Rough Canvas (46 page)

“I want to marry you,” he repeated. “I want you to know that every morning when you wake up and see me that I want to be there, that I made an oath to be there. To stand by you. And that there’s no one else for me. Not ever.”

Thomas swallowed. “I’ve never thought of it. Never even considered it possible.”

He gave a husky chuckle. “Marcus, Jesus…”

“Yes or no, pet. That’s the only thing that matters.”

It was the urgent note in Marcus’ voice that pulled Thomas away from his own

reaction. He raised his gaze to Marcus’ face. When he saw the look in his eyes, the tautness around his unsmiling mouth and the tension in his face, Thomas was

reminded of what had transpired over the past few days, his own thoughts when he was with Lauren in the kitchen.

Though Marcus wouldn’t see it this way, he’d given Thomas the best possible

opening for the conversation he’d intended to have with his Master later tonight. What Thomas was going to do to prove himself to Marcus, to win the trust Thomas knew would be required to love each other for a lifetime of ups and downs, good times and bad.

Thomas’ world righted itself, giving him a calm peace. He stepped forward until they were eye to eye.

“No,” he said.

As Marcus’ expression changed, he pressed on. “Tomorrow, I’m going to go home

and tell my mother how I feel about you, the life I intend to have with you. I’m going to deal with Rory. I’m going to make it clear who I am and what I want, and how it’s going to be. Then, I’ll come back and say yes.”

He put his hand over Marcus’ on the box, tried to ignore how the fingers had gotten rigid. “The words you just said to me mean everything. So I owe you the same. I won’t ever have you wonder if you just overwhelmed me, coaxed me into this. I’m standing up to you, Master. To Marcus Aurelius Stanton, turning you down flat until I can go get my life in shape and deserve you. Then, I’m going to ask
you
to marry
me
.”

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It had been hard to say. The right thing to say, but so hard. From the worry in Lauren’s face, Thomas knew she had the same concern he did. That although Marcus heard the words, nothing in his past or present gave him the ability to believe them.

When Thomas left for his family in the past, whether for a short trip or to break it off, he
left
. Which is why Thomas had to prove to Marcus that wasn’t going to happen again.

He couldn’t think about it too much, because it tore him apart to leave Marcus

suffering, to only be able to convince him through the deed, which required the passage of time.

Marcus thwarted in his intent was not a pleasant person. Sex had been savage,

stilted, and Thomas had woken alone, aching and bruised, to find Marcus already gone to his gallery. He’d left a Thermos of terrible coffee for Thomas’ cab ride to the airport.

The rings and the chain were still on the mantle where Marcus had put them. Thomas deliberated, then took them with him. He wanted to look at them, think about them, remind himself. He wanted Marcus to see he’d taken them.

The connecting flight had been delayed, so he’d gotten home late, after midnight.

He’d found out from a sleepy Les where his mother was.

Somehow, the tranquility of the one a.m. hour seemed appropriate for the

conversation. That, and his urgency to get back to Marcus. Following the gravel road, Thomas walked the mile to the church under a silent starry sky. He was accompanied by the Murphy’s coon dog, who saw him pass their house and fell into step with him, always up for a stroll.

Even a Catholic church as small as theirs was had a tabernacle, where vigil prayer went on twenty-four hours a day over the extra communion wafers that had been

blessed by the priest as the actual flesh of Christ. The Catholics in the area, including his mother, took turns. Apparently, she’d chosen the 12:30-1:30 a.m. time slot, probably because she wasn’t sleeping well.

She hadn’t slept well since their father died, really. Still learning to sleep in a bed by herself, he assumed. A couple times when he’d woken earlier than her, he’d seen her curled up in Les’ single bed.

When she took a late hour like this, Thomas’ practice of faith had been to meet her on the steps to walk her home. He’d taken over that responsibility as a teenager, when his father had to work long hours. He wouldn’t let the boys help with things that interfered with their homework. So this was one thing Thomas could do.

It was a ritual he remembered now with deep affection, how his mother would loop her arm through his as they walked so he could keep her from tripping over loose rock.

