y recorder beside my yellow legal pad, I look across the table at the man I know only as Smith. Around me locals chat and laugh, but it all feels forced as they keep a watchful eye on me and Smith. If I didn’t know better, if the language around me was peppered with Arabic and scented with cumin, I would think I was in Baghdad sitting across from a fanatic named Mohammed. The inner beast shines just as bright in deep brown eyes as blue. Both men…

Sebastian reread what he’d written and scrubbed his face with his hands. What he’d written wasn’t so much bad as it wasn’t right. He returned his hands to the keyboard of his laptop and with a few strokes deleted what he’d written.

He stood and sent the kitchen chair sliding across the hardwood floor. He didn’t understand it. He had his notes, an outline in his head, and a good workable nut graf. All he had to do was sit down and write a decent lead. “Fuck!” Something that felt a lot like fear bit the back of his throat and chewed its way down to his stomach. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

“Is there a problem?”

He took a deep breath and let it out as he turned and looked at his father standing just inside the back doorway. “No. No problem.” Not any that he’d admit out loud, anyway. He’d get the lead paragraph. He would. He’d just never faced this kind of problem before, but he’d work it out. He moved to the refrigerator, reached inside and pulled out a carton of orange juice. He would have preferred a beer, but it wasn’t even noon. The day he started drinking in the morning was the day he knew he had to truly worry about himself.

He lifted the carton to his mouth and took several long swallows. The cool juice hit the back of his throat and washed away the taste of panic in his mouth. He raised his gaze from the end of the carton to a wooden duck resting on top of the refrigerator. The brass plate identified the duck as an American wigeon. A Carolina wood duck and northern pintail rested above the fireplace in the living room. There were various wooden birds about the house, and Sebastian wondered when the old man had become so fascinated with ducks. He lowered the juice and glanced at his father, who was watching him from beneath the brim of his hat. “Do you need help with anything?” Sebastian asked.

“If you have a moment, you could give me a hand moving something for Mrs. Wingate. But I hate to interrupt you when you’re hard at work.”

He would give his left nut to be hard at work instead of writing and deleting the lead paragraph over and over. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and returned the carton to the refrigerator. “What does she want moved?” he asked, and shut the door.

“A sideboard.”

He didn’t know what the hell a sideboard was, but it sounded heavy. Like something to take his mind off his looming deadline and his inability to string together three cohesive sentences.

He moved across the small kitchen and followed his father out the door. Old elm and oak trees shaded the grounds and white iron furniture in deep shadowy patches. Sebastian walked beside his father across the yard shoulder-to-shoulder. A perfect picture of father and son, but the picture was far from perfect.

“It’s going to be nice today,” Sebastian said as they passed a silver Lexus parked next to Sebastian’s Land Cruiser.

“The weatherman said in the low nineties,” Leo replied.

Then they fell into an uncomfortable silence that seemed to blanket most attempts at conversation. Sebastian didn’t know why he was having such a difficult time talking to the old man. He’d interviewed heads of state, mass killers as well as religious and military leaders, yet he couldn’t think of one damn thing to say to his own father beyond making a perfunctory comment on the weather or having a superficial conversation about dinner. Obviously, his father found it just as difficult to talk to him.

Together they walked toward the back of the main house. For some reason Sebastian couldn’t explain, he tucked the ends of his gray Molson T-shirt into his Levi’s and finger-combed his hair. Looking up at all that limestone, he felt like he was heading into church, and suppressed the urge to cross himself. As if he felt it too, Leo reached for his hat and pulled it from his head.

The hinges on the back door squeaked as Leo held open the door, and the sound of their boot heels filled the silence as the two of them continued up a set of stone steps and into the kitchen. It was too late for them. His father was just as uncomfortable being around him as he was being around his father. He should just leave, he thought. Put them both out of their misery. He didn’t know why he’d come, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t have anything else to do besides sit around and not communicate with his father. There was a lot waiting for him in Washington State. He had to get his mother’s house ready to put on the market, and he had to get on with his life. He’d been here three days now. Enough time to open a dialogue. Only it wasn’t happening. He’d help his father move the sideboard and then go pack his things.

