Owen

Owen

Chapter forty-two

By Roy Reinikainen

Bailey let himself into the apartment, intent on packing Corey's belongings and shipping them to Riverton. He'd spoken with Corey, earlier in the afternoon, and promised he'd take care of everything. Their conversation had been strained, neither quite sure what to say. Bailey slowly closed the door behind him, and inhaled deeply. The smell of coffee still seemed to hang in the still air, along with a more subtle, spicy smell . . . Corey? Bailey leaned against the kitchen counter, bowed his head and heaved a ragged breath. "Damn, you, Bailey!" he cursed himself. "Damn you for being so pig headed! You find a man who is as close to perfect as you're ever likely to find, and you . . . let . . . him . . . get . . . away! You as much as sent him away!" He reached for one of Corey's winter jackets, which hung over the back of a kitchen chair, and brought it to his face, inhaling the smell of the man he'd spent half a year with.

"Damn," he choked, remembering when Corey had worn that jacket last. They had gone to a movie, then had taken a late night walk around campus. It was a still night, the winter cold reluctantly loosening its grip on the city. He heaved a ragged breath, recalling how Corey had reached for his hand in a typical spontaneous sign of affection.

"This is so nice," Bailey had murmured. When he'd moved closer, Corey had snaked a hand around his waist.

"What say we head back home and make us something hot to drink?"

"And then?" Bailey had prompted, a smile of anticipation tugging at his mouth.

"And then," Corey continued. "We can strip nekkid, and do to each other all the things which are against State law, back where I come from." His eyes twinkled mischievously. "There are a couple we haven't tried yet."

The remembered laughter faded as Bailey wandered around the apartment, trying to convince himself that he was, "only, checking on things." Deep down, he knew he wanted to be close to Corey.

He checked the apartment door lock, then switched off the kitchen light, as he strolled to the bedroom, his fingers trailing over the furniture as he passed. A painting hung beneath a light at the end of the short hall. It depicted pine forested hills, draped in mist, beneath a leaden sky. He'd never told Bailey why the painting was important, only that it was. 'Suppose that's where he's from?' Bailey wondered, pausing to study the painting for the first time. He frowned. The painting was obviously not one produced by a talented artist; yet there was a rustic quality to it which captured one's attention. What the artist lacked in skill was more than made up for with the love and attention to detail he'd shown. Bailey smiled to himself, thinking how he could almost smell the heavy scent of damp earth and the pungent tang of the dripping pine needles. In the distance, there was a hint of wood smoke, perhaps from someone's fireplace. 'So different from Riverton,' was Bailey's first thought, followed closely by, 'so different from here. No wonder he was always saying he needed more space.

'Why did I never stop a moment to study this painting?' Bailey asked himself. 'It obviously depicts someplace of great importance to Corey.' He frowned, reaching for a loop of well-used leather, which hung from a nearby hook. A polished metallic medallion hung from the leather, engraved with a name. "Houdini?" Bailey said, aloud. 'It looks like a dog's collar.'

A small faded photograph, barely three inches square, was made special by a larger frame, which sat on a crocheted doily. Bailey picked up the frame and squinted at the old photograph of a very serious-looking couple. On the back, in childish letters, someone . . . Corey? . . . had written, "Mama and Dad. I love you."

Bailey carefully replaced the photograph and dog collar. 'These are mementos of home,' he thought. 'Not the home with the crazy grandmother dancing naked on the porch, or the fourteen year-old bride of the town's mayor, grieving over her deceased husband, but pleased to have inherited his trophy moose head, and rusty car, supported on concrete blocks. Those were stories. This was real.'

"Why'd he leave these things here?" Bailey wondered, aloud, as he made his way into the bedroom he and Corey had shared almost every night since they'd met. A folded, tattered handmade quilt was draped over the foot of the neatly made bed. 'An antique,' Bailey thought, as he ran his fingers over the thin fabric, worn silky-smooth from years of use. 'Is this from home?' Like the painting in the hall, he'd seen this quilt many times, but had never stopped to examine it, or to ask about it's history. He'd often wondered why Corey lovingly folded the blanket each night, setting it on a nearby chair, but, as with the painting, he had never asked what made the blanket special.

Bailey picked up another photograph, one of several on the simple wooden nightstand. Corey must have been a young teenager when the photograph was taken. He was smiling brightly, kneeling at the side of a large brindle-colored dog, his arm around the dog's neck. In the background, were pine trees similar to those in the painting. 'Houdini?' Bailey asked himself.

