Don't Read in the Closet: Volume Four (107 page)

scrambled up and hurt his shoulder again doing it, planted his behind

on the lounge when his head spun from the pain.

“It’s all right,” the man said. He nodded at Romeo’s right hand,

holding his left arm to his body. “Or are you?”

“Old injury,” Romeo said. “It’s mostly healed, unless I move just

wrong.”

“Sorry I scared you.”

“I think that’s my line.”

The man smiled. He was young, maybe Romeo’s age, and his

Italian was accented. Not heavily, and not so Romeo could tell where

he was from beyond “not here.” His hair was dark and curly, his

eyebrows dark and straight. He sat in one of the chairs by the table, a

large tablet in graceful hands.

“We’ll call it even on the trespassing. You invaded my privacy,

and I invaded yours.” He turned the tablet so Romeo could see it was

a sketchpad, the page filled with sketches. It took him a moment to

realize the man had been drawing him as he slept.

“I’m, uhh…” he said, “…wearing pants.” Romeo couldn’t decide if

it was good or bad that the sketch didn’t include genitalia.

“To get the anatomy right, draw the nude then add the clothes.”

The young man turned the sketchpad back around. “Would you like

some Tylenol—some Paracetamol for your shoulder? I’d like to go on

sketching you. I’d bribe you with dinner, but I don’t have food in the

house.”

Romeo grinned and poked his bag with his toe. “I can supply

dinner. Paracetamol would be lovely. Do you also have wineglasses?”

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The young man raised a dignified eyebrow, but a smile lurked

about his lips. “Probably. I’m Julian.”

“Romeo.”

Julian let his eyes trail the balcony before they came back to

Romeo. “You are not,” he said, but his smile had grown.

“Ask my mother. Some other time, please. I don’t want her to

know my hideout.”

“Hmm, leverage,” Julian said, but he set the tablet down and went

inside. Romeo pulled his shirt on carefully and took his bag to the

table. Two years of weather had left a film of debris on it, though, so

he waited for Julian and hopefully a washcloth before spreading out

the meal. Instead he lifted the sketchpad.

Julian had a skilled hand. Romeo could barely draw stick figures

and funny faces, but still he was Italian and he knew art when he saw

it. The raw sketches of his back, his arms, the whole-body nude, spoke

of power and strength, belying the injury throbbing in his shoulder.

Looking at them, he could see the best forward Italian football had

seen in twenty years. He knew again how it felt to plow down the

infield with the ball before him and half the opposing team too far

behind to catch him.

Stupidly he hoped Julian wouldn’t decide to draw him hurt, sitting

down hard to keep from falling as he cradled his shoulder and cringed

in pain.

“Now you’re getting intrusive,” Julian said, returning with a tray

and a scowl. Romeo turned the pad to show the page he was on.

“I didn’t look at anything but what you showed me,” he said.

Julian’s face lightened.

“In that case, you can wipe—no, hold the tray.” Julian handed it

over, took a wet washcloth and dry towel from it, and wiped the table

down. “I brought the whole bottle. I hope you won’t take a stupid

amount, especially if you’re drinking.”

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Still on the tray were two wineglasses, filled water glasses, plates,

silverwear, napkins, a tablecloth, and a bottle of medicine. Romeo

rolled his eyes.

“I’m Italian,” he said. “I know how to drink.”

Julian chuckled as he flipped the tablecloth out and draped it over

the table. Then he shoved his hair back from his forehead and Romeo

knew him. He’d seen just that gesture—

“Romeo?” Julian was trying to take the tray but Romeo’s hands

were clamped on it. He tilted his head in question and Romeo laughed

and let go.

“Sorry. Just realizing we’ve met before.”

“I doubt it.” Julian turned away to set the table. “I’ve only been

here for a few flying visits since I was…oh, six or so.”

“Seven,” Romeo said. “The last day before you left, you were up

in the little wood, at—” Oh hell. Romeo stopped talking, but Julian

had turned back to him.

“At my parents’ grave,” he said. “I was saying goodbye and some

boy fell out of a tree behind me.”

“I didn’t mean to spy on you,” Romeo said. “Back then I thought

they were my woods, and I didn’t realize it was a grave—” Julian

waved a hand and Romeo managed to shut up.

“Every time I come here, I go to the grave,” Julian said. “And it’s

always tended. Sometimes there are flowers.”

Romeo shrugged and winced at renewed pain in his shoulder.

“You were so worried about it,” he mumbled, looking up the hill. “I

thought, if it were my parents…” He shrugged
again
, damn it! Julian

grabbed his good arm.

“Sit down, Romeo. Take some medicine.” He guided Romeo into

a chair. Romeo went, somewhat surprised. Julian’s grip was stronger

than his artist’s hands suggested. Romeo could have resisted, but he’d

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 649

have to put some effort in. Julian twisted the bottle open, set it and a

glass of water in front of Romeo, and went back into the house.

He came back short minutes later carrying another tray, this one

holding an icepack and a steaming towel.

“I didn’t know which you needed,” he said, and set the tray in

Romeo’s reach. He looked at the food Romeo had spread out one-

handed. “Did you pack for a hike to Verona?”

“My father’s training—never let a guest leave the table unsatisfied.

Means I can’t make small meals.”

“Ahh.” Julian lifted the bottle and raised an eyebrow at the lack of

a label. He pulled the cork and sniffed it and this time both eyebrows

went up.

