Top Shelf: A Seacroft Novel Page 16

“No.” Oliver sighed and hung his head. “I turned in my notice in August. I’m done next week.”

  Seb considered this. “What are you going to do after that?”

  “I need more balance in my life. No more ninety-hour weeks. I’m starting my own business. Wellness consulting.”

  “Wellness what?”

  “It’s like life coaching, but with a focus on nutrition and work-life balance.”

  Seb snorted. “Sounds like a lot of new-age crap to me.”

  “You cut up books and call it art, and people pay you for it.”

  “Now you sound like Martin.”

  “He seems like my kind of guy.”

  “Not really. You like them taller and with a better tan.”

  They stared at each other, a few feet apart on the lawn where Oliver told his parents he was gay, and where Seb sucked off his prom date after their high school graduation party. His father nearly found them, and they’d had to hide out in a garden shed.

  Evil glee exploded like fireworks as realization hit Seb.

  “You haven’t told Dad yet, have you?” The guilty expression on Oliver’s face said Seb had guessed right. “You haven’t! What do you think he’s going to say when you tell him you’re giving up your prestigious law career to tell people they need to eat more yogurt and meditate?”

  “Shut up.”

  “What do you think he’s going to say?”

  “I don’t care.” Oliver scuffed a loafer in the grass.

  “I don’t believe that for a second. If you didn’t care, you’d have made him proofread your resignation letter as a giant fuck you.”

  “No. That’s what you would have done.”

  “Damn right I would. What? You think he won’t notice? When you stop going to the office? When you start coming to the house in socks and sandals?”

  “You’re such an ass,” Oliver said, but he was laughing now.

  “So what do you want me to do? Soften the blow? Distract him from your earth-shattering news by giving Martin a hand job at the dinner table? You know I’m happy to make Dad squirm. I don’t think Martin’s into exhibitionism, but we’re still getting to know each other.”

  Oliver’s hands were in his hair again. “You promised you’d be civil this weekend.”

  “This is me being civil. I haven’t told you your business plan sounds like you’re going to be brewing artisanal kombucha for hipsters who can’t afford it. Or that work-life balance is a myth slackers use to justify fucking off the clock at five under the guise of being dedicated to their family.”

  Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “Were you always such a cynic?”

  “Since the day my father called me a fag, and you didn’t say anything to back me up.”

  It slipped out. Seb hadn’t meant to say it. Not now. Not to Ollie. To his dad maybe, if Philip tried to make another righteous stand in the family home, but not to his brother.

  Oliver’s face turned sad. His chin and shoulders dropped. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” Whether he was apologizing for his outburst, or the years he’d spent treating his brother like some kind of a traitor when they were all crushed under their father’s unyielding thumb, Seb wasn’t sure. “I only ever wanted to be like you.”

  “Yeah.” Oliver’s voice was rough at the edges. “I know.”

  Seb smiled at him. “And instead you get to be a loser outcast like me!”

  “You’re not a loser.”

  “Never have been. But I don’t know. Wellness consulting sounds like a one-way ticket to Loserland if you ask me.”

  Oliver shook his head and laughed, then pulled Seb into a hug, squeezing until Seb chuckled and returned it.

  “I’m sorry,” Oliver said into his shoulder. “About back then. With Dad. I should have said something.”

  “You should have.” Seb slapped him on the back. “Don’t think I’m not reserving the right to kick your ass at some undetermined time in the future.”

  “Understood.”

  “Can I go back to my date now? You interrupted something good there.”

  Oliver laughed. “You’re sure you’re not sleeping with him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That elusive artist charm?”

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “He looks like a scarecrow.”

  “You should see him in a suit.” Seb turned, but Oliver squeezed his shoulder.

  “There’s one more thing.”

  Seb rolled his eyes. “Yes, Columbo?”

  “I’m moving to Seacroft.”

  16

  Martin watched Oliver lead Seb out across the lawn. He hoped Seb listened to whatever his brother had to say. Oliver was obviously agitated, and it would be just like Seb to make a joke out of everything and get punched in the face for his trouble.

