Christmas on the Island Read online

  ‘But where . . . ?’

  ‘You can eat in the Harbour’s Rest,’ said Flora, knowing full well that Inge-Britt rarely got around to breakfast for another half an hour, and not caring in the slightest. She was white with anger.

  ‘I mean, a man can’t say a thing these days.’

  ‘You can,’ said Flora coldly. ‘You can say whatever you want. Just not in my establishment.’

  ‘Jeez,’ said Tripp, muttering something under his breath that sounded a lot like it began with a ‘b’ and heaving his large body from the chair. He turned to leave and Flora was momentarily annoyed that she wasn’t going to find out what the hell was actually going on. But rather less annoyed at that than she was at anyone who would come in and be rude about her brother. That was her job.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tripp was in an even worse mood after a frankly rather indigestible breakfast peeled off Inge-Britt’s dirty grill. He went outside, stretched, ignored completely the beautiful pink of the fresh morning: yesterday’s fog had cleared and there was a glorious vista in front of his eyes: the harbour to his right; the clear pale water stretching across to the mainland, so far away; the early ferry bringing people and supplies, reversing in carefully through churning water down at the little dock.

  All Tripp could think of was how weird it was going to be, seeing his brother for the first time in twenty years. He could still kick his ass though.

  He was going to pull a number on him about visiting his parents. They were still at home, but only just. His pa spent the whole day watching Fox and screaming conspiracy theories at anyone who would stay long enough to listen. He needed help; his legs were shot now.

  The cute girl in the hotel – it was a dirty hotel, but she was pretty hot – had told him just to follow the upper road to the top of the island. He’d asked if he could get lost and she’d looked at him like she didn’t understand the question. So he got up in the cab of the SUV and was halfway out of town before he realised that he was driving on the wrong side of the road and that’s why everyone was flashing their lights at him. He was in a thoroughly bad mood by the time he got to Colton’s gates at the Manse, and even crosser when he had to get out of his warm truck and into a piercing north wind to lean down at the gate’s microphone, announce himself to someone and show his face to the camera. He was his brother, for Chrissakes, not some burglar that had come all the way to this hellhole to rob it.

  The gates cleanly and quietly opened ahead of him and he started up the magnificent driveway, getting crosser all the time at the manicured gravel, the pruned bushes leading up the way, a deer that scampered across his path, and was that a peacock?

  Finally Tripp approached the beautiful old stone house and saw the lavish updates – the beautiful stained-glass greenhouse extension now housing a gym and pool complex; conifer shrubs lined up in neat rows at the window boxes; behind the house itself a perfect lawn leading right to the beach edge; every front window facing directly over the sea; then, to the side, the town and the harbour and what looked to be a hotel. Probably the one mentioned.

  Anyway, by the looks of things, the reason Colton was withdrawing from everything wasn’t because he’d lost all his money, which was something. There was a large garage, one door ajar, through which he could see several cars gleaming, including a huge Range Rover. A gardener was carefully working the lawns.

  Nervous now, Tripp blew steam out of his mouth and stepped forward to the huge black-painted front door. As he did so, it was opened silently by a woman wearing a black and white dress, who smiled politely and ushered him into the huge kitchen which, in contrast to the perfect period exterior, was a futuristic professional space, with two ovens, a sub-zero fridge, a dining table for twelve and, sitting at a separate breakfast bar, an unsmiling Fintan.

  * * *

  Fintan stood up. He was also nervous: Tripp was a big man. Colton had literally never ever mentioned him except to say how he wasn’t having his family at his wedding, and that they had never accepted his sexuality.

  But since the name had come up, all through the night, Colton had been restless, stirring, wanting to engage with the world. Before, he’d been turning his head to the wall. Now. This was something new.

  Fintan hadn’t the remotest idea whether he was doing the right thing; whether it wasn’t cruel to agitate Colton like this, just so he, Fintan, could reach into his world one last time; could spend just a few more moments with the person he loved more than anyone in the world.

