original fic -- "Hard Sell," 1/?

[aggybird]

HAHAHA oh God it's a WIP.

Title: Hard Sell
Rating: PG-13, eventually higher.
Warnings: none for now, violence later.
Summary: Fletcher runs the only real estate business in Lovely Lakes, but it's a case of always the bridesmaid, never the home buyer. He thinks his luck has changed when Caleb arrives in town and they hit it off like a house on--well, Fletcher hates to use that expression. Of course, Caleb has some skeletons in his closet. And Caleb may have bought the house so he could put skeletons in the closet.


Hard Sell

Fletcher waves and allows himself a wistful smile as his latest clients drive away honking their car horn. The ink has barely finished drying on the papers he carefully shuffles together and tucks into his briefcase. It's a big sale; it will mean a big commission. The newly-married Johnsons were enthusiastic and pleasant first-time home buyers. Fletcher showed them ten houses today, but they spent more time looking at each other than at granite counter tops or crown molding. He has no doubt they are rushing home to celebrate their purchase in an appropriately newlywed manner. They'll probably hop up from the bed and start packing for the move as soon as the afterglow fades.

Fletcher sighs, feeling pleased with the sale but still melancholy.

At heart, Fletcher is an incurable romantic. He has no trouble admitting it, even if it has earned him a lot of teasing and more than one embarrassing incident throughout the years: much to his eternal chagrin he is still, unfortunately, well-known for a drunken karaoke night that included-several times and at top volume-a rendition of "Someday My Prince Will Come." It wouldn't have been so bad, if cell phones hadn't been invented. On the bright side, his YouTube page has almost a million views.

But Fletcher can't help being a romantic. When he was a boy, while his sisters ran around outside and rode dirt bikes, Fletcher stayed indoors and tried on his mother's dresses and played house with his dolls. Needless to say, his parents knew from a very young age that they would be attending school plays and not football games, but they've always been supportive, even in a small town like Lovely Lakes.

Fletcher privately thinks his mother is simply happy to have at least one child who will go shopping with her and talk about the worst-dressed celebrities at the Oscars. Fletcher's sisters wouldn't know fashion if it clubbed them over the head with a four-inch heeled Prada: Maggie is a field archaeologist who spends most of the year pungent and mosquito-ridden, and Sara Beth works from home in her underwear consulting on video game development.

Fletcher is fairly certain neither of them have a romantic bone in their bodies, unless Maggie accidentally swallowed one during a dig.

Fletcher thinks again of the Johnsons: a young couple in love, buying their first house. To them, everything is new and exciting; every decision is something to share as they build a life together. Buying a house is the physical embodiment of their commitment to each other. It means they are putting down roots.

He closes his briefcase with a sigh.

Five months ago, that would have been him and Brent. Fletcher tries not to think about it too much.

Fletcher loves his job, he really does. He is a good realtor-great, even. He always matches the perfect house to the perfect buyer. He can tell after talking with a couple for only a few short hours exactly what kind of home they need. He's a whiz at brokering compromises, suggesting color choices, and giving tips on furniture and home safety. Nobody is ever left unhappy.

He wishes his personal life would run as smoothly.

It wasn't like he and Brent argued about ending things. There was no huge falling out, no calls from the neighbors to the police, no shattered glass or other property damage. They'd just drifted apart, as slowly and coldly as icebergs on a deserted northern sea.

That is worse, in Fletcher's opinion. At least anger means there is some emotion or passion left, some feeling involved. But he and Brent ended with quiet acceptance and a boring goodbye-no hurtful words or tears to show that either of them had ever really cared at all.

No tears on Brent's part, at least.

After Brent got the job offer to work in a law firm out of Atlanta, he'd made it abundantly clear that it would be better for Fletcher to stay behind in Lovely Lakes because small towns were where Fletcher belonged. Fletcher couldn't really argue-he'd always loved living in his small hometown, knowing everybody's name and being greeted by folks on the street. To be honest, he's a little intimidated by big city life-traffic and crime and pollution and noise. Sure, there isn't much excitement in Lovely Lakes, but it's quaint and it's home.

Fletcher isn't one to go where he is not wanted, so he calmly agreed with Brent and they made plans for Fletcher to come by soon and pick up his things. Brent was very gracious about kicking Fletcher out of their home: their perfect three bedroom starter home, their home with the furniture Fletcher found shopping in antique stores for hours, the rooms he painted, and the walls he decorated with smiling photos of himself and Brent. (Photos, he realizes now, in which Brent's smile had only ever looked tolerant.)

Being in love, Fletcher had forgotten the first rule of house-buying: make sure your name is on the lease.

Fletcher shook Brent's hand, wished him luck, and then drove to his parents' house. His mom took one look at him and sent him to his old room with two bottles of red wine and an admonition not to show his face until he'd drank them both. God, he loved his mom. His parents went to his aunt's house for the weekend and left Fletcher to wallow with the wine and his mom's CD collection. He drank both bottles of red wine in a single night and wound up puking during Celine Dion singing "All By Myself" on repeat.

It wasn't one of the high points of his life.

And now here he is: standing in a model home kitchen and gazing with maudlin eyes after departing lovebirds. He's thirty-two and single with no prospects. That's the downside of a place like Lovely Lakes-their quaint mountain resort town isn't exactly bursting with eligible gay men. However, the upside is that Fletcher is the only realtor around, so he supposes he should count his blessings.

He sighs again and checks his watch. He has an hour and a half to kill before he has to meet his next client for an afternoon showing, so he gets in his car and heads for what passes as a downtown in Lovely Lakes.

The bell jingles over the shop door as he steps into Maude's Diner. Maude's Diner is actually run by a friendly, overweight sixty-year-old man named Earl. The restaurant has been around since long before Fletcher was born and has gone through several owners and name changes. Earl is the latest. He's of the opinion that "Maude's" sounds classier than "Earl's," and no one can convince him otherwise, even though there has never been a Maude and there never will be because Earl is the only other gay man in town besides Fletcher.

Fletcher shakes his head and heads for his favorite booth in the back. He stops short halfway. Someone is already sitting in it.

Someone very attractive. And male.

Fletcher knows his luck isn't that good, so he veers to the left and heads for the counter instead, hauling himself up on one of the ancient diner stools. It creaks ominously.

"Hey, Earl," Fletcher says to the balding man behind the counter.

Earl swings his belly around and spots Fletcher. He's wearing a grease-stained apron that reads 'Cooks do it to order' and he grins hugely. "Why, if it isn't my second favorite fairy!"

