The Wish (16 page)

O
NCE
they’d settled his uncle into a room, Alex planned to spend his evening exploring the city’s night life. When the moment arrived, however, he found he’d no desire for some nameless stranger. There’d be no repeat of last night with Paul, leaving him unaccountably saddened. More and more he questioned his previous beliefs, unable to reconcile that someone caring and thoughtful, someone who’d once been hurt by a fortune hunter, might possibly turn out to be one himself.

His previous plans for the evening now in shambles, Alex wandered into his uncle’s office in search of booze and answers. Settling into his uncle’s chair, he noticed that the picture of Paul on the desk had been joined by two more: one of himself, taken a few years ago, and another of Alfred and Byron. Thinking back, he remembered those pictures being on the desk during his last visit, and the image of the laughing, dark-haired man was why Paul had seemed familiar. Alex hadn’t thought twice about it at the time.

He’d been taught not to snoop, but for the past few weeks he’d become enmeshed in his family’s finances. Telling himself he merely wished to learn more about his uncle’s businesses and investments, he opened the top drawer of the desk and peered inside.

At the front lay a stack of well-worn photographs, dog-eared from frequent handling. He picked them up and thumbed through them. Most of the later pictures were of Alfred and Byron, and Alex’s eyes filled with tears at how ravaged Byron’s formerly healthy body had become by the disease that ultimately claimed his life. Those photos he placed aside, unable to bear looking at them.

Next, he found a stack of older pictures featuring the two men and either himself or a dark-haired boy he assumed to be Paul. For a moment he wondered at never having met Byron’s nephew growing up, before remembering why. For some reason, unfathomable now, he’d been jealous of the other child who’d shared his uncle’s love. It wasn’t that he lacked the old man’s affection; he’d had Alfred’s love in abundance. No, the problem was, after the death of his mother, Alex wanted someone to be his alone—sharing wasn’t an option. Besides, Paul hadn’t needed Alfred. Even after the death of his father, Paul had two uncles and a mother. All Alex had, besides his mother’s brother, were obscure relatives and two elderly grandparents whose idea of proper parenting equated to sending him to boarding school and shuttling him off to some tropical paradise during holiday breaks—in the company of anyone but themselves. They took the concept of “hands-off parenting” to new heights.

His vacations had always included Alfred and Byron, the only bright spot in an otherwise lonely life. Alex smiled and leafed through the pictures, remembering the good times they’d shared.

He came across an old, grainy photograph. A young boy, perhaps nine years old, appeared lost and forlorn, dressed in a suit. At first, Alex thought the sad-looking youngster was himself at his mother’s funeral. Upon closer inspection, he realized the boy was much smaller and sported a mop of unruly dark hair and glasses. As he studied the photo, drawn to the desolate image, it occurred to him that he and Paul had been around the same age when they each lost a parent.

Flipping through the rest of the stack, he found snapshots of a full life spent together by Alfred and Byron, and once again envied his uncle’s partnership. Christmases, Easters, vacations, and time spent at home, captured for posterity. At the absolute bottom of the stack were two additional photos, obviously handled more than the others, judging from their disintegrating margins. The first depicted two men on a sailboat, one young, with flame-red hair, the other somewhat older, with blond hair beginning to gray. They gazed adoringly at each other, their love unmistakable.

Placing the picture face up on the desk, Alex removed the last photo. Without looking he knew who he’d find. There, before cancer disfigured her beauty, was Victoria Anderson Martin, the stunning blonde he remembered from his youth. Lovingly, he ran his fingers across the faded image, his heart constricting at memories of the vivacious woman who’d been his entire world. In the image she radiated happiness, smiling and playing with his six-year-old self at their summer cottage on Rhode Island.

He placed the picture next to the one of his uncles. They deserved to be framed and displayed. Further digging produced a stack of letters. Alex recognized his own nearly illegible scrawl immediately, and found other letters in the stack bearing writing he didn’t recognize. He chose one at random to read.

Dear Uncles,

Thanks for your gift, but I can’t accept it. You know I love you both, and I know you have only the best of intentions for me. But if I’m to succeed in life, I have to do it on my own. I hope you understand.

Love,

Paul

What was that about? What kind of gift did Paul decline? Several more letters were variations of the same theme. Alex’s questing hands found a stack of checks made out to Paul Sinclair. His blood boiled when he noted the amounts, until he noticed the dates. None of them had ever been endorsed.

The first bore Alex’s college graduation date. His uncle had gifted him with money, which he’d used to buy his car. The check was written to Paul for the exact same amount. Only Paul had declined. Several more dates caught Alex’s attention. The day he’d closed on his condo in Houston, also a gift from Alfred and Byron, there was a check made out for Paul, and again he’d returned the check, uncashed.

They treated us the same.
What one received, the other was offered.
Paul, apparently, hadn’t allowed Alfred and Byron to buy the status symbols that he himself greedily coveted. Alex recalled the aging, barely functioning car he’d ridden in the night of Byron’s funeral. Sitting in the drawer was a check for enough money to easily buy four new cars, yet Paul drove a barely functioning vehicle. It didn’t make any sense.

His mind spun, seeking answers. Why didn’t Paul take the money? Maybe he never received the checks. Alex ruled out the possibility of lost mail immediately, having read the letters of polite refusal. What was Paul’s deal? Was he truly committed to Alfred, as Byron had been, not seeing the money but the man himself?

Guilt pressed down heavily as Alex reached the conclusion that everything he’d accused Paul of was a lie. Yes, the man might be having an affair with Alfred, the letters didn’t disprove that. What they did show was that if Paul slept in Alfred’s bed, it wasn’t for the money. It appeared the only one in this equation in any way concerned with money was Alex himself.

