Ryan’s car.

“I still don’t understand why I’m doing this,” he grouched.

“Okay,” Ryan said. “A number of reasons. Firstly, I have to go, and Stella’s working, so she can’t come with me. And I don’t like going alone, and I didn’t know who else to take.”

“Bastard,” Henry muttered under his breath. Even though he hadn’t known Ryan long, he didn’t think the other man would take offense.

“But mostly, I’m doing you a favor.”

“Explain that to me one more time?”

“In this village, everyone knows everyone,” Ryan said, turning down an impossibly small lane where the hedgerow scraped at the side of his beat-up old VW Golf. “That’s a good thing and a bad thing. Nell, God bless her heart, has been going to this church service for longer than either you or I can contemplate. She’s a smart woman. You want her on your side.

“But it’s not just about impressing Nell. Imagine this—your new country estate manor house has just opened, and on the first weekend, a toilet breaks. You make the right connections here, you can make the right phone calls and someone will be out to you within the hour, to fix it for free, because you’re part of the congregation. It’s just how things work out here.”

Henry nodded. “So what you’re saying is, this is a networking opportunity.”

“My dear Henry, this is the biggest networking opportunity you’ll ever get.”

“And you didn’t want to go alone.”

“No,” Ryan said, smirking a little and not taking his eyes off the road. “I didn’t.”

Henry wondered about Ryan’s lack of other options until they pulled into the church’s parking lot.

He’d read somewhere, probably in some conservative newspaper back home, that Britain was gripped in a crisis of morality, that churches were empty, that faith was dying. Clearly the writer had never been here.

The church was ancient, or it at least looked that way. The brickwork was almost black with age, the stained-glass windows old and beautiful, and ivy climbed up and around the arched door into the building. Inside, the pews were made of dark wood, suspiciously narrow, with brightly colored crocheted cushions for kneeling during prayer lined up on little hooks under the shelf holding prayer books, Bibles, and hymn books.

“Way, way out of my comfort zone,” Henry muttered as Ryan led them through to one of the pews at the back of the church. The door opened into the middle of the church, at the side, and most of the pews to the front were already full. He could see Nell, sitting in the front row, wearing her hat and lace gloves, with a neat leather handbag perched on her knees.

She looked like a queen and graced him with a demure nod when he lifted a hand in greeting.

“Sing along, stand up in the right places, and pretend to listen,” Ryan said under his breath as they slid into a pew. “And trust me.”

He did as he was told: singing, standing, sitting, and pretending to listen for the relatively short forty-five-minute service, entertaining himself by studying the architecture, the stained-glass windows, the embroidered cloths hanging from the stone walls.

Despite the fact that Henry wasn’t particularly a fan of the whole Christianity thing, as a sociological experiment it was fairly interesting. Having a Jewish mother meant he’d never sat through a Christian service before, and although some of the readings had a familiar cadence to them and the songs tugged at his subconscious, it was entirely new.

Although he had absolutely no intention of admitting this to Ryan, as an experience, he hadn’t hated it.

As they dutifully filed out of the church, Henry was more than slightly surprised when Ryan, instead of shaking the pastor’s hand, enveloped him in a tight hug, laughing.

“Alright, mate?” Ryan asked.

“Yeah, not bad. Not bad.”

“This is Henry Richardson,” Ryan said, gesturing to Henry. “Nell Richardson’s great-grandson. He just moved here and is going to renovate Stretton House. Henry, this is Paul Aster. We went to school together.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Henry said, shaking the pastor’s hand.

“Pleasure,” Paul echoed. “Sorry I can’t stop to chat. You gonna be at the Dog for lunch?”

“Stella’s doing beef. See you there,” Ryan said with a cheeky smile.

They walked back to the car in silence. Henry got in, buckled up,

“What the fuck was that about?” he demanded as they pulled out of the parking lot. “You know the guy?”

“Yeah. Like I said, we went to school together. It’s the only reason I go to this church. Paul being there makes it slightly more bearable.”

“This is fucking crazy,” Henry muttered.

Ryan snorted. “Look, the guy went to university. He has a master’s degree in theology. He has spent the past decade dedicating himself to both study and prayer. If nothing else, you have to admire his devotion.”

“Is he homophobic?” Henry demanded.

“Not at all,” Ryan said. “I promise you now, that man knows more about scripture than you and I combined. He can preach for days on the inconsistencies in the Bible. He doesn’t gloss over them, or pretend they’re not there, because it’s clear to anyone with half a brain what they are and where they are. He did this sermon once about how the Bible has been changed over time—bits have been chopped out and changed and rewritten. He says his job is to find the meaning behind the text, find the truth and the faith in it, and preach that.”

“I thought you said you weren’t religious.”

“I’m agnostic,” Ryan said, signaling to turn back into the main part of the village. “All I’m saying is, you don’t need to worry about Paul starting a lynch mob to burn you at the stake for being gay. He’s not that type of man. Give him a chance.”

Henry was silent.

“That,” Ryan added, “and he’s my friend. We play cricket together, and he will definitely buy a round at the pub.”

Despite himself, Henry laughed.