Fletcher rolls his eyes and thinks, Wait for it-

"The first one being me, of course," Earl finishes, right on cue. Earl is a lovable old queen, but he is entirely predictable.

"The very one," Fletcher agrees. "What's the special today, besides heart attack?"

Fletcher might be mistaken but he swears he hears a chuckle come from the booth behind him.

Earl frowns at him, shaking his spatula in Fletcher's direction. "You'll eat what I serve you and like it. You're too skinny by half. Why do you think you haven't found a boyfriend?"

"Let's see," Fletcher says. "Could it be because my choices are between you or Hank Woodson's sheep?"

Earl laughs, his big belly shaking, and this time Fletcher is sure he hears echoing laughter coming from the mystery man's booth.

He swivels around to check, but Mystery Man is intent on his phone, his lips pursed and not a hint of a smile on his face. His black hair is razored close enough to show the curve of his skull, but long enough to hint that it might curl if it were allowed to grow. The crisp white shirt he's wearing emphasizes his brown skin; the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, giving Fletcher a glimpse of the corded muscles of his forearms as he pushes buttons on his phone. The GQ look is completed by the rugged five o'clock shadow he's sporting and the charcoal-colored jacket hanging artfully over the back of the booth.

"I'll be sure'n tell the sheep to lookout," Earl says with an exaggerated wink as he turns back to the stove.

"Right," Fletcher says, snapping back around lest Earl catch him gawking. He'd never hear the end of the ribbing. "But make sure you tell them I'm a gentle lover and that they shouldn't be frightened."

This time, there is definitely a snort behind him. Fletcher narrows his eyes, ready to turn around again and say something, when the bell above the door jingles and Betsy Wilkins flounces in.

He groans inwardly. He grew up with Betsy and they went to school together. Normally, their social circles in school would never have intersected-Betsy had been head cheerleader and Fletcher had been a drama geek-but in a town as small as theirs, cliques were less well-defined and everybody knew each other. As a result, Fletcher reluctantly counts Betsy as a friend. Her bra size matches her IQ, but she is bubbly and sweet and the one of only two kindergarten teachers in town. She also hasn't grasped that "gay" means "likes boys" and not "dresses well and is just confused."

For as long as he's known Betsy, she's tried to set him up with every eligible woman who comes to town. She referred to Brent as Fletcher's "roommate." It wasn't that she thought being gay was wrong; it was that she simply couldn't comprehend it. Fletcher stopped trying to make her understand years ago-all her brain cells are already working at full capacity. If she absorbed any new information, she'd probably have to forget something else to make room, like how to walk and chew gum at the same time.

Fletcher watches Betsy glance over at Mystery Man and let out a little coo followed by a flirtatious finger wave. Mystery Man smiles back, his perfect teeth flashing against his mocha skin.

Ah well, Fletcher thinks. It figures the guy would go for blonde hair and big boobs.

Just then, Betsy spots him. "Fletcher Redmond!" she squeals, skipping over to his side. It is frankly amazing how long her breasts continue to move after her feet have stopped.

"Hey, Betsy," Fletcher says, already resigned to a less than peaceful lunch hour.

"You didn't tell me you'd be here for lunch today, you silly! If I'd known, I'd have brought Maria, she's a new first grade teacher. I told her about you and she thinks you sound yummy. Not many men around here own their own business."

"I'm flattered, really," Fletcher says. "But I'm not really looking for anyone right now."

"You're so funny!" Betsy giggles, smacking Fletcher on the arm. "You're so handsome, Fletcher! You look like that Greek statue, Adonis. And you're single! Of course you're looking! Besides, you need more friends. It's been ages since your roommate left and sold the house. I know you were sad when he moved. And I know just what you need to get over him!"

"A girlfriend?" Fletcher hazards, unaware that Betsy even knew the word 'Adonis,' let alone how to use it in a sentence.

Betsy claps delightedly. "Yes! Wow, how did you guess?"

"Just got lucky," Fletcher says. "Tell you what, I'll think about it. Right now I have to eat lunch quick, though, because I've got a client at two. Okay?"

"Okay!" Betsy agrees, nearly bouncing in her seat. With any luck, she'll get distracted by something shiny later and forget about their conversation. "What are we having for lunch?"

"I was thinking of getting the cholesterol surprise."

Betsy wrinkles her pert nose. "That doesn't sound very good, Fletcher."

"The surprise is how good it tastes."

Betsy looks doubtful. She opens her mouth to say something when Earl clanks down a hot plate in front of Fletcher, glaring daggers. "Don't confuse her, you ornery little weasel. Here, sweetie," Earl turns his attention to Betsy. "Hows about I fix you up a nice salad? You like salads, right?"

"Salads are great!" Betsy enthuses. "They're full of vegetables. I tell my kids at school that they should always eat their vegetables."

"That's very good advice, honey."

Betsy beams happily.

"How come you're never that nice to me?" Fletcher asks, pushing at the congealed mess of gravy and meat on his plate.

Earl snorts as he pats Betsy's hand one last time. "Don't give me that wobbly lower lip, Fletcher Redmond. You know you get away with a whole helluva lot already."

Fletcher grins. "Dunno what you're talking about, Earl. I'm a saint."

Betsy giggles again and swats Fletcher's arm. "You're telling a joke! Don't you remember that time you turned on the sprinklers in Mr. Mulligan's store so that everybody had wet t-shirts? You took pictures!"

Oh yeah, Fletcher remembers. Jake Mulligan, Mr. Mulligan's son, had come home from college to work behind the counter that summer. Those photos had fueled many a teenage fantasy for Fletcher. He smiles dreamily at the memory.

A dishrag smacks him in the face. "Eat your food," Earl says, grinning in a smug way that says he knows exactly what Fletcher is remembering. "Speaking of old Mulligan," Earl says, the old bastard. "How's his son doing? Jake?"

"He's great!" Betsy says. "I talked to Mrs. Mulligan the other day. Jake is married to a nice girl and they just had a baby! Isn't that great? I think that's great. I'd like to get married, too. Right, Fletcher? Oh wait, I think I have a picture of the baby!"

As Betsy leans down to search through her purse, her ample breasts threaten to seek freedom from the oppressive confines of her shirt. Fletcher is once again reminded that he is gay because the thought of breasts running around unchaperoned terrifies him. But then he thinks that might be true of most people.

"Ooo, found them!" Betsy says. "Aren't they adorable?"

Fletcher sticks his tongue out at Earl while Betsy is still distracted. Earl winks.

