Chapter Six
Catalunya is a long way from Beverly Hills; half a world away, in fact. To Joaquin it felt like light years.
The lunch and day and night and dinner and breakfast he had spent with Felipe were as if his time was a dream, a warm and pleasant and sexy and delicious dream, and his real life, far away in Beverly Hills was only imagined. The waiters and waitresses and hosts snickered at the two whenever they came in to eat or drink; wagers had changed hands in the little town of Porrera betting on when the American stranger would stop walking around in a sex-fueled fog.
Joaquin had gone through a million scenarios in his head: pulling up stakes in Beverly Hills and abandoning his business and his life and goals in California and moving to the farm in Porrera; becoming a wine-maker; becoming a new-age Picasso and spending the remainder of his life painting; re-building the old house on the farm; buy a restaurant; buy a hotel; marriage. Marriage? Maybe. Why not?
He realized three things: he was attracted to abstract art, although not Cubism, perhaps for the same inexplicable reasons that some people are drawn to Mahler or Debussy instead of Beethoven or Mozart, to opera instead of pop, to Madonna instead of Beyoncé. Catalunya is a living studio for abstract art.
He also realized that he was not ready for the extreme changes he had imagined in his dreams; they were romantic notions, they were entertaining but were not necessarily things he could attempt at this moment. And he realized that this moment was just that: a moment, a stop along the way in a journey, a life journey, not just a trip or a voyage, but the great adventure that is Life. If nothing else, he owed Felipe the respect of not burdening him with his romantic notions.
After a week in Porrera, he realized he had to formulate a plan; he could not simply spend the time waiting for the Universe to impose a plan upon him. He did know that he wanted somehow, some way for Felipe to be a part of the plan; he had no idea at all what Felipe's plans were.
He did not even know anything about Felipe other than his magnificent cock and his magical sexual talent; he decided that he needed to do the proper thing and get serious, needed to treat this experience like an opportunity to grow rather than just play along in another artistic melodramatic pantomime.
The time and place was artistic: the countryside was magical, artistic, beguiling, and inspiring; the opportunity for plein aire painting surrounded him. He had already filled nearly an entire sketch pad with charcoal and pencil drawings for future oils to be completed once he returned to his studio at the gallery in Beverly Hills. About half of the sketches were landscapes; the other half were Felipe, naked. Artists usually call those sketches "nudes"; these were naked, raw, pulsing, magnetic, living. One was a breath-taking close-up sketch of a hard cock dripping pre-cum.
Beverly Hills; oh yeah. Home. His home. His home with Ross. It all suddenly came crashing in on him, and he fell down on his knees in the loose red dirt on the farm and cried. And realized he had not cried. Ross, with whom he had spent the largest fraction of his life, deserved at least a tear or two, but up to this moment, Joaquin had not cried.
It was not out of pride or anxiety or a desire to maintain a macho front that he had not yet cried; he was simply exhausted. The sudden illness, the hospital, the hospice, the funeral, and then the wandering through a long dark tunnel lost in his own desperation to find a future alone, had exhausted Joaquin.
He rose from the dirt, and realized he was not alone: Felipe was standing a few paces off, watching. Joaquin stood and walked toward Felipe, and Felipe took him in his arms, held him, and Joaquin cried again. They just stood that way for several minutes; Felipe did not say anything, just let him disburden himself of whatever it was that had caused him this expression of grief.
They went to the shade of the abandoned farm house; sitting on the spider-webbed front stoop, with the dust whirling around them the two just let the moment settle on their shoulders and minds. Felipe thought he might know what was happening, but like a good farmer, waited for the proper moment; he knew Joaquin would tell him when ready.
Instead, silently, Joaquin stood and pulled Felipe up, embraced him again, and walked him toward the rental car; they drove into town and to the little taverna where they could have a quiet afternoon with tortillas and wine. In another hour or so, they were on the sofa in Felipe's tiny house, still silent; Joaquin sighed and began telling the story.
It did not take long; he was an artist, not a communicator, and painted the story in broad brush strokes and let Felipe fill in the details for himself. He did not cry again but was feeling less and less burdened by the sadness and the regret and the loneliness and the need and the grief and the longing than at any time after Ross's illness and death. Felipe held him and listened. He heard the sadness, and the longing, and the grief. He heard the need and the darkness and the regret.
