Alfred entered his closet, still talking, leaving Alex no choice but to follow. When he stepped inside the door, however, an iron fist seized his heart and squeezed. The closet was neatly divided down the middle, and Byron’s clothes still hung where they always had, his shoes haphazardly lining the walls, mocking reminders of Alex’s cowardice.
He skimmed tentative fingers over the sweater he’d sent for Christmas, the cardboard tag on the cuff a silent condemnation for making excuses rather than being a part of Byron’s last Christmas. Byron died three short weeks later, never having worn the gift. Alex squeezed his eyes shut, fighting burning tears. Instead of creating a memory and providing some comfort, he’d gone skiing instead, each and every night taking a different man to his bed in an effort to bury his guilt. The diversionary tactic hadn’t worked very well.
As painful as it was for him to be bombarded by the haunting memories, how much harder would it be for Paul, who’d been in this closet, surrounded by Byron’s personal effects, only moments ago? “What about Paul?” he asked, suddenly feeling sorry for the young man who, by all appearances, played second fiddle, facing constant reminders that another owned Alfred’s heart. What kind of financial gain made up for being with someone who loved—and forever would—a ghost?
Back turned, Alfred couldn’t see the tears and misunderstood the question. “You’re alone by choice, Alex. Paul is different. He was never meant to be a solitary creature. I’m afraid being around me and Byron made him want what we had.”
Was that the reason Paul chased after a man old enough to be his grandfather? The desire for a solid relationship? “That’s not a bad thing,” Alex conceded, considering the situation in a new light. Paul’s rejection finally made sense, especially if he wanted long-term. Until now, Alex hadn’t believed in long-term, for himself, anyway, a well-known fact in this house. After a moment, he admitted, “If I could have what the two of you had, I wouldn’t be alone, either.”
“Really?” his uncle asked, glancing over his shoulder as he donned a light-blue shirt, eyes wide and a grin blooming across his face.
Alex dismissed such foolish ideas with a shake of his head. “It’s not going to happen. No one can see past the money. No one sees me.”
Alfred released a brief chuckle. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I think if you let someone actuallyseethe real you, you’d be amazed at their reaction.” With a quick glance toward the door, Alfred lowered his voice and murmured, “I need to hurry and tell you this before Paul comes back.”
Though curious, Alex remained silent. Was his uncle about to confess? The invisible fist gripped his heart once more.
Alfred winced, lowering himself onto a low stool, and Alex stepped forward, offering his arm for support. When had the man become so frail? Even more shocking, his staunchly independent uncle allowed his help, using the offered arm as leverage to ease himself down, taking deep, panting breaths. “Thank you, Alex. No matter what you might think, I’m not getting older. Unfortunately, my body is. It won’t seem to do what I tell it to anymore. Anyway, I want to talk to you about Paul. Like I said, he’s not used to being alone. Promise me, if something happens to me, will you watch out for him?”
Ah, a confession. After weeks of speculation, Alex expected a sense of justification at being proven right. Why, then, did he feel like he’d lost something valuable? “He seems perfectly capable of looking after himself,” Alex said, remembering the seductive predator from the night before.
Alfred continued, not knowing that he was, in essence, asking the fox to guard the henhouse. “He’s not as strong as you are, and has the tendency to believe the best about the wrong people. Someone could easily take advantage of him.”
Prudently remaining silent, Alex wondered what Paul might have said about their night together. If his uncle knew, surely he’d come right out and say so, wouldn’t he? Andersons weren’t exactly known for subtlety, or for sharing what was theirs.
Instead of accusations, Alfred offered, “I love you both like sons and worry about you, but you’re an Anderson at heart. Many have tried to take advantage of you, and failed. You’d never let it happen. Paul, on the other hand, has experienced firsthand how it feels to be used.”
Words sparking possessive outrage, Alex growled, “Who? Who took advantage of him?” No matter what place he held, Paul was a part of the household, and Andersons took care of their own.
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this….” Once again, Alfred’s eyes shifted toward the door. “About three years ago, before Byron fell ill, Paul met someone. He was young, witty and handsome.” Eyes narrowing in annoyance, Alfred scoffed, “Unfortunately, he was exactly what you described, concerned only with the money.”
Alfred pulled on his socks, wriggling his feet into a pair of loafers. “Jordan made a point of being available for parties, vacations, and social events, anything that allowed him to rub elbows with the rich. That part of Paul’s life, he didn’t mind sharing—the only part. He amazed even me by the creativity of his excuses not to visit Bishop. Eventually, he gave up the pretense of accepting Paul for himself and begged him to move here.”
Alex didn’t need to hear the rest of the story. Blessed with an active imagination and cursed with a possessive streak, he battled the image of “young, witty, and handsome”inflagrante delictowith Paul. He hated Jordan immediately.
“The problem,” Alfred explained, “was that Paul didn’t want to live the way Jordan wanted him to. He’s happy with his life. Lord knows how many times Byron and I asked him to move here.”
Misreading Alex’s scowl, his uncle scolded, “Don’t give me that look, young man! We begged you too, you know. Nothing would have made us happier than to have our two boys here with us.”
Alex sighed, reining in his jealous streak and finally catching up to the conversation. No use arguing; he knew he should have agreed to move to LA when Alfred first broached the subject years ago. Instead of forcing the issue and pressuring him, as his grandparents would have done, his uncle allowed him his choice, never batting an eye at paying for an expensive condo in another state. If only there were a way for Alex to turn back the clock…. Desperate to change the subject, he asked, “What happened with Paul and Jordan?”
Once again taking Alex’s arm, Alfred groaned as he rose from the bench, now fully dressed. A flash of pain crossed his face, and he paused a moment to recover.
“Uncle, are you all right?”
“I will be, give me a moment,” Alfred replied, panting. Slowly he relaxed his hold, breathing easier. “Where was I? Oh, yes.Jordan”—he spat the name bitterly—“was pressuring Paul to buy a penthouse downtown, never believing when Paul said he didn’t have money.”
“Jordan broke up with him? Over money?”
Motioning Alex ahead of him, Alfred turned off the closet light and reentered the bedroom. “The little opportunist only wanted someone to support him. He’d prefer his easy money to come from someone youthful and handsome, but wasn’t a stickler for details.”
A gold-digger? Wasn’t that what Paul was?
“He’d involved himself with some unsavory characters, and for Paul’s sake, Byron and I ended the charade. Oh, we couldn’t tell Paul the truth, of course. We let him believe Jordan had fidelity issues, which was true enough.”
“What truth?”
Stoic Uncle Alfred, who’d spent the majority of his life upholding the law and ensuring others did too, said, without a trace of remorse, “I paid him off.”