  When they didn’t come back right away, Martin took the opportunity to pull his suit out of its bag and stash it in the closet. No need to iron out more wrinkles than were absolutely necessary.

  They were only staying for two nights, so it didn’t make sense for him to unpack everything, even though there was an empty dresser in the room. He hadn’t seen Seb’s suit at all. For a moment, he worried the whole weekend was going to be more informal than he’d been led to believe. He would be the only one to show up in a suit, just because Seb liked to look at him in it.

  Seb seemed to like a lot of things about Martin. His skin heated at the remembered press of Seb’s lips on his and the friction of his body moving shamelessly against Martin’s, even though the door had been wide open for anyone to see.

  He hadn’t felt interested enough in life to be attracted to anyone else in it for a long time. Now that he was, he wanted Seb to come back soon to continue what they’d started.

  Except Seb didn’t come back. After a while, Martin considered going after them, but he didn’t want to disturb them if they were discussing something important. Eventually, though, sitting like a lump in the strange guest room started to feel too much like the endless days he’d spent in bed, so he gave up waiting and went to explore.

  Down the hall from his room was a small library, warm and elegant like the rest of the house. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves held books on every subject imaginable. It reminded Martin a bit of the bookstore, although the Stevenson’s library was noticeably better organized.

  A significant portion of the shelves were dedicated to literature and history, understandably so. There were several of Dr. Stevenson’s publications—Martin recognized the ones he had read himself—as well as books written by many of Martin’s colleagues, friends, acquaintances.

  And there, wedged between significantly weightier material, was Martin’s one thin book.

  They’d decided to publish his thesis. Martin hadn’t been convinced it was the right idea. He’d always felt it was incomplete, not conclusive enough to really contribute anything to the study of Bergmann’s life and works. His supervisor pushed the idea, though, and the book happened. Not that it had been a roaring success of any kind. Martin wasn’t even listed as the first author. From time to time, he’d get a fraction of a royalty check from the university, but mostly, he didn’t think about it.

  Except there it was. His book, with his name, on the shelf of one of the giants of the modern academic world. He hadn’t read it in a while. His own copies were in boxes in Brian’s basement, collected hastily when Brian cleaned out Martin’s office at Mount Garner and never looked at again.

  The complete summation of his life’s work to date didn’t feel very heavy.

  “Can I help you?”

  In the doorway stood Doctor Philip Stevenson.

  Martin fumbled. He stammered. He nearly dropped the book. “I came with Seb.”

  Dr. Stevenson’s lips thinned. “Is Sebastian here?” He was bigger than Martin remembered.

  “Yes.” He managed to speak. “He’s outside. With Oliver.”

  “I didn’t think we’d see him until tomorrow.”

 
“Oh. Oliver told us there was a dinner tonight.” What if that wasn’t true? Or they weren’t invited? Seb had been on edge since they’d arrived. If dinner didn’t go according to plan, Martin would be back to sleeping on Brian’s couch tonight.

  Dr. Stevenson glanced down at the Martin’s book. “Doing a little light reading?”

  “Oh, well. I was surprised. Bergmann isn’t exactly—”

  “Are you familiar with Bergmann?” Dr. Stevenson stepped forward. He took the book from Martin’s hand and flipped through the pages.

  “Yes. Well. That is—”

  “Not a lot known about him. A bit of a controversial figure at the moment. Some say he never existed at all. That he’s been made up to be some kind of poster child for LGBT persecution by the Nazis. Others disagree as to how many of the poems that have been attributed to him are legitimate.”

  Martin heard all these arguments before. Bergmann was a real person with a real story, and not just some mid-century propaganda figure.

  “But the research shows that—”

  “And really, from a literary standpoint, there’s not much to the poetry, even if he did write them. They’re fairly rudimentary in style, structure, and word choice. Particularly for the era. There’s not much of significance to them, other than the way the poet died—if, indeed, he wrote them at all.”