Joaquin awoke in the dark; at first he was disoriented, but slowly realized he was in Felipe's bed in the tiny casita; he heard the mourning doves outside the window. He realized he was alone and went to find the Spaniard who tended his vineyards on the old farm in the hills of Porrera. Felipe was sitting in his underwear on the sofa drinking the dark coffee famous in the region; Felipe looked toward Joaquin and smiled.
Joaquin sat and took Felipe's free hand and said "I must leave; I do not want to leave, and I do not want to leave you, but I promise I will be gone only for a short time, and then I want you to promise me something."
Felipe took in a short breath; what could he possibly promise this amazing American/Spaniard artistic god? For although he had never mentioned it to Joaquin, his heart had been stolen, and it would fly away with Joaquin.
Before Joaquin could continue, Felipe said "Before you speak, I must tell you something. I have never been in love, so I do not know what love is supposed to feel like, but you have made me crazy. If being in love means you cannot sleep and you cannot dream without having dreams of you, then that is what is happening to me."
Joaquin gasped; he had no idea that this rough, beguiling, Caballero had such tender feelings for him. "So if I may, can you find a way to promise me, that when I return, we might find the time and the means to see each other again and to return to this path we are on?"
Joaquin anxiously awaited the reply; Felipe slowly smiled and took Joaquin's hands and put them on his chest and said "This heart will not beat without you; go if you must, but promise me you will return and rescue me from a life of desperate longing for you."
Joaquin laughed and said "You are not a farmer, you are a poet."
Felipe smiled broadly and said "Is not every Spaniard a poet?"
They rose together and returned to the bed, where Joaquin enjoyed the best sex he had had in many months: Felipe's hard Spanish sword embedded in his ass, pushing his face deeper into the pillows, kneeling between Joaquin's legs, sawing in and out of the ass with deep slow strokes, the opposite of the feverish first time they had fucked on the sofa, allowing all of the time necessary to commit a deeper new phase of their romance to blossom.
Joaquin sighed, enjoying the pain and pleasure, treasuring the hot bursts of cum splashing inside his ass, moaning, wanting the cum to be blasting across his face as well, turning over in the bed and taking the throbbing cock into his mouth, greedily sucking and swallowing the meaty piroca.
Felipe was shocked to feel himself cumming a second time, granting Joaquin's wish. They lay together for a long moment, until Felipe finally rose and pulled Joaquin with him into the shower; there was a silent tearful farewell as Joaquin sadly entered the rental car and Felipe took the old pickup toward the farm.
Flying is not fun, at least not for Joaquin in his current condition: suddenly missing Felipe, with competing feelings in his heart for Ross and this new lover, he wanted to be on solid ground and think about what life had in mind for him. He could not wait to get off this airplane and go running on the beach outside Mario and Peter's home in Malibu and let his mind wander and possibly conjure up some solutions. Or, THE solution, if there was one.
One month stretched into three; Felipe was frustrated, sad, angry, and horny. Joaquin was angry, frustrated, and horny as well, although they had separate reasons for their reactions: Felipe wanted Joaquin to return to Porrera, and Joaquin wanted the lawyers and brokers to finish their business and get the gallery sold so he could leave.
The Beverly Hills art queen who had made an offer on purchasing the gallery from Joaquin had given him a low-ball figure; Joaquin had merely scoffed and told the broker she was not even close to the mark. He wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, but his European gentility would not allow it. He was correct that the art queen desperately wanted Joaquin's gallery, though, and if given enough time, would make a reasonable offer.
That took three months, along with all of the business related to winding up Ross's affairs: the insurance settlements, the final audit of his estate, settling the consulting practice with Mickey and Raj, and placing Lina in the consulting firm as a receptionist.
Joaquin had received one million dollars from an insurance policy which the consulting firm had purchased for Ross; each of the three partners had similar policies. Together with the insurance settlement, the sale of the gallery, and the other assets which Ross had given to Joaquin, there was enough cash for him to make vast improvements to the farm and the vineyard in Catalunya if he desired.
