Handyman (4 page)

“What, indeed,” Will murmured. He recalled Paul’s remark that Jack might be lonely. Seizing a clue about his life from his earlier comment about the kitchen supply store, Will offered with studied casualness, “I was wondering, if you weren’t busy later, maybe we could take in a game of pool. Grab a few beers, I don’t know. Since I don’t commute into the city anymore, I sometimes find myself at a loss during the evenings…” He trailed off. Jack would accept or refuse. He wouldn’t press him if it was the latter. It would be a sign nothing was ever going to happen between them. He would let it go then and there. He would strike Jack and his brooding blue gray eyes and his powerful forearms and his thickly muscled thighs from his consciousness forever.

“Hey, that might be nice.” Jack smiled. “I’d better warn you though, I wasted a good portion of my youth in pool halls.”

“That’s all right,” Will countered. “I’m not competitive. Not when it comes to pool, anyway.”

Now, why had he done that? Jack usually made it a rule not to get too friendly with people he worked for. It just seemed neater that way. His work life was in one compartment, his personal and social life in another.

Not that he had a social life anymore. The friends Emma and he had had were really her friends and their husbands, he realized in retrospect. He hadn’t particularly minded any of them, but he’d never felt a real connection with any of them either.

When Emma had died, they’d made halfhearted attempts to include him in things, but when he’d declined they hadn’t pressed, no doubt relieved. After a while, not a long one, they stopped calling and this had suited Jack.

Yet it was disconcerting to admit he’d never felt much of a connection with anyone, not since Luke. So why had he agreed to shoot pool with Will Spencer? Especially with Will, since he was pretty sure the guy was gay.

Jack had always considered himself open-minded, and told himself it didn’t matter if Will were gay or straight. He liked the guy. He was smart and worldly, but he never talked down to Jack the way so many college-educated types did, just because Jack earned his living with his hands.

He actually reminded Jack of Luke—with his green eyes and wavy brown hair. Will was good-looking by anyone’s standards. Even if he were gay, there was no way he was interested in Jack, who had a face only a mother could love. Not that Jack wanted him to be interested.

No. Since Luke he’d never looked at another man, and what had happened between them barely counted, since they’d been drunk and very, very young. He’d never looked at another woman since Emma, for that matter. Monogamy was hardwired into him, he supposed. He had promised to be faithful to Emma, and so he had been.

But now Emma was gone.

Though at forty-four he couldn’t call himself young, he still had plenty of good years left ahead of him. It had been two years. Maybe it was time to start looking again—to start living again.

Luke’s words from so long ago came back to him as an echo of what might have been.
I want to explore all kinds of things
. Then, as his hand had dropped to Jack’s thigh, sending volts of electricity directly to Jack’s groin, he’d repeated, “All kinds of things.”

Maybe now, a lifetime later, Jack was at last ready to do the same.

***

They were on their second game of eight ball. The first game had been quick. Jack had allowed Will to break. Will scratched on his first shot. Jack proceeded to sink all his balls before Will got a second chance. Will hadn’t really minded. He liked watching Jack bend over the table, his face twisted in concentration as he mentally calculated angles and trajectories, or whatever it was one calculated to hit the ball into a pocket.

Will broke again, this time at least managing to keep the cue ball on the table. Jack stood just behind him. “If you hold the cue stick like this,” he said, reaching around behind Will and touching his wrist, “you’ll have better control over it.” He leaned closer, his chest against Will’s back.

“Instead of hitting the ball with that jerking motion, it’s better to stroke it, like this.” As he spoke, he touched Will’s elbow, gently guiding it forward to demonstrate. Will resisted the strong urge to lean back against Jack. He tried to concentrate on his game and did manage to do better than the first time, though Jack still easily beat him.

They ordered a pitcher of cola, which they carried, along with two frosted mugs, to a booth. They slid in on opposite sides. “Sorry I’m not much of a challenge,” Will said apologetically.

“You were all right. You just need some practice. It’s a matter of visualizing what you want and then making it happen.”

