The Foster Family, page 15
“Oh what?” Kerry asked, bending to look at what Malcolm had discovered when he studied one of the units more closely.
“It’s broken,” Malcolm said. Disappointment turned the skin prickling to a cold shiver. “I can’t buy these.” He didn’t care so much about the shelves themselves as about how pleased Kerry had been to find them for him and how beautifully he’d responded to Malcolm’s approval. It had been instinct. Pure. Nothing contrived or practiced in Kerry’s joy at getting Malcolm to smile. And Malcolm was painfully aware how difficult a feat that could be.
Malcolm stepped back and crossed his arms in front of himself, wishing he hadn’t seen the damage to the furniture.
Kerry examined the shelf closely, squinting, his face a few inches from the wood. After a moment, he straightened and his grin was huge as ever. “I can fix that,” he announced. So sure of himself, his eyes bright, his cheeks flushed. He was like a kid but not. And he pushed buttons Malcolm had forgotten he even had.
“You can?” Malcolm almost couldn’t believe him, but there was no mistaking the confidence in the set of Kerry’s shoulders. Malcolm had seen him unsure, and this was not the same. In this moment, he knew what he said was true. “You can,” Malcolm said, accepting Kerry’s surety at face value.
“Sure I can. It’s real wood, not that particle-board crap, so all it needs is a bit of wood glue and some clamps to fix the splits. Then you stuff the old screw holes with glue and sawdust, let it all dry, drill new holes, and reset the brackets. Voila”—he spread his hands wide—“fixed. Better than new.”
“Just like that,” Malcolm said, staring at Kerry.
“Pretty much.”
“How do you know all that?”
Kerry shrugged, bending to squint again at the cracked shelf. “Had a foster dad who was a woodworker. He let me sit in his shop with him when he was working.” He picked gently at the splinters as he spoke. “Even bought me some gardening tools and helped me build a potting shed and this cool wooden wheelbarrow-wagon thing. I really liked that thing.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” His voice dropped to a low almost-whisper. “I aged out of the system.”
Translation: the family had one room, and Child Protective Services encouraged the man not to waste it on someone who wasn’t one of theirs anymore. It was an ugly lesson. One Malcolm had also learned the hard way. At least the last home he’d left hadn’t been one where he felt in any way at home. It didn’t sound as though that had been the case for Kerry.
“And what happened to the stuff he built with you?” Malcolm asked, almost afraid to know what other misfortune might have befallen his new, hapless charge in the past.
“I guess he still has it. I don’t know.”
“You didn’t take it with you when you left?”
“I came halfway across the country, Mal. I was headed for college and I didn’t even know where I was going to live. Besides, he had a kid there when I left who loved his shop as much as I did. I left the stuff for her.”
“That’s really nice of you.”
“She was so shy. Really quiet, but she loved the woodworking and wanted to take care of my garden for me, so I left her my tools. Thought it might help her. Give her something to occupy her, you know? Other than getting into trouble. She was in rehab and pregnant and she needed something to keep her busy.” He shrugged, but his expression was sad, almost bleak. “Made sense at the time.”
“Sounds like this guy you lived with is one of the rare ones.”
“I guess he really was.”
“Was?”
“Lacy, that’s the girl, she was going to be his last foster.”
“Why?”
He smiled. “He met someone. He’s, like, almost fifty, you know? Getting old. And he met a guy he really liked. He just thought it might be time to do something for himself for once. I hope it worked out.”
“You don’t keep in touch?”
The last curl of Kerry’s smile melted away. “He knew Andrew.”
“So?”
“So.” He traced the edge of the cracked wood with a finger again. “I wasn’t exactly itching to tell him the guy who used to harass me in school was… well. I just wasn’t going to tell him that I was bending over for the guy he went to the mat to protect me from when I should have been grown enough to look after myself.”
Malcolm watched him, but he didn’t say anything. He was still trying to get a handle on what that relationship with Andrew had been. Why it had been, and how it affected Kerry’s instinct to submit.
