didn’t like
sharing personal details any more than Shane did, and Shane respected that. He did
wonder about Norton’s day job. Norton never seemed short of cash. Which meant he
didn’t earn his bread and butter as a painter—even if he hadn’t been, well, a really lousy
painter.
Shane probably should have laid it on the line that first night, but he knew from
experience that FBI tended to have a chilling effect on potential romance. Not that he’d
exactly had romance on his mind when he’d first met Norton in the upstairs balcony area
of El Galleon. That had been about sex, pure and simple. But thirteen days later—and
they’d been pretty much inseparable for most of that time—he owed the guy the truth.
And if Norton still wanted to…pursue the options, that was okay with Shane. More than
okay, if he was strictly honest.
Kind of a surprise given that Norton, with his goofy sense of humor, shaggy blond
hair, and baggy Hawaiian shirts, was really not Shane’s type. Norton wore a pirate-style
earring, for God’s sake. He wore clogs. His “paintings” looked like they were done by a
preschooler possessed by demons. He joked about things like having underworld
contacts. But even more of a surprise because Shane, ambitious and focused as he was,
had never been interested in pursuing any possibility but the most obvious and
immediate. But there it was: Norton was different. In ways that Shane found both
unsettling and exciting. In ways that Shane found downright bewildering.
It wasn’t just a matter of owing Norton the truth; Shane wanted to share this news
with him. Wanted to hear what Norton had to say.
Shane wove his way through the throngs of sightseers pushing strollers, carrying
shopping bags, eating ice cream cones. So many visitors in sunhats and shorts. Yellow
and blue and red umbrellas dotted the beach where tourists lay baking their goose bumps.
It was March, after all. Despite the bright sunshine, the wind off the ocean was chilly, and
the shade cast by the palm trees and beachfront buildings was deep.
He mentally ran possible scripts as he turned right on Clarissa Avenue.
I have good news, and I have bad news. Which would you like to hear first?
So…remember that night you said you hated cops. Was that a firm hate or just a
strong dislike?
Or there was always the classic opener: Are you or have you ever been a member of
the communist party?
Yeah, not really a conversation he was looking forward to. But he knew he wasn’t
imagining that connection, that electricity. Kinetic energy. Something had sparked
between them that very first night, and it had only gotten stronger with each passing day.
So they would talk. Really talk. And hopefully work something out. He wanted it to work
out.
Norton was renting a white two-bedroom cottage across the street from his own.
Two navy-blue painted dolphins frolicked on the street side of the house. There was no
yard to speak of, just a small potted orange tree on the brick walkway. A spyglass
weathervane swung indecisively in the breeze. Shane walked up the two steps to the
brightly painted red door. The blinds in the front window were lowered, shut tight, which
was unusual.
Well, they’d had a lot to drink the night before, and Norton had mentioned a
headache that morning.
Shane knocked on the door.
A woman swept the shoebox-sized porch of the bungalow on the left. Shane nodded
politely to her.
He knocked again. Firm and brisk.
No answer.
The woman stopped sweeping and leaned over the porch railing. “He’s gone,” she
called.
“What’s that?” Shane called back. He was pretty sure he hadn’t heard correctly.
The woman, about sixty, slight and wiry in a flowered, pink house coat, repeated,
“He’s gone. He left on the nine o’clock ferry.”
“You mean…” Shane tailed off because even he wasn’t sure what the question was.
Norton hadn’t said anything last night about going to the mainland.
sharing personal details any more than Shane did, and Shane respected that. He did
wonder about Norton’s day job. Norton never seemed short of cash. Which meant he
didn’t earn his bread and butter as a painter—even if he hadn’t been, well, a really lousy
painter.
Shane probably should have laid it on the line that first night, but he knew from
experience that FBI tended to have a chilling effect on potential romance. Not that he’d
exactly had romance on his mind when he’d first met Norton in the upstairs balcony area
of El Galleon. That had been about sex, pure and simple. But thirteen days later—and
they’d been pretty much inseparable for most of that time—he owed the guy the truth.
And if Norton still wanted to…pursue the options, that was okay with Shane. More than
okay, if he was strictly honest.
Kind of a surprise given that Norton, with his goofy sense of humor, shaggy blond
hair, and baggy Hawaiian shirts, was really not Shane’s type. Norton wore a pirate-style
earring, for God’s sake. He wore clogs. His “paintings” looked like they were done by a
preschooler possessed by demons. He joked about things like having underworld
contacts. But even more of a surprise because Shane, ambitious and focused as he was,
had never been interested in pursuing any possibility but the most obvious and
immediate. But there it was: Norton was different. In ways that Shane found both
unsettling and exciting. In ways that Shane found downright bewildering.
It wasn’t just a matter of owing Norton the truth; Shane wanted to share this news
with him. Wanted to hear what Norton had to say.
Shane wove his way through the throngs of sightseers pushing strollers, carrying
shopping bags, eating ice cream cones. So many visitors in sunhats and shorts. Yellow
and blue and red umbrellas dotted the beach where tourists lay baking their goose bumps.
It was March, after all. Despite the bright sunshine, the wind off the ocean was chilly, and
the shade cast by the palm trees and beachfront buildings was deep.
He mentally ran possible scripts as he turned right on Clarissa Avenue.
I have good news, and I have bad news. Which would you like to hear first?
So…remember that night you said you hated cops. Was that a firm hate or just a
strong dislike?
Or there was always the classic opener: Are you or have you ever been a member of
the communist party?
Yeah, not really a conversation he was looking forward to. But he knew he wasn’t
imagining that connection, that electricity. Kinetic energy. Something had sparked
between them that very first night, and it had only gotten stronger with each passing day.
So they would talk. Really talk. And hopefully work something out. He wanted it to work
out.
Norton was renting a white two-bedroom cottage across the street from his own.
Two navy-blue painted dolphins frolicked on the street side of the house. There was no
yard to speak of, just a small potted orange tree on the brick walkway. A spyglass
weathervane swung indecisively in the breeze. Shane walked up the two steps to the
brightly painted red door. The blinds in the front window were lowered, shut tight, which
was unusual.
Well, they’d had a lot to drink the night before, and Norton had mentioned a
headache that morning.
Shane knocked on the door.
A woman swept the shoebox-sized porch of the bungalow on the left. Shane nodded
politely to her.
He knocked again. Firm and brisk.
No answer.
The woman stopped sweeping and leaned over the porch railing. “He’s gone,” she
called.
“What’s that?” Shane called back. He was pretty sure he hadn’t heard correctly.
The woman, about sixty, slight and wiry in a flowered, pink house coat, repeated,
“He’s gone. He left on the nine o’clock ferry.”
“You mean…” Shane tailed off because even he wasn’t sure what the question was.
Norton hadn’t said anything last night about going to the mainland.
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