Will grinned in spite of himself, harking back in his mind to Paul’s similar comment. Could he just close his eyes and will Jack to step into his arms?

“What’re you smiling about?” Jack asked, tilting his head.

“I was just thinking how great it would be if we could really do that. I mean, just close your eyes and wish and change the world.”

“That would be nice,” Jack said, smiling. “But that isn’t what I meant. I meant you need to focus. To line your eye with the ball and visualize where it’s going to go. It matters where you hit the ball, which side. It matters the force of the stroke and the angle at which you hit it. You have to think ahead, to see in your mind’s eye where the ball will go, and how it will affect the setup for the next shot. I suppose you could say it’s a metaphor for life—everything you do impacts what happens next.”

“And sometimes,” Will added, “it’s just plain, blind luck.”

“Sure,” Jack agreed. “Though the longer I’ve lived, the more I think the harder we work for something, the luckier we get.”

They drained their mugs and Jack filled them again, at home in his own environment. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting kind of hungry. They have good pizza here, if you like plenty of salty cheese and grease.” Jack grinned.

Will, who favored feta, Greek olives and sun-dried tomato on sourdough pizza crust made in a wood burning oven, lied. “My favorite.”

Jack summoned a waitress with a gesture. As he ordered the pizza, she gave Will a long, lingering once over. He was used to this reaction from women and barely noticed her. Once she was gone, Will turned to Jack. “Thanks for coming out. I guess sometimes lately I get lonely.”

As he’d hoped, Jack picked up the thread. He was definitely more open and relaxed now that the bill had been paid and they were no longer in a client relationship. “I get lonely too. Being married for so many years, it kind of conditions you to have someone around.”

“I can imagine. You must really miss her.”

“I do, though not necessarily in the way you might expect.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we got married so young. Too young, really, to know what we were doing. Then we just kind of stuck with it. I was used to her, you see. And she to me. But I don’t honestly know if what we had was true love or just habit.”

“Huh.” Will mulled this over. He was surprised Jack had admitted such a stark truth. He decided to press a little more. “Do you think you would have stayed with her if she’d, uh, if she was still around?” He felt the tips of his ears heat, afraid he’d upset Jack with his crass reminder she was dead.

Jack looked thoughtful, but not offended. “I’ve thought about that. Yes, I probably would have. Because how do you leave someone who relies on you? Who has relied on you all their adult life?” He lifted his mug and drank. “I think my sense of duty would have kept me with her. But since she’s been gone I’ve had a lot of time to really think over my life. To take stock, I guess you’d say. I don’t think there’s much use in regretting the past, at least that’s what I try to tell myself in my saner moments.

“Still, I can’t help wondering what would have happened if things had been different…” He paused, staring off into the middle distance. Will would have given anything to be inside his head at that moment.

The pizza arrived, the aroma of tomato sauce and melted cheese making Will’s mouth water. Circles of pepperoni with little pools of melted grease at their centers dotted the pie.

They each helped themselves to a piece and for a while they were silent as they ate. Jack finished his first piece and reached for a second. “So, what’s next? Kitchen’s done. Which room is next on your list? Those bathrooms could do with some work. I don’t do much complicated plumbing but I know a few good, reliable guys we could use for the tough parts. We could draw up some plans for the master bath. I envision a hot tub and a steam shower, at the very least. You know, those fancy ones with fifty jets coming at you from all angles.”

Will tried to fight the broad smile that threatened to spread over his face. Was the guy just after more business, or was he looking for a way to stay in Will’s life? Was Paul’s theory going to bear itself out?

Stop it
.
He just wants the work. It’s nothing personal.

To test his theory, to prove to himself there was absolutely nothing between them but the chance of another job, Will said with an almost reckless abandon, “After the pizza, let’s go back to my place. We could pick up some pastries from this great Italian bakery near my house and have dessert and coffee in my beautiful new kitchen.”

He held his breath, waiting for Jack to refuse.

“They got cannoli? I’m a sucker for good cannoli.”

