Authors: C. Kennedy
“What about Jake?”
“What about him?”
“Has he met Christy?”
“Yes, and he knows I like him.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“No.”
Mac’s eyes moved to Christy. “How do you feel about keeping it low-key at school?”
Christy made another
comme ci, comme ça
motion with his hand and scribbled.
Mac’s eyes narrowed on the pad as he read. “Good point.”
“Let me see.” Michael smirked. “He’s right. They’ll figure it out, and Jason Whitman is a jerk.” Christy nodded fervently, scribbled again, and held the pad up to Michael. What Michael read made red-hot anger well. “Are you serious?”
Christy nodded.
Bobbie took the pad from Christy and read. “Oh, how rude.”
“That’s going to stop immediately. I’ll talk to him.”
“Be careful, Michael,” Bobbie cautioned as she began to tear lettuce for a salad.
“I don’t know if I care if anyone figures it out. We graduate in two months.”
“Be discreet, son,” Mac added.
“Yeah, okay.”
“Speaking of graduation,” Bobbie began as she reached for the radishes. “What do you want to do to celebrate?”
Michael shrugged. “There are some parties, the usual senior day out. Doesn’t matter.”
“What is Jake doing to celebrate?” Mac asked.
“The same, then his dad’s sending him to Europe for the summer.”
“Truly?” This was Bobbie again.
“Yeah. He doesn’t want to go, though. He wants to stick around. He’s thinking about asking Becca to marry him.”
“How exciting is that?”
“Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t know if she’s right for him.”
“Haven’t they dated for some time?” Mac asked.
Michael shook his head at his dad’s question. “You’re thinking of Kelly. She moved to Nebraska last summer. Don’t you remember how down Jake was? He really loved her. He’s only dated Becca since September, and it’s pretty much because his dad made him. She goes to another school, but they’re both going to Columbia next year, and her dad works for his at the firm.”
Mac humphed. “Are you planning to attend college, Christy?”
Christy nodded and wrote
Sorbonne
.
“Wonderful.”
Christy scribbled quickly.
“No kidding?”
Christy nodded.
Michael leaned in. “What?”
Mac explained. “Christy has studied art all his life. Sorbonne, in Paris, has the ability to grant a degree based upon experience and accomplishment rather than education.”
Michael looked at the pad, and his heart sank.
What’s wrong with you, dude? You’ve known him forty-eight hours. Did you think you were just going to whisk him off to college like he was your favorite stuffed animal?
Shut up or I’ll have a lobotomy. He tried but couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice. “You’re going to Paris?”
Christy shrugged a shoulder and wrote
Maybe.
“When do you know for sure?”
Christy apparently saw his disappointment and scribbled furiously.
“You’re already accepted?”
Christy nodded.
“Have you told Christy where you’re going to go?” Mac asked.
There was that awareness problem again. “Ah, no, didn’t get to that.”
Christy gave him an inquiring look.
“Oxford.”
Christy’s brows shot to the heavens.
“He has a scholarship. Isn’t it wonderful?” Bobbie glowed with pride.
Christy scribbled
Running?
Michael nodded. “I want to get a degree in library and archival science.”
Christy wrote
Science?
“It’s really a degree in preservation and conservation of books. I want to preserve books, restore ancient texts, and stuff like that, so I have to take chemistry, art history, archaeology, and library science.”
M
UCH
to Michael’s relief, the evening passed without further embarrassment, though he and Christy didn’t have a chance to speak privately again until they were on the way to Wellington Ranch. “Thanks for putting up with my mom. She’s never been so weird.”
Christy gave Michael’s thigh a comforting squeeze as Michael drove down the long, rural road that led to Wellington. “Man, this is far away. Do you walk to school?” He glanced at Christy and saw his nod. “How long—” He stopped midsentence. He couldn’t read Christy’s writing as he drove. He was going to have to get used to this no-talking thing.
Christy held one finger up.
“An hour?”
Christy nodded again.
“That’s ridiculous. I’m going to pick you up in the morning.” Michael pulled into the driveway of the sprawling ranch and parked. He admired the wraparound porch, wooden beams, and stone chimney complimented by rugged clay fascia. It had a very homey, rustic charm. “How many kids live here?”
