Fic - Donald Strachey Mysteries - Handyman - Part One
Title: Handyman by NyteFlyer
Fandom: The Donald Strachey Mysteries
Pairing: Donald and Timmy, of course!
Rating: NC-17, but just barely
Word count: 13,300 in two parts
Spoilers: Takes place after Third Man Out (movieverse) with a little light thievery of both content and tone from Death Vows and On the Other Hand, Death (bookverse)
Summary: Donald Strachey really hates summer in the city, and he really, really hates their new handyman. He does have a thing for cherry Popsicles, however.
Genre: humor mixed with mystery and angst mixed with friskiness and fluff…not to mention a strategically-placed freezer treat here or there….
Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em, though I sure as heck wish I did. Richard Stevenson created them, Ron Oliver interpreted them, Chad Allen and Sebastian Spence brought them to life. Legal stuff notwithstanding, we all know that Donald and Timmy belong completely and exclusively to each other. Sometimes I get to be a fly on the wall, though….
Gratuitous groveling: To Babsilicious, as always, for the beta
Author’s Note: So this is what happens when a card-carrying angst and H/C maven who absolutely detests hot weather attempts to write summer schmoop while the heat index is stuck at 115….
***Written for the Summer Fun Tim & Don Schmoop-a-thon***
"Have I ever mentioned that I really hate summer in New York?” Donald groused into his cell phone as he slid into the driver’s seat of his rental. Out of consideration for Timmy’s hearing, he suppressed a yelp when the over-heated vinyl proceeded to broil his backside through his thin summer trousers. A single droplet of sweat slid off the end of his nose and hit the steering wheel. He registered genuine surprise when it failed to sizzle on contact.
Half a moment of silence , then Timmy replied, sounding cool and unruffled. “Did you like it any better back in Warren when you were growing up?”
“No, hating summer‘s pretty much been a lifetime obsession with me.”
Another small silence. Donald could just picture Timmy, crisp and immaculate in his air-conditioned office, leaning back in his chair and adjusting his glasses, as if that could bring their conversation into sharper focus. The thought of Timmy luxuriating in Freon-enhanced comfort while he was barely one step away from heatstroke should have pissed him off. Instead, it made him smile in spite of himself.
“I thought it was winter you hated,” Timmy said.
“I hate that, too.”
“Darling, is there any time of year you actually enjoy?”
Donald thought long and hard about that one. “April 29th is usually good,” he said at last. “If the weather holds, I can deal with May 7th, too. And September 23rd if we’re having an early fall.”
“And if we’re having a late one?” Timmy asked, and Donald could clearly hear the smile in his partner’s voice. It made his own grow bigger.
“October 20th is about as far as I’m willing to commit.”
Timmy was laughing by then, which meant Donald couldn‘t help laughing along in spite of the second degree burn on his posterior. No matter what kind of mood he was in, spending a few minutes on the phone with Timothy Callahan always made him feel better.
“Are you working late tonight?” Timmy asked.
“No, I’m ready to call it a day. Want me to pick you up?”
“You can pick me up anytime you like, handsome. Are you still in the rental?”
“Yeah, they‘re not done with the bodywork on mine yet.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Hey!”
“It’s ninety-five in the shade, Donald. At least you’re driving something with a working air conditioner for a change.”
“Well, don’t get used to it, because the guy at the garage promised I’d be back in Old Reliable by this time tomorrow.”
Timmy snorted delicately. “The gentleman who rammed your car may have been a crude, foul-mouthed philanderer, but at least he had insurance.”
“Lousy insurance,” Donald said. “They sprang for the oldest and crappiest rental car on the road. I have no idea why they didn’t haul this heap to the scrap yard years ago. It looks like a leftover from some 70s cop show. Besides, it burned my ass.”
“It burned….”
“My ass. I’ve probably got blisters. I can feel them swelling back there as we speak.”
“Should I ask?”
“If I say no, will you still kiss it and make it better?”
“Of course. And I’ll ice it down for you as soon as we get home.”
Visions of himself lying facedown on their bed with a naked Timmy bending over him, expertly applying ice to a few choice patches of overheated skin flashed before Donald’s eyes. They’d played around with ice before, and once with a grape Popsicle, which had been silly and messy and fun. In spite of the fact that Timmy had grumbled afterward about purple stains on the new sheets, they’d both found the experience highly…stimulating.
“Be right there,” Donald said, his voice not quite as steady as it had been a moment before. He snapped his phone shut and started the engine, then cranked up the AC, pointing the vents toward the passenger seat, hoping to cool off that particular slab of sizzling vinyl before Timmy got in. As for his own charbroiled posterior…well…they’d just have to make a pit stop for freezer treats on the way home. Cherry this time. Definitely cherry.
* * * *
The evening progressed nicely -- or at least as nicely as an evening can progress when the thermometer’s stuck in the mid-90s and the central air hasn’t worked in weeks. Still, they had their fun with the Popsicles and lay naked together afterward in the cherry-scented darkness, trying to catch a breeze so scant it barely made the curtains flutter. They talked quietly as they lay there, not having a conversation, exactly, just keeping a meandering stream of words flowing between them. They discussed Timmy’s day and their friend Jon’s upcoming move, even laughed a little about the man who’d rammed Donald’s car after having been caught in bed with his brother’s wife -- all the while carefully avoiding any mention of home repair. That subject was every bit as sticky as their Popsicle-stained sheets.
