Love,
Paul
What was that about? What kind of gift did Paul decline? Several more letters were variations of the same theme. Alex’s questing hands found a stack of checks made out to Paul Sinclair. His blood boiled when he noted the amounts, until he noticed the dates. None of them had ever been endorsed.
The first bore Alex’s college graduation date. His uncle had gifted him with money, which he’d used to buy his car. The check was written to Paul for the exact same amount. Only Paul had declined. Several more dates caught Alex’s attention. The day he’d closed on his condo in Houston, also a gift from Alfred and Byron, there was a check made out for Paul, and again he’d returned the check, uncashed.
They treated us the same.What one received, the other was offered.Paul, apparently, hadn’t allowed Alfred and Byron to buy the status symbols that he himself greedily coveted. Alex recalled the aging, barely functioning car he’d ridden in the night of Byron’s funeral. Sitting in the drawer was a check for enough money to easily buy four new cars, yet Paul drove a barely functioning vehicle. It didn’t make any sense.
His mind spun, seeking answers. Why didn’t Paul take the money? Maybe he never received the checks. Alex ruled out the possibility of lost mail immediately, having read the letters of polite refusal. What was Paul’s deal? Was he truly committed to Alfred, as Byron had been, not seeing the money but the man himself?
Guilt pressed down heavily as Alex reached the conclusion that everything he’d accused Paul of was a lie. Yes, the man might be having an affair with Alfred, the letters didn’t disprove that. What they did show was that if Paul slept in Alfred’s bed, it wasn’t for the money. It appeared the only one in this equation in any way concerned with money was Alex himself.
He silently made his way to his room, knowing he couldn’t stall forever—the time had come to listen to Byron’s final message. He settled on the bed, watching with disbelieving eyes as the image of Byron appeared, totally bald, emaciated form propped up by pillows in a huge bed, making him appear even smaller. Though Alex had blocked it for years, a memory surfaced unbidden: his mother, golden ringlets falling by the handful, and his grandparents scolding him for hugging her in public and dislodging her wig. His mom simply smiled and kissed him, readjusted her hair, and scowled at her parents, telling them to leave him be. Later, as the disease progressed, Alex couldn’t hug her for fear she’d bruise. The last fateful night, when he’d awakened screaming, he couldn’t help himself. He’d waited until the nurse entered the bathroom and crept past to his mother’s bed.
She’d stopped recognizing him days before, and he’d heard more than one whispered, “It won’t be long now,” among the household staff. When he climbed in bed beside her, those blue eyes, so much like his own, saw him, genuinelysawhim, for the first time in more than two weeks. Her thin lips pulled back into a smile, and though her words were quietly spoken, she clearly said, “I love you, Alexander.” He’d watched in horror as the light in her eyes dimmed and went out, her smile never fading. Alex was in college before he finally understood that he hadn’t killed his mother, but had instead eased her passing.
“Alex,” a raspy recorded voice began, drawing him back to the here and now. “I’m running out of time and I don’t dare put this off any longer. First, I wanted to assure you that I know why you stayed away and I understand. Your calls and emails showed me how much you cared; I never doubted you for an instant.” Byron stopped to sip from a water glass, the trembling in his hands impossible to miss. “I know you couldn’t bear to watch me waste away, and I’d never ask you to. I regret you have to see me like this now. If it were in my power, no one else would witness my decline, either. For Alfred I fought, to be with him every possible moment. Now the time has come. I’m tired and have nothing left to fight with. Before I go, I want to take care of a few matters of business.
“Most of my estate goes to your uncle, as he is, for all intents and purposes, my husband. But there’s something that means a lot to me that I’m entrusting to you, and I want you to think long and hard about what to do with it. The cold persona you work hard to project to the world can’t fool me. You’re a good man, Alex Martin, and I trust you to do the right thing.
“I’m leaving you the deed to a house in Bishop. You’ll know why when you set foot in the door. I know without asking that you’ll look out for Alfred. If he hasn’t already asked you, I will. Please consider moving to Los Angeles. He loves you and misses you. Do this for him.”