The guy behind him is definitely laughing.

Fletcher whirls around to tell the guy off about eavesdropping. They lock eyes, and the smile on the mystery man's face slowly fades into something with a little less humor and a lot more heat. The man sets his phone down and folds his hands together on the tabletop, his posture easy in a strange, alert way, like the relaxation is calculated for show. It reminds Fletcher of how tigers nap at the zoo, looking big and lazy and making people forget that they are actually pretty deadly, what with the fangs and claws and all.

The man quirks a dark eyebrow at Fletcher as if to say, "So?"

The primitive part of Fletcher's brain, the part that developed thousands and thousands of years ago so that Fletcher's ancestors survived hungry animals with sharp pointy teeth, that part of his brain suggests, very calmly, that Fletcher turn around right now.

Fletcher gulps and swivels back to the counter, becoming very interested in his plate of indistinguishable diner goo. He spears a large forkful and swallows it, trying to calm himself. He has never been scared looking at another person before.

He's not scared now, he tells himself. Merely… cautious.

"Mm," he says around his mouthful, grimacing as the food slides down his throat slowly, like it's taking the stairs. "Delicious. A culinary success."

"Aw, you're just flattering an old man," Earl says, waving it off . "You want a second helping?"

"Oh God, no," Fletcher says, unable to maintain the ruse. "Not unless you want me to vomit on my client."

He gets another dishrag to the face for his troubles.

Thirty minutes of excruciating small talk later, Fletcher escapes from the diner and heads for his car. As he walks across the parking lot, he hears the distant jingle of the diner door and looks back to see that the mystery man has also exited the building, moving with a loping gait toward a black BMW parked nearby. Fletcher quickens his pace, keeping half an eye on the man, as he reaches his car, unlocks the door, and slides into the seat. He sighs with relief, pressing the button to lock the doors a second later.

He looks up and catches the mystery man's eyes. The mystery man gives him a small smirk, like he can tell he makes Fletcher nervous. He offers a smug wave in Fletcher's direction and puts on a pair of dark, no doubt very expensive, sunglasses. It has the effect of making him look totally badass, which Fletcher is certain he knows.

Fletcher shakes his head and starts the car. Miraculously, it only takes three tries. "Good job, baby," he murmurs, stroking the dashboard fondly. He's had this old Mustang since he was seventeen and he'll part with her on the day the engine falls out, and maybe not even then. He envisions himself like Fred Flintstone, legs pushed through a hole in the floor, feet slapping the pavement.

He adjusts his mirror and pulls onto the two-lane highway winding out of town. It's the only major road in Lovely Lakes but on an early Monday afternoon it appears deserted. When Fletcher was in high school, the road was still a single lane; the county upgraded it the year Fletcher left for college, the same year the two resorts opened in the area and they had thirteen accidents on a five-mile stretch. The demand the newly introduced tourists and vacationers placed on the roadway system echoed in the local real estate. As a result, Fletcher does pretty well for himself.

The black BMW pulls out behind him onto the highway. He can't see the driver through the heavily tinted windows, and he's pretty sure it's illegal to have windows tinted so dark. It reminds Fletcher of mobster cars he's seen in films.

Fletcher whistles to himself as he adjusts the radio tuner, hoping to find a station that isn't news radio or wailing country. He settles on a classic rock station, strumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He's tempted to roll down his windows but that would turn his blond hair into a tangled mess, and he really doesn't need to show up to meet a new client looking like a street urchin.

He glances in his rearview mirror and notices the BMW still trailing behind him. At first, Fletcher doesn't think anything of it. There are only so many roads in Lovely Lakes, and this is the main thoroughfare through town. But when he checks his rearview mirror several miles later, the BMW is still there.

Fletcher gets a prickly feeling at the base of his spine. He takes a left turn experimentally and then a right turn and another left to bring him back to the main highway. The BMW copies his movements, trailing two car lengths sedately behind.

"Shit," Fletcher says under his breath. Okay, he can deal with this. He's lived in Lovely Lakes his whole life. He knows the roads here better than this stranger. He'll lose him and hightail it to meet his client.

He hopes there's safety in numbers.

Half a mile later, Fletcher jerks the wheel hard to the left, giving the car behind him no time to make the same turn. Heck, Fletcher barely makes the turn. He does a little victory fist pump, watching the BMW fly past. And then… brake.

Fletcher hits the gas.

He spends twenty minutes squealing down back roads, using old tractor paths and farm roads, criss-crossing himself at least ten times. He hasn't seen the black BMW in a while. It kept pace with him for two or three miles and then dropped off near the Lawrence farm. Fletcher is pretty sure he lost the mystery man, whoever he was. Fletcher is also pretty sure he just succeeded in not becoming a statistic for victims of serial killers.

He looks both ways and pulls out onto a paved road. If he speeds, he'll make it to his client on time.

He curses as he checks his watch and roars down the heavily tree-lined driveway of Wickland Farm, a fifty-acre estate boasting a house that nearly everyone believes is an impossible sell. No one's lived in it since the widow who owned the place died three decades ago, but Fletcher has always loved the grand old house secretly dreamed of living there when he was a little boy. He was beyond thrilled when a client contacted him specifically about viewing the house. The man had sounded very serious about buying.

The long driveway opens to the front of an enormous two story white colonial-style, the path curving toward the entrance in a U-shape.

There is a black BMW sitting in front of the house.

Fletcher slams on his brakes.

His heart rate triples, and sweat breaks out on his forehead; his breathing turns rapid and shallow. He tells himself to calm down. It could be a different black BMW, he thinks, even though deep down he knows it isn't. Dread uncurls like a choking vine in the pit of his stomach, black-green tendrils of terror creeping up his throat. He needs to get out of here before-

Someone raps on his window.

Fletcher gives a very unmanly scream and slams the gas pedal to the floorboard. His car shoots forward into the back of the BMW with a terrific crunch and a jolt that knocks the breath from his lungs.

He grips the steering wheel, feeling bruised, trying to catch his breath. His chest aches from where the seatbelt held him in place during the collision, and his hands feel welded to the wheel; if he takes them off, they'll be shaking hard. He inhales a deep breath and checks his side mirror.

The mystery man from the diner is standing a few feet back, a look of complete and total shock on his face, his sunglasses dangling from his hand. As Fletcher watches, they slip from his fingers and hit the grass, totally forgotten.

Fletcher closes his eyes and says a silent prayer. If the mystery man wasn't a crazed killer hunting for Fletcher's blood before… he probably is now. That BMW was brand new.