  He made a mental note to talk to Saif about it sometime. The reticent doctor had become a great source of comfort to Fintan in these times: he didn’t spout platitudes – perhaps did not even know them – and was never anything but honest and direct. It was a rare gift.

  This, though. This he was handling on his own. Flora had texted with just three words – DICKWAD ON APPROACH – when she’d noticed that Tripp’s car had disappeared from where it was blocking the light to the Seaside Kitchen, hideously parked on the harbour front in the entirely selfish but unfortunately correct assumption that Mure didn’t have someone busy enforcing traffic laws.

  In the weak winter sunlight, the pale grey of Tripp’s eyes reminded Fintan of his brother, but that was the only point of similarity he could see. He took a deep breath.

  ‘You want to see Colton?’

  Tripp shrugged.

  ‘He’s my brother.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. Do you know who I am?’

  And, after a split second, Tripp did know.

  ‘You’re his . . .’

  He couldn’t say ‘boyfriend’. People just didn’t talk like that in Coppell, Texas. I mean, the idea of it. There was a gay bar in Austin, but they were all like that up there.

  Tripp turned bright red. He’d never said the phrase before but he’d heard it on TV.

  ‘Are you his . . . partner?’

  It came out like ‘pardner’, and sounded so cowboy Fintan almost giggled. He couldn’t be more different to his brother, not really. This next bit was going to be rather fun.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m his husband.’

  Indeed, Tripp’s face was so comical, Fintan felt ashamed of himself. The man’s mouth actually fell open, for goodness’ sake.

  ‘Uh, okay,’ Tripp muttered. ‘Right.’

  Inside, Tripp was raging. What did this mean for them then, Colton’s blood family? I mean, it couldn’t be a real marriage, could it? They couldn’t be husband and husband. They weren’t going to have kids or anything. Or were they? He looked around for evidence of any kids’ stuff around.

  ‘So I take it you haven’t seen Colton for a while?’ said Fintan. ‘It was good of you to come,’ he added grudgingly.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Tripp. He hadn’t considered that anyone would think that at all. He just wanted to have it out with Colton, make sure Mom and Pop were looked after . . . and, by extension, himself of course. ‘Well, we’ll sure have to see about that.’

  ‘Well . . . you know . . .’ said Fintan.

  Tripp frowned. ‘Know what?’

  Fintan blinked. He’d assumed, of course, that Tripp had heard and had come to say goodbye. But it was becoming increasingly obvious that that wasn’t the case. Well, if he hadn’t known Colton was married . . .

  Oh Lord.

  ‘Tripp, would you like to sit down? Glass of water?’

  ‘I’d just like to see my brother please.’

  ‘Seriously. Sit down.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fintan laid it out as plainly and dispassionately as he could, which wasn’t very. It was never going to get easier, he knew. There was never going to be a morning, however beautiful. However lovely the room he woke up in; however gorgeous the view. He found it hard to get to sleep anyway. If he slept in Colton’s room, there was the beeping of medical equipment and a nurse coming in every two hours, and he started awake every time Colton breathed strangely or turned over or made any sort of noise.

  But sleeping al
one in another part of the huge house was as lonely a place as Fintan had ever been. The bed was too big; the thick carpet too quiet. He got restless, and paced.

  Secretly, he would really have loved to have gone home, slept back in the farmhouse, had Flora and Innes and Hamish close by, his dad, Bramble coiled up snuffling by the stove, lost in dreams of being a pup, and so he snuck down whenever he could.

  But otherwise this was his vigil; he would stand watch. Until the end. The beautiful house was his prison, and he was his own guard.

  * * *

  He didn’t say any of this to the large American man sitting staring around the kitchen in disbelief. Tripp had taken off his basketball cap but didn’t seem to know what to do with it, so he kept putting it down and picking it back up again.

  ‘But he can’t be ill,’ he said, then twisted the cap around his fingers. ‘Jeez,’ he said. Then he blinked.

  ‘I mean, he never even told Mom . . .’

  His voice turned quieter.