“Yeah, they sure do,” Will affirmed, though in fact he had no idea. This time he didn’t fight his grin. He could feel it spread like sunlight over his face. His heart did a loop de loop as Jack smiled back.

From his vantage point at the dining room table, Jack watched Will carefully measure and pour whole coffee beans into a fancy black and stainless steel coffee-making contraption that probably cost as much as his old pickup truck was worth. He was sure the coffee would taste fine, but doubted it would taste much different from the coffee he made in the old auto-drip machine he’d had for twenty years.

The coffee smelled wonderful as it started to brew. The cannoli sat piled on a plate on the table in front of him. Jack wanted to eat one—to just pop the whole thing into his mouth, but he waited for Will, not wanting to be impolite.

“Can I get the cream and sugar or something?” he asked, feeling antsy, not used to being waited on by someone other than Emma. For some reason, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Will’s body. His jeans fit like a comfortable second skin, molding along the curve of his ass down long, lean legs.

“No, I got it. Just hang on a second. I’ve got the coffee going now. Sometimes I think you need a license just to operate this damn thing.” Will turned toward him and flashed a grin. Jack noticed, not for the first time, Will’s movie-star-perfect smile. He had a dimple in his left cheek and his eyes sort of creased up into half moons when he grinned broadly, which he’d been doing a lot this evening, or so it seemed to Jack.

What am I doing here?

The question flashed into his brain and as it did, a part of Jack wondered why it had taken so long to get there. What exactly was he doing with a young, handsome gay man? Had they been on a date, for God’s sake? Were they now going to finish the date with dessert and a good-night kiss? By coming back to Will’s house, was he tacitly offering himself up for a homosexual encounter?

Jesus, cut it out.
The word homosexual sounded so formal, so dated. So Will was gay, big deal. Was it a crime to have a gay friend? He had female friends, or he used to, he supposed, when Emma was around. If he was alone in the kitchen with one of them, did that necessarily mean sex was in the offing? No, it did not.

He and Will had become friends over the two weeks he’d worked on his kitchen. Will was easy to talk to. He understood about Emma, empathetic about Jack’s self-imposed loneliness without making him feel self-conscious. Jack had to admit he liked how Will seemed to hang on his every word, awed by his renovation skills and his “artist’s eye” as Will had called it. When he was with Will he didn’t feel like just a handyman. He felt as if the work he was doing really mattered.

He surveyed the room, admiring his own handiwork. The marble countertops gleamed, the floor looked as if it had always been there, the appliances fit perfectly. He glanced up the ceiling, studying the oak leaf pattern pressed into the white tin. This kitchen, he thought proudly, could be featured in one of those home-improvement magazines.

Will moved to the table, carrying a tray with mugs, a pitcher of cream and a sugar bowl. “I’m going to have to have a big dinner party to show off my new kitchen.”

Jack suddenly imagined this dining room table, which seated eight, filled with Will’s rich young friends—the up-and-coming movers and shakers of the financial community. Or maybe he’d have all gay men, GQ-model types, each one better looking than the last, lifting their champagne flutes, their little fingers extended as they lisped their toasts to one another before falling into a debauched orgy…

Come on, Crawford, get a grip.

Will left him a moment and this time returned with a bottle of Cognac and two brandy snifters. “I thought we could toast the new kitchen,” he said as he set them on the table. He brought over the coffeepot and stood beside Jack as he filled each mug with aromatic, steaming coffee. As he leaned down, his arm brushed Jack’s shoulder and the touch sent an inexplicable shiver down Jack’s spine.

Will sat across from Jack and gestured toward the cannoli. “Please, help yourself. I didn’t mean for you to wait.”

Jack selected a cannoli and bit into the light, crunchy shell. The creamy cheese filling exploded like heaven on his tastebuds, and he closed his eyes, savoring its sweet ecstasy. When he opened his eyes to reach for his coffee, he found Will staring at him, those large green eyes focused like a cat on a mouse. He felt himself blushing, which was ridiculous.