As he replaced the photograph, another caught his eye. This was one of him and Corey, taken by a friend, immediately after Corey had goaded Bailey into his first snowball fight. Bailey smiled in recollection. "I got him good," he said, recalling the feeling of satisfaction he'd felt when the first snowball he'd ever made had successfully connected with Corey's shoulder, leaving a powdery splash of white on the dark coat. In the photograph, both he and Corey were laughing, their arms across one another's shoulder, their faces clouded with their exhaled breath, made visible in the frigid winter air.

"Oh, Corey," he sighed, as he tenderly folded the ancient quilt and placed it in its accustomed night-time position, then stripped and crawled between the cold sheets. He reached out and turned off the small lamp, drew the blanket over his shoulders, and hugged Corey's pillow, close, burying his face in the cotton fabric, and choked back a sob. It was almost like having Corey next to him. All that was missing was the warmth, the humor, and the love.

Bailey closed his eyes, ignoring the tears which escaped to run down his cheek. "Oh, Corey," he groaned. "What am I gonna do? I miss you so much."

Bea took the dishtowel from Corey and thanked him for helping with the dinner dishes. "You're a sweetheart, kind sir," she smiled, as she arranged the towel on a towel bar inside one of the cabinet doors, and looked over her shoulder. "Owen tells me that you're much younger than your brothers and sisters. I would imagine that left you with many chores, while growing up."

The accustomed chill crept over Corey, at the thought of home and . . . growing up. He bowed his head. "Yes, ma'am," he mumbled, then looked up when Bea took his hand and searched his eyes.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured. "I didn't intend to intrude on tender memories." When his lower lip began to tremble, Bea quickly took him into her arms and tenderly patted his back. "It's okay, sweetheart," she murmured.

Corey sniffed. "I . . . I . . . wish you had been my mother," he managed to say, doing his best to bring his emotions under control. "I've . . ." He sniffed again. "My mama never once called me 'sweetheart'."

Bea backed up, holding the blotchy-cheeked young man at arm's length. "Then I certainly shall," she said. "If that is agreeable to you," she added, once more drawing him into an embrace.

"Oh, yes," he hiccoughed, "Yes . . . please." He held the smaller woman in the embrace he'd always yearned to give his own mother. She felt so tender, so vulnerable, nothing at all like when he hugged Jonah, or Owen, or the other guys. He imagined he was holding his own mother, and silently wept . . . for the happiness he'd always been denied, for the mother he'd never been able to tell how much he loved, and for the overwhelming happiness which now surrounded him.

Bea continued to hold him as he silently cried on her shoulder, something none of her own children had ever done. "Shhhh," she murmured, as she rubbed a hand up and down his back, feeling the muscles shift beneath the young man's t-shirt. "It's okay, Sweetheart. You're home now . . . with people who love you."

With a last sniff, he backed up and grinned crookedly, embarrassed by his behavior. "You have nothing to ashamed about," Bea murmured, kissing him on a tear-damp cheek. "We all need to have a good cry, from time to time. I'm honored you felt safe enough with me to let your guard down a bit." She gave him an encouraging smile, then crossed to the sink and returned with a cool, damp cloth for his tear-stained face.

"Now, I know where Owen gets his empathy," Corey smiled, vigorously wiping his face with the cloth. "He is so much like you, you know . . . always doing or saying just the right thing. I'm thinkin' that Jonah is much like his brother, in that way. You must be very proud of them both."

"Owen also has an uncanny knack of choosing the most wonderful friends," Bea grinned. "You . . . Lucas . . . Bailey, all wonderful young men, I'm proud to have as part of the family." She grinned. "You did mention that you now considered Owen to be a brother, didn't you?" When Corey grinned uncertainly , Bea continued. "You must tell me, sometime, how this came to be." After studying him, and noting the blush, she added, "On the other hand," she smiled, pleased with herself for having diverted the conversation to a less emotional topic. "On the other hand, maybe it's best for me not to ask too many questions." She rubbed a hand over his back, silently asking if he was okay. "I believe I shall just be content, considering you to be another son."

"Thank you, Bea," Corey murmured, after kissing her cheek. "You are an extraordinary woman."

"Well," she laughed, "I wouldn't know about that, but I am going to ask if you and Jonah will be so kind as to look out after Opie and Abigail while Daniel and I go for a walk? Actually, Abigail is old enough not to need looking out after, but it is nice to know both you and Jonah will be nearby, should they need you."