They’d stretched John Rutka’s money far enough to get the roof fixed and the fireplace finished, but all too soon, Donald and Timmy’d found themselves right back where they started, with a fixer-upper house and a bank account so empty you could watch tumbleweeds blowing down the center of it. The work progressed in fits and starts, with Allison and Bobbie Jo tackling the high priority issues like bad wiring and major plumbing repairs whenever Timmy could guarantee a check large enough to cover their expenses. The smaller annoyances would just have to wait.
But they didn’t wait. Not for long, anyway. The toilet in the downstairs bathroom that seemed to run constantly suddenly fell silent, and the flickering light above the vanity in the master bath burned steadily for the first time in months. The leaky showerhead that had driven Donald crazy for so long stopped dripping, and the cracked window near their bed -- the one the wind had whistled through night after night last winter -- sported new glass and a fresh coat of paint. There was no more money in their checking account than there had been before, so Donald wasn’t sure where the cash for all those small repairs was coming from. Whenever he asked, Timmy became noticeably, if subtly, evasive and quickly changed the subject.
Donald wasn’t worried, though. After all, it wasn’t his department. Mowing the grass and taking out the trash, disposing of dead rodents in the attic traps and writing MORE PEANUT BUTTER ASAP!!! on the grocery list were his jobs, while juggling the books, dealing with laundry and overseeing the renovations were Timmy’s. Most of the time, Donald was more than happy to leave him to it.
Occasionally, though, just occasionally, Donald would wonder how they were affording all this. And for that matter, who they were paying to do it. When he thanked Bobby Jo for finally replacing the cracked window pane, she shrugged and said she didn’t do it. And when he waylaid Allison as she tore out some bad wiring in the laundry room and told her how happy he was that the toilet was no longer singing to them 24/7, she told him it wasn’t her work.
“Not your work?”
“Nope. Tim’s always bitching about our prices being too high, so I guess he decided to sub the small jobs out.”
“Sub them out!”
“That means he’s assuming the role of general contractor and hiring….”
“I know what it means, Allison. I just didn’t realize Timmy did.”
Allison laughed at him but kept on working. “It doesn’t bother us one way or another. We never make much money off the nickel and dime jobs anyway.”
But if Bobby Jo and Allison weren’t making money off them, who was?
As one July day sweated its way into the next, Donald noticed that he wasn’t coming home to find work in progress the way he once had. The odd jobs that no one seemed willing to take credit for all seemed to be completed while he was away -- either on evenings when he pulled a late night surveillance gig, or on the rare weekend when a case took him out of town. With the exception of the heating and air guy who’d performed last rites on their central air unit and an occasional Chicks With Bricks sighting, he hadn‘t spotted a handyman anywhere near the place.
July turned into August, and the temperature kept climbing. Timmy bought a window fan for their bedroom, so at least the muggy air was in motion when they tried to sleep. Since his car was out of the shop, Donald was back to cruising the streets of Albany without AC as well, but he had beer in the fridge and Timmy between the sheets, so life was good. They worked their way through their stash of cherry Popsicles in record time, followed by orange, then a repeat of their old favorite, grape. A sense of order seemed to return to their lives. Renovations were still being done, albeit at a plodding pace. Their dinnertime conversation was rarely interrupted by the sound of bandsaws or sledgehammers anymore, and they could actually walk through the front door without tripping over toolboxes and extension cords. For the first time in months, they were able to enjoy quiet time together in their own home. Donald wasn’t complaining, not one bit. But he was curious.
One day, he came home to the smell of drywall dust, and found Bobbie Jo and Allison in the gutted laundry room, hanging sheetrock. “Hey, ladies!” he said, covering his nose and mouth with a handkerchief so he wouldn’t choke to death on the white cloud they’d created. “Thanks for finally replacing the water line to the dishwasher. I’m morally opposed to doing dishes myself, but it sure makes Timmy’s life easier.”
“Didn’t do it,” Bobby Jo said through her filter mask. “We’ve been out of town.“
“Where to this time? Pride month’s over, so there shouldn’t be any more lesbian biker rallies for you two to ride in or rainbow-colored floats to ride on for a while.”
“Smartass,” Allison said. “We just got back from the Menses Faire in Antioch.”
“Menses Fair? Is that where a bunch of women stand out in a field and PMS together?”
“Smartass,” she said again. “It’s a musical event, a celebration of women and song, a week where we can free ourselves from the constraints of this oppressive, male-dominated society and raise our voices….”
“If you didn‘t replace that hose, who did?” Donald interrupted, knowing that if he didn’t nip her lecture in the bud, he’d be hearing about the evils of male oppression for hours. “I haven’t seen anybody but you guys around here in weeks.” He’d never seen anyone else around, period. But for some reason, he was reluctant to admit that to her.
“Probably the little guy,” Bobby Jo suggested.
“The little guy?”
“Yeah, we’ve run into him a couple of times,” Allison agreed. “Young blond guy, about your size but lighter build. Looks too pretty to get his hands dirty, if you ask me.”
“Any idea what his name is or what kind of work he does?”
“Tim’s never exactly offered to introduce us. And I’ve never seen him actually do anything, have you, babe?”
