Timothy (10 page)

A uniformed young woman smiled at me. “Can I get you something to eat or drink, sir?”

I shook my head and sat down in a leather seat that was one of the most comfortable things I'd ever sat in. I closed my eyes and moaned, sinking deeper into it, and buckled my seat belt. I heard the engines starting up and opened my eyes again just as the hatch closed. Carlo turned off his phone and tucked it into his shirt pocket and smiled over at me. “If you want to nap, Mouse, go ahead—once we're airborne it's a couple of hours before we get to New York.”

The last thing in the world I wanted to do was sleep—I was in a private jet for the first time in my life—but I was so tired, and the seat was so comfortable—

I woke up again when the plane was landing—probably the smoothest landing I've ever experienced on a plane. Granted, I didn't have that much experience, but it was literally like the plane just kissed the ground. We taxied for a while and pulled up outside a small hangar. I knew the airport from looking around—we were in Newark—and there was another black town car sitting on the tarmac with a uniformed man leaning against it, his arms folded.

“That's Roberts,” Carlo said as I unbuckled my seat belt and yawned.

“Roberts?”

Carlo laughed. “He works for us. He's our driver, and he takes care of the cars. He'll be taking us into the city—and you need to give him the keys to your apartment.” My confusion must have shown on my face, because he laughed and went on, “He'll hire some people to pack up your things and move them out to Spindrift. I know it's not truly a proper honeymoon, and I promise I'll take you on a real one soon, but for now would you settle for a week in the city?”

“I didn't expect a honeymoon,” I mumbled. A week in the city without having to go to work every day sounded absolutely heavenly to me, and I said so, adding, “I've never been to any of the museums. I never had time to actually enjoy Manhattan.”

“Now you have all the time in the world,” he said, giving me a hand to help me stand and pulling me into a hug.

I closed my eyes and put my head down on his shoulder. His arms felt so good around me, and once again I thanked God for my incredible luck.

Roberts—who was ridiculously tall, maybe six feet six, with reddish-brown hair, freckled skin, and a big friendly smile—loaded our bags into the trunk of the town car. Carlo's phone rang again as we got into the backseat, and he was talking into his phone all the way into the city.

He'd already made arrangements for us to be married by a friend of his, a judge who'd been his roommate in college and was one of his closest friends still. The ceremony was scheduled for the next morning at Carlo's apartment in the city. I was excited and nervous at the same time—the very idea of my ever getting married had always been so absurd to me that I never thought it would happen, and I'd decided after that abortive trip into a gay bar that I would most likely spend the rest of my life alone. I was fine with that—but I'd more than won the lottery. I was living some kind of gay fairy tale—with a tall, dark, handsome prince who was sweeping me away from the humdrum dullness of my old life and escorting me into a strange new world I wasn't quite sure I understood.

As long as Carlo loved me, everything would be fine.

I didn't say anything as we went through the Holland Tunnel—I didn't want to bother him while he was on the phone—but every once in a while he would pat my leg reassuringly and smile at me. I was a little disappointed that he was on a business call as we rode into the city for the first time together—but was immediately ashamed of myself. I didn't know how much money he had—or the extent of his business holdings—but I had to get used to him having to deal with business, and to pout or get my feelings hurt was childish and immature. He already thought of me as little more than a child—and I wasn't going to let my behavior confirm that thought. I was going to be his partner, and I wanted to be an equal partner.

Acting like a spoiled child wasn't the right way to start our life together.

I watched out the windows as the town car brought us into Manhattan, and I felt that weird little thrill I always felt whenever I returned from a trip. I loved Manhattan. I loved living in the beating heart of the country, even if I'd never had the chance to really get to know the island. But I was going to make up for lost time now.

The car made its way uptown, pulling up to an awning in front of an impressive-looking art deco style building. I gaped out the window as Roberts put the car into neutral and got out, heading around to the back.