Byron’s shaky tones fell to scarcely above a whisper. “I know you wanted to spend more time with us when you were growing up, and it’s my deepest regret that Alfred and I didn’t fight your grandparents harder for regular visitation.
“You’re strong, capable of anything you set your mind to, and ruthless enough when necessary not to let anyone stand in your way. I’ve noticed you, how you watch me and your uncle. I’ve never told you before because plenty of others did, only in a less than productive way: you need someone, and not merely a warm body in your bed occasionally. I hate to picture you alone in the world, with me and Alfred gone. Promise me you’ll open your heart, because if you don’t, the right one will come and go and you’ll never recognize him.”
Though his voice faded as he tired, Byron managed a weak laugh. “That’s right, I said ‘him.’ You think your uncle wants you to marry and have children to carry on the family name. I don’t know where you got such a silly idea. All he wants is for you to be happy, and we know you well enough to accept that it’s a man you truly want, not some flighty debutante.
“I have one final favor to ask of you. You don’t know him personally, but you’re aware I have a nephew named Paul. He’s not as strong as you are, Alex, and I worry about what will happen to him. Promise me you’ll take care of him?
“Finally, be happy, and know how much I love you.”
Instead of the condemnation he’d deserved and expected, Byron’s final words absolved Alex of blame. It lightened his heart that the man died knowing he hadn’t intentionally been deserted; still, Alex couldn’t forgive himself.
He huddled into a ball on his bed, more miserable than he’d been since his mother’s death, barely noticing the shadow curling around him. Somehow, through his fog of pain, he sensed Byron’s presence. Alex drifted off, dreaming of Byron’s voice singing him to sleep.
AFTERthe morning of Bernard’s breakdown in the bedroom, Byron vowed not to use him again unless absolutely necessary, deeply regretting the consequences of his actions to the aging servant’s already failing mind. Only, progress between the nephews stalled, forcing him to break his vow. Now he quietly congratulated himself on a stroke of genius for compelling Bernard to remove those pictures, letters, and checks from the safe and slip them into the top desk drawer. Alex was curious by nature, and Byron believed it would be only a matter of time before he found them, even if remorse ate him for using his old friend in such a manner. Once again the end justified the means, in his opinion, and the plan paid off as he’d hoped. Alex discovered the truth for himself, and Byron fully expected him to find Paul posthaste and apologize.
Instead, Alex chose to finally watch the video after everyone else had worn theirs out. Byron knew Alex loved him, and he loved Alex, although he’d never met anyone quite so stubborn. Well, yes, he had. Alfred could be like that at times. But he hadn’t intended his words to hurt Alex. To his great relief, when he wrapped himself around the man’s trembling form, his ghostly embrace afforded some measure of comfort for them both.
However, when Alex woke from his nap Byron stopped congratulating himself. That honeyed voice, so similar to Alfred’s, booked a room at a local hotel.What?He had to stop Alex from leaving! Byron flitted frantically from room to room, futilely searching for a way to prevent the inevitable departure. Why was the man going now when he’d found out Paul wasn’t after money?
Byron found his answer in Alex’s hastily scribbled letter.
Dear Uncle Alfred,
I’m sorry I doubted your judgment and Paul’s character. Even though it’s a bit soon after Byron’s death, I know his illness was long and drawn out, possibly allowing you time to reconcile yourself with his passing. Paul seems to be a decent person who truly loves you. I think perhaps it is him you should entrust with the running of your estate, not me. I’ve finally seen the light and realize I need to stop being a fifth wheel and let the two of you have some privacy. You’ve got my cell number, and I’m only a phone call away.
With your permission, I plan to sell my condo in Houston and find a place closer to you, something I should have done long ago. As far as Paul goes, you have my blessing.
Love,
Alex
Alex neatly folded the paper and tucked the letter into his shirt pocket.
Oh no! Alfred often accused Byron of going overboard on occasion, and it seemed he’d certainly done it this time. His scheming had backfired, and now Alex planned to do the one thing Byron had thought the man incapable of—be noble.