Christy showed him ten fingers twice and six before sliding out of the car, expertly placing his foot on the lower running board before stepping down gracefully.
Michael followed him to the porch steps and stopped. Christy motioned him forward.
“You sure? It’s kind of late.”
Christy nodded as he went through the heavy pine door.
Michael trotted up the steps, followed him inside, and was
floored
.
T
HE
ranch house was enormous. Michael took in the high vaulted ceiling, gleaming tongue-and-groove floor, and the rustic furniture. Throw rugs and colorful pillows decorated the vast space, and a fire snapped and crackled quietly in the fireplace in the center of the room. A small boy darted into the room and launched into Christy’s arms with a squeal.
“Christy!”
A dark-complected man, who looked to be in his late twenties, followed in the wake of the pajama-clad feet. “Hello, Michael, I’m Rob Villarreal.”
Michael shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Rob rubbed the little boy’s back. “I allowed Darien to stay up past his bedtime. He didn’t know you were going out and became concerned.”
Christy’s face softened, and he mouthed, “Sorry.”
Rob made a “don’t worry” gesture. “Darien, say hi to Michael.”
Darien studied Michael with owlish brown eyes. “Hi.”
“Hi. Nice to meet you.”
“Are you gonna hurt Christy?”
The question caught Michael off guard and left him momentarily speechless.
Guess those kinds of questions are to be expected in a place like this
. “I would never hurt Christy.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Are you coming to the barbecue? ’Cause I get the seat next to Christy. You can’t have it.”
Michael looked at the small boy in wonder. “I don’t know whether I’ll come to the barbecue, but, if I do, I promise I won’t take your seat.”
“’Kay.” He wriggled from Christy’s arms. “Come on, Christy! I painted another picture for you!”
Christy held his hands up, ten fingers spread.
“’Kay, ten minutes! Don’t be late!” He sped off only to be halted by a heavy oak door. He pushed and shoved with all his might, to no avail. Michael went to help him, but Christy stayed him with a hand on his arm. It took several tries, but Darien made it through the door. It swung quietly on its hinges as the sound of small footsteps faded.
“Wow,” Michael said softly.
“It’s important for him to do it on his own. Have a seat.” Rob gestured to an ottoman as he hiked his khaki pants and took a seat near the fireplace.
Michael abided, and Christy sat in the chair behind him.
“This is a home for abused and neglected children, and Christy is our eldest family member. We don’t often have guests.”
Michael studied the man, unsure where the conversation was headed.
Rob saw his perplexity, and his eyes moved to Christy. “Have you had a chance to share your background with Michael?”
Michael turned and saw that Christy’s face had crumpled in pained uncertainty. He answered for him, hoping to dispel Christy’s obvious distress. “He showed me the scar on his neck.”
A fleeting frown graced Rob’s brow before he continued. “Most of our family is young, and we want them to leave here with appropriate boundaries. As such, we don’t permit inappropriate public displays of affection.”
Michael nodded. “Understood.”
“Christy is free to come and go as he pleases as long as I know where he is and who he is with. Please don’t take advantage. I don’t want to be up until three in the morning worrying about him.”
Michael nodded again. “Not going to happen.”
“Thank you. All said, enjoy your evening.”
Rob stood, and Michael joined him. “I need to get home, but thanks.”
Rob offered a kind smile. “You’re welcome. Christy, why don’t you put Darien to bed and then show Michael your place before he goes?”
Christy stood quickly and mouthed, “Thank you.” He reached for Michael’s hand and led him through the big oak door.
Michael admired the high ceiling, the extra-wide hallway, the walls made of roughhewn logs, and the polished, tongue-and-groove floor. The place reeked of money.
Christy led Michael to Darien’s dimly lit room. It contained four bunk beds with plenty of room to spare. Christy sat on a lower bed and slowly pulled a piece of paper from Darien’s hand and handed it to Michael.
Michael studied the picture of black-and-red splatter and wondered what it meant to the little boy.