He’d talk about problems, skirting around the one that was uppermost in his mind.

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She’d walk silently next to him, pauses he now knew reflected her understanding of what his real worry was. She’d tell him to pray, to ask God to help him to find his true self.

Tonight, he looked up at the stars, the vastness of the sky and the world in which he lived, and knew who he was. All he wanted was for her to accept that, the way she accepted God’s wisdom for the many things she couldn’t understand.

As he thought about it, it was all about family. Les, Rory, Mom. Marcus. It wasn’t a spigot that turned on and off, no matter how his Mom or even Marcus wanted to

believe it was, to uphold their view of the world, or to protect a heart that had already been invaded. He was in Marcus’ heart, in his soul, and he couldn’t be shut out. Same with his mother. Just as Walter Briggs had said.

When there was full surrender, a lot of things became clearer. To be head of a

family meant something far different than just being there—it meant making the hard choices he knew would be best for all of them, as Marcus had demonstrated to him that day in the way he’d handled Rory.

Tonight he would tell his mother he loved Marcus. Tomorrow, he would make sure

Les knew she shouldn’t get married until she finished school, and he’d invite her boyfriend down and make sure he understood the same. Rory would get off his butt, figuratively speaking, and start pulling his weight. Then he would go to Marcus.

The asshole had left him one message. A business card next to the coffee, one of his gallery associates, with a scrawled note saying “If you don’t come back, deal through John on your paintings. It will be easier for both of us.”

Thomas had torn up the card and left it on the table. Idiot.

When he got there, Elaine was just coming out, pulling her light jacket over her shoulders. She saw him, a momentary start, then recognition. Smiling, she came down the steps. He hugged her when she was still a couple steps up, so they were eye to eye.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hello, son. I’m glad you’re home. You didn’t have to come out here. I’m sure

you’re tired from your flight.”

“I wanted to come. I wanted to talk to you. Here.”

Elaine’s eyes stilled, studied his face. “All right. Why don’t we sit here, on the stairs?” As if she felt better with all the symbolic strength of God at her back. He didn’t fault her for that, but he hoped she’d use it as a comfort, not a reinforcing army to turn this into a combat.

He sat next to her, pressing close as he usually did when they walked, to give her warmth. She seemed to have shrunk some since Dad died, and seemed more fragile and often cold.

Though he knew he was risking the hurt of having her pull away, he took one of

her hands, enclosed it in both of his. ”I do pray, a lot, Mom. I always have, because I believe you. And I believe in Him. You know that?”

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She pursed her lips, looked down at their joined hands. “I know that, Thomas. I know you love God. You’ve always had a very loving heart.”

He nodded. “I try. I’m worried about what I’m about to say to you, but I really need you to hear it. I consider Marcus my family, the way I consider you, Les and Rory my family. The way Les’ boyfriend will become our family if they get married. Marcus has no family, nothing but me. I want to give him all of mine, because I can’t imagine a better family for him to be a part of. If I can only give him myself, so be it. But he doesn’t just need me, Mom. I think he needs all of us.”

He took a deep breath. “If you can’t accept that, then I’ll integrate you both into my life, but I won’t turn my back on Marcus anymore. You understand?”

She did free her hand as he expected, but to cup the rosary in her hands, stroke the base of the wooden cross with her fingers. Thomas had made it for her in shop in seventh grade, learning how to make the round beads, sanding and smoothing the

small cross piece, carving it out of one piece of wood. He’d chosen a pretty piece of oak for it.

“I need you to say something, Mom.” Closing his hand into a tense fist at his side, where she couldn’t see it, he tried to keep his tone mild. “Or, if you don’t want to, I can walk you on home.”

“You were always so articulate, so well spoken. Quiet, but when you spoke, you

had your thoughts in such good order it was like poetry at times. Whereas Rory still trips over his tongue around girls or even my friends.” She smiled, though there was a wistful sadness to it that made him want to put his arm around her. “He was right,” she murmured. “I did always know. It wasn’t even in those things, because Martha

Wingfield’s child is…like you, and he’s as rough as a fence post. But it was a clue for me, I guess.”