“My grandfather’s private vintage,” Romeo said, putting the

steaming towel to his shoulder in a move he’d practiced far too much

in the past three months.

“Well then.” Julian poured both glasses half full, set the bottle

down and lifted his glass. “Here’s to your family.”

“May they not hunt me down for skipping out,” Romeo added and

clinked his glass.

Julian sniffed the glass before he sipped, and tasted the wine

before he swallowed. He lifted the glass again, silent toast to the wine,

and Romeo grinned. Julian’s lips quirked in an acknowledging smile

that widened as he reached for the antipasto.

“I’ve seen five-star restaurants take less care in presentation.”

“Some people take pride in their work.”

“You’re a chef?”

“Naw.” Romeo broke the bread in half and offered it to Julian.

“I’m a football player. Soccer, I mean.”

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Julian didn’t take the bread. His eyes were half-closed as he

chewed salami and cheese. ”
Where
did you get this food?” he asked

when he could.

“You’ve been in the big city too long, my friend.”

Julian wrinkled his nose at Romeo, his mouth again full so he

couldn’t speak a response.

“Try the
caponata
,” Romeo suggested, offering the bread again.

Julian ripped off a piece and scraped up some of the mixture. He knew

what
caponata
was and how to eat it…but Romeo would have sworn

he wasn’t native despite his parents buried on the hill.

“Mmm!” Julian said, eyes fully closed this time.

“I made that,” Romeo said. “This morning.”

“You’re an evil man, Romeo.”

“And a hungry one.” Romeo moved food onto his own plate. For a

time they ate silently but for Julian’s occasional sounds of delight.

Julian had sat facing the hillside. When he wasn’t looking at his

food, his eyes rose to the escarpment. Romeo faced the house, but

mostly he looked at Julian.

Fifteen years, from child to adult, had changed him of course. But

Romeo could still see hints of the boy he remembered so clearly. The

hair gesture, though the unruly mop was more controlled now. His

eyes, wistful as he looked on the location of his parents’ grave. Romeo

remembered how lost Julian had looked that day and wondered why,

as the silence went on and Julian got distracted from eating, that look

was coming back.

Julian dropped his gaze, caught Romeo watching. Romeo

smirked.

“Love to watch my food enjoyed.”

“Unless you’re a damned good soccer player, you are wasted on

sports,” Julian said, ripping off more bread.

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“I am.” Romeo jerked his head at the towel on his shoulder.

“Usually.”

Julian tilted his head. “Missing the season?” he asked. Romeo

shrugged with one shoulder.

“We weren’t going to the championships anyway.”

“Well,” Julian turned his attention back to the food, “I hope it

heals.”

“How about you?” Romeo asked. “What brings you back after so

long?”

“Family,” Julian said, pouring more wine into glasses that didn’t

need it yet. Romeo replenished his plate and let the conversation go.

Into the quiet, birdsong grew, and the rushing of the creek, and the

flute of a shepherd up on the hill.

Family. But the gravestone—one for both people buried on the

hill—read “Areyas” and the house belonged to the Vocellis. Also,

Julian was alone. Only a man alone could move into a years-empty

house and not bring food.

Maybe he’d been sent ahead to get the house ready? Proper

stocking couldn’t be done in a few hours.

“Do you need help cleaning?” Romeo blurted. Julian started, then

smiled and picked at his plate.

“I can manage, thanks.”

“This is Italy, Julian. Neighbors like to help.”

“I know what country I landed in, Romeo.”

“If you run out of time,” Romeo said, “let me know. I’ll call in the

family and we’ll have the house fresh and full of good food in a day.”

“I’m sure.” Julian picked up his wineglass and swirled it. He

watched it circle the glass, but he didn’t drink it. “What does this

amazing family of yours do when not rescuing neighbors from their

own foolishness?”

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 652

Romeo grinned. “We run an inn, and rescue them there from bad

cooking and away-from-home-ness.”

Julian laughed. Romeo decided he’d like to hear that again, and set

about earning it.

When the first star showed, pale and hesitant in the darkening sky,

Romeo knew he should take himself home and he didn’t want to.

Julian didn’t look tired of his company, but the moon was rising to

light his way and his mother would be worried. Romeo sighed and

started collecting his things.

“All good things…” Julian said, and helped. When Romeo moved

towards the railing, though, Julian grabbed his good arm.

“I have a front door, you know. No climbing involved.”

“That,” Romeo said, “would break the spell.” He handed Julian the

bag. “Hand this down to me?”

“Hurt yourself again and I’ll drop it on your head.”

“Noted.” Romeo stepped over the railing. “I’ll be back. I still owe

you some lounging about shirtless!”

“I think,” Julian said as Romeo climbed down, “that I’m the one in

your debt.”

“Then you’ll have to let me draw you!”

Julian laughed. Romeo grinned and slipped into the twilight. As

he walked downhill beside the stream, Romeo knew two things. First,

that he was utterly addicted to Julian’s laugh.

Second, that despite years of trying to change, he most certainly

was irredeemably gay.

The next day Romeo made
baccelli e pecorino
under his mother’s

careful eye. When it was done and she turned to something else, he

filched some prime bits of roast pork to round out his offering and

slipped out the door.

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The day after that, he made
carabaccia
and then
salvia fritta