Giving Up the Ghost (2 page)
John kissed Nick, for once doing it less because he could and he wanted to, than because it gave him time to think before he replied. Nick’s mouth moved against his sleepily but still holding the heat from their lovemaking. ”There’s maybe something you could do?” John offered a little hesitantly when the kiss wound down. He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. “Do you have any hobbies? Because it’s going to be a long winter, you know. I’m not saying you want to take up stamp collecting, mind…”
“Good, because somehow I don’t see that filling up my free time.” Nick sounded amused. “And you did promise to give me another lesson with the axe -- which should probably wait until you’re less sore. But even if I took over all the wood-splitting duties that still leaves an awful lot of time for doing nothing but staring at the walls, and I’ve heard that can take even regular people to the point of seeing ghosts.” It was the first time in weeks John could recall Nick having mentioned that particular talent, as if Nick had needed time to distance himself from the ability in order to move on to this new phase of his life. “Anyway,” Nick continued, “I guess I’ll find something to do with myself.” He didn’t sound too certain, though.
John yawned, smothering it with his hand and then snapping off the light. He’d think of something Nick could do…or Nick would get a bright idea of his own. They settled down again and John nudged Nick’s shoulder with his chin, smiling into the darkness. “Maybe you should start that book you’re always saying you’re going to write.” He chuckled softly. “You wouldn’t be the first visitor to do that…start, I mean. Most of them run out of steam after the first chapter, though, if they even get that far.” ”I’m not a visitor.” Nick sounded annoyed and John winced, for all that he was pleased to hear Nick sound so definite about it. “Well, no, of course you’re not --”
“Besides, most of them run out of steam because they aren’t here long enough.” Nick turned his head, the stubble on his jaw catching in John’s hair. “I’m gonna be here forever.” In the quiet, John could just about hear the gears in Nick’s head turning. “Maybe I
will
write that book, just to show you I can.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to me.” John felt a little bemused by how quickly Nick had taken him up on the idea, as if it was something he’d had in his mind, waiting. “But if you think it’s something you’d like doing I can’t think of a better way to pass the time.” He gave Nick one final kiss and rolled over. A book. Well, it’d keep Nick busy until spring, maybe, and then there’d be plenty of real work for him to do…that new vegetable patch they’d been planning…the boat would need overhauling, aye, and maybe they could…He drifted off to sleep.
Chapter One
John pulled his heavy jacket out of the closet, listening to the wind howl outside. No rain in it, though; it could be worse. December had brought one storm after another to the island, lashing it with rain and sleet, the short days dark with low-lying clouds, the sun a pale ghost. He was used to it after a lifetime living on the island, but that didn’t mean he was enjoying it. With his jacket in his hand, he walked through the house to the kitchen, where Nick’s laptop and an assortment of books were cluttering up the kitchen table. The man seemed incapable of working in anything other than chaos. Scrawled notes to himself, acting as bookmarks, were fluttering slightly in the draft coming from under the back door. Nick was tapping away, his fingers finding the keys without fumbling, his gaze locked on the screen.
“I’ll be off, then,” John said, staring at the back of Nick’s head, the dark hair tousled and longer than usual. He felt as if that was all he saw of Nick these days; the hunch of a shoulder, the curve of his back. “Unless you want to take a break from that and join me? Michael was asking after you the other day, said he hadn’t seen you for a while.”
“What?” After a moment, Nick turned his head and looked at John. He had the vaguely unfocused look around his eyes that he often had when he was working. It was a look John didn’t particularly care for, not that he’d have said so to Nick, of course, as that would have required explaining why. He was fairly certain that admitting he was jealous of the attention Nick gave his writing wouldn’t go over well. “Oh. Um, yeah -- Not tonight, okay? I’m in the middle of this chapter, and I’ve finally got some momentum going. I don’t want to stop now.”
“You said you couldn’t stop yesterday because it
wasn’t
working.”