“Nope,” said Bobbie Jo. “As a matter of fact, that husband of yours always seems to be in a big hurry to hustle him out the door once we come through. Guess he’s worried about professional jealousy or something like that. Which is crazy. We have more than enough work to keep us busy this summer, and it’s not like we make anything….”
“On those nickel and dime jobs. Yeah, you’d rather hold out for the chance to gouge us on the big ones instead,“ Donald said, sticking out his tongue to make them laugh. He loitered there for a few more minutes, shooting the breeze as he watched them work, then left them to finish the job in peace. Yet something about the conversation nagged at him, like a splinter beneath his skin that he couldn’t see but couldn’t quite forget about either, because it prickled every time he poked it. Donald didn’t poke it, at least not intentionally. But every once in a while he felt that telltale prickle just the same.
A few days passed, and all seemed quiet on the home improvement front. Then he received a mid-morning text from Timmy saying he’d left the office and planned on working from home for the rest of the day. Donald speed-dialed his cell.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well, hello to you, too! Why do you immediately assume something’s wrong just because I….”
“ Because you never do, that’s why. Are you sick? If you need me to, I can….”
“Honey, I’m fine. It’s a slow week at the office with the senator on vacation, so I thought I could be bored at home just as easily as I could there.”
“I swear, Timothy, if you have a migraine coming on and aren’t telling me….”
“I’m perfectly fine, Donald. Now go find an alley to skulk in and I’ll see you tonight. I know it‘s asking a lot, but try not to worry, okay?”
But Donald did worry. Timmy hardly ever left work early, and on the rare occasions when he did, he usually showed up at Donald’s office, suggesting an impromptu coffee date, or if the P.I. business was in a lull, a leisurely lunch followed by what they both euphemistically referred to as “dessert.” The fact that he hadn’t suggested either was another splinter under Donald’s skin, and this one didn’t wait to be poked to make its presence known. By 2:30, the prickle had become a jab, so he gave up all pretense of work and headed home.
He wasn’t spying on Timmy. Not at all. He was simply looking into a matter of some concern, proving to himself that he had nothing to worry about. As it turned out, his timing couldn’t have been better. Just as he pulled up in front of their house, a lithe young man hurried out the front door and bounded toward a red pickup parked across the street. Craning his neck, Donald caught a glimpse of finely chiseled features framed by shoulder length blond hair before the truck pulled away. Something about the guy struck Donald as vaguely familiar, but if he’d seen him before, he couldn’t remember when or where. Pretty, Allison had said. Well, that was definitely a face you could call pretty. He was groping for a notebook and pen so he could write down the number on the truck’s license plate -- though he couldn’t have explained to anyone, least of all himself, why he would want to -- when he heard a quavering voice call his name.
“Strachey! I say Strachey! Is it hot enough for ya?” It was Norris Crandall, the biggest pain in the ass on the block. Resplendent in yellow plaid shorts, black dress socks with garters and an ancient pair of golf shoes, the old man trotted toward Donald at a pretty good clip, waving his arms and brandishing a rake.
Swallowing his frustration at being interrupted, Donald did his best to sound sociable. “It passed hot enough about twenty degrees ago. How’ve you been, Mr. Crandall?” he asked, cranking his voice a decibel or two above the norm to compensate for his neighbor’s hearing loss.
“Not worth a shit, Strachey. I’ve got a bone to pick with that boyfriend of yours.”
“What‘s the matter now?” Donald asked, not sure he really wanted to know. Once you got him going, the old geezer was harder to get rid of than herpes and about three times as annoying. Besides, it irked him that Crandall never called Timmy by name, though he was definitely an improvement over the guy from their old apartment complex, a greasy-haired gnome named Ripley, who’d once made the mistake of referring to Timmy as “your little missus.” Donald had made it perfectly clear that further disparaging remarks about his husband wouldn’t be tolerated, and Ripley’d been careful to keep a civil tongue in his head ever since. Timmy, thank God, had never seemed to make the connection between the gashes on his partner’s knuckles and their neighbor’s sudden dental deficit.
“That plumber of yours is heading off again, and I still don’t have his name and number!”
“My plumber?”
“The blond! The skinny blond pretty-boy! Your boyfriend promised to get me his name and number over a week ago, and he hasn’t done it yet!”
For the briefest of instants, Donald pictured Crandall, knobby knees trembling and liver-spotted hands nervously clutching a bouquet of posies, inviting the skinny blond pretty-boy out on a date. He shook his head to clear it. The heat was getting to him. It had to be the heat. “You mean the guy who just drove away in the red truck?”
“Hell yeah, I mean the guy in the red truck! He’s the one who fixed your john, isn’t he?”
“Beats me,” Donald said. “Timmy’s the one who handles that stuff. You’d be better off asking him.”
“I did ask him, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Last time that guy was over here, I asked your boyfriend if he’d gotten that singing toilet of yours fixed, and he said it was working just fine. Said it didn’t set him back much, either. I told him I was glad to hear it, because I had a leaky drain pipe that needed seeing to, and I didn’t want to pay an arm and a leg to get it done. He said he’d have to look up the guy‘s name and number, which sounded kinda fishy at the time, seeing as how they’d been acting awful familiar, if you know what I mean.”
Something inside Donald closed up tight, and it took him several seconds of very deliberate breathing to get it to open up enough for him to speak. “No, Mr. Crandall, I don’t think I do. Want to fill me in?”