Fletcher is sure he only closed his eyes for a second, but when he opens them again, the mystery man is right outside his window, his expression grim. Fletcher squeaks.

"Mr. Redmond?" the man asks loudly.

Oh, Jesus. He knows Fletcher's name.

"I'm Caleb Freeman," the man continues.

Now he's impersonating my client! Fletcher thinks wildly. My client's name is-!

Crap, Fletcher thinks.

Fletcher rolls down his window. "Caleb Freeman?" he asks.

"Caleb Freeman," the man confirms. "I was going to congratulate you on your evasive driving when I tapped on your window, but I think you'll understand if I rescind my assessment now."

"Oh God," Fletcher says, fumbling with his seatbelt. His fingers feel fat and clumsy. "I'm so sorry, I thought you were following me and I freaked out."

"I was following you," Freeman says. His anger appears to fade to amusement because a small smile tugs at his mouth. Fletcher is not certain he trusts its secret little corners. "I noticed you at the diner. And then I heard that woman say your name and realized you were my realtor. I wasn't sure about the directions to this place so I thought I'd just follow you here."

Fletcher finally untangles himself and swings the door open, lurching from the car and stumbling into Freeman on shaky legs. "I'm so sorry," he babbles. "I'll pay for everything. It was a misunderstanding; I thought you were a crazy killer." He wants to smack himself. Why does he say these things?

Freeman snorts. "Nothing I haven't heard before." Amazingly, his smile widens. "Your driving really was excellent, though. Not many people can lose me."

"Yes, well," Fletcher says. "What you don't know is that I practice car chases on the weekends."

Freeman raises his eyebrows, as though unsure whether or not Fletcher is being sincere.

"Joking," Fletcher says weakly.

Fletcher's old mustang chooses that moment to make a pitiful, whistling noise, and smoke begins pouring from underneath his hood.

Freeman eyes the cars. "Is there somebody we can call about this?"

"Yes," Fletcher says miserably, thinking about how he's blown the entire sale. He's a good realtor, but he doesn't have superpowers; there's no way he's getting Freeman's money now. He'll be lucky if Freeman's insurance company doesn't get all of his. "We can call Hal, he's the best mechanic in town. He teaches ballet at the community center until six, though, so we'll have to wait."

"Perfect," Freeman says, flashing white teeth that gleam against his dark skin. "That gives you plenty of time to show me the house."

"It… does?" Fletcher asks.

"That's four hours. Unless it's a lot bigger on the inside than it looks on the outside, yes."

"It's not a Tardis," Fletcher says automatically.

"I hope not," Freeman replies, looking Fletcher up and down. That dangerous smile from the diner is back on his face. "Though I wouldn't mind you for a companion."

Fletcher is so amazed that Freeman got his Doctor Who reference that he forgets to let the flirting make him nervous. "You really want to see the house? Even after…" he gestures helplessly at the cars.

"Let's just say I don't expect to pay closing costs," Freeman says.

"Right. Uh. If you'll follow me, Mr. Freeman-"

"Caleb, please," Freeman says.

"Fletcher," Fletcher says without thought.

"Excellent," Caleb says, grinning wide. He smiles a lot, Fletcher notices. His teeth are perfectly straight-he must have had braces when he was younger but that's nearly impossible to picture.

As they head toward the front door, Fletcher can't decide if Caleb looked more dangerous before when he was frowning grimly through the car window or now when he glances sideways at Fletcher and slides his sunglasses into the open collar of his shirt, his lips quirked easily. Something about the way Caleb smiles makes Fletcher nervous. It's like watching a cobra weave its head lazily before it strikes; he's hypnotized and he can't help it.

Caleb catches him looking and his grin slides along the sexy scale past ten and heading for twenty.

Now, Fletcher decides, swallowing. Caleb definitely looks more dangerous when he's smiling.

"Lots of room," Caleb comments when they're inside, standing at the base of the grand staircase. He looks around, hands in the pockets of his pressed charcoal slacks. "How many bedrooms?"

"Thirteen," Fletcher says. "There's also a carriage house with five bedrooms and a modern barn that could easily be converted to housing."

"Good," Caleb says. "What's it wired for out here?"

"Uh," Fletcher says. "Electricity?"

Caleb laughs. "I mean technology-wise. Dial-up, cable, fiber optics?"

Fletcher relaxes. "Fiber optics. The lines have already been laid down. There's a big housing development going in over the hill. It's north of the property so we didn't pass through it to get here. The vacationers we get here like the illusion of seclusion, not the reality."

"Perfect," Caleb says. "What else can you tell me about the place? Was that driveway the only access to the property?"

"The only serviceable access, yes. There's an old hiking trail on the south end of the property. It leads through the orchard."

"Where does the path exit the property?" Caleb looks strangely intent.

"Near Lovely Lake, the main lake. No one knows the path is there, though."

"You do," Caleb says flatly.

"Well, I've lived here all my life. When I was little I used to come here and-Uh. Nevermind."

"You used to come here?" Caleb asks curiously. "Why?"

Fletcher swallows and adjusts his briefcase. "I… I liked the house and its history. A famous thief was supposed to have lived here at the turn of the century. Everyone says his loot is still stashed on the property someplace, though no one has ever found anything."

"Interesting," Caleb says. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a treasure hunter."

"Boys will be boys," Fletcher replies. He thought the story of the treasure was romantic, since the legend was that the thief mended his ways and settled down with a local girl. But the real reason he came here was because he wanted to live here. He doesn't want to get into the story of how he used to bring picnic lunches and sit out on the lawn, pretending he was the house matriarch, wearing beautiful clothes and ordering servants around, preparing for lavish dinner parties. If Caleb was eavesdropping at the diner, he knows Fletcher was gay-he doesn't need to know Fletcher is super gay.

"Shall we take the tour now?" Caleb asks.

"Yes!" Fletcher says, eager to show off the house. They head down the hall as he talks. "As you can see, the house still has all the original molding and fixtures."

"And smell," Caleb adds, wrinkling his nose.

Fletcher bristles. "It's been closed for a while. You're the first person to see it in years. It's nothing a little airing out and a fresh coat of paint won't fix. This is a great house, very solid, with lots of charm-"

"Easy, tiger," Caleb laughs, holding his palms up. "You've got a soft spot for the old gal, huh?"

Fletcher flushes. "Bit obvious?"

"Yeah," Caleb says. "But I think it's cute. So, where's the bedroom?"