John tried to keep his voice light, even amused, but it wasn’t easy. He’d been the one to encourage Nick to start the book; it’d seemed a natural step after the few articles Nick had had published. Now he was wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. Nick had told him bluntly that the money involved, assuming the book ever got published, would be minimal, as he didn’t intend to sensationalize the subject matter. John hadn’t been too bothered by that, although money was always tight; he’d just wanted Nick to have something to do with himself as the long winter began, Nick’s second on the island. The first winter they’d been so wrapped up in each other that the months had gone by quickly, but this autumn Nick had started to get restless even before the first gale stripped the leaves from the trees.
Going from years of wandering, never settling down, to life in a small house on a small island -- well, John wasn’t surprised by Nick’s discontent, mild enough for the most part. There were plenty of times when Nick had turned to him and smiled, commenting on how peaceful it was; how much he loved the quiet, after all.
No; John had just been too clever for his own good, that was what it was, and now he was paying for it.
“I’m sorry.” Nick sounded genuinely apologetic; he raised a hand and caught at John’s sleeve, brushing warm fingers against the sensitive skin of John’s wrist before turning back to his computer. “Tomorrow night, okay?”
It wasn’t the first time he’d promised that, though, and John had no reason to believe tomorrow would be any different. The house felt strangely empty when Nick was working. John had put up with it for many weeks before he’d suggested tentatively one night that maybe he’d go out to the pub with Michael, if Nick wouldn’t mind, and Nick’s response had been affirmative but distant, as if he were barely paying attention.
It wasn’t that he expected them to live in each other’s pockets; he’d seen early on that Nick would never be a fisherman, not seriously, for all that Nick loved sending John’s boat skimming out across the bay, the wind whipping his hair back off his face. And John had spent more time fishing than doing anything else before Nick had turned up on the island. Given a choice, though, he’d put Nick first every time, no matter how well the mackerel were biting, leaving his boat drawn up on the sand day after day. It was just a pity that Nick didn’t seem inclined to do the same.
John bent down and gave Nick’s cheek a brief farewell kiss. His cheek, because Nick didn’t turn his head enough for a kiss on his mouth. In fact, he tensed, his fingers stilling on the keyboard, until John straightened and left him in peace.
John didn’t deliberately slam the door behind him, but he let the wind take it from his hand and close it with a decisive, window-rattling thud that summed up how he felt.
The wind buffeted the side of the car as he pulled out onto the road, worry nagging at him. Something was wrong, and, worse, he didn’t know what it was. He’d tried to ask Nick more than once, but Nick had just shaken his head, insisting he was fine, that
they
were fine.
On more than one occasion, he’d woken in the middle of the night to find Nick lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling or the wall. Knowing that Nick wasn’t sleeping was one piece of the puzzle, at least. The only saving grace, the one thing that reassured John that things might not be as bad as he feared, was that Nick woke each morning eager as a puppy, hands roaming John’s body, mouth warm and arousing over John’s skin, and his eagerness was contagious, driving John to heights he wouldn’t have thought possible at his age.
The pub was crowded when he arrived, and he had to squeeze the car in between two others. He held his jacket closed at the neck as he hurried inside, anxious to be out of the cold wind and into an environment where he felt welcomed.
“John!” Michael called from their usual table, raising a hand as the door closed behind him.
He returned the wave, and was about to head to the bar when he saw that Michael already had a pint and a whiskey chaser waiting for him on their table. Threading his way through the crowd, returning nods of greeting from various acquaintances, he felt a surge of gratitude, less for the drinks themselves, though he was looking forward to downing the whiskey to warm himself, than for the thought behind them.
“So you’re by yourself again?” Michael asked, not troubling to lead up to the question.
The gratitude evaporated. “Looks like it, doesn’t it.” The whiskey slipped down in two swallows and John sighed, his tongue loosening. “He’s busy with the writing. Sends his apologies.”
Michael nodded. The pub was loud, their table tucked away against the wall, giving them the illusion of privacy. “Enjoying it that much, is he?” he asked doubtfully.
“Seems to be.” John stared down into his glass of bitter. “I tiptoe around, trying not to disturb him, but to be honest, I doubt he’d notice if I took up playing the bagpipes.”
Nearly choking on his pint, Michael wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave John an astonished look. “Should bloody well hope you’re not considering it. You’d probably break every pane of glass in the house.” He grinned, but even as John looked at him his expression melted into something more like concern. “You’re not regretting taking up with him, are you?”