“I’m not saying a word. Your ways aren’t my ways, Strachey, and I thank the good Lord for that. But I consider myself an enlightened man. Hell, I’m willing to hire a queer plumber, aren’t I? So if you can get that boyfriend of yours to cough up that young fella‘s number, I‘ll get out of your hair and do just that.”
“I’ll ask him now,” Donald said. “If you don’t mind waiting….”
“I’ve waited over a week already, so what’s a few more minutes?” Using his rake as a walking stick, Crandall followed Donald to the front door and settled his bony, plaid-covered backside on the stoop. “Just don’t take all day about it, you hear? It’s not like I’m getting any younger.”
Trying very hard not to think, Donald stepped inside and hurried up the stairs, calling Timmy‘s name. He walked into their bedroom just in time to see Timmy emerging from the master bath, looking flushed and flustered and still damp from the shower.
“Donald! You startled me! What are you doing home so early?”
“It’s been a slow day for me, too, so I thought I’d call it quits early and check on you.”
“Check on me?” Maybe it was a trick of the light, but it seemed as though Timmy’s flush deepened.
“You never play hooky from work unless you take me along for the ride. I know you said you weren’t sick, but….”
“I told you I was fine, Donald. I just wanted to catch up on a few things around here. Honestly, you should have called before you did this. I didn’t expect you home for at least another hour.”
“Didn’t realize I needed to make an appointment to see my own husband in my own house,” Donald muttered as Timmy scurried about the room, snatching stray pieces of clothing off the floor. Timmy never threw dirty clothes on the floor. He always folded them with military precision and stacked them neatly in their sanitized and deodorized hampers -- one for socks and underwear, one for shirts and slacks. A third hamper was designated for sheets and handkerchiefs, a combo that never made particular sense to Donald, unless it was because they were both more or less square-shaped. Towels didn’t have a hamper; they were an entity unto themselves. God help the bleary-eyed P.I. who stepped out of the shower at three a.m. and tossed a damp towel anywhere except directly into the washing machine.
When Timmy realized Donald was staring at him in shock, he stopped in his tracks. “What?”
“Nothing.” For the second time that afternoon, Donald found himself shaking his head to clear it. “Nothing,” he repeated. “Crandall’s waiting for me. He said you were gonna let him know how to get in touch with our plumber.”
“Plum…oh, that. Yes. Just a moment.” Timmy hesitated, his eyes darting around the room. They settled on his nightstand, and after another moment of hesitation, he walked over to it and picked up the phone book -- not his black address book where he usually kept that sort of information, Donald noted, but the phone book -- and flipped through the yellow pages, then scribbled a name and number onto a notepad.
“That is the guy I saw pulling away from here a few minutes ago, right? The one who worked on the toilet and the shower head?”
“He’s helped out with a number of things around here,” Timmy said.
Determined to abide by his new policy of not thinking, Donald carefully refrained from noticing the fact that Timmy eyes didn’t quite meet his as he tore the top sheet off the notepad and handed it to him.
* * * *
A summer storm blew in that night, bringing with it a cold front that dropped the temperature into the low 80s for the next few days. As the humidity decreased, so did Donald’s anxiety level. It seemed easier not to think when the days were bright and clear, and the air drifting through their bedroom window at night was fresher, softer than it had been in weeks. Progress around the house seemed to have reached a stopping point, which was more than fine as far as he was concerned. It was a good time for the two of them, a quiet time, a time of peace.
Since both of their workloads were lighter than normal, they found time to meet for lunch at sidewalk cafes or brown bag it together in the park, watching geese war with ducks over territorial rights and bread crumbs. More often than not, Donald made it home by the time Timmy did, and they were able to spend most of their evenings together. They deadheaded the fading petunias in the flower bed and performed CPR on the snapdragons, watered the tomato plants and organically treated them for Japanese beetles, trimmed the shrubs and grilled out in the late summer twilight and took Watson for long, rambling walks after dark. Donald still hated the season, he told himself, still longed for cooler weather and signs of fall. But he’d survived summer in Kuwait, so he supposed he could deal with it in Albany as well. He could deal with anything, as long as he had Timmy by his side.
One night, as they sat in the back porch glider watching the sun go down, Timmy said, “We really should enclose this porch someday. Wouldn’t it be nice to have screens to let the air in during the summer and glass panels to keep the cold out during the winter?”
“And bug zappers to keep these little bloodsuckers away year round,” Donald said, swatting a mosquito as it sank its proboscis into his forearm. He scored a direct hit and smiled in satisfaction, wiping a rust-colored smear off his fair skin. “Since we’re dreaming here, we might as well put in a pool while we’re at it.”
“Preferably surrounded by a privacy fence, so we don’t send Mr. Crandall into cardiac arrest when we skinny dip in the moonlight.”
“I don’t think Crandall can see that far, sweetheart, especially after dark.”
Timmy laced his fingers through Donald‘s and leaned into him, realigning his long frame so he could rest his head against the shorter man‘s shoulder. “He has binoculars, you know. I’ve seen him using them. Believe me, he’d be watching every move we made.”
“His wife’s been gone a long time. Maybe he wouldn’t be happy just watching. Maybe he’d want to climb the fence and join in.”
Timmy shuddered. “Okay, maybe a pool’s not the best idea. The yard’s not really big enough, anyway. Maybe we should consider a hot tub instead. A small one, with plenty of space for two people, but not nearly enough room for three.”
