“I read somewhere that eating honey from the local bees can help,” Arden said. They’d been conversing about seasonal allergies and how best to combat them.
“I’ll have to see about getting some from the market,” he said and then turned his attention to me.
“This is Michael D'Agostino, the author I’ve told you about,” Arden said. “Michael, this is Mr. Bertrand Horne, Matteo’s houseman.”
I held out my hand, and Mr. Horne shook it politely.
“Mr. Evans was quite taken by your talent, Mr. D'Agostino. He offered to let me borrow your books, but I’m afraid reading puts me straight to sleep. He did share a few passages for my benefit. And I hear they may be adapted to film.”
Arden glanced over at me, embarrassed by the outing. I’d told him only last week that Bitzy had received an inquiry from a television producer interested in purchasing the film option forCold Lake Chronicles. The deal was not necessarily common knowledge, but that Arden had shared it with this man, showed he was proud of my work.
“We’re still in the very early stages,” I told him. “And please, call me Michael.”
Mr. Horne nodded. “Well, if it were to be made into a television series, I’d surely watch it. I love a good mystery.”
“Me as well,” I replied, my eyes alighting on my lover again.
“Mr. Giacomo is waiting for you on the West Terrace. May I get your drink orders?”
“I’ll have a fruit fizz,” Arden said, then glanced at me. “Mr. Horne makes a wonderful gimlet with fresh basil.”
“Sounds delicious,” I said.
Arden then led me through the foyer where I was confronted with a life-sized nude statue, the likeness of which could only be my lover. Gilded mirrors reflected the marble sculpture in all its titillating angles.
“Arden, is that…”
“Yes,” he said, with an embarrassed smile. “Matteo wanted a centerpiece, and I was living here at the time. It was convenient.”
The statue’s face was angled upward, one arm outstretched as though plucking fruit from a tree limb, torso twisted slightly from the effort. The care with which the sculptor took in capturing every sinew of muscle and protuberance of bone was admirable. Even the statue’s flaccid cock was recognizable. The sculpture, like my lover, was a work of art, and it spoke to some deeper emotion that Matteo had commissioned it to exalt him. Did Arden understand that, or was he only downplaying the gesture for my benefit?
This was one serious mind fuck.
I loosened my tie as we passed through the kitchen—large enough for a catering staff to be fully operational—and onto an open patio overlooking Central Park. The shrubbery on one side offered privacy from the building next door. There was a fountain, the base of which was a koi pond, and a greenhouse. I remembered Mr. Horne calling this the West Terrace, which meant there must be at least one other elsewhere.
Matteo rose to greet us. He was shorter than me by a couple of inches. His open shirt revealed a mat of graying chest hair while the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to display his muscled forearms. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back from his face and drew attention to his sharp features—piercing coal-black eyes and a slightly hooked nose that reminded me of a bird of prey. With his darker skin tone and features, he looked Sicilian or Neapolitan. My own family was from the north where the bloodlines mingled with Northern Europeans. Despite that and being twenty years my senior, there was a faint resemblance between us, and I wondered if Arden might also have a type.
Arden greeted Matteo with a light embrace and a chaste peck on the cheek, then introduced the two of us. Matteo offered me his hand and I shook it.
“Ciao, Michael. Parli Italiano?”
“Non bene.”
“Peccato.I seldom have the opportunity to practice. Please, sit.” Matteo motioned to three plush chairs surrounding a low table. “So, you’re the writer Arden’s told me so much about?”
“I am, but I’m afraid the opposite is true for you.” I didn’t mean to be rude, only honest. Everything I knew about the man had been through my own research.
“Arden knows how private I am,” Matteo said, unbothered by it. I sensed that he’d faced off with far more fearsome creatures than myself. Men with claws and teeth and dark hearts, where my sharpest weapon had always been my (written) words.
Arden fiddled with his hair, a telltale sign that he was nervous. His gold bracelet caught the light and attracted both our attentions. Matteo smiled. Something else he liked, to see his favorite pet adorned in his gifts.
I’d never be able to afford such extravagances.
“You have a beautiful home,” I said.
Matteo shared that it had once been a hotel of some renown, opened during the height of the Roaring Twenties and converted since then into several apartments. Matteo had purchased the entire five-story building after the housing market crashed and had been steadily restoring it to its former glory.
“It’s been a labor of love.” Matteo took Arden’s hand briefly and gave it a squeeze. They were familiar with each other and affectionate. They might even enjoy each other’s company. I knew that already, didn’t I?