Carlo hung up the phone and slid out of the car when the uniformed doorman opened the passenger door for him. “Welcome back, sir,” the doorman said with a smile as Carlo introduced me. “Welcome, sir,” he said to me in turn. He was an older man, maybe in his early fifties, with a thick graying mustache and a trim build.

Carlo led me inside and we took the main elevator up while Roberts took our luggage to a service elevator. “This is where we'll stay whenever we're in the city—and Ferguson's the daytime doorman—he can get you a cab, will take deliveries for us and messages—if anyone comes by he'll call us and we have to give him permission to let them come up,” he said once the elevator doors shut behind us. “Our primary home will be Spindrift, of course, but sometimes when I have late business in the city I spend the night here. And of course, any time you want to see a show or something, do some shopping—and it's too late to head back out to the Hamptons, this is your home, too.” He smiled at me. “There's an extra set of keys upstairs in my office. I think you'll like the place.”

I bit my lower lip. “Where all do you have homes, Carlo?” I asked, curious.

“Well, I did put in an offer on the house in Miami where I proposed—sentimental value and all that,” he replied with a wink. “You liked that house, didn't you?”

“Well, yes, I did, but—” I cut myself off.

“But what?”

“It was so
big
.”

He laughed. “Darling Mouse—Spindrift dwarfs that place.” He stroked the side of my cheek. “I have to say, it is such a pleasure to watch the looks on your face! But we also have a nice flat in Paris, and a condo in Aspen—do you ski, by any chance?”

Paris? We have a place in Paris?
I swallowed. “No, I've never skied.”

“We'll have to remedy that this winter,” he said as the elevator continued to rise. “We'll get you some lessons.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “You really are a church mouse, aren't you?” He sighed. “I really am looking forward to showing you the world, Mouse. Later this summer, we'll go to Paris. Would you like that?”

Unable to say anything, I nodded. Paris? Going to Paris had been a dream of mine ever since reading
The Three Musketeers
when I was nine years old. I'd read a lot of French history, had even considered minoring in it in college. The Louvre, Notre-Dame, and the Eiffel Tower—I could spend weeks in Paris.

The elevator came to a stop, and the digital display said P3. The elevator doors opened into a white marble foyer, facing a large door. There was another door to the left with an exit sign above it, and in the other direction there was a large window with a spectacular view of the river. He unlocked the door and led me inside.

I gasped.

The apartment looked like something out of
House Beautiful.
The living room was enormous, and completely decorated in a minimalist modern style. The floor, ceilings, walls, and furniture were all white, with brass fixtures and black highlights. The walls were covered with stunning black-and-white prints in black metal frames—and I recognized the images as statuary and ruins from Rome and Greece. The opposing wall was all glass, and sliding glass doors led out to a wide terrace with a spectacular view facing Lower Manhattan. I shivered—the air-conditioning was on, and it was very cold inside—but I wandered through the entire apartment. There was a lovely dining room in the same décor, and a kitchen with an ice machine and every other conceivable gadget. There was an office—Carlo excused himself and went inside, shutting the door behind him as his phone started ringing again—and I looked through the two bedrooms. One was clearly a spare bedroom, and smelled unused. The other bedroom was enormous, with a huge wrought iron sleigh bed, an enormous walk-in closet, and a bathroom that was the size of my old apartment. I pulled the blinds open to discover a wall of glass, and sliding doors out to the end of the terrace.

My mouth wide open, I walked back into the living room as Roberts carried our suitcases in. He nodded to me as he placed them into the big bedroom, and excused himself. “Where do you stay when we're in the city, Roberts?” I asked, and as soon as the words were out I wondered if I wasn't supposed to talk about personal matters with the servants.

He smiled. “There's an apartment for me on a lower floor, sir. Call me if you need anything.” And with a bow, he backed out of the penthouse.