He silently made his way to his room, knowing he couldn’t stall forever—the time had come to listen to Byron’s final message. He settled on the bed, watching with disbelieving eyes as the image of Byron appeared, totally bald, emaciated form propped up by pillows in a huge bed, making him appear even smaller. Though Alex had blocked it for years, a memory surfaced unbidden: his mother, golden ringlets falling by the handful, and his grandparents scolding him for hugging her in public and dislodging her wig. His mom simply smiled and kissed him, readjusted her hair, and scowled at her parents, telling them to leave him be. Later, as the disease progressed, Alex couldn’t hug her for fear she’d bruise. The last fateful night, when he’d awakened screaming, he couldn’t help himself. He’d waited until the nurse entered the bathroom and crept past to his mother’s bed.

She’d stopped recognizing him days before, and he’d heard more than one whispered, “It won’t be long now,” among the household staff. When he climbed in bed beside her, those blue eyes, so much like his own, saw him, genuinely
saw
him, for the first time in more than two weeks. Her thin lips pulled back into a smile, and though her words were quietly spoken, she clearly said, “I love you, Alexander.” He’d watched in horror as the light in her eyes dimmed and went out, her smile never fading. Alex was in college before he finally understood that he hadn’t killed his mother, but had instead eased her passing.

“Alex,” a raspy recorded voice began, drawing him back to the here and now. “I’m running out of time and I don’t dare put this off any longer. First, I wanted to assure you that I know why you stayed away and I understand. Your calls and emails showed me how much you cared; I never doubted you for an instant.” Byron stopped to sip from a water glass, the trembling in his hands impossible to miss. “I know you couldn’t bear to watch me waste away, and I’d never ask you to. I regret you have to see me like this now. If it were in my power, no one else would witness my decline, either. For Alfred I fought, to be with him every possible moment. Now the time has come. I’m tired and have nothing left to fight with. Before I go, I want to take care of a few matters of business.

“Most of my estate goes to your uncle, as he is, for all intents and purposes, my husband. But there’s something that means a lot to me that I’m entrusting to you, and I want you to think long and hard about what to do with it. The cold persona you work hard to project to the world can’t fool me. You’re a good man, Alex Martin, and I trust you to do the right thing.

“I’m leaving you the deed to a house in Bishop. You’ll know why when you set foot in the door. I know without asking that you’ll look out for Alfred. If he hasn’t already asked you, I will. Please consider moving to Los Angeles. He loves you and misses you. Do this for him.”

Byron’s shaky tones fell to scarcely above a whisper. “I know you wanted to spend more time with us when you were growing up, and it’s my deepest regret that Alfred and I didn’t fight your grandparents harder for regular visitation.

“You’re strong, capable of anything you set your mind to, and ruthless enough when necessary not to let anyone stand in your way. I’ve noticed you, how you watch me and your uncle. I’ve never told you before because plenty of others did, only in a less than productive way: you need someone, and not merely a warm body in your bed occasionally. I hate to picture you alone in the world, with me and Alfred gone. Promise me you’ll open your heart, because if you don’t, the right one will come and go and you’ll never recognize him.”

Though his voice faded as he tired, Byron managed a weak laugh. “That’s right, I said ‘him.’ You think your uncle wants you to marry and have children to carry on the family name. I don’t know where you got such a silly idea. All he wants is for you to be happy, and we know you well enough to accept that it’s a man you truly want, not some flighty debutante.

“I have one final favor to ask of you. You don’t know him personally, but you’re aware I have a nephew named Paul. He’s not as strong as you are, Alex, and I worry about what will happen to him. Promise me you’ll take care of him?

“Finally, be happy, and know how much I love you.”

Instead of the condemnation he’d deserved and expected, Byron’s final words absolved Alex of blame. It lightened his heart that the man died knowing he hadn’t intentionally been deserted; still, Alex couldn’t forgive himself.

He huddled into a ball on his bed, more miserable than he’d been since his mother’s death, barely noticing the shadow curling around him. Somehow, through his fog of pain, he sensed Byron’s presence. Alex drifted off, dreaming of Byron’s voice singing him to sleep.

A
FTER
the morning of Bernard’s breakdown in the bedroom, Byron vowed not to use him again unless absolutely necessary, deeply regretting the consequences of his actions to the aging servant’s already failing mind. Only, progress between the nephews stalled, forcing him to break his vow. Now he quietly congratulated himself on a stroke of genius for compelling Bernard to remove those pictures, letters, and checks from the safe and slip them into the top desk drawer. Alex was curious by nature, and Byron believed it would be only a matter of time before he found them, even if remorse ate him for using his old friend in such a manner. Once again the end justified the means, in his opinion, and the plan paid off as he’d hoped. Alex discovered the truth for himself, and Byron fully expected him to find Paul posthaste and apologize.

Instead, Alex chose to finally watch the video after everyone else had worn theirs out. Byron knew Alex loved him, and he loved Alex, although he’d never met anyone quite so stubborn. Well, yes, he had. Alfred could be like that at times. But he hadn’t intended his words to hurt Alex. To his great relief, when he wrapped himself around the man’s trembling form, his ghostly embrace afforded some measure of comfort for them both.

However, when Alex woke from his nap Byron stopped congratulating himself. That honeyed voice, so similar to Alfred’s, booked a room at a local hotel.
What?
He had to stop Alex from leaving! Byron flitted frantically from room to room, futilely searching for a way to prevent the inevitable departure. Why was the man going now when he’d found out Paul wasn’t after money?