  ‘He must have really hated us, huh?’

  Fintan shrugged.

  ‘Honestly, he never speaks about you at all.’

  Tripp blinked again.

  ‘Ha. That’s kinda worse.’

  ‘What happened?’ said Fintan. ‘What happened in the family?’

  ‘Oh jeez, it was a long time ago,’ said Tripp. He squirmed. ‘Actually, can I get a cup of coffee?’

  Fintan moved over to the machine.

  ‘I mean, you know. There just . . . there weren’t a lot of boys like Colton when I was growing up.’

  ‘Maybe you weren’t looking hard enough,’ said Fintan.

  ‘Sure,’ said Tripp. ‘But that’s a long time ago . . .’

  His face was pained.

  ‘I think . . . I think Mom would have liked to have seen him again. You know he never once came home? Never gave anyone a chance to . . . apologise.’

  ‘What was your father like?’

  ‘To me, great. To Colton . . . well. They never did quite see eye to eye.’

  Fintan left a silence.

  ‘He wasn’t . . . I guess he wasn’t quite what Dad had in mind for a son.’

  ‘But you were?’

  Tripp frowned.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think I need the third degree off of you.’

  ‘Your brother-in-law.’

  Under different circumstances, Tripp’s face would have been, once again, pretty funny.

  Fintan stood up. ‘I’m going to talk to him. Stay here please.’

  * * *

  It was different today. Most mornings, Fintan would sit and cuddle and cajole Colton into squeezing his hand, or would talk about local news and gossip as if Colton could understand him, whether he could or not, and Colton would drift in and out.

  This morning, Colton was lying on his back, not his side, and his hands were clenched; his entire body, wizened as it was, gave off a tension.

  And as soon as Fintan came through the door, the first thing Colton did was mutter, ‘Is that son of a bitch here?’

  For Colton to speak first was a very rare thing these days. And it gave Fintan so much pleasure to pretend, just for a moment, that his boy was back.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fintan, sitting down on the bed and kissing Colton on the head.

  ‘How does he look?’

  ‘Fat.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with being fat,’ chided Fintan just as he would have done. Before. ‘He looks a hell of a lot better than you.’

  ‘Does he really?’

  ‘No.’

  Colton sniffed. ‘Can you help me put a clean shirt on?’

  Fintan picked out a faded blue chambray he’d always loved: it matched Colton’s eyes perfectly. He was gentle, aware of Colton’s paper-thin skin: his fingers sank into it; he could make out the veins beneath it.

  ‘Goddamn,’ was the only thing Colton said. The shirt hung off him. ‘Can I have cologne too? I smell sick.’

  It was true; Colton smelled of disinfectant and medicine. It wasn’t his fault. Fintan went and retrieved the Marc Jacobs scent he’d always loved, now stowed in Colton’s bathroom; Fintan, personally, couldn’t bear to smell it anywhere near him. Not these days.

  ‘Okay, how do I look?’ said Colton after Fintan had raised the hospital bed so he was more or less properly sitting up and, as an afterthought, had found a pair of Colton’s beloved white trainers. It had been an extremely long time since Colton had actually worn shoes.

  ‘Death warmed up,’ said Fintan, knowing it would make him smile. Saif had been by earlier, and Fintan had made it clear that the more alert Colton could be that day the better. Of course, that also meant more pain, and Colton tried not to wince. Even if he’d had nothing wrong with him, being that thin would make sitting up painful for anyone.

  ‘Do you want some make-up on?’ said Fintan.

  ‘Oh God, can you imagine?’ said Colton. ‘“My brother, fairy to the end”.’

  And the jolt it gave Fintan – the joy of hearing Colt make a joke, make conversation, be with him in the moment – it was bliss; a moment stolen, even as Colton winced in the bed and Fintan had to pretend not to notice it; had to try not to see what this was costing him.

  ‘You ready?’

  Colton nodded.

  ‘Also, do you want me to kick him in the fanny at any point?’

  ‘Fanny means “ass”, right?’