“Mom, what…who’s ‘he’?”

“Your friend Marcus told me something once,” she said abruptly. “That time he

came down here to talk you into going to the Berkshires.” At Thomas’ expression, she shook her head. “He didn’t tell you about it. Neither did I. I guess the both of us said more than we should. I didn’t pay attention to it, but sometimes…”

She glanced back up the steps at the face of her church, her eyes lingering on the stonework on the front. “There are those who hate Catholics. For no reason other than we’re different. It’s that way for a lot of people, I know. But I’ve been thinking that it’s not the differences that frighten people. That’s not the root of it. It’s that we can be different and yet be so much the same.

“It didn’t sink in then, what he said to me that day. And I don’t think what I said sank in, either. But the odd thing is I think it did later for both of us, on almost the same day. That day he got the call about his father. Like so many things that God tries to tell us, we have to do it the way we think is best before we try doing it His Way. And sometimes he sends us reminders if we stray too far. That’s how much He loves us.”

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“Mom.” Thomas put a hand over hers again and found it colder, so he caught both of them and sandwiched them in his, warming them along with the rosary beads that dangled off the side of his palm. “You’re confusing me.”

She smiled. “So much of what goes on in your head when you paint, that’s a

universe beyond my understanding. But when it’s like this, the day to day, you’ve always been a person who likes plain speaking. That day, when he was so angry about what I did to your painting…” She took a deep breath. “The look on his face. There was nothing more important to him than protecting you, protecting your happiness.

“Sometimes, when you’re desperately, foolishly in love with someone, you find out what they keep in the shadows of their soul has nothing to do with you or how they feel about you. Sometimes they’re afraid if they let that out, let go of what they’ve been trying too hard to handle a certain way for so long, things will change. They don’t realize that’s what love is about. Being willing to open up and change the way they do things, do it together. Be different, in the new way.”

“Marcus isn’t desperate or foolish.”

“Oh, Thomas. When it comes to you, he’s quite both.” She freed a hand and ran it down the side of his face, stroked through his hair. “This is getting curly again. You should visit the barber. Rory’s is getting long too. Maybe you could go together.” She sighed.

“I didn’t want to see it, because it confused me. How could I see the same things I felt for your father, and he for me, in the way the two of you are together? Not the kissing and touching, or the things you say. It’s deeper than that. The way you look at each other, even in the most casual moments. The way the air around you just seems right when your loved one’s in the room, in the house.”

Her eyes were distant, soft. Sad. “The way you finish each other’s sentences, think of thoughts the other one has a moment earlier. The way you laugh and smile easily with each other, at jokes that if other people said them, it wouldn’t be the same. And still, none of that comes close to describing it, you know? It’s this feeling so much a part of you that you don’t have to feel it.”

Thomas nodded, struck speechless, held still by that gentle, maternal touch on his hair.

“I thought…it was easy when I thought it was sinful, something to do with the

flesh. But what I’m seeing is more than that. It’s love, and love isn’t a sin. So how can God be so cruel as to give that feeling to two men or two women if it’s a sin? I’ve always believed God to be compassionate. Loving.”

A tremulous smile touched her face. “This is very hard for me, Thomas. Can you

help me understand?”

It was the first time he’d been invited to talk to her like this. Thomas wasn’t certain how much would be too much, but grasping the resolve that brought him here, he

knew he wouldn’t take the risk of it being too little.

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“You’re right, it’s not just about…” She colored some, looked away and Thomas

had to bite back a grin despite himself. He squeezed her arm, drawing her attention back to him.

“I mean, he’s hard not to think about that way because he’s overwhelming. And I guess at first I thought I was just like anybody else. Hormones, etcetera. But I think about other things, want other things with him as well. Like being with him every day.

Figuring out dinner, what to watch on TV. He has this thing when he’s on the phone, I can tell if he’s pleased or getting pissed just by the way he twists a pen in his fingers. To hold onto his temper, or to focus, he doodles, does weird Celtic stuff like a tattoo artist on paper.