  Every word was like a punch to Martin’s gut. He’d heard this all before, but to hear it from Dr. Philip Stevenson, the Dr. Stevenson . . . If this was his feeling on the matter, then what hope did Martin have for anything but languishing in obscurity like Bergmann himself?

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Stevenson said. “We haven’t even been introduced. I’m Philip.” He held out his hand like people shook it every day.

  “Martin. Er . . . Dr. Martin Lindsey.”

  Philip’s grip was firm, but his confident smile slipped. His gaze dropped to the book he held, a finger running down the cover until it stopped below Martin’s name.

  His laugh was big, as big as he was, filling the whole room. Martin clenched his jaw and flexed his toes in his shoes to keep from flinching.

  “Oh my!” Philip said. His slap on Martin’s back was solid, making him cough. “Well played. A little vanity never hurt anyone.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  Philip’s blue eyes twinkled as he laughed again. For a minute, Martin could see Seb in them. There was very little else to link the two men. Philip was big and solid where Seb was long and almost lithe. Philip’s face was ruddy, and his hair, though gray now, had been dark from what Martin remembered. Seb’s skin and hair were so many shades lighter. The only thing that showed any sign of their relation was the eyes.

  “Lindsey, eh?” Philip scratched at his beard. “Where are you working?”

  “Well, I was at Mount Garner, but . . . ” Martin coughed before he could admit to his idol that he was working part time at a used bookstore, because that was all he could manage these days.

  “Mount Garner?” Philip’s eyebrow arched as his smile turned mischievous. Another thing Seb inherited from his father, then. “What a mess that is. It will take a long time to recover after that whole fuss. And you’re still there?”

  “No.” Martin wanted to take his book back. Or grab another one from the shelf. Anything so he would have something to do with his hands. “I’m on . . . sabbatical, at the moment.”

  “That’s fortunate. Good timing on your part.” Philip put one big arm around Martin’s shoulders. “And you came with my son? That seems unlikely. Maybe there is hope for him yet. Are you thirsty? How about a drink?”

  He led Martin out of the library. Martin was torn between flattery at the attention and outright terror, like a princess being dragged down to the ogre’s cave.

  Would it be too much to hope Seb would come rescue him?

  * * *

  It was hard not to be out of sorts after Seb’s conversation with Oliver. The idea of his brother living in his town made him twitchy, which compounded all the twitch from being back at the family house. And then there was the simmering sexual frustration, wanting to get back to Martin to see if the professor would let Seb kiss him again. Properly. Behind a closed door.

  He found Martin still in the guest room, sitting in one of the floral armchairs and reading a thin hardcover book.

  “What’s that?” Seb asked.

  “My book.” Martin flipped through the pages, frowning like he thought there should be more of them.

  “You brought a book?”

  “No, I wrote a book.”

  “You did? That one? That’s amazing!” Seb came around to peer over his shoulder, but Martin shut the book.

  “It’s nothing special. There should be whole volumes written about Bergmann, but it’s a start, right? It probably won’t ever go farther than one publication run for the university market.” He smiled ruefully up at Seb. “In a few years, you’ll find a copy in the back of Dog Ears, cut it up, and sell it as something new for more money than I’ll ever make on all of them.”

  “Don’t say that. You wrote a book!” It hurt that Martin couldn’t see what an accomplishment that was.

  “I met your dad.”

  Seb froze, his eyes darting around the room in instinctual panic. Not that he expected Philip Stevenson to be lurking behind a curtain, but his nerves were nearly shot, and he needed at least forty-five minutes with no more surprises.

  “And?” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too nervous.

  “He called my book inconsequential and poured me a drink.” Martin smiled crookedly, happy and sad at the same time.

  Seb knew the feeling, and Martin’s reluctance to show off his book made more sense. Seb was ready to stalk down the hall and punch his dad for it, but he’d promised Oliver—again—he’d behave, at least until after Oliver broke his big news to the family.

  Seb squeezed Martin’s shoulder. “Did he at least give you the good whiskey?”