“So it’s been a year or so since I’ve talked to Nash,” Kerry said. “That’s his name. Nashville Jones, do you believe that?”
“Huh,” was all he said. Then after a few minutes, “Think about something for me.” He pulled Kerry’s hand away from the cracked wood and gently rubbed the tips of his fingers as though checking for splinters. “Think about if you would tell him about Charlie and me.”
“Well, I—”
He held up a hand. “Think about it. That’s your assignment this week.”
“My assignment?”
He went on as if Kerry hadn’t spoken. “You think about if you would be willing to introduce the two men in your life to the only almost-parental type you’ve ever had and then see how that makes you feel. Next Sunday, you’re going to call him.” Maybe he was sealing the fate of the relationship before it even went anywhere. He’d never been accused of jumping into anything spontaneously, that was for sure. Well. Nothing as deep as Charlie. Not in a very long time.
“And tell him what?” Kerry asked, the beginnings of panic in his lovely blue eyes.
Malcolm lifted an eyebrow. “And tell him you’re still alive, doing well. Tell him you thought about him this week while you were fixing a cabinet for a friend. Tell him you have a good job you love, that your boss is pretty awesome, and you like where you’re living. Tell him you’re thinking about starting up a little landscaping company.”
“I am?”
“Aren’t you? Is mine the only grass you’re going to cut? Think about it. Walk down a street in this town and tell me there aren’t a hundred gardens you want to get your hands on.”
Kerry flushed, a gorgeous color that had no business on a young man with shoulders like that, and hands that were probably calloused and had dirt ground into the creases.
“I did think about it,” he confessed.
“Good.” Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “Tell him you dropped out of college?”
Another flush, this one deeper and accompanied by the flutter of lashes as Kerry looked at the ground.
“So you haven’t told him that.” It was merely the confirmation of a guess, but it was still confirmed.
“He’d be disappointed. And I’d have to tell him why. He’d want to know.” And that brought up Andrew again, and just the thought of that asshole made the boy shiver, broad shoulders or not.
Malcolm reached out and laid a comforting hand on Kerry’s shoulder. “You don’t think Nash deserves the chance to offer his advice? His help?”
“I think he’s had Lacy to worry about. I’ve been just fine….”
“Think about it,” Malcolm said. No need to offer a laundry list of the ways Kerry’s life wasn’t fine. “Sunday you will call him.”
“I will.” Kerry snapped his head up. His eyes were huge, his mouth partly opened, as if he was about to say something he’d suddenly forgotten, or as though he was trying to pull in breath. He was unnaturally still.
Malcolm nodded agreement and squeezed his shoulder in reassurance. When Kerry didn’t move but just stared like a deer caught in his gaze, Malcolm smiled and nodded. “You’ll call him Sunday.”
“These are not the droids you’re looking for,” Kerry muttered. But his tense muscles relaxed ever so slightly under Malcolm’s hard grip.
Malcolm smiled because the joke was funny and because he was pleased with Kerry. And, he had to admit, pleased with himself. He wasn’t completely without conscience. If he could admit he wanted Kerry, he could also admit he wanted what was best for the younger man. Did it make him an ogre if he hoped what Kerry wanted and what was best for him coincided with his being very well taken care of by one man who had the monetary means and another who had the emotional means?
Drawing in a deep breath, he gave one final, strong squeeze of Kerry’s shoulder and let him go. “Let’s find a salesperson, then, shall we, Mr. Fix-It?”
Kerry’s grin was wide, and he practically bounced in place and nodded. “Yes, sir!”
And there went Malcolm’s Dom radar again, blipping wildly to get his attention. Kerry’s enthusiasm heated him from the inside out. He knew the sight of a man happy to please, and that gleam in Kerry’s eyes was it. He used to see it constantly glowing from Charlie’s pores, but lately… were they just too old and worn out to see that in each other anymore? Was that part of them dead and gone?