“We could put it right there on the patio,” Donald said, pointing, “and soak in it on those long winter nights, making love as the snow comes down.”
Timmy squeezed Donald’s fingers. “Like we did on our honeymoon,” he said softly.
“Like we did on our honeymoon.”
They were quiet for a while, content. Suddenly, Timmy sat upright and scowled in disapproval. “That patio is so plain. It’s just a big, ugly concrete slab, isn’t it?”
“Timmy,” Donald said. He was all too familiar with that note of determination in his partner‘s voice.
“Before we even think about putting a hot tub on it, we’ll have to give it a face lift.”
“Timothy….”
“Just something simple to dress it up, like adding a border. Brick, maybe, or tile.”
“Dreaming’s one thing, but we’re overextended as it is. Major issues first, remember? We get the big stuff out of the way, then we’ll talk about tile borders and anything else you want to do to the back yard. We’re both on the same page here, right?” Donald nudged him. “Right?”
“Right,” Timmy agreed, giving Donald’s fingers another reassuring squeeze. But as he gazed across the yard, a speculative smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
* * * *
Soon the mercury level was on the rebound, of course, and Donald’s business was as well. He took on a couple of new cases, quick and easy jobs that didn’t pay much, but at least they paid. When he endorsed the checks and turned them over to Timmy, he said, “I don’t know about you, but I think these ought to go toward our air conditioning fund. When I break a sweat in the bedroom, I should do it because of all the wild and kinky stuff you’re doing to me, not because it feels like an oven in there.”
With a smile and a nod, Timmy agreed.
The next morning, Donald met with a prospective client, a prominent lawyer named Millsap, who wanted him to gather evidence supporting the defense of his client, an equally prominent and deeply closeted local businessman, who was currently on the slab for the attempted rape and aggravated assault of a much younger male employee. Normally, Donald wouldn’t have thought twice about taking on that kind of case. It’d give him a welcome break from working the cheating housewife circuit, and it paid -- holy shit, it paid -- more than his last five cases combined. He’d have to be a drooling idiot to turn it down.
Still, he waffled. He’d have to kick-start the investigation by leaving the next morning for the Bronx -- the Bronx, of all the ungodly places -- where the plaintiff had been hanging out in the aftermath of what Millsap referred to as “the alleged incident.“ The kid in question, Trent Roebuck, was a bona fide looker, no doubt about that, but his rep as an opportunist stretched across his young life like forty miles of bad road. Donald would spend the next week or two undercover, getting as close to Roebuck as he could without compromising his wedding vows, hopefully winning both his trust and an admission that the rape charges were a scam.
It wasn’t as if he and Timothy never spent a night apart. Both of their jobs required a certain amount of travel -- hazards of the trade, as Timmy would say. Still, neither of them exactly enjoyed the separation. As romantic a notion as three a.m. phone sex and falling asleep to the sound of your partner’s voice with your cell still pressed to your ear might be, it was no substitute for the real deal. And the photos of Roebuck’s fine-featured face and shaggy blond hair reminded Donald of someone else, someone whose very existence he’d been doggedly forcing himself to ignore. In spite of his firm non-thinking rule, Donald’s brain had kicked in and kicked in hard. As much as they needed the money, the thought of leaving Timmy in the hands of some elusive blond handyman for a week or more made him just a little bit queasy.
Queasy or not, the size of the check Millsap waved under Donald’s nose cast the deciding vote. As soon as he got home, he packed his suitcase -- or at least Timmy packed it for him, painstakingly folding shirts and trousers so they wouldn’t wrinkle, then tucking every pair of socks and shorts Donald owned into a duffel and throwing in a few of his own for good measure. After dinner, Timmy reached into the freezer, grinning, and pulled out something sweet on a stick -- banana this time -- then treated him to a bon voyage party neither of them would soon forget. But even as Donald watched Timmy lap a puddle of banana-flavored runoff out of his navel, images of the guy he’d secretly dubbed “Toilet Boy” kept running through his mind. That, and the look of surprise -- or could it have been guilt mixed with panic? -- on Timmy’s face when Donald caught him coming out of the shower.
Donald spent the next week and a half sweating, and not just because August in the Bronx was even more sticky and miserable than August in Albany. When he wasn’t flirting up that annoying little shit, Roebuck, he holed up in his rented room, sucking on an endless procession of freezer treats and wondering if Timmy missed him as much as he missed Timmy. The second Roebuck coughed up a confession, Donald turned in his key and made a beeline for home.
Normally, he would have called Timmy’s cell and given him a heads-up that he was on his way, but he decided to surprise him instead. Surprise a pretty-boy plumber, too, maybe. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Timmy, because he did. Timmy loved him. He knew that Timmy loved him, just sure as downtown Albany smells like sweaty socks in the summertime. If Timmy’s feelings for him ever changed, he‘d sense it in a heartbeat. Donald trusted his husband completely and absolutely, with his life and with his heart. But he also trusted his instincts. There was something going on, something he was pretty damned sure he didn’t like, and it was time to get to the bottom of it.
* * * *
“Strachey!” Crandall called before Donald had a chance to get his bags our of the car. “Hey, Strachey! I’ve got a bone to pick with you!”