  “I asked for a vodka soda.” Martin turned the book over in his hands again. “But he’s got good vodka too.”

  Dinner was always a formal affair in the Stevenson household, even when they said it was casual. Seb’s mom was an outstanding cook, and dinner was French service, as she liked to call it. Everything was carved and plated in the kitchen and brought out to the table in individual portions, like they were in a restaurant.

  That night was an especially elaborate affair given all the people gathered. There were the six Stevensons—Philip and Seb’s mother Nora, Gillian and Parker, Ollie and Seb. Then there was Gillian’s husband Julian—Seb still had to fight back a smirk as he introduced them to Martin—and Parker’s husband Jason. And Martin. Gillian and Parker’s combined five children were excused from the family festivities for the evening. Just as well because that would have been too damn much quality family time for Seb.

  “So Martin,” Jason said once salads were served. “Parker says you’re a doctor? What do you practice? I have a cousin who is a urologist in Jacksonville.”

  Martin wiped his mouth with a napkin and cleared his throat. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

  Seb glanced at Oliver, who glanced at Parker, who shrugged. Seb said he was bringing a doctor, and he’d said it to cause a stir. He hadn’t expected the news to make it as far down the family grapevine as Jason.

  “Martin and I have quite a bit in common,” Philip said from his place at the head of the table. “He specializes in the historical side of the spectrum, but we are both men of knowledge.”

  Philip claiming Martin as one of his own made Seb’s spine tense.

  “So how did you two meet?” Parker asked. Her smile was kind. Seb tried to tell himself she was being polite, not nosey. Martin cut into an endive, and little splotches of color formed just above the collar of the shirt he’d put on for dinner. He probably didn’t want to talk about the bookstore. Seb pressed his knee against Martin’s and took the lead.

  “One of those gay hookup apps. Doctors Without Borders. Som
ething like that.” He used the practiced social smile he’d perfected years ago with his family. It irritated the shit out of most of them. “Isn’t that how you two met, Gillie?”

  “Oh for god’s sakes,” Gillian said. His eldest sister was a cardiologist in Charleston, but she and Julian were part of a group of practitioners who ran a clinic in Guatemala. She also looked like an owl, with wispy hair that wasn’t light enough to be blond or dark enough to be brown, and wide eyes set under heavy brows perpetually judging the people around them.

  “How was the drive?” Nora asked. Seb’s mom could always be relied on to redirect the conversation before the second course could be delayed.

  The second course turned out to be seared fish. Pink, with golden brown skin and roasted grapes. Seb was dubious, but Martin looked pleased.

  “Oliver,” Philip said, once everyone had resumed eating. “I saw Cooper the other day.”

  “Cooper?” Martin asked Seb quietly.

  “My brother’s ex.” He didn’t bother to pitch his voice as low as Martin’s. “Good as arm candy at gala dinners, and he knew his way around a Porsche. Not good for much else.”

  “Cooper is a very talented lawyer.” Philip’s eyes held a spark of challenge, one Seb knew exactly how to stoke to a flame if the need arose.

  “He’s not my boyfriend anymore, Dad,” Oliver said.

  “That doesn’t mean you two can’t be friends,” Nora said. “We’ve known his family for years. You were friends for ages before you dated.”

  Oliver nodded, eyes on his plate.

  “What happened between you two anyway?” Seb asked.

  “It’s complicated.” Oliver forked a grape into his mouth.

  “Complicated? Does that mean you can’t even be Facebook friends anymore?” Seb couldn’t help the dig.

  “Facebook.” Jason laughed. “No one uses Facebook. My kids will tell you it’s for old people. It’s all pictures now. Instachat and Snap-App.”

  Parker smiled at her husband. The smile said she knew he was wrong, but wasn’t going to correct him.

  But Seb could.

  “I’m coming up to Charlotte next week, Oliver,” Philip said as Seb was about to launch his retort. “I’m having dinner with Dr. Fisher—you remember him—but I thought I could stop by your office and we could have lunch together.”