“Yikes,” Emory said.
“Don’t like dogs?”
“Just scared me, is all. I thought for a second it was a big rat.”
Patrick sat forward and undid Marlene’s bow tie; he waved it at Emory to enter it in evidence. Not a rat.
“What are you doing out here? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Talking to a cute boy, Patrick wanted to say. But he knew the question ran deeper than that. “Plotting my next move.” He did his best to take in the details of Emory’s face without looking directly at him. The thick blond hair that fell in his face when he wasn’t leaning back, his bold nose and strong chin—a profile that belonged on currency. He was clean-shaven, a look not exactly favored by most of young Hollywood these days. And yet his face was not baby-smooth; it seemed he could grow a beard in about an hour if he wanted. The makeup department on his show must have to work overtime to make him seem like a teen.
“What is that, like a comeback?” Emory writhed in his chair to find a comfortable position, but the way he did it took on a sexual air.
“Running for president, world domination, EGOT, Tupperware parties. Take your pick.”
“Ah. The elusive EGOTT, with two T’s.”
Patrick rolled his head to look at Emory, and Emory rolled his head to look at Patrick. They locked eyes. Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, Tony, Tupperware. Patrick wished he were that ambitious.
“Now you just need someone to enjoy it with.” Emory smiled at him.
“Who? You? I’m not calling you a car, so you’re moving in?”
“You could do worse.”
Patrick thought about it. “I could do better.”
Emory laughed it off with a Nah.
“I’m just going to focus on surviving the summer. Then world domination.”
Emory stood up and stretched. His T-shirt rose above the rise of his jeans, exposing a flat, surprisingly hairy stomach. They really must have to shave him between takes. “Swim with me.”
“It’s like three in the morning.”
Emory pulled off his shirt. He was lean, toned, but not intimidatingly ripped. He probably spent all his time doing Bikram yoga instead of lifting weights in a gym. Patrick stared, but didn’t leer. He could either join this kid in his pool, something he wouldn’t have hesitated to do before he had a houseful of family, or call him a ride. He stood up and pulled off his own shirt in one fluid motion.
“Yikes.”
“What?” Patrick asked. This seemed to be his favorite exclamation.
“That was sexy.”
Without even thinking about what he was doing, Patrick reached out and undid the top button of Emory’s button-fly jeans.
“Wow,” Emory said, further impressed. He then looked down at Patrick’s pants as if to say, Your turn. Instead he observed, “Your pants have butterflies.”
Not just my pants, Patrick thought. He turned and took a few steps toward the house, as if he were going inside. Emory stood back, confused. Was this over? Patrick paused for a moment; decision time. A swim would be nice. He was sweaty, after all, from the hard work of hosting (and then the stress of seeing his sister) and the night was still arid and hot. The water would be cleansing ahead of the drubbing he was certain to take from Clara. He was doing a good job; he had been a good uncle. He deserved this. So he turned off the pool light. Darkness. When he turned around, Emory was standing naked, bathed only in moonlight.
Patrick crossed the lawn slowly, kicking off his shoes. He stood face-to-face with Emory before dropping his own pants, and then his underwear, without breaking eye contact. Only then did he deign to glance down.
“So. Not Jewish, then.”
Emory laughed.
They stood very close without touching, not breaking eye contact. Their breathing slowed and fell into a parallel rhythm, yet Patrick’s heart beat faster. What strange and different paths led them to this moment? Emory’s involuntary enthusiasm grazed Patrick’s thigh. He inhaled sharply, then turned and dove into the deep end the way he had perfected, leaving hardly a ripple. The water was perfect, eighty-three, eighty-four degrees, the way it stayed in July without him ever having to turn on the heater. He swam most of the length of the pool, his arms at his side, his back arched slightly, water whooshing by his ears. He dolphin-kicked twice when he came close to losing steam, until the sounds of the world washed away and he was surrounded only by darkness—a calming, perfect still. He flipped over and opened his eyes, but there was only the night.
He surfaced just in time to hear a second splash behind him.
FIFTEEN
Patrick, Clara, Maisie, and Grant wandered up Palm Canyon Drive sipping milkshakes, looking not unlike the ideal American family from a time when much of downtown Palm Springs was developed. Man, woman, son, daughter, a family outing for ice cream on a blistering summer day. The only thing missing? Matching buttons that declared their like for Ike. But the situation was mixed, at best. All morning they’d griped at one another, their fragile routine upset by an interloper. Clara was helpful in some regards, volunteering herself for mundane tasks: face-washing, breakfast, laying out clothes, brushing Maisie’s hair. But everything came with commentary. Patrick’s toaster made toast too dark, his coffee was too bitter, the kids used outdoor voices inside. Patrick had his own mental commentary: Clara was too uptight, not helpful with things that actually needed doing, forgot to pack her sense of humor; however, he had the good sense to keep his observations to himself. They worked as a family to tackle the house, getting it back in presentable shape, but by early afternoon Rosa had chased them out so