Not again. Hefting the duffel over his shoulder with a sigh, he slammed the trunk shut and turned to face his neighbor. “Hey there, Mr. Crandall. Ever get that faucet fixed?”
“Drain pipe, Strachey. It was a drain pipe. And let me tell you, I had to shell out half my social security check to do it!”
It had been a long drive up I-87, with traffic creeping along at 45 mph or less between Newburgh and Kingston thanks to narrowed lanes and road construction. Donald was sweat-soaked and tired, and now the late afternoon sun beat down on his head, frying the few functioning brain cells he had left. Christ, it was way too hot for this. Making what he hoped would pass as a sympathetic noise, he began rolling his suitcase toward the front porch, where he could at least listen to the old boy’s tirade in the shade.
“Sorry to hear it,” he said, forcing himself to sound civil when he felt anything but. “We’re on a shoestring budget ourselves, and Timmy’s usually pretty thorough about screening the people we use and making sure they charge reasonable rates.“
“Maybe that’s so with the folks he hires, but the ones he recommends are a different matter.”
Donald turned to stare at him. “What are you talking about?”
“The guy who came to my house never worked for you, Strachey. According to him, he’s never even heard of you. And I’m telling you now, I don’t much like being jerked around like this. Not by some armed robber calling himself a plumber, and not by you and yours.”
“I don’t understand. Timmy gave me his name….“
“Sounds like your boyfriend’s jerking you around, too, if you ask me. This fella wasn’t the one I see messing around over at your place all the time. He was an old fart like me. Gray-haired with a big pot belly. Chain smokes, too, which I didn’t appreciate in my house. Louise, God rest her soul, would’ve rather died than had a cigarette stinking up her clean kitchen. Hell, I don’t imagine that boyfriend of yours woulda let him through the door, either, as fussy as he is.“
Something rose in Donald’s throat and refused to go down, no matter how hard he swallowed. “But the blond guy….”
“Huh. You just missed him. He and your boyfriend were messing around in the back yard most of the morning. I was trimming my back hedge and trying to keep a watch out, you know, just in case. But my eyes aren’t what they used to be and my damned binoculars got busted, so I couldn’t really tell what they were up to. They kept disappearing behind that old shed of yours, I know that much. About fifteen minutes before you got here, they hauled four or five boxes of stuff out to that red pickup.”
“Stuff? What kind of stuff?”
“How the hell should I know? I told you my binoculars are busted, didn’t I? I damn near threw my hip out again, getting around the side of my house in time to see him leave. Couldn’t catch much of the conversation -- my hearing’s not what it used to be, you know -- but he hugged that partner of yours hard as you please right there by the curb in front of God and everybody. Told him to call him Saturday if he was free.”
“He said what?” Donald asked, his mind spinning.
“Jesus, Strachey, folks’d think you’re the deaf one instead of me! He told your boyfriend he was looking forward to seeing him again, and when Tommy….“
“Timmy,“ Donald said firmly.
“When Timmy said he hardly ever knew when you’d be working and when you wouldn’t, Blondie said, ‘Be sure to call me Saturday morning if you’re free.‘ Then he drove away in that truck of his, music blaring fit to make your ears bleed. Some kinda longhair stuff.”
“Think hard, Mr. Crandall. Is there anything else you remember hearing?
“That’s all I know and more than I should be passing on. You know damned good and well I mind my own business and don’t pry into other people’s affairs,” Crandall concluded, putting a spin on the word “affairs” that made Donald long to wring his scrawny neck.
“Spit it out,” Donald ground out through teeth clenched so tight it made his jaw ached. “What are you trying to say?”
“A word to the wise, Strachey. That young fella’s working on a helluva lot more than plumbing, if you ask me. Working on your boyfriend’s own personal plumbing, maybe.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Timmy would never lie to me. And Timmy wouldn’t…Timmy would never….”
“Right. And you make your living off a bunch of poor dopes who say the same thing until you prove ‘em wrong. Take it from me, sonny boy. There’s no such thing as never.”
* * * *
Donald stood on the front porch for a long time after Crandall left, gripping the white railing for support as his gut clenched even harder than his teeth. Sweat trickled down his back and soaked his pits, leaving wide, wet patches on his blue button-down shirt. He knew he should go inside and start asking questions, talk this thing through with Timmy until they were both hoarse and exhausted and whatever was going on here made some kind of sense. But he was overheated and pissed off and about half a step away from freaking out, and he knew his communication skills went all to hell when he upset. He needed to calm the hell down and get the facts straight before he started hurling a bunch of wild accusations at what he knew -- knew -- was an innocent man.
Evidence. That’s what he needed. Evidence. Gathering it was what he did all day, every day, and there was no reason he shouldn’t treat this case like any other mystery he had to solve. Time to stop carrying on like a suspicious husband and act like a pro.
Once the pain in his belly settled into a dull ache that wasn’t going anywhere for a while, he left his luggage on the front steps and walked around the side of the house, into the sanctuary of their back yard. He wasn’t sure what clues he hoped to find back there, but it seemed a logical place to start. His eyes took their good, sweet time making the adjustment from glaring sun to soft shade, and at first, everything seemed to be exactly the same as it had been before he’d left town. Then he spotted the elegant blue, green and tan mosaic patio border, and his brain started racing like a hamster on a well-oiled wheel.
His first reaction was a rush of relief. Overwhelming, almost giddy relief.