"Well, Jonah," Daniel said, as he lowered himself into an armchair, across from the younger man. Corey and Bea had retreated to the kitchen, where Bea was laughing at one of Corey's stories of the South. "The greenhouses are doing well?" Daniel prompted.

"Yes, sir. They're fine. The first one will be finished soon."

"And, ah . . . how are things? Are you doing okay?"

"Y'mean, with Corey n'all?"

Daniel shrugged. "Corey . . . the greenhouses . . . things. You've never been the chatterbox Owen is, or Opie, but you've been unusually subdued, lately."

"It's just that . . ." Jonah began. "I'm afraid I'm gonna make a mistake . . . like I did with Sam," he added, in a rush.

"Is Corey at all like Sam? If I recall, you believed Sam might have thought of you more as a son than as a partner. Is that happening again?"

"Oh, no, sir, nothing like that."

"There's no need to be so formal, Jonah," Daniel interrupted.

"Oh, okay," he grinned sheepishly. "No, Corey's been great. We're both sorta still getting to know one another. After all, he's not really been here all that long, and he still kinda misses Bailey n'all. Still . . . no, he's nothing like Sam, other than," Jonah blushed, "liking guys n'all."

"N'all?" Daniel grinned. When Jonah smiled and blushed, he continued. "I take it the n'all is going okay? You're not feeling trapped or anything, like with Sam?"

Jonah raked his fingers through his thick hair. "Geez, Corey's nothin' like Sam when it comes to . . . ahem . . ."

"What he likes to do in bed?" Daniel supplied.

"Yeah, that," Jonah jumped in. "Nothing at all. I mean, Sam was wonderful, but Corey's more wonderful. He's tender and sorta romantic, y'know? I like that. He treats me like you're treatin' Mama, sorta tender n'lovin' n'all. That's so cool. It's just that . . . I don't really know how to handle it all. I mean, I've never had an example of how to behave. I'm always second guessin' if how I'm feeling is the right way to feel. It's all weird. I'm afraid I'm gonna do something wrong."

"Same here," Daniel sighed. "I'm always worrying that I'm going to do or say something that'll remind your mother of . . . the past, and cause her undue pain."

"Mama's strong," Jonah interrupted. "She'll tell you if you're hurtin' her. She's learned that . . . from her past. Y'know," Jonah observed, finally relaxing. "I'm thinking that when Mama and . . . and . . . got married," he continued, unable to mention his father directly, "she sorta thought she needed a guy in her life in order to be happy. I think she's learned that she can be happy because of herself, because she's a good person n'all. Of course, it's nice to have a great guy in her life, but her . . . past . . . changed her."

"Just as your past has changed you." Daniel's observation caused Jonah to look up, his eyes widening with realization. "Don't let your fears of everything, that came before Corey, make you fearful of making a mistake. Your mother will tell me if I'm stepping on her toes, just like Corey will tell you if you're stepping on his, or you'll tell him if he's doing something you're not comfortable with. Aren't I right?"

Daniel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Jonah, your father left you, Owen, and your sisters, a legacy you'll probably feel as if it'll take an entire lifetime to overcome. You've seen, and experienced, the worst that human nature can throw at a person. That does not mean, however, that all relationships can deteriorate into what you experienced. All relationships, however, require work on both parties to keep them fresh, stimulating, and healthy. It takes two people to keep a relationship going, and two people to turn it sour.

"Your mother did her level best to keep her marriage going, but, eventually, had to satisfy herself with protecting her children, as much as she was able. At times, it might not have seemed like she was very successful, but no one, least of all you and me, know how bad things were for her.

"I'd like to give your father the benefit of the doubt and believe that he acted as he did, not because he was a bad person, but because something terribly wrong was happening to his mind . . . something he had absolutely no control over. I would urge you to try . . . sometime, when you feel you can handle it . . . to try and see the man as a victim of circumstance rather than how you think of him today."

Daniel smiled, sitting back in the large armchair. "Here, I started talking about you and Corey, and ended up talking about your mother." He paused. "I believe that I may have been talking to myself, as well as you. We both have new relationships. Both of us need to realize that, along the way, mistakes will be made, but, as long as both parties want the relationship to succeed, it will. Don't be afraid of making a mistake, Jonah. You will, as will Corey. Those mistakes will make your relationship stronger, precisely because the two of you have overcome them." He smiled. "Now, I have to take my own advice. I ask that if you ever see me acting like an ass, when it comes to your mother, to take me aside and tell me. I'll do the same with you and Corey. Deal?"

