headed for the water. She pulled her sweat jacket close to her, fighting back the brisk morning chill. Thank God the house was quiet. At least there wouldn’t be any questions.
She needed to be alone. Kirsten called last night, at 10:30 p.m., to tell her she’d been chosen to play Emily in Our Town . And she’d gotten A’s on all three of her exams. And , she’d just met a guy, maybe the guy. The good fortune went on for fifteen minutes, until Shea pleaded a horrible headache, which she actually had by then, and hung up. She spent the rest of the night sparring with self-pity, guilt, and hate.
The sun lifted rays of gloom from its shadows, casting brightness like a grand illuminator. Shea grabbed a low fat blueberry muffin at The New England Beanery, wishing it were a Krispy Kreme doughnut instead and thought of what she’d do once she got back home—schedule an OB appointment, sign up for a Baby Makes Two exercise class, clean out the spare bedroom for the nursery, register in the After 40’s Mom’s Group at the hospital. Too soon for Lamaze. Besides, she’d need a coach. Maybe Richard could coach her and Tanya together.
She worked her way along the water toward the edge of Main Street, not stopping until she was in front of Music and More . Despite the dark storefront, she could still make out the glint of brass from the instruments in the window. If I’d kept up with the flute, would I have been good enough to play at Carnegie Hall?
Her gaze drifted to the Baby Grand in the corner. She pictured Marcus’s long, graceful fingers moving over the keys…
“Would you like to go inside?”
Shea swung around to find Marcus standing in front of her, wearing black sweats and worn Nikes. He wiped his face with a towel and slung it over his shoulder. “Hello, Shea.”
“Marcus. I…want to apologize for what I said last time—”
“No need.” He held up a hand. “I barged in where I shouldn’t have. I should probably be the one apologizing.”
“Can we start over?” She extended a hand. “Shea Donovan.”
“Marcus Orelean.” He grasped her hand, and gave it a firm shake. “Let’s go inside and I’ll make you a latte.”
And just like that, she relaxed. Gay men made wonderful friends. Shea breathed out softly, watching him as he flipped on lights and worked his way to the tiny kitchen in the back.
“Do you have decaf?”
His gaze shot to her belly. “Sure.” He pulled a Starbuck’s decaf from the cupboard. “How’s everything going?”
“Okay, I guess. I’m relaxing, taking walks to the water, reading.” She stared at his calf muscles. What a waste .
“And the other?”
“If you mean my husband, I haven’t heard from him since his girlfriend told me she was having his baby and I should butt out of their lives.”
“Sounds a little backward to me. Isn’t the wife usually the one who cleans house and gets rid of the girlfriend?”
Shea let out a hysterical little hiccough that exploded into full-blown laughter. “You’re right.”
Marcus grinned at her over his shoulder. “And why is the girlfriend doing the talking anyway? Is your husband hiding behind her?”
“He’s a coward,” Shea said, emboldened. “A worthless, roach on society.”
“A miserable miscreant?” Marcus offered.
“A thousand time loser.”
“A wimp?”
“A milquetoast.”
“A no good sonofabitch?”
“A bastard.”
“But you love him.” A simple statement.
Shea sunk into a chair, deflated. “But I love him.”
And so began the remarkable friendship of Shea Donovan and Marcus Orelean, proof that men and women could have close relationships without sexual intimacy. It also helped if one of those partners was gay. For the next six days, Marcus acquainted Shea with every instrument in his shop, beginning with the flute. Once in her hands, she remembered the feel, the sound, the grandness of producing notes and the music that elevated her from a mundane existence. He was a wonderful
She needed to be alone. Kirsten called last night, at 10:30 p.m., to tell her she’d been chosen to play Emily in Our Town . And she’d gotten A’s on all three of her exams. And , she’d just met a guy, maybe the guy. The good fortune went on for fifteen minutes, until Shea pleaded a horrible headache, which she actually had by then, and hung up. She spent the rest of the night sparring with self-pity, guilt, and hate.
The sun lifted rays of gloom from its shadows, casting brightness like a grand illuminator. Shea grabbed a low fat blueberry muffin at The New England Beanery, wishing it were a Krispy Kreme doughnut instead and thought of what she’d do once she got back home—schedule an OB appointment, sign up for a Baby Makes Two exercise class, clean out the spare bedroom for the nursery, register in the After 40’s Mom’s Group at the hospital. Too soon for Lamaze. Besides, she’d need a coach. Maybe Richard could coach her and Tanya together.
She worked her way along the water toward the edge of Main Street, not stopping until she was in front of Music and More . Despite the dark storefront, she could still make out the glint of brass from the instruments in the window. If I’d kept up with the flute, would I have been good enough to play at Carnegie Hall?
Her gaze drifted to the Baby Grand in the corner. She pictured Marcus’s long, graceful fingers moving over the keys…
“Would you like to go inside?”
Shea swung around to find Marcus standing in front of her, wearing black sweats and worn Nikes. He wiped his face with a towel and slung it over his shoulder. “Hello, Shea.”
“Marcus. I…want to apologize for what I said last time—”
“No need.” He held up a hand. “I barged in where I shouldn’t have. I should probably be the one apologizing.”
“Can we start over?” She extended a hand. “Shea Donovan.”
“Marcus Orelean.” He grasped her hand, and gave it a firm shake. “Let’s go inside and I’ll make you a latte.”
And just like that, she relaxed. Gay men made wonderful friends. Shea breathed out softly, watching him as he flipped on lights and worked his way to the tiny kitchen in the back.
“Do you have decaf?”
His gaze shot to her belly. “Sure.” He pulled a Starbuck’s decaf from the cupboard. “How’s everything going?”
“Okay, I guess. I’m relaxing, taking walks to the water, reading.” She stared at his calf muscles. What a waste .
“And the other?”
“If you mean my husband, I haven’t heard from him since his girlfriend told me she was having his baby and I should butt out of their lives.”
“Sounds a little backward to me. Isn’t the wife usually the one who cleans house and gets rid of the girlfriend?”
Shea let out a hysterical little hiccough that exploded into full-blown laughter. “You’re right.”
Marcus grinned at her over his shoulder. “And why is the girlfriend doing the talking anyway? Is your husband hiding behind her?”
“He’s a coward,” Shea said, emboldened. “A worthless, roach on society.”
“A miserable miscreant?” Marcus offered.
“A thousand time loser.”
“A wimp?”
“A milquetoast.”
“A no good sonofabitch?”
“A bastard.”
“But you love him.” A simple statement.
Shea sunk into a chair, deflated. “But I love him.”
And so began the remarkable friendship of Shea Donovan and Marcus Orelean, proof that men and women could have close relationships without sexual intimacy. It also helped if one of those partners was gay. For the next six days, Marcus acquainted Shea with every instrument in his shop, beginning with the flute. Once in her hands, she remembered the feel, the sound, the grandness of producing notes and the music that elevated her from a mundane existence. He was a wonderful
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