Page 84 of The Woodcarver's Model
“He always was a master at manipulating.”
“Never again. I threw him out. If he even tries to come back, Frances will tear him to pieces, and that’ll be a picnic compared to what I’ll do to him.” Anger flowed from him. Rob raised his hand to Mitch’s cheek and caressed it and Mitch calmed. His muscles relaxed.
“I’ll make everything as good as I can,” Rob whispered.
“I know you will. But what can I do to make it up to you?”
“Well, I’m being kicked out of this place soon and I’ll need a place to recover.”
“I know the perfect spot. Fresh air, a full-time nurse, massages on demand.”
“I can be pretty demanding.”
“I just want you to know that you’ll never have to worry about money. I don’t have a lot, but whatever I have is yours.”
“You’re so sweet. Thank you.” Rob paused for a moment, puzzled. “Where did that—”
Mitch interrupted “Kevin. He let me know that things were tight for writers and you could always use a little—”
“That asshole! I borrowed money from him once! That’s it. One time.”
“I’m sorry. Please don’t be upset.”
Rob started to laugh. “Money is the last thing we’ll need to worry about. Writers may not make big money, but I make a living. That, plus a rather large inheritance—trust me, we’ll have nothing to worry about. Just ask Karen or Estelle. They’ll give me a good reference.”
They both laughed.
“Throughout this whole thing,” Rob said, “I’ve learned one thing—for the first time in my life I know that I am finally, undeniably, one hundred percent in love with someone, and that someone is right here in front of me.”
Mitch began to cry. “I love you so much, and I am so sorry for everything that’s—”
Rob silenced him with a gentle finger to his lips. “To quote the man I love—‘Shut up and kiss me’.”
Epilogue
The sun had just risen and Mitch came into the bedroom with a fresh cup of coffee and a homemade scone with three candles burning on top.
“Ooh, thank you. Candles?” Rob asked.
“Blow them out and make a wish.”
Rob laughed. Ever since he’d come home, Mitch had been celebrating one thing or another. “Okay.” He closed his eyes and blew. “What’s the celebration today?”
“Three months without being shot, of course.”
“Of course.”
“How goes the writing?”
“Not bad, seeing as how I just started. But I have it all sketched out. It won’t take long to finish off the first draft.” This was the first day in a long time that he had felt like himself. The new version of himself, that was. The self he always knew deep down that he wanted to be. “One Man in Mogadishuwill be the last in the series.”
“But if it’s the last—won’t you still be travelling?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. I think I travelled because I was searching for something I lost when my parents died. But I don’t have to look any longer. I found that something, and it’s you.”
“What will you write?”
“Estelle’s convinced me that I should give script-writing a shot. She thought everything we’ve gone through might make an interesting movie.”