Thanks, Daniel," Jonah smiled. "I sure am glad Mama and you are gettin' married."

Daniel laughed. "So am I. So am I."

Both men looked up as Bea and Corey returned from the kitchen. 'Something's happened,' Daniel thought, hoping Jonah didn't catch the comforting hand his mother had on Corey's back, or Corey's red-rimmed eyes. 'Whatever it was, seems to have been resolved,' he thought. 'Both of them are smiling.'

"Corey has volunteered both himself and Jonah, to stay with the girls for a bit while we go for a walk," she announced, crossing the room and taking her fiance's hand.

"We won't be long," Daniel called, as he held the door for his wife-to-be. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he added, as the screen door swung closed.

"Daniel!" Bea laughed.

Opie walked into the living room and stood before the two men on the sofa, her hands on her hips, a determined look on her face. Jonah was just about to ask her what her problem was, when she climbed onto the sofa, at Corey's side, and snuggled close, reaching for his hand.

"Why aren't you guys happy?" she asked, looking up at Corey, then around him, at her brother. "Before you came," she added, focusing on Corey, "Jonah barged into the house, shoutin' that he was in love." She poked Corey's leg with an extended forefinger. "With you." She was silent for a long moment. "Are you in love with Jonah?" she asked, studying Corey with her dark green eyes.

Corey flicked a glance to his left, then looked back to Opie. "Yes, little one," he said. "I'm in love with your brother."

"Then, aren't you guys supposed to be happy?" she asked. "I mean, Mama and Daddy Daniel are happy. Owen and Sam and Lucas are happy. They're all goin' around laughin' all the time and acting like kids my age. I'm wondering what's wrong with you guys."

She looked up at Corey, worry written on her face. "You're not plannin' on going away, are you?" she asked.

"No, little one," he said, gathering her to him. "I'm not going anywhere. I've finally found a place where I can be happy. I'm surrounded by people I love, and who love me. I've spent my whole life wishing for what I've found. Now that I've got it, I'm not about to leave that behind."

"So," she continued, "since Jonah's told everyone within shouting distance that he's in love, and you say that you love Jonah, I'm thinkin' that you guys need to do whatever it takes to be happy." She climbed to her knees, facing Corey, then pulled his mouth into a semblance of a smile. "Start laughin' and joking n'stuff." She raised her voice. "Start actin' like kids. Have some fun!"

She sat back on her heels and studied her brother, as if he were a lost cause. "You, too, Jonah," she announced, then pulled Corey close and kissed him on the cheek.

After a childish giggle, she slid off the sofa and crossed in front of her brother. As she passed, she playfully punched him on the shoulder. "Don't do anything stupid," she warned, then ran out of the room calling to her sister.

"Hey, old girl!" her voice carried from the hallway. "Come on outside and push me on the swing." She shrieked with laughter, as she ran through the living room, followed closely by Abigail.

"Smart little girl," Corey said, taking one of Jonah's hands.

Jonah huffed a laugh. "Seems everyone's smarter n'me, seein' things I'm too blind to see." He turned sideways, still holding Corey's hand. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "Y'see, I'm afraid of making any sort of decision, 'cause of what I saw Mama going through, all my life. I don't want to be responsible for that happening to anyone. I don't want to cause someone else to be unhappy, and I don't want to take the chance of making a wrong decision . . . like I did with Sam.

"I realized what was happening with him soon enough that I could end things. I don't want to make you hate me, wishin' you were someplace else." He sighed. "I'm just afraid." He moistened his lips, then continued. "Daniel's told me that I shouldn't feel that way, but," he shrugged, "that's what I've been feelin', right or wrong."

"I can't comment on what your mother's relationship was with your father. I'm guessing that, at the beginning, at least, it was good. But, you and I are not your mother and father. Our relationship is ours, and whatever happens, we are both responsible, not just you. Just because you saw one bad relationship doesn't mean all relationships are bad. Your father, for whatever reason, didn't, or couldn't, see fit to work things out with your Mama. You n'I have to learn from that, and not let things come between us.

"It takes too much energy to be unhappy, Jonah." He paused a moment. "I should know." When Jonah's gaze sharpened, Corey continued. "We have every reason to be happy, just like little Opie says. We have one another. We are surrounded by people who love us." He gulped a swallow. "Think of all the people in the world who can't say the same. Give up your fears of what might happen, and concentrate on making today wonderful.