A huge butcher’s block dominated the middle of the kitchen, and Leo tossed his hat on the scarred top as he passed. White cabinets lined the walls from the floor to the twelve-foot ceiling, and late-morning sunlight spilled through the windows and shined off of stainless steel appliances. The heels of Sebastian’s Gortex hiking boots thudded across the old black and white tiles as he and his father walked through the kitchen and headed into a formal dining room. A huge vase of fresh-cut flowers sat in the center of a twenty-foot table covered in red damask cloth. The furniture, the windows and drapes, all reminded him of something he’d see in a museum. Polished and well-tended. It smelled like a museum too. Cold and a little musty.

A thick area rug muffled their footsteps as he and his father made their way toward an ornately carved piece of furniture on one wall. It had long spindly legs and a few fancy drawers. “I take it this is a sideboard.”

“Yes. It’s French and very old. It’s been in Mrs. Wingate’s family for more than a hundred years,” Leo said as he removed a big silver tea service from the sideboard and set it on the table.

Sebastian had figured it was an antique and was not at all surprised that it was French. He preferred clean modern lines and comfort over old and fussy. “Where are we moving it?”

Leo pointed to a wall next to the doorway, and each of them grabbed an end of the sideboard. The piece wasn’t heavy, and the two of them moved it easily. As they set it down in its new place, Joyce Wingate’s raised voice carried from the next room. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t know what to do,” a second voice Sebastian recognized answered. “I was in shock,” Clare added. “And I just left the house and went to Lucy’s wedding.”

“This doesn’t make any sense. How does a man just go gay? Out of the blue?”

Sebastian looked at his father, who moved to the tea service and got busy arranging the silver sugar bowl and creamer.

“A man doesn’t ‘go gay,’ Mother. In hindsight, the signs were all there.”

“What signs? I didn’t see any signs.”

“Looking back, he had an unnatural fondness for antique ramekins.”

Ramekins? What the hell was a ramekin? Sebastian’s gaze returned to the empty doorway. Unlike the old man, he wasn’t going to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping. This was juicy stuff.

“Lots of men love a beautiful ramekin.”

And these two women didn’t know the guy was gay?

“Name one man who loves ramekins,” Clare demanded.

“That chef on television. I don’t recall his name.” There was a pause, and Joyce asked, “You’re sure it’s over, then?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a shame. Lonny had such beautiful manners. I’ll miss his tomato aspic.”

“Mother, I found him with another man. Having sex. In my closet. For God’s sake, screw the aspic!”

Leo carried the tea service to the sideboard and for a fraction his gaze met Sebastian’s. For the first time since he’d arrived, he saw a spark of laughter in the older man’s green eyes.

“Claresta, watch your language. There’s no need to yell profanities. We can discuss this without yelling.”

“Can we? You’re acting as if I should have stayed with Lonny because he uses the right fork and chews with his mouth closed.”

There was another pause, and then Joyce said, “Well, I suppose it was necessary to call off the wedding.”

“You suppose? I knew you wouldn’t understand, and I debated about whether to even tell you. I only decided to tell you since I figured you’d notice him missing when he didn’t show up for Thanksgiving dinner.” Clare’s voice became more clear as she walked into the large open entryway. “I realize he was the perfect man for you mother, but he turned out not to be the perfect man for me.”

Her hair was pulled back into one of those inside out ponytails, all sleek and polished like the mahogany sideboard. She wore a white suit with big lapels, a deep blue blouse, and a long string of pearls. The skirt hit her just above the knee, and she had on a pair of white shoes that covered the front of her feet. The heels of the shoes looked like silver balls. She was spit polished and buttoned up tighter than a nun. Quite a change from the last time he had seen her, with her back pressed against a motel room door, falling out of that silly pink dress, black smudges beneath her eyes, and hangover hair.

Just outside the dining room door she turned back to the room she’d exited. “I need a man who not only knows where his pickle fork is located, but wants to put it to use more than once on holidays.”

There was a shocked gasp followed by, “That’s vulgar. You sound like a floozy.”