But as he took in the finally detailed pattern, assessed the time and craftsmanship and completely unjustifiable expense it would take to produce something as unique and beautifully executed as that, the relief morphed into fury. They’d talked about this, damn it, agreed that landscaping aesthetics needed to go on the back burner until the necessities were taken care of. Yet the second his back was turned, Timmy’d gone right ahead and….
The storm door swung open and Watson barreled toward him, yelping a welcome, with Timmy hot on his heels. “You’re home! Why didn’t you let me know you were coming home!” Familiar arms enveloped him in an enthusiastic hug and refused to let go for a very long time. “I’ve missed you,” Timmy murmured. “It’s so good to have you back.”
At first, Donald just stood there, stiff and unyielding in his husband’s embrace. Then the warmth and absolute sincerity in Timmy’s voice penetrated the layers of anger and doubt, and Donald caved. He returned the hug as hard as he dared, pressing his sweaty face against the cologne-scented haven that was Timmy’s neck. “I missed you, too,” he said, his voice not quite breaking.
Timmy pulled back enough to look at him. “Donald?”
“I’m all right,” Donald said, pressing his face against Timmy’s neck once more. “I‘m just really hot and really tired. Don’t look so worried, okay? I’ll always be all right as long as I have you to come home to.”
“Are you sure?” Timmy asked.
Donald had never been more sure of anything in his entire life.
* * * *
Forty-five minutes later, they were lounging on the revamped patio in lawn chairs, sipping ice-cold martinis. While Timmy unpacked his luggage and mixed the drinks, Donald had showered and changed into a clean wifebeater and cut-offs, and he felt fresher and more determinedly relaxed than he had in half a month. It felt good to just hang out there in the shade with Timmy, watching the light breeze ruffle a renegade strand of his soft, dark hair. This was his life, he told himself. This was the only part of it that mattered. Being with Timmy, spending down time with him, loving him and being loved. Why had he let Crandall get to him the way he had? Okay, so Toilet Boy only appeared on the scene when he was away, and okay, there had been some mix-up concerning the plumber, but that was just a coincidence, wasn’t it? Nothing to get in a twist about, and nothing that should make him suspicious of Timmy, his beautiful Timmy, who was without a doubt the best thing that had ever happened to him.
From time to time, Donald caught a glimpse of old man Crandall peeping at them over the top of his hedge. He deliberately caught Timmy’s hand and raised it to his lips, then settled it against his chest, where he cradled it gently. With a pleased smile, Timmy leaned over for an affectionate peck, then settled in as close as their chair arms allowed and asked about Donald’s trip. Between long pulls on his drink, Donald filled him in. He knew Timmy enjoyed hearing about his cases, loved being privy to any and all parts of his life. He usually went out of his way to make a good story out of it, but that evening his mind just wasn’t on the case.
Timmy looked good enough to eat in his mint green polo and khaki shorts, and in spite of his utter physical and emotional exhaustion, Donald was having a hell of a time keeping his hands to himself. His feet, too, for that matter. Giving in to temptation, he trailed a bare foot down hairy, lightly muscled calves and pried Timmy’s soft moccasins off one by one with his big toe. Once Timmy’s feet were bare, Donald tickled them with his own as Timmy laughed and twitched and begged for mercy. It wasn’t as if Donald had him trapped. He could have shifted positions at any time, moved those longer legs of his so his feet would be out of Donald’s range. But he didn’t. In all the years they’d been together, he’d never pulled away from Donald, not even once. And in spite of all the gut-wrenching waves of insecurity that had been sweeping over him that summer, Donald knew that he never would.
At last, Donald relented and turned the tickle into a caress, then tangled their toes together. “Always did like playing footsie with you,” he said.
“So I see. Happy now that you‘ve gotten that out of your system?” Timmy asked, still sounding a little breathless.
“I’m with you, aren’t I?”
“I was worried about you earlier. You seemed to be in such an odd mood when you first got here.”
“I was just in a pissy mood from spending half the day stuck in traffic on the thruway. I’m over it now, so let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?”
“Okay. I still wish you’d let me know you were coming, though. I would have fixed something special for your welcome home dinner. There are ribeyes in the freezer, but they’ll take half the night to thaw. I didn’t see much point in stocking up on groceries when you weren’t going to be here, so there’s not much else to eat except some leftover chicken salad and that fruit compote you like. And eggs and cheese, of course, and a few fresh tomatoes on the windowsill. We could always make omelets if you’d prefer something warm.”
“You get whatever you want, honey. I’m not really hungry.”
“But you’re always hungry,” Timmy said, instantly on the alert.
“I’m feeling kinda off tonight. Between the heat and the aggravation, my stomach’s been acting sort of dicey. I don’t think putting food in it would be the best idea right now.”
“So you’re pouring alcohol into it instead?”
“Strictly for medicinal purposes. Your martinis always cure what ails me, as my old man used to say as he killed off a fifth.”
“Hmmm. I don’t know about that, but if you drink enough of them, you’ll definitely forget what was wrong with you in the first place.”
Donald drained his glass and captured Timmy’s hand again, then closed his eyes, yawning. He was starting to nod off when Timmy asked, “Did you notice anything different out here, by any chance?”
Donald’s pried one eye open, then closed it again. “I noticed.”
“You don’t like it,” Timmy said, sounding oddly hurt.