"Let's not have to face Opie and have her tell us that we've done something stupid, by not doing whatever it takes to make our relationship work."

Jonah stood and pulled Corey to his feet. After a lengthy kiss, he took Corey's hand. "Let's go outside and see if my sisters will allow us to share the swing with them."

Bailey surveyed the few boxes containing all of Corey's belongings, and sighed. 'I'm closing the best chapter of my life,' he thought. 'Sending this stuff off to him will be like reading the final page of a story. No,' he corrected himself, 'the final page of the story was when I left him back in Riverton. It was the most painful thing I ever did, yet it was the only way each of us could move on.' The tennis shoe he threw at the apartment door, in frustration, hit with a thud. The sound was immediately followed by three knocks.

"What the . . .?" Bailey frowned, as he skirted the boxes, heading to the door.

"Oh!" Corey's friend Riley seemed surprised. "I wasn't sure what was happening. There was a knocking sound before I even touched the door." He produced an irresistible smile, complete with laugh lines at the corners of his roguishly pale green eyes. "I'm here to see Corey." His eyes grew distant for a moment, then focused on the man who stood in front of him. "It's Bailey, right? We met a while back. In case you don't remember, I've been one of Corey's school friends. I'm Riley, Riley Pruitt." He held out a hand and shook Bailey's in a warm handshake, accompanied by a dazzling smile and dancing eyes. Like Corey always said, Riley's startlingly pale eyes seemed to see right through a person. In this case, though, he looked past Bailey's shoulder to the disarray of boxes and frowned. "Is Corey here? He's not moving out, is he?"

"Um, ah," Bailey managed to say, the warmth of Riley's grip continuing to warm his hand, a moment beyond what was absolutely necessary for a friendly handshake between strangers. "I'm afraid he's not here. He's already moved . . . to another state," he added, when Riley's surprised attention shifted back to him. "He's hoping to get a job. It actually was quite . . . sudden." Recalling his manners, Bailey stepped aside, inviting the other man into the apartment. "I'm packing up his belongings to send to him."

"I thought you two . . ." Riley began. "You know. Were a couple. Was I wrong?" He perched on the arm of the sofa, seemingly totally relaxed, one leg idly swinging.

'The man's stunning,' Bailey realized. 'If he was wearing something different than that bright yellow and fuscia polka-dot shirt beneath a worn corduroy jacket and equally worn jeans, he could take one's breath away. He definitely can do better. After all, look at his perfectly trimmed hair, and nails. This man's no slob.' Bailey frantically searched his mind for the question he was expected to answer.

"Um . . ." 'I've got to pay more attention to what's being said!' "We were, partners," he answered. "It's just that we both come from worlds neither of us could easily give up. He thinks of himself as a country boy, and I'm anything but. I grew up in the city. Everything I know is in the city, and," Bailey grinned, "I'm really not a back to nature sort. I couldn't become a small town guy any more than he could happily fit into the city. Our parting was best . . . for both of us."

Riley snorted, flashing another smile. "I don't know about the separation part; that never is pleasant, but I know where you're coming from. I'm a city boy, too. One of the relatives on my mother's side of the family has a farm." He shuddered. "I always hated being dragged off to that place, while I was growing up. Hell, I had to watch every step I took for fear of stepping in something," he paused, "organic." His words were followed by another shudder and a good natured laugh.

"You come from a city?" Bailey asked.

"Yep. I'm from Atlanta. I'm a Southern boy, and proud of it. My family's lived on the same land for more generations than a person can count. Hell," he continued, launching into a story, "one of my long-dead relatives . . . she wasn't dead at the time this story occurred, of course," his eyes twinkled as he spoke, "single handedly fought off the Northern soldiers who were marching across our land on their way to burn Atlanta. You know," he added, "I'm talking about the Civil War." He shook his head. "Nasty business, that was."

Bailey nodded, already having encountered Corey's Civil War stories. One would think it had happened yesterday, not a hundred and fifty years ago. Riley continued speaking, engrossed in his own story. "According to the stories which have been passed down, she was very proud of having poked a good number of Union soldiers in the nether regions. That's the butt, for those not from the South. Anyhow, after a lot of shouting and fist shaking . . . and a few more pokes, those boys in blue decided to leave her farm alone and move on to Atlanta. She sure showed those gentlemen that no Pruitt is to be messed with. Why," Riley smiled, with pride, "the family still has that pitch fork. In fact, it's hanging on the wall of my father's office. He's convinced that its presence makes clients a little nervous, wondering if he might be fixin' to imitate my great ancestress.