"T-This way," Fletcher stammers, walking quickly ahead of Caleb. They come to the master bedroom door and Fletcher stops outside. "Brace yourself," he warns, unable to keep from smiling.

"For-?" Caleb starts but then Fletcher opens the door.

"This," Fletcher says simply.

The master bedroom is easily bigger than the average person's apartment. An enormous wooden four-poster bed dominates the room. The mattress is handmade to fit the bed, which is larger than a king. Fletcher likes to refer to it as a King King because there are miles of mattress and Egyptian cotton sheets. The wooden frames gleam cherry red, carved into exotic shapes like griffins and sea serpents. An antique chandelier hangs from the ceiling. It's not on, because the house has no electricity at the moment, but the afternoon sun shines through the giant bay window and hits the crystal, throwing patterns of light across the room. The room itself is painted a light, creamy gold with white trim. All the wooden furniture-the bureau, the wardrobe, the writing desk, the side tables and chairs-are the same rich, cherry color as the bed frame.
The room is magnificent. The bed invites curling up for hours, admiring the beautiful view of the land through the enormous bay window.

Fletcher glances at Caleb. The man looks suitably impressed.

Good. Wait till he sees the bathroom.

"Wow," Caleb whistles. "This is pretty classy."

"Yeah," Fletcher sighs wistfully. "The local legend is that the bed was handcrafted by the original owner for his wife and the carvings were to guard her dreams. Supposedly, when they got married they didn't leave the bed for three weeks. And all their children were born in it."

"I hope it's been cleaned," Caleb says dryly.

"Oh, come on," Fletcher replies. "A little placenta adds character."

Caleb bursts out in startled laughter. "All right," he says. "Show me the bathroom. I have high hopes."

"They are not unfounded."'

They walk into the bathroom and Fletcher hears Caleb suck in a breath.

If the bedroom was something, the bathroom is something. The floor is flawless gold-flecked marble, as are the countertops. The fixtures are one-of-a-kind silver: the faucet heads in the double sink and the enormous claw-foot tub are shaped like swan heads. Enormous, framed mirrors hang over the sink. There are similar mirrors behind the bathtub. The toilet is high and old-fashioned, with a pull chain. The handle is the same cherry wood found in the bedroom. It matches the low shelf that lines the alcove where the clawed tub sits. Tall, wrought iron candleholders are tucked into the corners of the room. The whole effect is something elegant and out of the Old World.

Caleb makes a soft noise. "Where's that dotted line I sign?"

Fletcher laughs. "I know, right?"

"No," Caleb says, turning to Fletcher, his dark eyes glinting. "I'm serious. I hope you brought the paperwork."

"Really? I mean-really?"

"Yeah. Before I change my mind."

"Are you kidding?" Fletcher says. Unthinkingly, he grabs Caleb's arm, tugging him from the bathroom.

"You're not getting out of this now, even if I have to put a gun to your head."

"I've had a gun to my head before," Caleb says mildly. "It's not that scary."

Fletcher rolls his eyes at the joke. "Two guns, then. We'll sit down in the kitchen to do the paperwork."

"Hold on," Caleb says, slowing as they pass the enormous bed. "I want another look at this bed."

"Oh," Fletcher says. "All right. I know it's a bit much for some people, but it does come with the house."

"Yeah?" Caleb asks. He heads for the bed, Fletcher trailing along behind him. "Is it comfortable?"

"Very," Fletcher says. "It's stuffed with goose down."

Caleb slants him a look. "You tried it out?"

"Of course not!" Fletcher says. He knows he looks guilty.

"Uh huh. Not even once? You've never sat on it, just to see? Gotten on top of it and laid down?"

"No," Fletcher mutters.

Caleb smirks at him and pats the mattress. "Hop on," he says. "I'm gonna buy the place. This bed will be mine in a matter of minutes. I'm giving you permission."

"I don't really think-"

"Come on, just sit on it. How else will I know if you're trying to swindle me? Maybe the bed is really rock hard. I don't know if I can buy the house unless I see you test the bed."

"That's not really appropriate-" Fletcher begins but the way Caleb is smirking tells Fletcher that he knows exactly how inappropriate it is and parts of Fletcher are disturbingly okay with this. He can't help it-he's a man, it's been nearly half a year since Brent left him, and he has needs.

Bad needs, he tells them sternly. No cookie.

"Live a little," Caleb says, his voice low and husky, the sound slithering down Fletcher's spine. Despite the sunlight streaming into the room, Caleb's eyes are hooded. "I'd really like to see you in my-sorry, this bed."

Fletcher clears his throat. He's no stranger to flirting; he remembers how to ride the bicycle well enough, thanks. It's just that the bicycle hasn't been out in a while and the chain is kind of rusty. He's also, frankly, not accustomed to strangers as hot as Caleb hitting on him. "Caleb," he says. "I'd really feel more comfortable if we-"

"It's just a bed," Caleb says. "It doesn't bite." His tone of voice makes it very clear that he would. "You want me to sign those papers, don't you?"

"Oh, that is low," Fletcher says.

"Yes," Caleb grins unrepentantly.

"Fine," Fletcher says. He sets his briefcase on the ground and sits on the bed. "There, are you happy?"

"Almost," Caleb says, stepping closer. "Lay down. Really test it out."

The room suddenly feels much warmer. Caleb is standing nearly between Fletcher's legs, and shards of light from the chandelier dance over Caleb's dark skin. Fletcher realizes how tall and well-muscled Caleb is. He is acutely aware that he is alone in a house with a near-stranger looming over him. He remembers the frisson of fear he'd felt at the diner, staring into Caleb's dark eyes. This is perhaps not the best situation he's ever been in.

"I think maybe-"

"Lay down," Caleb says again. It's not really a request. He's so close that the insides of Fletcher's thighs press against the outside of Caleb's legs. He can feel the heat from Caleb's body.

Fletcher looks up.

Caleb looks down.

"I'm about to make a very bad decision, aren't I?" Fletcher asks.

"I certainly hope so," Caleb replies.

An hour later, Fletcher has helped Caleb confirm that the bed is very, very soft.

"Well," Caleb says, propping himself up in bed. The sheets slide down his chest, pooling around his waist and the sharp cut of his hipbones. "I'm glad you put new sheets on the bed."

"I'll have to put new sheets on again," Fletcher says, blowing a sweaty strand of hair from his eyes. "By the way, who keeps condoms in their wallet these days?"

"Hopeful men," Caleb grins. "Hopeful men who saw your picture on your website before they called to meet with you."