Clare placed a hand on her chest. “Me? A floozy? I’ve been living with a gay man. I haven’t had sex in so long, I’m practically a virgin.”

Sebastian laughed. He couldn’t help it. The memory of her stripping off her clothes didn’t quite square with the woman claiming to be “practically a virgin.” Clare turned at the sound and her gaze met Sebastian’s. For a few unguarded seconds confusion wrinkled the smooth skin between her brows, as if she’d discovered something where it wasn’t supposed to be. Like the sideboard on the wrong wall or the gardener’s son in the dining room. A faint pink blush spread across her cheeks and the wrinkle between her brow deepened. Then, as had happened the other morning when she’d turned around and seen him standing behind her wearing nothing but a hotel towel and a few drops of water, she recovered quickly and remembered her manners. She pulled at the cuffs of her jacket and entered the dining room.

“Hello, Sebastian. Isn’t this a wonderful surprise?” Her voice was pleasant enough, but he didn’t believe she meant a word of what she said. She pushed up the corners of her lush mouth, and he didn’t believe she meant that either. Maybe because that perfect smile didn’t quite reach her blue eyes. “Your father must be thrilled.” She held out her hand and he took it. Her fingers were a little cold, but he could almost feel her palm sweat. “How long do you plan to be in town?” she asked, all polished politeness.

“I’m not sure,” he answered, and looked into her eyes. He couldn’t say how “thrilled” his father felt about his visit, but he could practically read Clare’s mind. She was wondering if he was going to spill the beans about the other night. He smiled and let her worry.

She tugged her hand, and he wondered what she’d do if he tightened his grasp, if she’d lose her composure. Instead he released her and she held out her arms for his father. “Hello, Leo. It’s been a while.”

The older man stepped forward and hugged her; his old hands patted her back as if she were a child. As they had Sebastian when he’d been a child. “You shouldn’t stay away so long,” Leo said.

“Sometimes I need a break.” Clare leaned back. “A long break.”

“Your mother isn’t that bad.”

“Not to you.” She took a few steps backward and her hands fell to her sides. “I suppose you couldn’t help but overhear my conversation about Lonny.” Her attention remained fixed on Leo, as if she had dismissed Sebastian. As if he wasn’t in the same room, standing so close he could see tiny stray wisps at her hairline.

“Yes. I’m not sorry he’s gone,” Leo said, lowering his voice a fraction and giving her a knowing look. “I always suspected there was something a little light in the loafers about him.”

If the old man had known that Clare’s fiancé was gay, Sebastian wondered how it was that Clare hadn’t figured it out.

“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being…you know…funny that way, but if a man has a preference for…ahh…other men, he shouldn’t pretend he likes the ladies.” Leo placed a comforting hand on Clare’s shoulder. “That’s not right.”

“You knew too, Leo?” She shook her head and continued to ignore Sebastian. “Why was it so obvious to everyone but me?”

“Because you wanted to believe him, and some men are tricky. You have a kind heart and gentle nature, and he took advantage of that. You have a lot to offer the right man. You’re beautiful and successful, and someday you’ll find someone worthy of you.”

Sebastian hadn’t heard the old man string that many consecutive sentences together since he’d been in town. At least not when he’d been within hearing distance.

“Ahh.” Clare tilted her head to one side. “You are the sweetest man alive.”

Leo beamed, and Sebastian had a sudden overwhelming desire to knock Clare off her pins, to pull her perfect ponytail or throw mud on her and mess her up like he did when she used to irritate him when they were kids. “I told your mother and my father that I ran into you the other night at the Double Tree,” he said. “It was a real shame you had to leave and we didn’t get to, ahh…chat a little more.”

Clare finally turned her attention to Sebastian and, through the fake little smile curving her full pink lips, said, “Yes. Truly one of the biggest regrets of my life.” She looked back at Leo and asked, “How’s the latest carving?”

“It’s almost done. You should come and see it.”

Sebastian shoved his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. She’d changed the subject and dismissed him again. He’d let her change the subject, for now. But he’d be damned if he let her pretend he wasn’t in the room. He leaned his behind against the sideboard and asked, “What carving?”