"Oh," he said, with some chagrin. "It's just like me, talking a blue-streak with a guy I hardly know. That's why Corey and I got along so well. Of course, we're both from the South, so talking and story telling is expected, but we also both seem to hate unfilled space in a conversation." He laughed. "Whenever he'd stop to take a breath, I jumped in to take over, so we'd sort of, you know, have an even flow." He drew a smooth line in the air in front of him, with his hand, then leaned forward and studied Bailey.

"You're not much of a talker, are you?" He made a dismissive gesture. "That's okay," he smiled impishly. "I have plenty to say on any number of subjects." He grinned, seemingly pleased with himself. "I really don't talk all the time. I believe in giving people an equal opportunity, but . . ."

"Um," Bailey began. Instantly Riley stopped speaking, becoming very attentive. "You mention your father's office. What does he do for a living?"

"Oh," another dismissive gesture. "He's the president of a construction company. He builds skyscrapers and stuff. I'm the black sheep of the family, y'know. I want to do something other than farm or build things." He made a face, holding his hands out in front of him and wiggling his fingers. "I really don't like to get all dirty, plus, I get woozy around heights, so I'd be no good on a skyscraper construction project."

"My father owns a cross-country transport company," Bailey spoke into the brief silence.

"Oh, does that mean you're destined to be a truck driver?" Riley asked, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Somehow I can't imagine you climbing into one of those sixteen wheeler, big rig . . . trucks, or whatever, any more than me."

"They have eighteen wheels," Bailey corrected.

A flick of Riley's fingers signaled how much he cared.

"Do you cook?" Bailey asked, "or have a great grandmama who dances naked on the porch in the moonlight?"

"Yep, you know Corey, all right. He's told you about Luella Ann, or Lula Belle, or whatever? Do you really think there is such a person? Wait!" Riley held up a hand, begging silence, "No . . . wait . . . Lula Belle was a cow whose acquaintance I once made." He leaned forward and spoke confidentially. "My grandpa wanted me to milk ol' Lula Belle. Imagine! ME, milking a cow!" He shook his head in disbelief.

"Oh, and yes," he said, returning to Bailey's question, "I consider myself one step below a Southern chef. M'mother's cook took me aside when I was a young thing, and taught me all she knew." He leaned back and studied Bailey, looking him up and down.

"You could stand to be carrying around a couple extra pounds. Old-time Southern cooking will add more'n that, that's for sure. Y'know, there's an old Southern saying, 'If it can't be fried in bacon grease, it ain't worth cookin', much less eatin'." Riley laughed, pushed himself off the sofa's arm, crossed the few paces to where Bailey stood with his jaw hanging open, appalled by the thought of cooking anything in bacon grease, and hugged him lightly. Corey had once said the same thing. Thankfully, as far as Bailey knew, he'd been able to avoid the artery-clogging menu Corey wistfully spoke of.

"I hope you don't mind me hugging you like that, but you looked like if you didn't get a little help to stay standing up, you might go into shock, or something. I have that effect on folks." He plucked at his gaudy shirt. "Mostly, it's the clothes, but some people don't know what to think about . . . me." He smiled, his pale eyes sparkling. "I wanted to save you the indignity of passing out on the floor and waking up with me administering that mouth-to-mouth lifesaving technique. I do like to practice that from time-to-time, though." This time, Bailey noticed the dimples as Riley smiled. "In fact, practicing can be great fun, especially if the person one's practicing on is conscious." With the next breath, he continued.

"Say, are you hungry? There's this small Italian restaurant near the school. I go there all the time. They have a big bruiser of an owner who won't stand for any monkey business. May I treat you to dinner, and maybe I'll let you do some of the talking?"

"Yes, I . . . know of the place." Bailey cleared his throat. "I have had occasion to encounter the . . . bruiser." He winced at the remembered humiliation. "You don't really talk this much all the time, do you?"

"Naw," Riley said, stepping out of the apartment, followed by Bailey. "I only talk this much when I'm nervous. You make me shake in my boots, Bailey." He turned to look over his shoulder, as Bailey followed him down the stairway. "You're so . . . perfect."

Bailey laughed, resting an arm across Riley's shoulders. "Believe me, Riley, I have never, even once in my life, been described by anyone, as perfect."

Corey kissed the tip of Jonah's nose, then heaved himself off the sofa in Bea's living room, shouting, "Catch me! Y'can't have me till you catch me!" With that, he bounded out the screen door and off the porch, with a berserker's shout. Jonah followed, a few steps behind, tossing his trademarked red cap in the air with a glad yell, as he tried to catch up.