"Okay, that's a little creepy," Fletcher says. "Did you agree to buy this house just to get into my pants?"

Caleb laughs and rolls on top of him, bracing his arms on either side of Fletcher's body. Their skin is touching is all sorts of Why, hello there places. "You got me. I was angling for a happy ending signing bonus."

"At least you're honest," Fletcher grumbles. "By the way, I'm normally not this easy."

"I am," Caleb says simply, dipping his head to kiss Fletcher. His tongue drags lazily over Fletcher's bottom lip and one hand comes up to stroke Fletcher's side, making him shiver. Caleb's hand dips lower below the sheet until it's wrapped around Fletcher's upper thigh, his thumb caressing the soft area where leg meets groin. "What do you think? Can we get these sheets a little dirtier?"

"Maybe after we sign the papers," Fletcher says, pushing at Caleb’s chest and trying to hide an aroused shudder. He's not very successful if the hungry look in Caleb's eyes is anything to judge by.

"That feels like blackmail," Caleb says. "'Sign or I won't share my hot body with you.'"

"What can I say, I'm a cutthroat realtor."

Caleb chuckles and kisses Fletcher's mouth again before reluctantly rolling off. "You drive a hard bargain. Let's sign those papers and I'll drive a harder one." He leers.

This is definitely not how Fletcher expected his Monday to go.

To Fletcher's eternal amazement, Caleb actually buys the house. They have sex again to celebrate, of course, and Caleb utilizes his tie and the sturdy bedposts to excellent end.

"Wow," Fletcher says, panting. His wrists are a little sore, but he's not about to complain-the same way he's not going to complain about other parts of him that are a little sore.

"Thanks," Caleb says smugly.

Fletcher turns onto his side, observing Caleb: his skin glistens in the afternoon light and his muscles gleam as he shifts on the mattress. He is definitely the hottest man Fletcher has ever slept with. Not that Fletcher has an enormous pool of comparison, but he went to college out East. He's not inexperienced.

Caleb quirks an eyebrow at him. "See something you like, blondie?"

Fletcher rolls his eyes. "Eh," he says, waving his hand dismissively.

"Eh?" Caleb demands, all indignation, as he sits up. "Oh no, there is no 'Eh' here. There is 'Awe' as in 'Awe and amazement' or there is 'Ah' as in 'Ah, yes, please more.' There is no 'Eh.'"

Fletcher can't help it-he giggles. Caleb just looks so enormously offended. It's a little adorable.

"Are you laughing at me?" Caleb says. "Do you know I've killed men for less?"

"Right," Fletcher says. "Was this before or after you landed the space shuttle and saved the President?"

Caleb looks at Fletcher strangely. "After," he finally says, smiling reluctantly.

"Hey," Fletcher says, leaning over and pressing a kiss to Caleb's firm chest. "Why are you moving out here, anyway? This is an awfully big house for one person. And Lovely Lakes doesn't exactly seem like your kind of place."

"My kind of place?"

"It's not the city. Oh, don't think I can't tell," Fletcher says at Caleb's incredulous expression. "Mr. BMW and Armani suits. I saw the label when I undressed you."

Caleb chuckles. "I'm looking for a change of pace. Someplace… rural. Where I can have my privacy."

"You've never lived in a small town before, have you?" Fletcher asks wryly. "Once word gets out that you bought Wickland Farm, you're going to be the most talked about man in town. Seriously, what are you planning to do with it?"

"Oh, that's easy," Caleb says, tracing patterns on Fletcher's back. "I'm planning on turning it into a training academy for assassins. There's one back East but it's outmoded, based on an elitist, hereditary applicant system-unless your mother or father was an assassin, you can't get in. Historically, assassins usually produce more good assassins, but I think they're missing out on a larger pool of talent and creativity. The old ways aren't always the best ways."

"Uh huh," Fletcher says. "And you went to this academy? You're an assassin?"

"Retired," Caleb says jovially, his eyes dancing. "But idle hands are the Devil's workshop."

"Right. So this assassin school-were you a student there before or after you single-handedly discovered the cure for cancer and won a Nobel Prize?"

"Before, baby," Caleb laughs, manhandling Fletcher so that Fletcher is sprawled over top of him, their groins aligning and making them both hiss in pleasure. Fletcher gives an experimental thrust and Caleb groans, his big hands flying to Fletcher's back and trying to pin him in place. Instead, Fletcher straightens up, straddling Caleb's lap and looking down.

"Good to know," Fletcher says, arching an eyebrow. He tries to sound as condescending as possible. "Do please inform me of anything else you think I should be aware of, like how you're next in line for the British throne or how you discovered the lost city of Atlantis."

"Funny you should mention that," Caleb replies, straight-faced. "I'm planning an expedition next week."

"You're hilarious," Fletcher says. "What are you really going to do with the place?" He's dying to find out more about Caleb. It isn't every day that mysterious, handsome, filthy rich men come to Lovely Lakes. Or that he sleeps with them. Caleb even put down forty percent of the sale price in cash; he was carrying it in a leather briefcase in his back seat, and Fletcher is really hoping he's just rich and not a criminal but the two often go alarmingly hand in hand.

"I'm a consultant," Caleb says, after an odd pause, his words coming out slowly, like he has to think about them. "I own my own firm. I run workshops to train new… consultants. I'm planning to move my base of operations out here. I think this place will be perfect for seminars. It's secluded with no distractions. That's good for learning."

"Oh," Fletcher says. It sounds legitimate. He's heard that those consulting guys, if they're successful, make gobs of money. That explains Caleb's flashy clothes and expensive car, not to mention how he can afford to buy a multi-million dollar estate and plunk down nearly half the price in cash. "That's so boring. Couldn't you think of a better story?"

"The truth is often boring," Caleb says, a twinkle in his eyes.

"I know something that's not boring," Fletcher says, rolling his hips. Caleb grunts and his hands go up to grip Fletcher's waist tightly.

"Now, now," Caleb says. "No teasing unless you plan to follow through. I'd hate to have to get my tie out again."

"I wouldn't," Fletcher says.

"Nice," Caleb says appreciatively. "I think I'm gonna hang on to you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. The way I hear it, around here it's you or Hank Woodson's sheep."

"Don't forget Earl," Fletcher says wryly.

"I haven't," Caleb replies. "But he is totally out of my league."

Fletcher wakes up a few hours later. The room is nearly dark and the sun is setting outside the bay window, splashing lurid color into the room and warming Caleb's skin with red and gold light.