  ‘No,’ said Fintan, and Colton smiled through cracked lips, and Fintan came close and smeared them with Vaseline, then rubbed it off so it didn’t look too weird. Then he kissed him and smelled the aftershave and felt a very odd sensation of wanting to cry and have sex all at once; and didn’t pull away until Colton winced again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tripp couldn’t help but stare. He had never been in such an incredible house in his life. It was just beautiful: the huge open spaces of the kitchen, with massive windows at the back looking out over the immaculate, frosted lawn, as a deer bounded and flickered down the lower path, startling a squirrel in the small stunted tree. And the view: the sky was vast above, a bright, freezing blue; the sea all the colours at once. This was not the kind of thing Tripp normally noticed, day to day. He noticed if it was hot again; he noticed when Denny’s changed their menus, and when the Cowboys were playing.

  Something like this though – Tripp had been to Cancun and Toronto and had considered himself pretty well travelled. But this was as far away as he’d ever been. The vista outside looked like something from a children’s book, but the perfect insulation of the house meant you felt utterly enclosed and cosy, even as you looked out at the cold world beyond. It was . . . well. It was different, Tripp allowed.

  He suddenly remembered his brother as a child; he must have been eight or so. An uncle whom Tripp’s father had not had much time for had given Colt a gift: a circuitry set. You had to connect up all the wires and build lights and small motors. Tripp had gotten one too, but he hadn’t had enough patience to work it and had ended up kicking it to bits all over the room they shared. Then Colt had managed to get his working – you could press buttons and have a buzzer and a light turn on – but had managed to do something extra to it as well, which meant it rotated Janey’s little ballerina, the one she had on her jewellery box. He’d simply borrowed it and managed to make it turn on the circuitry board. He was showing it to his mother, who was more interested in her magazine, and their father had come in and hollered at him for playing with a doll.

  He remembered his jealousy of his younger brother’s achievement, and then the harsh, visceral pleasure he’d taken in his father’s utter disregard. Colton’s face had been utterly crushed. He’d gone back to their room, whereupon Tripp had attempted to figure out how Colt had put it together, had been unable to do so and finally, in a fit of frustration, had kicked the entire thing to bits.

  Colt didn’t tell their parents. Hadn’t even mentioned the circuit box ever again, not even when Uncle H
owie had come over and his father was, as usual, ragging on him because he didn’t like sports.

  He didn’t know why he was remembering that right then.

  The hallway was carpeted and silent as he trod through it, feeling his caterpillar boots were out of place somehow. Fintan had come to fetch him, and was walking ahead rather than beside him. Tripp felt a sudden burst of fury about the uppity faggot but tried to damp it down. A calm head was needed if he, Tripp Rogers, was going to come out of this on top. And coming out on top was very much what he was used to doing, as both his ex-wives had found out to their cost.

  He’d read profiles of Colton in later years – obsessively – even set up a Google alert for him. Some strange form of masochism, or partly pride. Nobody at home ever mentioned him; people in town knew better than to bring up the Rogers boy who’d vanished and made good. Not people who knew what was good for them anyway. And Rogers was a common enough name that people arriving in town for the first time or coming to the lot weren’t likely to make the connection.

  So it was just Tripp, reading business acquisition news he didn’t understand, or profiles about the ‘mysterious billionaire’, which made him sound like Batman. He read a piece on his plane in an odd sterile rich man’s magazine. But he’d never quite managed to square the rangy, heroic-looking figure in the profiles with the irritating kid brother he remembered . . . he felt himself getting defensive. It was just what brothers did. Brothers fought. That was how it was. Things were different then. Colt had taken everything too seriously, as he always did. He was over-sensitive. It was all normal.

  Nevertheless, he took a deep breath when he got to the stout oak-framed door at the end of the corridor.

  ‘Are you ready?’ said Fintan, turning back. His tone was flat.

  ‘Sure,’ said Tripp in a tone as far away from how he really felt as he could muster.

  But he wasn’t at all prepared for what was waiting for him behind that door.