THE BREAKTHROUGH didn’t come the next day. Nor the next week. Destin developed a mantra as Tonio’s allotted month slipped away.
He knows what he’s doing. He knows what he’s doing.
Destin didn’t light a fire in the fireplace on the last night of Tonio’s contract. There didn’t seem to be much point, and the cheerful flames only mocked the evenings he and Tonio had enjoyed by its hearth.
Tonio made dinner that night, as he usually did. Chicken cacciatore this time, a dish that took work and finesse—and cried out for a good Chianti, though Destin took care not to bring that up. Tonio prepared it perfectly, and Destin tried his hardest to enjoy his meal. They talked football and horse racing and next year’s prospects for Tonio’s favorite baseball team. They didn’t look at each other except by accident, and with every tick of the ancient wall clock, emptiness further dimmed the glow Tonio’s tenure had brought to the gracious old house.
Finally Tonio put down his fork, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, then gave Destin a sad, crooked grin. “Déjà vu. The first time I ever came into this kitchen, I came to apologize. Now I’m leaving the same way.”
Leaving. Destin’s forkful of chicken ran aground on a sudden lump in his throat, and he stopped eating. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “It’s just the way Black Sambuca is. It isn’t failure if the riddle has no answer.”
Tonio gave an exasperated grunt. “But there is an answer. I know there is. I just can’t—” He held his hands up in front of him and made grabbing motions at the empty air.
“It’s all right. Just let it go.” Destin pushed a blob of cheese around in a puddle of sauce.
“Fuck letting it go. It’s not fair. This is your place. Those are your people hanging on the wall in there.” Tonio stabbed his thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the fireplace room. “It’s not fair that you have to give it all up because I fucked up.” Tonio scraped his chair back and stood.
“I fucked up before you did,” Destin said. “This is my mess, not yours, so don’t blame yourself.”
“What, we’re not blaming Dad anymore?” Tonio leaned his hands on the back of the chair.
Destin sighed. “I’ve been thinking about something you said on our trail ride at Sky Meadows. About your dad not passing his training business on to you because you were gay. Maybe my dad felt the same way.”
Tonio folded his arms and leaned on his elbows, his expression deeply interested. “How so?”
“That’s when the spending started—right about when I went off to college. Well, maybe not the spending, but the not caring. It’s like he gave up.”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Tonio leaned closer. “You didn’t stick around and make him understand. You didn’t even talk to him. It’s like the goddamn Silence of the Bellinghams.”
Destin looked down at his plate. The expression on his father’s face—the hurt and disappointment—suddenly made sense. Of course Dad had assumed that was the end of the Bellinghams. Why save the farm for grandchildren he would never have?
“The Silence of the Bellinghams,” Destin said bitterly, looking up at Tonio. “I’ll put that on Bellmeade’s tombstone.”
“Oh, great. I make a point and you turn it into maudlin bullshit.” Tonio pushed himself off the chair back.
Destin jumped up. “Don’t go,” he said as Tonio made a move toward the back door.
Tonio stopped. “I need to start packing,” he said, not looking at Destin. “It’s a long drive to Florida.”
“You don’t have to leave till tomorrow. I know I screwed up. I can’t fix it, but let me make it up to you.” Destin stepped up behind Tonio and put his hands on Tonio’s hard-muscled shoulders. He let his palm slide over Tonio’s sweatshirt until the found the bare flesh of the nape of his neck, and he ran the balls of his thumbs over the soft, curly down that covered it. “If we have to say goodbye, let’s at least do it right.”
Tonio sighed and shuddered a little, leaning his head back against the pressure. Destin moved closer and let his arms drop till they circled Tonio’s lean waist. He pressed his face against the back of Tonio’s neck and inhaled his fragrance, musky and male, spiced with the tang of human sweat and seasoned with the mellow undertones of leather and horse. Love and desire washed over Destin in a dizzying wave. Tonio was everything, the life and spark Destin’s mannered existence had never contained. He’d never expected to find perfection in such a crude package, so counter to everything he’d been raised to value. But what had he been raised to value? Good manners, surface polish, and a deep respect for tradition, if tradition meant never deviating from the course charted by his seven-times-great-grandfather in a world far different from the one Destin inhabited today. Tonio, at least, was real. He was now. And perhaps for that very reason, he could never fit in Destin’s world.
Better to let him go now than to wait for things to fall apart and turn ugly.
Tonio pried Destin’s arms loose and turned to face him. He stared solemnly into Destin’s eyes for a moment, in that shrewd, measuring way he had, and then pushed himself up a little on his toes and sealed his lips over Destin’s.
Destin returned the kiss, exploring gently, savoring the taste and texture of Tonio’s flesh. The heat that flushed Tonio’s marble-cool body every time Destin caressed him still astonished him. It was almost as if Tonio’s metabolism ran at a faster rate than anyone else’s, and any excitement could set it burning at hummingbird speed. That furnace of his required constant stoking, but then his drive was the thing that made him so wonderful.
Destin broke the kiss off and drew away a fraction. “Let’s take this upstairs,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with arousal.
Tonio nuzzled his nose against Destin’s cheek, then turned his face against Destin’s and nipped the point of his chin ever so lightly. “Good idea,” he replied. Without waiting for Destin to let go, he wriggled out of Destin’s grasp and, grinning, pulled his sweatshirt off over his head, exposing the creamy flesh of his bare torso. He let Destin get an eyeful, then turned around and strolled toward the staircase, deliberately walking with a roll of his hips that all but forced Destin to look at his buttocks.
At the foot of the stairs, he stopped and looked back. “Better come on,” he said. “I’ve got about a million ways to say goodbye, and the clock’s ticking.”
Destin didn’t need to be asked twice. He left the dishes to crust over on the table and took the stairs two at a time.