"Yeaaa!" Opie cheered. "Catch him, Jonah," she shouted, jumping off the swing and waving her arms, joining her older sister to watch the two men run out to the road, make a wide circle, then turn back. Corey ran past, heading around the house in one direction, expecting his pursuer to follow. Jonah, however, skidded to a halt, glanced toward his sisters with a smile, and ran in the opposite direction. In a few moments, the two girls heard shouts and laughter.

When Opie looked to her sister, seeking permission to join the two men, Abigail touched her on the shoulder and shook her head. "Let them have their fun," she grinned. Neither girl, though, was thinking of the swing, as the air suddenly became quiet.

"Hey!" Corey breathlessly laughed, as Jonah grabbed him, spun him around, then tugged him to the ground, crushing the long grass in the shade of the house. "You sneaky devil!" He rolled away, scrambling to his knees, only to be tugged back to the grass, where Jonah promptly rolled on top of him, then straddled him, just as he'd done Owen, many times, during one of their wrestling matches. This time, his father would not interrupt. His laughter, at the thought of being totally free, faded as Corey reached for his hand.

"It feels good, havin' you on top of me, like this," Corey murmured, his lips twitching upward. "I've not been a whole lot of fun, since I've shown up on your doorstep, have I? I'm guessin' that I've never been quite sure that you're wantin' me to stay."

Jonah leaned forward, his breath warm against Corey's face. "Does this answer your question?" He kissed Corey's ear, then his neck, and cheek. "Or this?" he asked, a moment before he stretched out on top of Corey and slowly kissed him, their tongues unhurriedly caressing one another's, while at the same time Jonah slowly bucked his hips, thrusting his growing erection against Corey's.

"Ummm," Corey sighed, wrapping his arms around the man who held him down. "What a wonderful kisser!" he grinned, "Nice n'slow, just like I like it." When Jonah leaned forward for another kiss, Corey heaved the startled man off him, clambered to his feet, then disappeared around the side of the house.

"Y'gotta do more than just catch me!" he laughingly shouted, as he dashed toward the two girls who were watching him approach, open mouthed. "Show me that you wanna keep me!" he shouted, over his shoulder, a moment before he skidded to a stop in front of the goggle-eyed girls, and plopped onto the swing.

"So, ladies," he demurely asked, turning an ingenuous smile in their direction, while winking at Opie, and ignoring Jonah's breathless skid to a stop. "How have you both been?" he asked.

"Yeaaa!" Opie jumped up and down, clapping. She turned to her older sister, who was not sure what to make of her brother's uncharacteristic behavior. "They're acting like kids, Abigail," Opie explained. "Isn't it great?"

Bailey smiled his thanks, as Riley held the door for him. They were met with the unmistakable smells of an Italian kitchen . . . and the sharp gaze of the restaurant's owner, who seemed to never have forgiven Bailey for the scene he created, nearly a year earlier. "Hello, Mrs. Giordano," he said, making an effort to not tremble as he spoke. His personal apology, some months after the incident in which she'd thrown him out, had garnered him what seemed to be a grudging, "apology accepted." He did not expect much more today.

He'd come to realize that Mrs. Giordano was an exacting restauranteur, expecting high standards, both from her employees, and customers. Her restaurant was probably one of the worst places Bailey could have chosen for his ill-conceived confrontation with Owen. Of course, nothing had been improved when he accidentally ran into one of the restaurant's waitresses, sending the tray of food she'd been carrying, flying. In response to his tentative smile, he was rewarded with a nod and a thin smile, which turned bright when she saw who he was with. He slowly exhaled a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. 'Maybe things won't be so bad, after all.'

"Howdy, Lucia," Riley drawled. Attuned to the nuances of the hostesses behavior, Riley rested a friendly arm over Bailey's shoulder. "My good friend, Bailey, and I are really hungry, and we figured there was no place better to have dinner. So . . . here we are! Y'think you can handle two man-sized appetites?"

Mrs. Giordano's smile brightened still further. She gestured toward a table against the far wall, and away from the crowded center of the room. As she showed them to their table, she turned to Bailey, her vibrant alto still tinged with a hint of an Italian accent. "Welcome, Mister Wilkins," she said, surprising him by knowing his last name. "I'm pleased you and Riley chose Giordano's for dinner."

