Page 15 of Mornings By the Linden Tree
“Oh wow, that sounds really cool. I hear they have a new starfish exhibit,” Lennon replied in his usual charming way. I had to stop using “charming” so often when thinking of this man. But for the life of me, I could not come up with a better descriptor.
Engaging. Enchanting. Personable. Bewitching. Pick one. You’re supposedly a bright man.
“That does sound engaging,” I tossed out not to look like a dunderhead sitting there staring at the most winsome male to sit beside me in many, many years.
When Lennon beamed at me and Valeria shouted in glee, I realized I had made a small gaffe. I meant the starfish exhibit sounded engaging, not having Lennon with us all day long. Still, now the faux paus was out there reverberating in several ears, I had no choice but to smile awkwardly as my carefully planned day was about to veer wildly out of control.
“I’m not sure your uncle wants me to intrude on your day out,” Lennon said politely, giving me an easy out. I saw it. The path to leaving Farmer Cole behind was right there.
“We’d love to have you join us,” I said instead. The girls hooted. Mona gave me a smile I couldn’t quite decipher as Lennon nodded so hard his top hat fell off. He quickly caught it and plopped it on Valeria’s head. “Mona? Would you and Penny like to come as well?”
“Oh, that’s so kind, but we have to venture out to my mother-in-law’s for a late brunch,” Mona rushed to say. Penny was stricken at the news and had to be carried out of the park in tears. We all waved goodbye to the forlorn little girl peeking at us over her mother’s shoulder.
“I’m sure her grandma will give her a nickel,” Lennon announced to lighten the mood a bit before he magically removed a nickel from Valeria’s ear. The child squealed with joy. She gazed up at Lennon as if he were the god of cheap parlor tricks. “Do you have a piggy bank?”
“No, I has a bunny bank,” Valeria answered as she stared at the shiny five-cent piece in her hand.
“When you get home, put that, and all the other nickels you find, into your bunny bank. And in no time at all, you’ll have enough money saved to buy your uncle Wes a present for his birthday.” Lennon tapped the hat on her head, then glanced at me. “Are you sure you want me to come?”
No. Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes.
“I’m sure,” I lied. I’d never been more unsure of anything, but I couldn’t simply tell the man his presence made me twitchy and that I found the tart, fruity scent of lime wafting off his skin incredibly tantalizing. “Would you like to change before we go? I live just over there on Beacon Street.” I pointed as if he didn’t know where my street was located.
“I know. I’ve seen you running in the park for months. Although not recently.” He shoved his hands into the front bib of his overalls. “As for changing, I’m fine. I do need to gather up my stuff. Can I stow my guitar in your house?”
“Oh yes, of course. This way.” Valeria and her nickel took Lennon’s hand, leaving me to walk behind them like an ugly duckling. Which was fine. It gave me a moment or two to recalibrate my internal workings. Much like a Swiss clock someone had shoved a wad of gum into, my meticulous gears were off kilter. And all due to a man in silly overalls with strawberry pink lips.
When we entered my home, Valeria was chattering away as she tugged on Lennon’s hand. He slowed and stalled in the foyer, his eyes darting around, then landing on me.
“This is like a museum,” he whispered as if he were at the Louvre. I chuckled.
“Hardly. It is a historical home. Built in 1864 by Milford Potter and Alexander Mallory, the very same architects who consulted on the Price Portman house out on the bay on Revere Beach but declined to work on the project as the Widow Portman was a renowned gossip. Given that Misters Potter and Mallory were rumored to be paramours, they opted not to draw too close to a woman who could not be trusted to keep her mouth closed should she see a tender moment or two between the men.”
“Wow,” Lennon replied in a kind of stunned awe, or boredom. Probably boredom. Well, wasn’t I a damn fool? This wasn’t Percy, who I could prattle off inane facts to and know he would be just as interested in historical homes and rumored gay lovers as I was. This was Lennon. The exact opposite of my usual type of man. So why was I trying so hard to impress someone whom I normally wouldn’t give a second glance? I felt like a fool.
“Forgive me. I do tend to get rather enthusiastic about old homes. It’s a bit of a hobby of mine to visit historical homesteads and then create stories in my mind about the people who may have lived there.”
And there I was blurting out intimate things about me that nobody else knew, not even Rissa and certainly not Percy or any other gentleman callers. Percy would laugh himself into a coma if he even suspected I made up fictional tales about queer men seeking love and adventure in the Victorian era.
“So you’re a lawyer and an author.”
“What? Oh goodness no. An author? No, that’s silly. A fiction author? No, no, no.” I tittered at the thought. Me penning made-up tales about gay men of the past. That was nonsensical. Why, I never once really wrote down the imaginings in my head. Not in any precise way, just some random notes in a secret file on my laptop. But a fiction author? How ridiculous. “I don’t write downthe scenarios, I simply envision them in my mind and make notes on my tablet.”
“Oh, okay, so you write down notes about made-up people on your tablet, but you’re not a writer?” He folded his arms over his chest as he parried with me.
“No, I am merely filling in some fictional facts in a historical context that I will then flesh out into a more substantial retelling of the possibilities of the people who may have lived in said homes during a certain period of time. But all of my notes are not in any way a fiction novel. They’re historical fragments of an imaginary sort jotted down on virtual paper. But not a book. No, if I were to write a book, it would be a non-fiction memoir or perhaps a novel about how to find success as a Black gay attorney.”
“Uh-huh. A closet fiction writer. Got it.” He winked.
I began arguing. “No, I am not a closeted anything and certainly not a fiction writer.”
“You know, there are lots of lawyers who write fiction books. Ever hear of John Grisham?”
I crossed my arms over my vest. “Obviously. I have even read one of his books.”
“In the closet, though? So your law partners didn’t see you?”
How did he know that? Damn it, he didn’t. He had just surmised. And by the smirk on his face as I gaped, he knew he had trapped me.
