supercilious way he used to disguise his shyness.
“Grant,” I said, embracing him.
Grant Hancock pulled me close, crushing his costly overcoat, smelling, as he always did, of bay rum.
We released each other. His yellow hair had darkened and there were folds beneath his eyes and deepening lines on either side of his mouth but, generally, time made him more elegant rather than simply older. It had been a long time since I had seen him last.
“This is the last place on earth I would look for Henry Rios,” he said, “so, of course, I find you here.”
“And, when did you start buying off the rack?”
A salesman rushed by and jostled me. Over the din, I heard the slow movements of Pachelbel’s Canon in D, a piece of music I had first heard in Grant’s apartment when we had been law students together.
“We just ducked in for the ladies’ room, actually,” he said, apparently not hearing the music. I caught the “we.” Grant had married two years earlier and was, I had heard, the father of a baby son.
“How is Marcia?” I asked.
“She’s fine. We’re parents now,’ he added, with a smile that ended at his eyes.
“Yes, I heard. Congratulations. What’s your son’s name?”
“William,” he replied.
“After your father?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m surprised you remembered his name.”
“I remember.”
We stood looking into each other’s eyes. The occasion — former lovers meeting after a long time — seemed to demand that something significant be said. But there wasn’t anything to say, really, except that I was glad to see him and hoped he was happy. So I said it.
Before he could answer I noticed that Josh was standing before the mirror watching us. He slipped off the jacket he was wearing, tossed it over the rack, and walked over to us.
“Hi,” he said, to me, and then to Grant.
“Josh, this is an old friend of mine, Grant. Grant, Josh.”
They shook hands, murmuring pleasantries.
Grant said, “Those are very nice jackets you were looking at.”
“Yeah,” Josh said, “but a little out of my price range.” Wordlessly, he shifted his weight so that our bodies touched and slipped his arm around my waist. “So,” he said with unmistakable hostility, “how do you know Henry?”
“We went to law school together,” Grant said, barely able to keep the amusement out of his voice. “And how do you know Henry?”
Josh said, “He’s my lover.”
“Well, you’re very lucky, Josh,” he said smiling. “Excuse me, I’d better go collect my wife. Give me a call sometime, Henry. Nice meeting you, Josh.”
After he’d gone, Josh said, “Was I a schmuck?”
“If that word means what I think it does, the answer’s yes.”
“I’m sorry,’ he said. “I was jealous.”
I put my arm around his shoulders. “Come on, I’ll buy you dinner.”
Outside the store I told Josh that I had to make a phone call and went back in. When I returned ten minutes later I was jamming a sales receipt into my pocket but Josh, who was talking to the Goodwill Santa Claus, didn’t notice.
Over coffee, Josh said, “I guess we should be getting back home.”
The waiter returned with m› change. I tucked it into my pocket and said, ‘‘We’re not going home.”
“What do you mean?”
“Trust me,” I replied.
The immense wreath on the door of the inn on South Van Ness was composed of aromatic pine branches twisted and laced into a shaggy circle and bound by a red velvet ribbon. From outside we could see the big Christmas tree that dominated the drawing room. A bearded man on a ladder was hanging gold ornaments on the topmost branches while a woman strung ropes of popcorn and cranberries around the bottom of the tree. Another woman, gray-haired and aproned, opened the door to let us in.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, smelling of cookies and lavender. “Are you Mr. Rios and Mr. Mandel?”
“Yes,” I said, as we stepped inside to the companionable heat. “Is the room ready?”
“Just come in and sign the register,” she replied.
“Come on, Josh,” I said, taking his hand. We followed her to a little counter where I signed us in. She handed me a heavy brass key.
“Second floor,” she said. “Room 209. Come down later for carols and eggnog.”
“Thank you,” I said.
On the stairs Josh stopped me and said, “What is this, Henry?”
“A Hanukkah gift,” I replied.
“This is great,” he murmured as I led him up the stairs.
Our room had a fireplace. I knelt down in front of it and started a fire. The only other light was cast from the Tiffany lamps and the discreet overhead light above the mammoth four- poster bed. Wings of eucalyptus branches fanned out beneath the mantle of the fireplace, dispersing their rainy fragrance into the room.
This was one Victorian whose rooms fulfilled the promise of its beautifully restored facade. Our walls were papered in deep green with marbled swirls of pink and blue, as if abstracted from a peacock’s feathers. The period furniture was comfortably arranged around the oval of the room. High above us in the dusky region of the ceiling, embossed brass caught the glint of the fire and lamplight. Our window looked out upon downtown’s brilliant spires and a distant prospect of the Golden Gate.
From the bathroom Josh said, “Henry, look at this bathtub.”
I went in. The big porcelain tub was supported by clawed feet. The faucet, set into the wall, was a golden lion’s head.
“Let’s try it out,” I said, putting my hands on his shoulders as he knelt inspecting the lion.
He looked up, smiling a little lewdly, and nodded.
We lit the bathroom with candles ordered up from downstairs and stuck them in the sink, on the toilet, at the edges of the tub. Josh lay with his back against me, dividing the water with his fingers. I kissed his bare shoulder, lay my hands lightly on his groin and felt the jerky movements of his penis. From downstairs we heard singing.
“I guess we missed the carols,” I said later.
“And the eggnog.” He pressed more deeply against me. “Thank you, Henry.”
“The water’s getting cold,” I observed.
“Do we have to get out?” he asked.
“There’s still the bed,” I said.
“You’re right,” he replied, and pulled the plug to let the water drain.
While he was still in the bathroom, I pulled the package from beneath the bed and put it on the comforter. He emerged from the bathroom, drying himself, pushed his glasses up his nose and, with a half-smile, inspected the brightly wrapped box.
“More?” he asked.
“One more,” I replied, sitting in a wing chair, drawing my robe around me. “Open it.”
He tore into the package. “That’s why you went back into the store,” he said, holding up the leather jacket that I had most admired him in. “It’s beautiful, but Henry, it cost so much.”
“Indulge me.”
He slipped the jacket on. The deep brown caught the fading firelight and shone against his skin. But I wasn’t really looking at the coat.
“It looks great on you.” I said. My voice sounded unfamiliar to me.
He took the jacket off and carefully laid it across a chair. “I have a present for you, too,” he said.
“What?”
He got his wallet out of his pants pocket and extracted a package from it. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