"Shit," Fletcher says, throwing off the sheets and clambering out of bed. He stayed much longer than he intended. He manages to get his trousers and a single shoe on before Caleb wakes up to find him hopping around on one foot, trying to tug his other shoe over his heel.

"Leaving?" Caleb asks, arching an eyebrow.

"I have to," Fletcher says. "I'm supposed to have dinner with my parents tonight."

"Ah," Caleb says. "Mind if I tag along?"

Fletcher stops, nearly falling over. "What?"

"I figure I need to stake my claim early. When my trainees get here, they'll be sniffing after you in no time."

"Ha ha," Fletcher says. "Just pee on my leg, why don't you, it's quicker."

"Kinky," Caleb says easily.

"Gross," Fletcher replies. "Remind me not to play poker with you. I can't even tell if you're joking. So let me reiterate: gross."

At that, Caleb laughs. "So?"

"So what?"

"So, you mind if I join you for dinner?"

"You're serious?"

"Deadly," Caleb says.

"Uh, I guess. I mean-it's kind of… fast, don't you think?"

"I'm a fast kind of guy."

"I noticed," Fletcher says. "You bought a house and seduced me all within an hour."

Caleb grins. "Hey, when you got it-"

"Yeah, yeah," Fletcher says. He bends down and grabs Caleb's slacks, lobbing them at Caleb's head. Caleb catches them easily and comes up grinning. "Put some pants on," Fletcher says. "My mom's a stickler for eating dinner clothed."

"How old-fashioned."

Fletcher laughs despite himself. He's really worried by how much he wants to keep Caleb around.

"Their house is beautiful," Caleb says as the taxi pulls up in front of Fletcher's parents' house. His and Caleb's cars are still sitting heaped in front of the house at Wickland Farm. Fletcher knows he will have to eventually explain arriving in a taxi to his mother, but hopefully she'll be distracted by Caleb for a while.

"It was my great-great-grandparents' house," Fletcher says. "My great-great-grandfather built most of it himself when he came over from Ireland in the late 1800s."

The old Victorian cottage house is compact but cozy. A porch wraps around the front of the house, decorated with elaborate spindlework that Fletcher's great-great-grandfather hand carved. The patterned brick chimney rises crookedly through the center of the house, designed to distribute heat evenly and economically through all the rooms. Fletcher's parents recently restored the patterned shingles over the eclectic roofline-the house has been added to throughout the years and somewhere along the way, one of the carpenters got a little overzealous with turrets. The attic window and the mantle above the front door boast matching stained glass designs depicting plants and flowers, though most people fail to see the image of the tiny fairy sitting on a flower petal in the far right corner of the glass.

"I can picture you living here," Caleb says. "No wonder you became a realtor. You must have fallen in love with houses. Nice fairy," he adds, nodding toward the window as they mount the front steps.

Fletcher looks at him in surprise.

"I'm an observant guy," Caleb says, shrugging in answer to Fletcher's unspoken question. "In my business, I have to be. Sometimes successful consulting work is all about paying attention to the details. Get it wrong and you're dead. Metaphorically."

"Huh," Fletcher says. "I suppose it would. Okay, before I ring the bell and subject you to my family, there are some things you might want to know."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Like the fact that my mother is going to grill you within an inch of your life. You can still back out of this if you want to."

"I think I'll be okay. I've survived worse interrogations."

"You say that now," Fletcher warns ominously. "But Gitmo called her for tips." He reaches out to press the doorbell but before he can the door swings open, revealing his mother and father standing arm in arm on the other side.

"Fletch!" Mrs. Redmond says. "You made it! Your father and I were beginning to-" His mother stops, her mouth dropping open. "Who is this?"

Fletcher suppresses a groan at the gleam in his mother's eyes. "Mom, this is-"

"Caleb Freeman," Caleb interjects smoothly, stepping forward to take Mrs. Redmond's hand and, unbelievably, pressing a kiss to the top.

Mrs. Redmond titters. "I don't believe we've seen you around here before."

Oh no, Fletcher thinks. The titter. His mother only uses it in what she considers the direst situations. She has assessed Caleb as a threat. Now she's going to spend the whole night pretending to be dotty old Mumsy, airheaded and silly but still charming, when in reality she'll be prying every bit of information out of Caleb that she can.

Caleb looks over his shoulder at Fletcher, giving him a smug look as if to say, "See? Your mother loves me."

You sad, doomed fool, Fletcher wants to tell him.

Caleb must read something in Fletcher's face because he frowns quickly and returns his attention to Mrs. Redmond. "Yes, ma'am," he says. "I'm new to the area. In fact, Fletcher just sold me a house. Since I don't know anybody else around here yet, and Fletcher didn't want me to be alone my first night in your lovely town, he invited me to have dinner with you folks. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Mrs. Redmond exclaims with a giggle. "Come right in, sweetie! I always make plenty of food. I like to tell myself Fletcher is still a growing boy, even though he's thirty-two."

Thanks, mom, Fletcher thinks. Way to out me.

Caleb smiles easily and pats his stomach. "I'm still a growing boy myself."

"I'll just bet!" Mrs. Redmond says. "You look much younger than Fletcher."

He doesn't, Fletcher knows. But that is his mother's genius.

"Oh, no," Caleb says with a laugh, shaking his head and falling right into her trap. "I've got a year or three on Fletcher."

"No!" Mrs. Redmond gasps. "But you don't look a day over thirty!"

"Thank you, ma'am, but I'm actually thirty-six."

"I won't believe it!" Mrs. Redmond says. "Avery, honey, does he look a day over thirty?"

"No," Mr. Redmond says, sounding quietly amused. He is well-accustomed to Mrs. Redmond's antics. "Not at all."

"Mom," Fletcher says. "Maybe we could continue this inside?"

"Of course!" Mrs. Redmond says, flapping her hands in agitation. "Oh, where are my manners? I'm sure you think I'm simply awful, keeping you out here on the porch."

"Not at all," Caleb says graciously. "And I'm sure the inside of your house is as lovely as the outside."

"What a flatterer!" Mrs. Redmond says. "They must breed them that way where you're from. I know you can't be from out West, they're all still cowboys."

Caleb chuckles. "No, ma'am. Cleveland, born and raised."

"Oh, the Midwest. They're the politest people."

"We try."

"Mom," Fletcher reminds her.

"Heavens! Come in, come in," Mrs. Redmond says, gesturing. They follow her down the hall. "We'll sit in the parlor and talk. It's not the grandest house, I'm afraid. The parlor's a little small."