"Why, thank you. I . . . appreciate your giving me another chance." Mrs. Giordano smiled her understanding, and patted him on the back. Considering their rocky past, the woman's simple actions meant the world to him. As she distributed the menus, she continued speaking to Bailey, nodding to the man who was sitting across the table, wearing a pleased expression. "Riley can eat nearly as much as your friend, Owen," she said, shaking her head in wonder. "What an appetite that one has!" She laughed, then sobered. "Not that I'm complaining," she added, in a deadpan voice and a twitch at the corner of her lips. Her voice softened even further. "When you see Owen next, would you tell him Lucia was asking after him, and wishing him the best?"

"Yes, of course. I'm sure he'll be pleased you remember him. I know he misses the food here. There is only one restaurant in the small town in which he's living. It's good, but they don't serve cannoli. As I said, he'll be pleased to learn that he's remembered."

"Remember him?" she barked. "Mother Mary, how could I forget such a one! So good looking, and so polite." Her eyes twinkled. "And, such an appetite! Don't tell anyone," she murmured, leaning close and lowering her voice, "but, just for Owen, I'll send my recipe with you, so he can still have cannoli. Not as good as Giordano's, to be sure, but, we can't let that boy go without his sweets!" She laughed, shaking her head as she turned away, leaving the two men to study their menus.

"Owen?" Riley asked. "I heard Corey mention him. You know him, as well?"

"The most wonderful man on the face of the earth," Bailey said, setting his menu aside. "He . . ." Bailey glanced away, then back, gathering his thoughts and attempting to control the emotions which always surfaced whenever he was talking about Owen. "He taught me . . . everything." He stopped to swallow around his tight throat. "Owen taught me what it means to be someone worth knowing." Bailey's voice lowered. "He did all this, merely with a few kind words, by his example, and by being my first true . . . friend. He had faith in me, when I least deserved it.

"He gives freely of himself, to all who know him." Bailey ruefully smiled, "And, because of his friendship . . . his generosity . . . all of us . . . his friends . . . anyone who knows him . . . suddenly realize they are capable of more than they ever dreamt of." Bailey swallowed, his watery eyes threatening to overflow. "Without Owen, I do not believe I could have continued living. I owe him my life." He held out an open hand, gesturing to the restaurant, to Riley, and the world beyond, "I owe him everything."

Riley paused, while Bailey regained control of his emotions. "A remarkable person, indeed," he grinned. "Corey's opinion is much the same as yours. Perhaps we can meet, one day."

"I'd like that," Bailey sighed, blinking away the last bit of moisture in his eyes, with a crooked grin. "I'm going out for a visit, soon. If you're free, maybe you could go with me. I'd like for you to meet my friends, and I'm sure Corey would like to see you."

There was a time, he would have described, in boring detail, his Riverton project, but that time was in the past. Now, all he wanted to do was be with someone he was hoping would become an important person in his life. 'Thank you, Corey,' he silently raised a toast, 'for introducing me to Riley. Thank you, Owen, for everything else.'

"Hey, Mama!" Opie shouted, running to meet her mother, who was returning from a walk hand-in-hand, with her fiance. "Daddy Daniel," Opie added, skidding to a stop. "Jonah and Corey are acting like kids, laughin' and stuff!" She jumped up and down, grabbing Daniel's hand and tugging in an effort for them to hurry up, lest things change.

When they approached, Jonah was sitting on the swing. Corey was standing behind him, his arms resting on Jonah's shoulders, wrapping him in a loose, possessive, embrace. Abigail was sitting cross-legged on the grass, laughing at something Corey had said.

"See! See!" Opie almost shouted. "They're happy, just like I told 'em they should be, huh Corey?" she laughed, running to the standing man and wrapping her arms around his waist.

"When Opie says something, we all listen," Corey teased, squatting down and pulling the little girl close. "Isn't that right, little one?"

"I'm thinking that maybe I should go back to Corey's place, this evening," Bailey said, as he and Riley left the restaurant, followed by Mrs. Giordano's, "come again, soon." They crossed the parkway and headed into the campus, in the direction of Corey's apartment. "My stuff is there."

"May I go with you?" Riley quietly asked. "I'm not trying to be forward. It's just that I've enjoyed our evening together, immensely, and would like for it to continue for a while, yet." He hesitantly reached for Bailey's hand, then linked fingers, as Bailey moved closer, both oblivious to the few people who happened to glance their way.

"I would like that very much," Bailey grinned. He tightened his grip. "Very much, indeed."

~ to be continued ~

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