“Leo carves the most fabulous wildlife.”

Sebastian hadn’t known that. Of course, he’d seen them around the carriage house, but he hadn’t known his father carved them.

“Last year he entered one of his ducks in the Western Idaho Fair and won. What kind of duck was it, Leo?”

“A shoveler drake.”

“It was beautiful.” Clare’s face lit up as if she’d carved it herself.

“What did you win?” Sebastian asked his father.

“Nothing.” Color rose up Leo’s neck above the collar of his beige shirt. “Just a blue ribbon, is all.”

“A huge blue ribbon. You’re too modest. The competition was stiff. Veni vidi vici.”

Sebastian watched the flush creep into his father’s cheeks. “I came, I saw, I kicked some bird-carving ass?”

“Well,” Leo said as he looked down at the carpet, “it wasn’t anything like the important awards you win, but it was nice.”

Sebastian had been unaware that his father knew about his journalistic awards. He didn’t recall mentioning them the few times they’d spoken throughout the years, but he must have said something.

Joyce entered the dinning room wearing all black, like the angel of doom, and put an end to the discussion of ducks and awards. “Hmm,” she said, and pointed to the sideboard. “Now that I see it, I’m not sure I like it there.” She pushed a side of her short gray bob behind her ear with one hand and twisted the pearl necklace around her throat with the other. “Well, I’ll have to think about it.” She turned to the three people in front of her and placed her palms on her bony hips. “I’m glad we’re all in the same room because I’ve an idea.” She looked at her daughter. “In case you’ve forgotten, Leo turns sixty-five on Saturday, and next month marks his thirtieth year of employment with us. As you know, he is invaluable and practically a member of the family. In certain respects, much more than Mr. Wingate ever was.”

“Mother,” Clare warned.

Joyce held up one slim hand. “I had thought to put together something next month to mark both occasions, but I really think that since Sebastian is in town, we should put together a small gathering of Leo’s friends this weekend.”

“We?”

“This weekend?” Sebastian hadn’t planned to stay through the weekend.

Joyce turned to Clare. “I know you’ll want to help with the arrangements.”

“Of course I’ll help as much as I can. I work most days until four, but after that I’m free.”

“Surely you can take a few days off.”

Clare looked as if she might argue, but at the last moment she pasted one of her fake smiles on her face. “Not a problem. I’ll be happy to do whatever I can.”

“I don’t know.” Leo shook his head. “It sounds like a lot of trouble, and Sebastian doesn’t know when he might be leavin’.”

“I’m sure he can stay a few more days.” Then the woman who’d once banished him from her land like a queen asked, “Can’t you please stay?”

He opened his mouth to tell her no, but something else came out instead. “Why not?” he heard himself say.

Why not? There were several good reasons why not. First, he wasn’t sure more time wouldn’t make his relationship with his father less awkward. Second, his Newsweek article obviously wasn’t going to get written at his father’s kitchen table. Third, he had to deal with his mother’s estate, although calling it an estate was a stretch. The fourth and fifth good reasons stood in front of him: one was clearly relieved by his decision, the other annoyed and still pretending he was invisible.

“Wonderful.” Joyce brought her hands together and placed her fingers beneath her chin. “Since you’re here, Clare, we can get started right now.”

“Actually, Mother, I need to leave.” She turned to Sebastian and asked, “Would you walk me out?”

Suddenly he wasn’t invisible after all. He was sure Clare had something to say about the other night, some blank spots that she wanted him to fill in for her, and he debated whether to leave her hanging. In the end he was curious about what she might ask. “Sure.” He pushed away from the sideboard and pulled his hands from his pockets. He followed her from the dining room, the silver heels of her shoes making tiny tap tap sounds across the kitchen tile.

Sebastian walked down the stairs first and opened the back door for her. His gaze moved from the blue of her eyes to her slicked-back hair. As a kid her hair had always looked painful. As a woman it looked like dark silk that needed to be messed up. “You look different,” he said.

The sleeve of her suit brushed the front of his T-shirt as she passed. “I wasn’t exactly at my best Saturday night.”