"It's bigger than what I grew up in," Caleb offers. "But then we didn't put nearly as much work into it as you did."

"I'm sure your house was lovely, dear. I bet your mother kept it up well."

"Yeah," Caleb says. "When me and my brothers weren't messing it up. My mom says she never saw dust until we grew up and moved out. We kept her too busy cleaning."

"How funny!" Mrs. Redmond exclaims. "I have to say, I agree with your mother. Although Fletcher was very good about helping me clean when he was little, but that was only because I bought him a darling apron. He used any excuse to wear that thing!"

"And on that embarrassing note," Fletcher says. "Shouldn't you check on dinner?"

"Don't be silly, Fletch, I'll hear the timer from out here. It would be rude to leave our company!"

Fletcher grimaces as they all sit down. He and Caleb take the couch while across from them Mr. Redmond sinks into a recliner and Mrs. Redmond perches on the edge of a wingback, smiling eagerly. Caleb squeezes Fletcher's shoulder in reassurance and Fletcher shoots him a grateful look. Caleb's eyes dance with mirth, but he's not outright laughing. That's something.

"So, Caleb," Mrs. Redmond continues. "You said our Fletch sold you a house? I hope he didn't drag you out to Wickland Farm first. He tries to get everyone to buy that old place."

"Actually, ma'am, that's the place I bought."

"No! Fletcher, I hope you gave this poor man a discount; the price for that place was simply outrageous. I remember when houses used to cost thirty-thousand dollars and that was for something that was practically a mansion!"

"It wasn't out of my price range," Caleb replies, his voice patronizing, like Mrs. Redmond is adorable and quaint for thinking anything above thirty thousand is overpriced.

"And it's such a very big house. I don't know what I'd do with all that space. It's a very good house for a large family, but I'm not sure why a single young man like yourself wants something quite so big!"

"Mostly for work," Caleb admits. "I run a consulting firm and I'm planning to run training seminars on the property."

"How wonderful!" Mrs. Redmond claps. "It's been so long since we've had a real businessman in town. Not counting you, Fletch honey, but you've been here since you got back from college."

"Yes," Fletcher says obediently.

Caleb looks at Fletcher, amused. "It seems he does pretty well for himself."

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Redmond says. "He makes very good money, don't you, Fletch?"

"Yes," Fletcher says again. Like his father, he has learned to simply sit quietly and allow his mother to barrel on. She'll have to stop sometime to take dinner out of the oven, he tells himself desperately. He can survive until then.

"He had a wonderful little house a few months ago," Mrs. Redmond says. Fletcher recognizes the shrewd look in her eyes and braces himself. "But his boyfriend's name was on the lease, so he got all the money when he sold it. I think that's just terrible, don't you?"

Fletcher sighs to himself. His mother's concept of "delicacy" is not drawing blood. He can't really blame her for scenting Caleb out, though. He should have warned Caleb that he wasn't the only observant one; Mrs. Redmond has an uncanny ability to know everything about everyone, simply by observing them. Fletcher doesn't doubt she's noticed the way Caleb is sitting a little closer than a new, platonic acquaintance normally warrants or how Caleb's arm rests casually on the back of the couch behind Fletcher's head.

To the untrained eye, it doesn't look damning in the slightest.

Mrs. Redmond is not untrained.

"Yes," Caleb says, turning his head to look at Fletcher, concern etched between his eyebrows.

Mrs. Redmond glances back and forth between Caleb and Fletcher, apparently satisfied by what she finds because she gives a small nod, as though confirming something. "But that means Fletcher is single, and that's not terrible at all, is it, Caleb?"

"No," Caleb says reflexively and then looks astonished at himself for admitting it so easily.

"I think I hear the oven," Mrs. Redmond says, standing and patting Caleb's knee.

Mr. Redmond stands with a slight shake of his head. "I'll help your mom in the kitchen," he says, following Mrs. Redmond and giving Fletcher a sympathetic look over his shoulder.

"Your mom isn't so bad," Caleb says, but his voice is ever-so-shaky. "I think you give her a little too much credit."

"Oh really?" Fletcher asks. "In fifteen minutes, she learned that you're from Cleveland, you're thirty-six, you have at least two brothers, you confirmed that you're single, you're wealthy enough to afford to buy Wickland Farm, and you'd like to sleep with her son. I'm not positive she hasn't figured out that we've already slept together, either."

Caleb's mouth drops open, leaving him gaping like a hooked fish. "No, but-she didn't even ask me-how could she-damn."

"Like I said. Gitmo."

"I didn't even realize-"

"Exactly. She's like a ninja. By the end of the night she'll know your blood type."

"Jesus," Caleb laughs, still sounding shocked. "I bet she would have done well at the academy."

"Oh yes," Fletcher says, rolling his eyes. "Your assassin academy. My mother, the world famous killer. Watch out, her rhubarb pies don't just taste deadly-they're poisoned."

"My pies are what?" Mrs. Redmond frowns, returning to the room with potholders still on her hands.

"Perfection," Fletcher says quickly. "Absolute perfection. I was just telling Caleb that he hasn't had rhubarb pie until he's had your rhubarb pie."

Mrs. Redmond eyeballs him. "I see. Well, I'm sorry, Caleb honey, but I'm afraid it's pumpkin pie tonight. That's Fletcher's favorite. You're not allergic are you?"

"No, ma'am."

"Do you like pumpkin pie?"

"Yes," Caleb says simply. He glances at Fletcher as if to say, "See, here’s me beating your mom's interrogation techniques."

Mrs. Redmond smiles at Caleb and nods encouragingly. She raises her eyebrows. Her silence stretches into an expectant pause.

Caleb appears uncertain what is expected of him but he finally offers, hesitantly: "But my favorite is… pecan?"

Mrs. Redmond claps her hands together in delight. "Pecan! You should get Fletcher to tell you how my pecan pie won second place in the county fair. It would have won first, but Linda Fairweather's deep-dish apple pie took that. Although I am not afraid to tell you that there's a rumor she submitted a store bought pie."

"Scandalous, Mom," Fletcher says. "Is dinner ready yet?"

"It sure is! Come and help me set the table."

Fletcher and Caleb both stand; Caleb looks a little bewildered. Mrs. Redmond has that effect. He pats Caleb comfortingly on the back.

"And we haven't even gotten through dinner yet," he says.

Caleb looks at him with wide eyes. When Mrs. Redmond turns her back, he says, "I don't think I've been trained for this."

"No one has," Fletcher says sadly. "But take comfort in what I always tell myself: At least there will be pie."