Page 56 of Cool for the Summer

“So you and Jack are from some rich Texas oil family?” Donovan’s brow is wrinkled like a chocolate crinkle cookie. “How come Pete never told me?”

“Probably for the same reason I’m only telling you now. It makes people think of us differently, which sucks. And by the way, the icing on the cake is that my dad, Jonathan Avery, is?—”

“Holy shit. Jonathan Avery—wasn’t he just elected to the Senate?”

“Yeah.” All of his years in state politics paid off—he and my mom moved to D.C. last year in a blaze of triumph. “Having a gay, non-football-playing son didn’t end up hurting him as much politically as he thought it would. I just stay out of the way, which is how we both like it.” I sound casual because I’ve had years to come to terms with the fact that my dad’s first love is politics, his second power. His third love is my mother, at least. I may not rate, but he’s always been good to her.

“Beck, I really had no idea.” Donovan sounds lost. I try to be philosophical, even if my gut churns with the feeling that things are already changing—if I lose him over this, well, it’ll just be a little sooner than I would have, anyway.

TWENTY-FOUR

DONOVAN

It’s beena day since Beck dropped the bomb that not only is he not an itinerant law school dropout living out of his car, but he has a trust fund and a U.S. Senator for a father. I’m trying like hell not to be one of those people he’s clearly had experience with that treat him differently after they find out he’s got resources the rest of us don’t.

But I don’t know how good of a job I’m doing.

For one thing, we haven’t had sex since before he told me he signed the lease for Beck’s Cookie Counter. I had been reading by the pool before he arrived with the news, but once I finished my lunch, lounging the afternoon away suddenly seemed irresponsible. The third act of my play remained unwritten, and after the “wicked successful” (Dulcie’s words) audition workshop I ran for the Rosedale Art Center, Dulcie booked me to do a class on working with an agent. My little mini-course will teach life skills to aspiring working actors, she says. So instead of going back to the pool or talking Beck into bed, that day I went to my room and hammered out two scenes, plus an outline for the agent workshop, then went to bed early.

Today, Beck is out taking measurements in the shop. I almost offered to help him, but the call of the play was stronger. I actually want to finish it now that I can see the end in sight. The words are coming faster because I know the characters better. Julian’s words seem to flow out of my hand onto the page as if we’re the same person, which I guess makes sense since he’s my avatar in this particular story. He’s a man who needs to know what there is to life besides ambition.

Julian might be reaching some understanding, but I’m still floundering. The only thing I know for sure is Jack and Pete return to Rosedale in less than three weeks and I’m supposed to be making plans to go back to the city.

I have a voicemail from Joan, but I haven’t called her back because I just don’t know what to tell her. As much as I’m happy and excited about certain things in my life—writing the play, for one—I feel strangely ambivalent about living in New York and returning to my bachelor routine.

When Beck finally comes home, my eyes are bleary from staring at words on the page, and Cleo’s antsy from being inside all day.

“I’m taking Cleo for a walk,” I announce as I gather up her leash.

“Want company?” Beck asks. “I was just thinking about ordering pizza for dinner, anyway.”

“Why don’t you put in the order and by the time we get back, it’ll be here?”

“Good call.”

By unspoken agreement, we follow the route from the first night we both took up residence at the house on Wild Rose Lane. The time since then has sped by, a blur of hot and humid days, starry nights, afternoons by the pool, food and friends, poker and Prosecco. And Beck making it all possible, taking what could have been a frustrating and lonely summer and turning it into one of the best of my life. Maybe the best ever.

“What did you do today?” Beck asks as we saunter along, not in any particular hurry. I heard him tell the pizza place to just leave the order on the front step if there was no answer.

“I wrote some more, actually.”

“That’s great.”

“How’d it go at the shop?”

“My head is full of numbers. But it was good. The carpenter I talked to about installing the counter thinks he can get the materials in time for a Labor Day opening. I just have to decide on the finish. And the color. I also reached out to Lani to see if her business partner Nicole would consider doing a quick branding design for me.”

“You’re quite the networker.” Beck can do anything he puts his mind to. I’ve seen that up close and personal. “So what colors are you thinking?”

“That one,” he says, pointing to the empty house he noticed that very first night. “I love that blue so much.” He sounds almost sad.

“Blue suits you. Goes with your eyes,” I say, my attention focused on Cleo tugging at her lead. I look up to find Beck staring at me. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “A deep blue would be nice. Soothing. And then a pop of something brighter for contrast. Orange, maybe. Or pink.”

“Something with energy,” I agree.

“It’s really too bad about this house,” he says regretfully, staring at it for another moment before turning to go home.

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