Page 6 of Blue Umbrella Sky
“And, as soon as I can get a moving truck together and most of the furniture sold, I’ll head on out. Drive across the country. See the USA.” He smiled big, trying to keep the terror at bay. A voice inside his head told him he’d scurry back here within a year, but Milt silenced it.
“C’mon,” Dane said quietly. “Give yourself some time.”
Milt knew his suggestion was rational, the sensible thing to do. But Milt had done the sensible thing his whole life. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to shake things up.
After all, what did he have to lose? He’d already lost the most important thing he had in this life. And, in its own harsh way, that loss allowed him the freedom to take a wild chance.
Milt put one hand on Seth’s shoulder and the other on Dane’s and leaned in. “The only thing I want to give myself right now is a new horizon.” He smiled through his tears. “A sunny one.”
Chapter 3
BILLY REGARDEDMilt Grabaur across his dining table—a big round wooden spool he’d managed to salvage from some construction site. It was bleached by the sun and sometimes gave splinters, but it held up, year after year, in home after home, like some stalwart creature—Billy’s constant companion. He’d even taken out his trailer’s built-in dining table just to make room for it. There was something about how weathered it was but still strong.
It reminded Billy of himself—or maybe the man he longed to meet but could never seem to find.
They were eating Billy’s homemade carnitas and tortillas. There was pico de gallo and a bowl of sour cream to tame the heat of the pork. The carnitas had a nice crust from being browned first in lard—and a mysterious sweetness from the Mexican Coke Billy used for braising.
Milt, he thought, was a ghost of a man. A haunted presence, not unlike Boo Radley in Harper Lee’sTo Kill a Mockingbird. He’d watched the man ever since he’d moved in just below him last February. At first Billy thought Milt’s standoffishness could be attributed to simply settling in. Billy, who’d moved more times than he could count—which was why his own home was a rental—understood the preoccupation with building a nest for oneself. It took time and effort to take a place from being a house to a home.
Feeling a bit like a stalker, Billy found he enjoyed watching his new neighbor, even if their paths hadn’t crossed in any significant way. There was something about Milt’s loneliness and inherent sadness that called out to Billy. He wondered, of course, all sorts of things, like where Milt was from, how he managed to be at home every day without a job, what particular story had brought him to the desert—everyone, it seemed, had one. The valley was filled with transplants.
As time went on, Billy realized simply getting settled and making a home for himself wasn’t the principle reason for his neighbor’s standoffishness. No, Milt wasn’t reaching out for bigger reasons, Billy decided. Ever intuitive, Billy realized this was a man who was mourning. He didn’t know if the loss was of a person or a thing, but Billy picked up on the haunted look in Milt’s eyes when he’d pass him walking his dog or out on his patio, reading. Billy always lofted a cheery “How you doin’?” the other man’s way, hoping he’d get more in return than he did. But the best he ever got was a smile and a nod.
Billy got it. He really did. The desert was a place people often came to in hopes of starting a new life, of recreating themselves. Billy himself, just a few years ago, was one of those people. He’d come here for the sunshine, the excellent recovery community, and to escape big-city life, which was making him feel increasingly lost and alone.
Billy had fantasized more than once that Milt would stop in the street to chat, or that he’d invite him onto the patio for some advice on how to best care for the jasmine plant and the little barrel cactuses he had in pots. Billy would advise him on watering and positioning for sun exposure. They’d pause—and stare meaningfully into each other’s eyes—then they’d proceed inside. The dark would be cool and, at first, blinding. The window unit would be whirring, maybe even whining as it struggled to contend with the triple-digit heat. Barely able to see, Billy would at last get a chance to reach out to explore the sharp planes of Milt’s face with his fingertips. Their first touch would be a charged moment, full of electricity, lust, and something else that Billy could only imagine as coming home.
Yes, Billy had a crush.
It had developed from perhaps the first moment he spied Milt unloading his little U-Haul truck—by himself. He wore a pair of beat-up camo cargo shorts and a pair of hiking boots. If he’d had a shirt on, he’d wisely gotten rid of it. His body was tight, compact, slick with sweat. He was whiter than the average desert bear. Salt-and-pepper hair graced not only his head and face but also spread out in lovely curls on his broad chest. That hair narrowed down into one of the sexiest treasure trails Billy had ever seen (and he’d seen a few—well, maybe more than a few), which finally disappeared into the dark, sweat-stained waistband of his shorts. He’d even gone over and offered to help, but Milt had merely wiped the sweat off his brow, saying only, “Thanks. But I got it.” Milt made his dismissal obvious when he turned his back on Billy to get back to his work.
Before turning away himself, Billy allowed himself a tiny moment to savor the progress of a bead of sweat between Milt’s shoulder blades as it ran, quicker, quicker, down his back and disappeared into the wonderland concealed by those damn camo shorts.
Billy worried that maybe Milt was one of the straight ones, a breeder—there were a few around, and Billy bore them no ill will. They did serve a purpose, after all.
But still, he couldn’t help but admire his older neighbor, with his amazing pale gray eyes, his taut build, the way his buzzed hair clung close and thick to his perfectly formed head. Billy could imagine how all that stubble would feel between his thighs….
His bud, Kyle, back in LA, had told him, just before Billy moved out to Palm Springs, “Dude—your daddy fetish will come alive out there. Slim pickings it’s not!”
Billy had to sort of mentally shake himself when he realized Milt was actually speaking. “This is delicious. Where did a Nordic type like yourself learn to cook like this?”
“Mexican boyfriend, back in Chicago. Hector. He taught me all about flavors this ‘Nordic type’ had no idea existed—things like cumin, oregano, bay, cilantro. Mexican food isn’t about heat—it’s about layers of flavor. Although I do like the shock a good habanero can bring to your tongue.” Billy smiled.
Milt nodded. He looked back down at his food and picked at it.
Billy read the sadness in Milt’s face. Knew it took real effort for Milt to open his mouth and compliment the food, especially when he was worried, maybe a little in shock over the events that had transpired only this afternoon.
“We’re gonna find her.”
“Hmm?” Milt looked up. He’d just torn off a piece of warm tortilla. Like Billy, Milt seemed to like them plain—hot with only butter and a little sprinkle of sea salt.
“You know what I’m talkin’ about, Milt. Your little girl, Ruby. You’ll get her back.” He smiled. “I’m a little psychic. Don’t scoff. I’m serious. And I’m one hundred percent certain she’ll be back in your arms before the night is through.”
Billy got up and looked out one of the big windows at the side of his own trailer, a silver Airstream. It was early evening, but the sky remained bright, ruthless—a dome of electric blue, showing no evidence of the clouds that had earlier brought down the storm. The little thermometer he’d mounted outside told him it was 110 degrees. Cooler than yesterday, when it got up to 120. He worried about the dog, wandering outside in the heat, with perhaps no source of water.
The rushing river that had come through their streets was now gone. If you didn’t look down at the ground, Billy thought, you wouldn’t even know it had rained today.
But the mud lying across the roads of the trailer park left evidence of the storm. Evidence that would take a lot of work to clean up.