Shuttering the uncertainty behind a shield of iron will, he smiled at Kerry. “Good boy,” he said very softly as Kerry turned his back to look for that salesperson. Kerry paused, an infinitesimal break in his stride, so subtle Malcolm might well have wishfully thought it into existence, then hurried off.
It decided him, though, the whole exchange. He would nurture this confidence in Kerry. The gardening and the Mr. Fix-It vibe he gave off were real skills to build on. Maybe it would grow into something the kid could live off that would keep him out of the beds of strangers and bullies.
Halfway back to the house, he turned off the route and counted down in his head from five. He got to three before Kerry spoke up.
“Wait!” He twisted to look behind them back to the highway and then straightened to lean forward and squint out the window. “Where are we going?”
“Hardware store,” Malcolm told him calmly, keeping the chuckle to himself. Charlie had never been like this but was always self-contained. Always calm and warm and steady. Kerry was an adventure in extremes.
“Why?” he asked, twisting behind his belt to face Malcolm. He pretzeled one leg up onto the seat, shin against the gearshift, jeans rubbing at the backs of Malcolm’s fingers where he held the knob.
Loosening his grip and letting his fingers curve over the nicely formed muscle of Kerry’s calf so easily within reach, Malcolm released a small breath, feeling his own calm wash over him. “You said you could fix the shelf, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have any of the things you mentioned needing to do it.”
“You don’t have a drill?”
He shook his head.
“Charlie doesn’t?”
“Charlie works outside. In the dirt. Shovel and snips. If he needs something built, he hires someone.”
“Who has a house for ten years but doesn’t own a drill?”
“A gay man who has the phone number of a really hot carpenter?”
Kerry didn’t seem to have an argument for that. He sat back and enjoyed the ride, facing forward again but showing off some excellent flexibility by leaving his leg where it had been, under Malcolm’s palm.
In the store, Malcolm watched him struggle. He didn’t want to choose the good tools. He was reluctant to pick out what he couldn’t imagine being able to pay for, but after the third time Malcolm asked if the hammer or chisel or screwdriver he’d chosen was going to break the first time he used it, he forced himself to pick the better, more expensive tools.
“Don’t forget,” Malcolm told him, offering the only partial consolation he had. “These are my tools. I prefer top-of-the-line. I can pay for them. You’re just borrowing them.”
“Right.” Kerry shot him what might have been a slightly disappointed gaze, but he stopped picking through the cheap made-in-China garbage and filled the small cart with sturdy brand names. Lucky Malcolm wasn’t prone to sticker shock. Good power tools were not cheap.
Chapter 12
THERE WAS plenty to do while I waited for delivery of the shelves I’d promised to fix. We’d picked up paint for my room and all the necessary paraphernalia to do the work. I spent what was left of the day when we got back out in the garden, weeding and readying the beds for Charlie. I chose the most likely plants to share with the school, and since Malcolm had locked himself in his study, I decided to stroll over to there to have a look at where the beds were going. I needed some idea what they would have to order so I could get the job done.
I had the beginnings of a list in my head when I got back to the house and was glad to see Charlie’s car in the driveway. I was ready to pick his brain on what he had planned and find out if he’d contacted them and let them know I would be taking over.
Inside, the house was quiet and their bedroom door was closed. The study was empty, that door now ajar, but I backed away from it. Something told me it was the one place in the house that was off-limits to everyone but Malcolm. It had a very distinct air of seclusion about it. I wandered back to the main rooms and considered. I was getting used to the sound of do-not-disturb hanging in the air, but I couldn’t help thinking they might have at least left me a note or instruction.
With a sigh, I headed to the kitchen and poked around for something to make for dinner. I wasn’t much of a cook, though. About all I’d perfected so far was instant noodles and a version of scrambled eggs I’d seen Gordon Ramsey make on TV once. There were tomatoes and lettuce and cheese in the fridge at least, so I began slicing and preparing everything to put together tomato sandwiches once Malcolm let Charlie out of the bedroom.