Will uncorked the brandy and poured a healthy amount in each snifter. He held one out for Jack. Jack hesitated, but then took the glass, not wanting to be rude. He looked down at the rich, amber liquid and moved the glass, watching it swirl.

“Is something wrong?”

Jack glanced up at Will and said honestly, “It’s been a while since I had hard liquor. I sort of fell into a rut the first few months after my wife died. I think I was coming to rely a little too much on alcohol to get me through the day, if you know what I mean.”

“I didn’t realize.” Will held out his hand. “I can take these away if you like.”

“No, no. I’d like to share a brandy with you. Enough time has passed now. I think I can drink responsibly.”

“Fair enough.” Will raised his glass toward Jack, who raised his in turn. “To my beautiful new kitchen. Thank you, Jack Crawford, for your meticulous, high-quality work and your vision. You truly are an artist.”

Jack couldn’t help but grin, both pleased and amused by the young man’s abundant praise. “My pleasure,” he mumbled. He tipped back the glass and swallowed the strong, slightly sweet spirit. It felt good burning down his chest.

“Another?” Will held up the bottle.

“Sure, what the hell?”

Will poured another several ounces into his glass. Jack ate two more cannoli and drank his coffee, which, he had to grudgingly admit, was actually quite a bit better than the stuff he made at home.

Will wasn’t eating. He’d had one bite of his pastry and left it sitting on his dessert plate. His coffee mug was still nearly full. Instead he focused on his brandy, cupping the balloon glass in his hands as if using it to warm them. He looked anxious.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

“Me? Yeah. What do you mean? I’m fine.”

Jack smiled, feeling his grin spread slow and easy over his face. He felt good. He knew he was drunk. He knew his defenses were down. He knew he should probably be leaving, but damn it, where the hell did he have to go? Back home to his empty house to watch TV or read or do the damn crossword puzzle out of the paper like some old man waiting to die?

He liked Will. He liked the way Will seemed genuinely interested in the renovations, involved at each step. He’d enjoyed the evening playing pool and eating pizza. Boldly he stared at Will, who was looking down into his brandy glass. He liked the way Will’s lips seemed to curve into a kind of Cupid’s bow. He had a strong chin and jaw and straight brows over those very green eyes. He really did look like Luke. Or the Luke of days gone by. The Luke Jack remembered. The one who had touched his thigh, his face so earnest as he leaned forward, willing Jack not to pull away as their lips met…

“Jack? You okay?”

“What?” Jack jerked himself back to the present, focusing woozily on Will. “Yeah. Sorry. I think I had more to drink than I realized.”

“Let’s go sit on the sofa, why don’t we? Unless you want more cannoli?” There were still two of the sweet, rich pastries on the plate.

Jack shook his head. “If I eat another one, I’ll explode.”

Will stood, taking his half-full brandy snifter with him. “A refresher?” he asked, pointing toward Jack’s empty glass.

“No, no. I’ve had more than enough,” Jack assured him. “I’ll have a little more coffee though.” He poured himself a cup and added some cream before following Will into the next room. He would finish the cup and hopefully sober up as a result.

Jack sat on the couch as Will put some music on the sound system. Will sat on the couch as well, though not near. Jack had half-expected Will to sit right next to him, to put his arm around him, to pull him close…

He realized with a sudden jolt he’d only assumed Will was gay. He’d made a stereotypical assumption, based on Will’s appearance, his interest in the kitchen, his attention to artistic detail, the lack of a woman in the picture. What if he was totally off base? What if Will was as straight as he was?

How did one bring up something like that? Hint around about a girlfriend or ex-wife? Ask if he’d marched in the pride parade that year?

“You’re grinning, Jack, but I don’t know why,” Will said with an answering half-smile.

Jack sat up and took a gulp of his coffee. “Listen, Will. I’m not used to all the brandy. That’s my excuse.” He offered a lopsided grin and barreled on. “I’m going to ask you straight out because I don’t know how else to do it. Are you gay?”

Will, who had been sipping his brandy, sputtered into the glass. “What?”