Donald sighed. Apparently, the discussion he’d been hoping to avoid wasn’t going to wait for another night. “It’s not that I don’t like it, Timothy.”
“Well, good. I thought the person who laid the tiles did a rather nice job.”
“Too nice. That’s the problem. Work like this doesn’t come cheap. Considering the situation we’re in, juggling the mortgage and all the repairs we’re looking at, we don’t need to be shelling out this kind of cash right now, especially since we agreed the cosmetic stuff should wait. Jesus, Timmy, this house needs major surgery just to stay alive, and you blew all our savings on a nose job!”
“I didn’t blow our savings,” Timmy said, looking stricken. “Adding the border wasn‘t nearly as expensive as you might think. The materials cost little of nothing, and the labor….”
“The labor had to cost two grand at least!”
“I would never spend that kind of money without talking to you first. The cost of this project was negligible.”
Donald snorted. “Contractors don’t work for negligible wages, Timothy. Allison and Bobbie Jo….”
“Allison and Bobbie Jo didn’t do this,” Timmy said quietly.
“Then who did?”
“Just….”
“Just what?”
“Just a handyman.”
“The same one who fixed our toilet?”
“Yes.”
“But not the one you recommended to Crandall?”
Timmy’s reply was barely audible. “No.”
“Exactly who is that little blond shit, anyway? Crandall says he had his hands all over you in the middle of the front yard earlier today. All I’ve ever seen of him is the tailgate of his truck as he drives away, yet he’s been hanging around here for weeks, apparently. How weird is that? How well do you know this guy, anyway?”
For a few seconds, Timmy just sat there blinking at him, looking for all the world like someone who had fallen behind in a race for his life and had no idea how he was ever going to catch up. “I only met him recently, but we’re becoming friends,” he said at last. “We come from very different worlds, but he seems to think we have a lot in common….”
“I bet he does,” Donald said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And he does all this stuff for free, out of the kindness of his….”
Before Donald could finish, Timmy was gone, sprinting inside the house and back out again before the storm door had a chance to ease closed. He tossed two booklets into Donald’s lap. “The man who’s been doing odd jobs around here isn’t a professional contractor, Don. He’s just someone with time on his hands who likes to keep busy and help people out when he has the chance. Apart from buying materials and paying Allison for the work she and Bobby Jo did in the laundry room, I haven’t spent a dime on this house in weeks. Take a look at our checkbook and savings account ledger if you don’t believe me.”
Donald’s hands wavered over the booklets, not quite touching them. Then he was out of the chair and reaching for Timmy, pulling him close and squeezing hard. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve had a really shitty day. I hate this rotten weather and the pileups on the thruway and Crandall always sticking his nose in our business and this fucking renovation that’s never, ever going to end. Most of all, I hate it when I have to be away from you. You don‘t have to prove anything to me. I believe you.”
Long, soothing fingers found their way into his hair, and Timmy’s lips brushed his cheek. “It’s okay, baby. I’m sorry you had such a bad day.”
“I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. It’s just that nothing’s ever really for free, Timmy. You say this guy…this guy I’ve never even met…is doing all this work without expecting some sort of payoff, but I don’t buy it. I know I’m a suspicious bastard and a total asshole, but I can’t help it. That’s not the way the world works. Nobody thinks that way anymore. Nobody but you, at least.”
“Don, there’s something….” Timmy began, but Donald cut him off with a kiss, hard and a little bit frantic, followed by another and another, each one deeper and more insistent, until there was nothing left to do, nothing either of them could possibly do, but stumble inside and up the stairs, clinging together wordlessly. Their lovemaking was always intense, and after they’d been apart for a while, it was always more so. But that night there was something different about it, something raw and desperate and needy. It served as a catharsis of sorts, and as they lay together in the aftermath, bathed in sweat and thoroughly exhausted, Donald realized it was the most effort he’d put into anything since mid-May when the temperature first topped 80. He’d marked his territory, re-staked his claim, and he felt pretty goddamned good about it.
“That was absolutely incredible,” Timmy told him. “I thought you said you were feeling a little off tonight.”
“I seem to be back on again,” Donald admitted .
Long after Timmy had fallen asleep, still cradled possessively against his chest in spite of the heat, Donald lay awake, his mind gong around and around like the ice cream truck on its afternoon circuit through the neighborhood, playing “Turkey in the Straw” in an endless loop. Clearly, his non-thinking days had come to an end.
What he’d tried to tell Crandall was simple fact -- Timmy didn’t cheat. Period. It just wasn’t his nature. And he sure as hell didn’t lie. He never lied, not even when it would be safer than telling the truth, smarter, or more polite. Over the years, Donald had come to the conclusion that Timmy was physically incapable of it, the way some people were incapable of wiggling their ears, curling their tongues, or rolling their Rs when they tried to speak Spanish. And he certainly wasn’t stupid. Far from it. But even after all those years in politics, after all those years of being shown bits and pieces of the seamier side of the world through Donald’s eyes, he still had a sense of innocence about him, an unquestioning trust that left the door wide open for other people’s deceit.
Donald wasn’t sure what Toilet Boy wanted from Timmy, but he had a pretty good idea, and the more he thought about it, the more pissed off he got. The situation was bound to come to a head soon, and if it didn’t, he might just have to give it a little push.
Part Two