My stomach was growling and I was tired of waiting long before they came out. That rule, though, haunted me. Make enough for everyone and serve them first. Did it apply if they weren’t actually at the table? I didn’t know. I didn’t want to chance it. Things had gone tolerably well so far that day, and I didn’t want to risk tipping the cart, so I waited, taking a glass of water to the couch with another of Charlie’s photo albums.
I hadn’t tired of looking at his art and wondered, again, why he wasted his time and energy on a job I hadn’t seen any sign that he actually liked even a little bit.
“You still looking at those?” His voice over my shoulder made me jump. I hadn’t heard the bedroom door open, nor had I noticed his bare-footed padding down the hall to where he stood behind the couch, looking over my shoulder. “God, those ones are old.” He reached over and touched a finger to one of the photos. “Mal bought me that camera when we first started going out.” He chuckled softly. “I left it out in the rain one day. Totally forgot I even had it out when he….” His words trailed off in wistful breath. “Yeah. God. Such a long time ago.”
What was I supposed to say? He sounded like he was remembering something long gone. But how could it be when the man he had it with was in the next room, probably still as sweaty and smelling of sex as he was?
“Hey. What’s going on in here?” Malcolm’s voice called from the kitchen, and we both turned to it. I, at least, was grateful for the interruption.
I set the book down and hurried back to my aborted supper attempt. “Supper,” I informed him.
“Did you eat?” He lifted the lid I’d laid over the sliced tomatoes.
“I was waiting.”
“For?” He peered at me, amusement in his expression.
“To serve you guys first.” Glancing between him and Charlie, I knew my cheeks were turning bright pink as they both broke into grins. “That’s the rule,” I said, wishing they would both stop looking at me like that. For a moment, I felt like I was the one and only item on the menu, then Charlie slapped me on the back and almost laughed.
“Well done, sprite.” He grabbed the bread and opened the bag, tossing slices into the toaster. “I can take it from here. Go on and set the table.”
And just like that, my obedience to their rules smoothed over the cracks in Charlie’s titanium shell and eased Malcolm’s tense stance into something resembling relaxed acceptance. So I set the table, ate with them, poured wine and coffee, and cleaned up and all the while felt like a pretty flower stuck in a pot of barren soil.
Later, lying in my bed staring at the naked patch of plaster on my ceiling, I found, once again, I couldn’t sleep. Every foster home I’d ever lived in left me with this same feeling of unreality. Like I’d stepped out of my life and into someone else’s where my square peg didn’t quite fit the available round hole. Only Nash had ever managed to make his house feel like my home, like I belonged there.
A soft mewling at my closed door brought me out of that unhappy thought, and I went to let Miss Claire in. She promptly climbed the comforter, kneaded a few times at the pillow beside me, spun twice, and curled herself into a contented ball. The tiny fur monster was snoring kitten snores inside of five minutes. And like clockwork, Georgie made her imperious appearance to sit on the pillow next to Miss Claire and lick her head between her ears until Miss Claire snapped and swatted at her.
For the next few minutes, there was a general tussle of ginger fur and snarly cat insults as they vied for the spot Miss Claire had warmed. Georgie won. She always won. Miss Claire sat on my stomach, exuding indignation, until Georgie had settled. Then the smaller cat pranced over, curled next to Georgie, and laid her dainty muzzle over Georgie’s rumbling throat. Within minutes, the duo snored peacefully.
“Oh, sure,” I told Miss Claire, tracing a finger over the damp fur between her ears, “you can just fall asleep like you belong here.” I sat up, clicked on the bedside light—a clamp light I suspected Charlie probably used as a grow light for his seedlings—and picked up one of his albums I’d left on the bedside table.
It was like he had radar. I’d turned only two pages when a soft knock preceded him into my room, and he crossed the floor on near-silent feet.
“Hey.” I closed the book and rested it on my lap. “What are you doing here?”