He chuckled and shut the door behind them. “I meant, you look different from when you were a kid. You used to wear thick glasses.”

“Oh. I had Lasik surgery about eight years ago.” She looked down at her feet as they walked beneath an old oak tree toward the garage. A breeze played with the leaves above their head, and shadows fluttered in her hair and across the side of her face. “How much of the conversation with my mother did you overhear?” she asked as they stepped from the lawn and onto the stone driveway.

“Enough to know that your mother didn’t take the news about Lonny very well.”

“Actually, Lonny is the perfect man for my mother.” They stopped by the back bumper of her Lexus. “Someone to arrange the flowers, who won’t bother her in the bedroom.”

“Sounds like an employee.” Like my father, he thought.

She placed a hand on the car and looked at the back of the house. “I’m sure you’ve guessed why I asked you to walk out here with me. We need to talk about what happened the other night.” She shook her head and opened her mouth to say more but nothing came out. She lifted her hand from the back of the Lexus, then set it back down again. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

He could help her out. Clear things up real fast and tell her they hadn’t slept together, but it wasn’t his job to make her life easier. One thing he’d learned from his years as a journalist was to just sit tight and listen. He leaned his hip into the car, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited. Several thin strips of sunlight picked out deep auburn strands in her brown hair, and the only reason he could think why he even noticed was because he was trained to notice small details. It was his job.

“I’m guessing we met in the bar at the Double Tree,” she began again.

“That’s right. You were throwing back Jägermeister with some guy wearing a backward ball cap and a wife beater.” Which was the truth. Then he broke his just-sit-back-and-listen rule and added a little lie for fun. “He had a nose ring and was missing a few teeth.”

“Oh God.” She pulled her fingers into a fist. “I’m not sure I want to know every detail. I mean, I probably should—up to a point anyway. It’s just that…” She paused and swallowed hard. Sebastian’s gaze slid from her mouth, down her throat, to the top button of her blouse. She was wound tight, but there was another side of her. One he’d seen the other night. One that didn’t pull her hair back and string pearls around her neck before noon. He wondered if she was wearing that pink bustier beneath her bland suit. It had been dark in the hotel room, and he hadn’t gotten a real good look at it before she’d whipped it off.

“I’m usually not the sort of woman to drink myself into oblivion or invite men to my hotel room. You probably don’t believe that, and I don’t blame you. I…had a really bad day, which you already know about,” she rambled.

As Sebastian listened, he let his mind drift, and he wondered if she had a thong on beneath that virginal suit. Like the one she’d worn the other night. That thong had rocked. He wouldn’t mind seeing that thong again. Not that he liked Clare much. He didn’t, but not every woman could wear a thong and look that good in it. He’d traveled the world and seen his share of thong-clad women. It took a woman with a firm butt and just the right junk in her trunk to pull off a thong.

“…condom.”

Whoa. “What?” He looked back into her face. Her cheeks were turning a bright shade of red. “Come again?”

“I need to know if you used a condom the other night. I don’t know if you were as inebriated as I was, but I hope you remembered. I realize that it was my responsibility…as much as yours, of course. But since I wasn’t planning to…to…I didn’t have any with me. So, I’m hoping you did and that…well, you were responsible and used it. Because in this day and age there are serious consequences from having unprotected sex.”

She’d accused him of taking advantage of her when she’d been drunk. Pretended he didn’t exist, and now it sounded like she was getting ready to accuse him of giving her something really unpleasant.

“I have an appointment with my doctor at the end of the week, and if we didn’t use a condom, I think you would be wise to do the same. I thought I was in a committed relationship, but…You know what they say, it’s not only the person you’re sleeping with, but everyone they’ve ever slept with too.” She gave a nervous little laugh and blinked her eyes a few times as if she were fighting back tears. “So…”

Sebastian looked at her standing there, with the shadows playing in her dark hair and touching one corner of her mouth.

He remembered the little girl with huge glasses who’d followed him around as a kid, and just as he had all those years ago, he began to feel a little sorry for her.

Damn it.