Jack felt his face heat. God, he was a jerk. “I’m sorry. That was so out of line. It’s just I realized I kind of assumed and well, tonight, I’m not exactly sure what’s going on. I mean, if anything’s going on, which I’m not saying anything is. I mean, you know. It’s just…”
Save me from this ramble.

Will complied to the silent plea. “Hey, calm down. It’s okay. I just didn’t expect the question. I guess I figured you knew.”

“Then, you are?” Jack’s mouth felt dry.

“Is this a fact-finding mission, or do you have a particular reason for asking?”

“I don’t know,” Jack mumbled, feeling suddenly much more sober. It was strange, for though he was obviously the senior of the two, he felt like a kid, confused and out of his ken.

Will scooted a little closer and turned toward Jack. “Look, I’m not going to lie to you. I really like you. A lot. But I know how things are. I didn’t invite you out in order to hit on you. I genuinely enjoy your company. You’re different from anyone I’ve ever known. You’re wise and funny. You’re humble even though you have every right to be very proud of the amazing work you do. I don’t know how to explain this, and probably shouldn’t even try, but something about you speaks to something inside me.”

He shook his head and said, “I’m not saying that right. What I mean is, when you’re around I somehow feel calmer. I tend to hold things too tight inside myself. I let stuff get sort of balled up and it eats at me. That’s why I had to take a break from the work I was doing on Wall Street. I was letting it eat me up inside. But for some reason when you’re around, that tension inside me eases. I feel a kindredness, something between us that sometimes, when my guard is down, I imagine you feel too. I have this crazy idea maybe we could explore it—together.”

Jack stared at Will, completely at a loss for words. Will took a deep breath and blew it out. “Fuck. I wasn’t going to do that. I’m
such
a jerk.” He held his glass aloft. “I guess I had too much to drink too. You probably want to go now.”

“No. I want to stay.”

Every silent signal emanating from Jack seemed to say, “Kiss me.” He was staring at Will with those intense, brooding eyes of his, his lips pressed tightly together, his hands twisting in his lap. Will was reminded suddenly of his first kiss with one Jane Cuthbert, when he was nine years old.

Every summer Will’s father hauled them out of the city to a stay in a cottage in the Hamptons. That particular summer his father had helped him build, or more accurately had built a tree house for Will while he handed him tools and nails. It was really just a conglomeration of wood planks and two-by-fours but to his nine-year-old eyes it was a wonderful, secret lair in which he passed many happy hours.

Ten-year-old Jane, whose family rented the cottage next door, invited herself up but Will didn’t mind. He was proud of his tree house and happy to show it off, even to a girl.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Jane asked. She was a pretty girl, with long blonde braids framing a pixie face.

“Sure.” Why not? They were sitting cross-legged facing one another, Will’s pile of comic books between them. He leaned forward and she screwed up her eyes and pursed her lips in an exaggerated gesture. When his lips touched hers, she twisted her head violently away.

“You don’t want to?” Will asked, confused.

“I want to. I’m just scared. It’s my first time, you see.”

“Mine too.” Will shrugged. What was the big deal about touching lips anyway? He tried again and this time she stayed still. After a moment he pulled back and she opened her eyes and grinned at him.

“Now we’re boyfriend and girlfriend.” She was triumphant.

“Whatever.” He was noncommittal.

Will wondered if Jack would turn away if he tried to kiss him.
I want to. I’m just scared.

Will hadn’t really been sure what he hoped to accomplish by inviting Jack back to his place. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. A part of him, the wishful thinking totally unrealistic part of him, held some kind of fantasy that upon entering the house, Jack would press Will against the front door and pull at his clothing, desperately kissing his mouth as he fumbled with the zipper of Will’s jeans. They would slide together to the floor, pulling off each other’s clothes in their rush to feel the naked press of flesh against flesh.

The saner part of him thought maybe they could talk. Perhaps, his inhibition lowered a bit by alcohol, Jack might not be offended if Will probed a little, if he tried to gauge if there was the slightest chance of anything happening between them.