“No, I am not.” John didn’t even have to think about that. His life before meeting Nick hadn’t been unhappy, exactly, but it had been lonely as hell. And as dreary at times as this winter was proving to be. “It’s more of him I want, not less. More of his attention, anyway. Christ, he’s only on chapter three! By the time he’s finished, I’ll be -- I don’t know -- ready to use that damn computer for target practice, maybe.”
“At least there you’d stand a chance.” Michael mimed shooting a handgun, thankfully aiming at the wall instead of John or anyone else in the room. “I’m glad,” he added, “that you don’t want to leave him, I mean.” When John raised a questioning eyebrow, Michael explained. “You’ve been happier since he’s been here. Not that you ever seemed unhappy before, mind, but you’ve been different. Content, maybe.”
“More than that,” John protested. “A lot more.”
Content? It wasn’t contentment he felt when Nick was walking toward him, smiling a promise before dropping to his knees. It wasn’t anything close to that settled an emotion. His mother and her new husband; aye, they were contented, but Christ, he wasn’t at that stage yet.
“I can be quiet with him.” Michael nodded as if he understood that, although he was married to a woman who rarely shut up so John wasn’t sure how he’d know. John loved Sheila like a sister, but the woman could blather on about nothing for far longer than he could bear to listen, especially when she’d had a glass or two of wine. “I’m happy with him in my life. I’m just not sure he is anymore.” John took a long swallow of bitter. “Maybe he’s bored. With the island. With me. I couldn’t find it in me to blame him. It’s not what he’s used to.”
“Could be he just needs a bit more time to settle in,” Michael suggested. “As you say, none of this is what he’s used to -- not the staying in one place, not the island. It’s a lot to take in all at once, and you know what people can be like. How many have come thinking to stay for good and still been here a year later? It says a lot for him that he’s stayed as long as he has.” John’s expression must have revealed all too clearly what he was thinking, because Michael looked worried and abashed at the same time. “What I’m saying is he’s not bored with you. Can’t imagine how anyone could be. He’s lucky to have you.”
Flushed, Michael lifted his pint and poured half of it down his throat in one gulp. John wasn’t surprised Michael seemed flustered; they didn’t usually pay each other compliments.
Taking pity on him, and as uncomfortable as Michael with the emotional turn the conversation had taken, John cleared his throat and gestured over to the corner where the dartboard stood unused. “Are we playing darts tonight or not? I’ll get us another round in, shall I?”
“God, yes,” Michael said fervently, shoving his chair back and draining his glass before standing up.
John grinned as he waited at the bar for their drinks. Michael always made him feel better. Settled. He’d have a game or two of darts, another few pints, and head home to talk to Nick, who wouldn’t mind how personal the conversation got and who’d understand that he had to take a break from that damned book.
Except it was Colin Firth’s birthday, and he stood everyone a drink, and it would’ve been rude not to have got him one back, seeing as John had known him for years, which left John too drunk to drive and so he spent the night in town, on Michael’s sofa, after a slurred phone call to Nick in which he could clearly hear the tapping noise that meant Nick wasn’t stopping the writing even for as long as it took to tell him affectionately that he was a pain in the ass and Nick would see him in the morning.
* * * * *
He woke to another gray day and Sheila standing over him with a hot cup of tea. “John McIntyre,” she said with disapproval. “I’d have thought you were old enough to know better by now.”
“Christ, what time is it?” John rubbed sleep out of his eyes and sat up, reaching for the tea as a way to wash the sour taste of too much beer from his mouth.
“Time for you to get yourself back to that man of yours before he starts wondering what you’re doing with yourself.” Sheila crossed her arms, then sighed. “It’s nearly seven. The children have been up for half an hour; I’m surprised they didn’t wake you sooner.”
“I sleep sound when I’ve had a few,” John said ruefully. A crash from upstairs, followed by an indignant squeal, had him shuddering and sipping his tea as fast as he could. He liked children, and had been accused of spoiling not only his own nieces and nephews but the children currently chasing each other around upstairs, but God, he liked them a whole lot better when he didn’t have a hangover. “Is Michael up and about?”