His cell phone rang, and it had a New Jersey number; he had completely forgotten to follow-up on his promise to Ross Schick; he took the call and was greeted by an anxious voice. The young Ross asked if Joaquin was able to complete the task he had discussed on his short stop in New Jersey on his way to Spain: Ross Schick had asked Joaquin to try to find some method of determining Ross James' DNA, from a toothbrush or a hairbrush or some other article left behind. Joaquin even wondered if the ashes could provide DNA; he was not sure.
Joaquin was afraid that Ross Schick was following a dream that would ultimately disappoint him: he wanted to find out if Tina Schick's high school sweetheart, Ross James, was in fact his biological father.
He had two photos of Ross: one from high school, and one from the high school reunion twenty years later. The young Ross was convinced that he looked enough like the other man to be his son. Joaquin promised to follow-up on the question, and to call him as soon as he was able to find some answers.
There is a 50/50 chance that cremated remains can provide DNA results; that, together with a hairbrush, a toothbrush, and a lip-balm were enough to demonstrate Ross James' DNA. Joaquin called Ross Schick in New Jersey and gave him the news that he would send the test results to him by email the following day. Schick told Joaquin there was no need; he was in Los Angeles, because he wanted to see the place where Ross had lived and worked.
They agreed to meet for dinner; Joaquin hoped that the testing results did not disappoint the younger man. Seated at the lobby bar in the Loews hotel in Santa Monica, Joaquin was startled at how much like his deceased husband this younger Ross looked: even if the test results did not support the supposition, it sure seemed that the boy Ross, his Ross, was sitting here with him enjoying a Manhattan. His husband's favorite cocktail.
Over a two-hour dinner and conversation, Joaquin learned that the young Ross had taken up this quest because his mother had lied to him: there was no watermelon farmer, and in fact she had gotten pregnant from Ross James after high school graduation just before he had left for college. She had kept it a secret for many years because she did not want to upset either of the Catholic families involved, her own nor the James's. She had likewise lied to her son, even while she kept a photo of Ross on the mantle in her living room for many years.
She had just succumbed to breast cancer, so naturally this young man was searching for something to hold on to, someone in the world he could call family. It was sad that Ross James, his probably-biological father, was gone now too. He reassured Joaquin that he was not trying to assert any claim to Ross's estate; he had enough money from the sale of his mother's house in New Jersey to provide for his needs and goals.
They enjoyed each other's company, even though it was a melancholy time for them both; the young Ross told Joaquin that he was moving to Los Angeles, where he had a job in the entertainment industry as a computer programmer. He said "And by the way, I am also gay."
In a way that was a shock to Joaquin; he had not asked, and the young man had not exhibited any of the tell-tale mannerisms that the media commonly uses to portray gays. No lisp, not limp wrist, no extended pinky while holding a cocktail, no bronzer, no lip gloss, no jewelry. The cocktail itself was a diversion: the media commonly portrays gays as Cosmopolitan drinkers.
Young Ross was also very self-assured, not arrogant but comfortable with himself, he was bright and conversational and glib, all qualities of the older Ross, the PhD Ross, the grad school professor Ross. The dead husband.
Joaquin was chuckling; Ross asked him what he was thinking.
"I do not need any DNA test: I know it is important to you, but so far, it appears to me that you are exactly like what I imagine your father was like at your age."
Ross Schick gasped; he slowly smiled, and Joaquin noticed he had a tear in the corner of his eye. As they parted that evening Ross grabbed Joaquin and hugged him; "Thank you for believing in me" he said. "I don't have anyone else in this world, and it was very important to me to find the truth."
Joaquin replied "No matter what the test results prove, I am hoping we can still remain friends, and in fact I want to introduce you to my group of friends who all knew Ross very well. You might really enjoy them."
"Sounds like fun."
"Good, well this Saturday, the group is having dinner at the home of Mario and Peter in Malibu. Call me tomorrow and I will provide you the directions, so you can join us for dinner there and they can meet you, and I will fill you in on the background story."
And what a story, he thought- he would get to meet the husband of his dead father's last lover/boyfriend prior to marrying Joaquin.