“Where are you from, Emory?”
“Boise.” He could have easily said, Dropped from the sky.
“Were you kicked out by your family?” Patrick’s question was barely a whisper.
“Once.” Emory wove his fingers between Patrick’s. “But they quickly welcomed me back.”
They kissed, much like they had the night of the party under the moonlight, when Patrick had pinned him against the stairs of his pool. He reached out and grabbed Emory’s face with both hands, eventually, reluctantly, pulling them apart.
“C’mon. Where’s your bedroom?” Emory asked. “I’ll do all the work. You can just lie there.”
Patrick studied Emory. “Do something with me.”
Emory crunched on an ice cube until it was gone. “I’m trying!”
For Patrick, these were uncharted waters. Did Mary Poppins have a bedroom that we ever saw? Did she ever invite a dirty chimney sweep to spend the night and . . . sweep her chimney clean? Maria the governess had private quarters we were allowed a peek inside. It had lousy curtains and she made them into play clothes. But when she was faced with sexual attraction she ran as fast as she could back to the abbey. Mame took a lover, and sent her nephew off to boarding school to make room for him. Should he hold out a few more days until he had the house to himself? Did any of this matter? These weren’t real people. He was.
“Okay. Come to my bedroom. I need your help with something.”
“I’m not helping you flip your mattress.”
“Not that. Although . . .” There was a sudden appeal to having someone else around. “No. Not that. Just come. You’ll see.”
* * *
Patrick and Emory lay perfectly still in the bed, feigning sleep but keeping a watchful eye on the bedroom door, Patrick aware the whole time of Emory’s warmth and quiet breathing; it was comforting. As if on cue, just after midnight it opened—slowly at first—just enough to let a small crack of moonlight shine through. His eyes partway shut, Patrick could just make out Maisie poking her head through the open door to see if it was safe, a pillow tucked under one arm. Convinced their uncle was asleep, she motioned for Grant and they both crept inside, dragging blankets, one of them carefully closing the door behind them. He listened to the rustling of bedding as they settled themselves. Emory reached his arm over Patrick and squeezed his hand tightly under the covers; it was easy to envision Emory stifling history’s most irresistible smile. Patrick counted to ten, then reached for his bedside lamp and turned it on with a click.
“A-HA!”
The kids screamed; even Marlene barked from her perch at the foot of the bed.
Patrick and Emory threw back the covers and sat upright, causing the duvet to flip sideways. “Caught you red-handed.”
“What are you doing?” Maisie asked, annoyed to be awoken fully, as if Patrick were trespassing in her room and not the other way around.
Grant yawned, wiping sleep from his eyes. “Is that Emily?”
“Emily?” Emory exclaimed.
“What is he doing here?” Grant continued.
Maisie looked at the two of them in bed. “Is he here every night?” she asked, the color draining from her face. It was dawning on her that their nighttime visits might have been more of an interruption than she imagined.
“We knew he wath your boyfriend.”
“Emory, not Emily. And he’s not my boyfriend. We’ve gone over this.”
“I am not your boyfriend?” Emory huffed playfully, delighted in making Patrick squirm.
“Not now,” Patrick said to Emory, who reached for his glasses on the end table. “Also, Maisie. Every night? Are you kidding me?”
“No,” Maisie insisted.
“Wouldn’t you know if he were?” Patrick asked.
Maisie scooped her bedding into a little nest around her, too ashamed to admit in front of company that she slept in her uncle’s room more nights than not. Patrick focused on his niece until he had her attention. She looked at him sheepishly. Patrick held her gaze until her look grew inquisitive, hoping to get his message across without embarrassing her further: You don’t ever have to sneak in here. I’m here for you, always. The silence grew awkward as the message took root, then Masise nodded, as if she understood.
Grant interrupted the moment. “What ith he doing here tonight, then?”
Patrick turned to his nephew. “Didn’t you get my invitation?”
“No.” Grant furrowed his thin, worrisome brow. “What invitation?”