That night I wore my charcoal Versace suit to the theater, where we saw
The Book of Mormon
, and afterward we had dinner at an incredibly expensive restaurant. Carlo turned his phone off, and I had his full attention. He introduced me to so many people I couldn't keep track of all their names, but I tried my best. Everyone was so friendly and kind—I couldn't help but remember Valerie's cruel words about me not fitting into this world with no small amount of satisfaction.

She'd been wrong—so very, very wrong about that.

And after dinner, we went back to the penthouse, where Carlo slowly undressed me, kissing me, and lifted me into the bed, where we made love as single men one last time, and I slept deeply nestled inside his strong arms.

The following morning we were married in the living room, by Judge O'Connor (“call me Ian”) with Roberts and the judge's wife Faye as our witnesses. Afterward, a champagne brunch was delivered, and I discovered that I liked champagne—very much. By the time the O'Connors left us alone, I was quite tipsy—and Carlo carried me into the bedroom for our first time as a married couple.

The rest of the week passed in a blur, a magical wondrous blur. Carlo had business in the city, and while he was taking care of that, he sent me off shopping every day with my brand-new credit cards. It was necessary—once all my things had arrived from my old apartment, Carlo had gone through them all, shaking his head. He didn't allow me to keep any of it—just some socks and underwear and things to get me through until they could be replaced. The rest went into boxes, which Roberts took to Goodwill.

Despite the knowledge that I was now married to one of the wealthiest men in the city, I couldn't quite shake my habit of looking at price tags and worrying about how much money I was spending. Carlo found this amusing, and once said, “I suppose in about a year I'll look at your charge bills and look back with nostalgia.”

When he could, he went shopping with me, picking out clothes without ever looking at a price and not even blinking at the astounding totals that went onto my new credit cards.

Every night he took me to a Broadway show and out for an amazing dinner afterward. Sometimes I could tell that people were looking at us—and all too often people came by our table to say hello and be introduced to me. They were invariably polite to me, but I could see by the quizzical looks on their faces they were wondering where I'd come from, and what Carlo could possibly see in me.

It didn't help much that so many of the stores in Manhattan carried Timothy's brand, Drawers.

I knew it shouldn't bother me, but seeing the underwear boxes and the amazing body pictured there always ruined my mood, reminding me of what Carlo was used to, what everyone was comparing me to—and undoubtedly finding me wanting.

No matter how much I reassured myself that he loved me, he wouldn't have married me if he didn't, I could never get past the notion that he was always comparing me to Timothy. He never talked about him—and I didn't want to bring up his previous husband.

I knew it was what his friends were thinking when they met me—that the quizzical looks and the stilted, oh-so-polite conversation that followed masked their curiosity.

One night I went to the restroom at some restaurant whose name I've long since forgotten, and heard two women talking about me in the hallway as they waited their turn for the restroom.

“Well, of course he's a cute thing,” one sniffed, “but he looks like a
child
. I never thought Carlo's tastes ran in that particular direction.”

“Well, it's a rebound thing, of course,” the other replied in a smug tone. “I'm sure he's lonely, and figured some
companionship
is better than nothing. And one can hardly blame him for picking a sparrow after Timothy, can one? When one has been with one of the most beautiful men to live and breathe, well, anything else is going to be a disappointment. And this one seems pleasant enough. He certainly could have done far worse.”

Fortunately, I heard a door open and the two women entered the ladies' room before I had to hear any more of it.

I stared at myself in the mirror in the bathroom. No, I wasn't a male model. No, I didn't have the kind of body that showed up on underwear boxes and ads. But was that all that mattered?

And worse, did Carlo think that way, too? Did he think he'd settled out of loneliness and the realization he would never replace or improve on Timothy?

Maybe Valerie was right
, I thought as I splashed cold water on my face.
Maybe this whole thing was a big mistake.

We left the city for Spindrift early on Saturday morning.

I hadn't said anything to Carlo about what I'd heard those women say in the restaurant. I'd decided to never bring Timothy up to him—why keep stating the obvious, that I wasn't Timothy?