Darien stirred restlessly in his lower bunk as if in the midst of a dream. “Don’t leave,” he mumbled.
Michael watched as Christy rocked Darien for a long moment before tucking him beneath the duvet. Darien sighed once and was off to the land of Nod. Christy stood and took the picture from Michael. Holding it to the flat of the upper bunk frame, he wrote
A+
and his initials on it, then leaned it against the footboard of the bed. It would be the first thing Darien saw when he woke in the morning.
Christy then led Michael from the room, down the hall, and out a back door. They crossed a large, manicured lawn furnished with rustic furniture and potted plants, their footsteps sounding softly on the stone walkway until they reached one of three log cabins. Christy withdrew keys from his pocket and unlocked and went through a knotty-pine door. Michael followed and froze in the doorway, once again stunned.
He saw the same vaulted ceiling, roughhewn walls, and polished wood floors that filled the ranch house. Massive wood beams spanned the breadth of the vaulted ceiling and supported a loft above a quietly burning, half-moon fireplace. A spiral staircase made of intricately woven iron whorls led to the loft. A large, four-poster bed and a dresser occupied one corner of the expansive room, an open kitchen with granite counters and an island graced another. A couch, two overstuffed leather chairs, and a glass and iron coffee table finished the center of the room. A doorway led off to what Michael supposed was a bathroom and a closet. “This place is incredible.”
Christy only nodded, dropped his keys on the granite island, and began to empty his pockets.
“What’s up there?”
Christy dropped his pad on the counter and wrote
Art room
.
“Show me?”
Christy flushed a pretty rose before scribbling
Better in daylight
.
Michael stifled a smile at Christy’s bashfulness. “Show me anyway.” He held his hand out to Christy.
Christy studied him for a long moment before ignoring the hand and walking across the room. Michael followed him up the winding staircase, admiring the iron latticework as he went. When they reached the dark loft, Christy left him to turn on a light in the far corner of the room. When bright light filled the air, what Michael saw left him speechless yet again.
There had to be twenty easels in the loft, each cradling a painted canvas. He meandered through the easels and studied each painting. Christy hadn’t been kidding when he said he painted the sea. Nor had Michael any reason to doubt that Sorbonne wouldn’t grant him a degree. Christy’s art was that of an accomplished artist and far from that of a young man. Wild sunsets over deep blue oceans, foggy cliffs over pewter-gray seas, waves crashing wildly on moonlit shores, and one that mirrored Christy’s eyes. Crystal-clear aqua graced white sands and colorful coral on a bright, sunny day. Michael studied it closely. Christy had captured every curve and nuance of the glassy water without losing its clarity. It looked so authentic Michael could almost feel the ebb and flow of the ocean as it repeated its ceaseless rhythm against the shore. “It matches your eyes.”
Christy came to stand next to him and canted his head as he studied it, then shrugged.
Michael moved through the easels and came upon a row of easels covered in white sheets at the back of the loft. Michael went to lift a sheet, and Christy seized his wrist. The powerful grip surprised Michael and clearly brooked no argument. Michael immediately released the cloth and looked down to find anger in Christy’s eyes. “Ah, okay, not for public viewing.”
Christy breathed deeply, seeming to dispel anger with each breath. He released Michael’s wrist, mouthing a silent “Sorry.”
Michael fought not to rub his wrist. “Don’t be. I should have asked first.”
Christy shook his head, obviously disappointed in himself, and straightened the sheet. Reaching behind the easel, he turned the light off and led Michael back across the darkened loft and down the stairs. He went to the kitchen, drew a glass from a cabinet, and held it up.
Michael shook his head. “I need to get home. I have homework to do.”
Christy smiled a rueful smile, and Michael went to him. Careful not to touch him, Michael bent and whispered, “I’m sorry I upset you.”
Christy gave him a small smile and shook his head.
“Then what’s the matter?”
Christy shrugged.
“Tell me.”
Christy took a shuddering breath and stepped away. He reached for the pad and pen and scribbled
Money
.
“You need money?”
Christy shook his head and gestured to the lavish cabin.
“Are you trying to say that you only get this because the place has money?”