apart. I excused myself to the porch with my plate. I like a little solitude now and then, and with this house busting at the seams, I wasn’t likely to get much privacy in the next several days. I sat down to enjoy my lunch and allow myself some quiet time.
The sky, indecisive for the past few days, finally offered dryness. The sun was edging below the horizon and the air felt brisk and cool. The clouds had scudded toward Austin, pushing in from the Gulf and finally shoving past Mirabeau. I sat on the chair and thought about poor Davis. He’d been through hell. And Clevey had been one of the devils, poking him with a hot trident. I felt deeply disappointed in Clevey. Now I had the proof of what he’d been up to. Victimizing a childhood pal for his own selfish reasons. He’d shown himself to be a blackmailer, just like Scott had suggested.
I chewed. But what did Davis’s troubles have to do with Trey? Blackmail over Davis’s beatings couldn’t have been what Clevey was coaxing Trey to get involved in. Why share the profits? And was Davis the “gravy train” that Clevey alluded to? My mind went back to what Nola told me. Trey and Hart talking. Trey asking if anyone else knew their secret. Hart saying Steven knew.
Just how did Steven Teague fit into this town? He’d worked here once. He’d left suddenly. He’d returned twenty years later, not exactly encouraging people to prod their memories and remember his brief residence.
He’d lived here, and Rennie Clifton had died, carrying a lover’s baby. He’d come back, and Clevey Shivers and Trey Slocum died.
It was time to confront Hart. Assuming Nola was truthful, he’d known why Trey left and lied. He’d apparently let Steven in on the secret. If I stayed here, I’d be nothing but a nursemaid to Davis. He needed time alone, and I needed to take action, to find closure for the giant rip my life had become.
I finished my sandwich and went back into the living room. Mark was hanging up the phone. Scott Kinnard and Bradley sat at the table, sipping Cokes and munching chips. Bradley didn’t look at me.
“Don’t ruin your dinners,” I muttered automatically. The chomping of chips continued.
“Hey, Jordy,” Scott greeted me softly. “Mom said she came over and made up with you today.”
“She did, Scott, she did.” I could see some of Nola’s strength in his face. “I think I understand your mom a little better now.”
“We moved this afternoon.” He didn’t look at me. “Out of Hart’s place. We’re renting a little apartment over off Bluebonnet Street.”
I knew the apartments-they were small and unkempt. “Well, I hope that everything will work out.”
“Me, too, I’d like to stay here,” Scott said. “We’re gonna see about getting me enrolled in the school. I’ll be in Mark’s class.” He gave a satisfied smile.
Mark spoke up. “That was Hart on the phone. He said we might be able to go riding later, if we wanted to come out and visit him.”
I glanced at Bradley. “We’ll see, Mark. I don’t know if Bradley’s up to horse riding.” Bradley didn’t acknowledge my reference to him. He seemed mesmerized by the ice cubes in his glass, surrounded by fizzing soda.
“Thought it might get his mind off stuff,” Mark said, shrugging. Scott looked at Mark and nodded.
The boys suddenly made my throat catch. Bradley looking like a younger Davis, Mark the image of Trey, and while Scott didn’t look like any of my boyhood confederates, he had the aching for acceptance that reminded me of Ed. I wondered if they’d stay friends for years, if they’d watch each other grow and change and leave Mirabeau. I hoped if they kept the bonds of friendship strong that they would never have to be tested the way my friends and I had been tested these past dark days.
“So Hart’s at his house?” I said. “Good. I need to pay him a visit.” I bade the boys farewell and headed out toward the horse ranch. Dusk was here, and a chill breeze made the damp air smell dank as a dungeon. I barreled along the road toward the Quadlander farm, ready to talk truth with Hart and find out why Trey’d felt compelled to leave all those years ago.
19
If it hadn’t been for the flat tire, I would have just zoomed up to the Quadlander place. And things would have been different, perhaps. Truth would have hidden for a while longer, and I don’t like to think about what might’ve happened. It might have been worse than what did happen.
Trey once told me, long, long ago, that you had to stare death in the face to become a man. That autumn night, I stared too long.
The tire blew, a galumphing, popping sound, about a quarter mile from the gate that marked Hart Quadlander’s property. I pulled over to the side, cussing a blue streak (that’s allowed when Candace isn’t around). The tire had picked up a nail and, being old and somewhat bald, had given quick surrender. I popped open the back of my Blazer and pulled up the carpet, staring at the flat spare.
Nothing to do for it; I slammed the door and started the hike up to Hart’s horse farm. I opened the gate that blocked the road up to his property and closed it behind me, looping the wire back over the post to hold the gate in place. I was careful to secure it; I had to help Trey chase a horse down once that’d bolted past the gate and I wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.
Night had fallen by the time I walked the half mile up the hill to the old house. The home Trey’d lived in all those years didn’t face down the road directly; it stood at an oblique angle, turned slightly so that it faced the scenery of the creek, the dense growths of live oaks, pecan trees, and loblolly pines, and farther, the watery smudge of the Colorado River.
I noticed the sleek Volvo that was Steven Teague’s parked in the gravel drive. Why was he here? I’d tell Steven about the developments at the Foradorys, but I wasn’t done being suspicious of him.
A light shone brightly in Hart’s kitchen and I headed toward it. I saw Hart’s head move past in the lit window and then move back as he walked from his fridge. The window was closer than the door and I paused for a moment, trying to see if Steven was in there with him.
Oh, he was. In the fluorescent glow, I saw the two men standing together, laughing at some private joke, at ease.
And then Steven moved close and kissed Hart.
I felt nailed to the ground. The kiss lengthened, grew in heat, and Steven’s arms went around Hart’s neck, pulling him tighter in esurient need. I stood, not breathing, until their kiss broke. Hart ran a finger gently along Steven’s lips and moved to pick up a beer on his kitchen table. He said something, and I heard the distant tone of Steven’s laughter.
I turned and hurried away, embarrassed and shocked. I stumbled along toward the creek. Just go back and ring the bell, I told myself. Pretend like you saw nothing. But my feet didn’t obey, and I staggered down toward the sodden creek, the mud smearing on my boots. There was no dry spot to sit, so I squatted among the heavy, cablelike roots of a live oak and leaned against the rough bark.
Hart and Steven. Hart? Gay, and I’d never known? I’d known him since childhood, and he’d never told me? Hell, I suspected he’d never told anyone in Mirabeau. Had they seen me, stumbling into their private moment? No one burst from the house, so I assumed not.
I caught my breath and, in the beginning of moonlight, saw two distant markers among the trees. A pair of marble crosses, gleaming like silver. Louis Slocum’s grave. And next to it, Trey’s grave. Cold and moldering in their muddy tombs.
I closed my eyes. Hart was gay. Fine, okay, whatever.
Had Louis known, in those years he’d lived here in a drunken stupor? Had Trey ever known?
Nola’s voice, but Trey’s words, repeating to me what she’d heard Trey say to Hart: If it hadn’t been for Daddy, I wouldn’t have had to leave.
A glimmer of a scenario pulled at my thoughts. Hart had a terrible secret to keep. Ivalou Purcell, who had just redefined barking up the wrong tree, said Hart wasn’t around when she’d come here in that long-ago storm. What had she said? That drunken Louis was crying and saying Hart was gone.
Oh, God.
Where had Hart gone? Why would he be out in a hurricane? Why would Louis be upset over Hart being
