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He did have the good grace to look a bit discomfited for a millisecond. “Be that as it may, I will say that I find it odd that you are not willing to enjoy the company of a rather outgoing and attractive man while he is lodging here.”
“Barnaby, you know that my vision—”
“Is perhaps an excuse you are using to keep yourself from deep emotional ties just like your father did?” I gaped at the man. “Perhaps I stepped out of bounds?”
“No, no, of course not. You are more brother to me than servant, and well you know it.”
He nodded. “Perhaps an uncle would be more fitting?”
I had to smile, just a little. “Yes, an old uncle. Great-uncle perhaps.” His brow furrowed. “With much wisdom to share. Thank you for the coffee. And the sage words. I will think about them.”
“Very good. Everyone here at the winery just wants to see you happy, sir. And we think Mr. Greco is a very jocular sort, a perfect one to make you smile despite the hardships that you carry.”
I nodded, unsure of what I might say in return, and with that, Barnaby withdrew to check on my breakfast. He knew me well, knew my father too, and how we were both men who needed much room and time to lower walls to let others in. Perhaps I was hiding behind my medical situation in order to avoid connecting with someone and then, as generally happens in life, losing them. I dropped another cube into my coffee, fished it back out, and let it melt on my tongue as I pondered on how we were more like our parents than we realized, or sometimes wished to realize.
***
The city council meeting went as I had assumed it would.
Several were for the Pride Wine Tours proposal, a few were silent—one being the mayor, who I assumed was waiting to see which way the wind blew with the others—and two were violently against it. While the Vonsall twins, the same old coots that sat on the church board and made the lives of all liberally minded folks as hellacious as they could, preached that a homosexual wine tour was not the kind of public relations tact the city should be investing in. Thankfully, the majority voted to look into it further as long as I was willing to foot the bill for the looking into. With a grimace, I had agreed. While I was well off, my funds were not limitless. Still, adding a tour for the LGBTQ customers and the people who flowed into the area in the summer would be a boon, of that I was sure. Coupled with the project to have the paddleboat ferry customers to my new dock to be taken to the winery for tasting and events, all the money flowing out should, over a few years, be doubled in sales. I hoped.
My uncle in France would be vehemently against such depraved things. He and the Vonsall twins were hateful prigs cut from the same bigoted, dour cloth. Which was why I only spoke to him when it was necessary. The bi-yearly stock meetings were enough. I loved flying home, but I hated spending my time in Paris—a city that I adored—with him and my equally dismal cousins.
As I rode in the back of the Mercedes with my dark glasses on and my mind a few miles away, I pondered on what a joy it would be to take Philip to Paris, then to Amboise, the small home where I had grown up. I’d not been there for years. The loneliness of the stone-and-timber château was just too crippling. But now that Philip was in my life, perhaps the trip would be—
I choked on my own spittle when I realized where my thoughts had gone. Barnaby glanced at me in the rearview mirror as I hacked and coughed.
“Are you well, sir?” he asked as we neared my church.
“Yes, quite,” I gasped, my eyes watering while my heart thudded in my chest. “Pull into the church. I have the need to speak with Pastor Gabriel,” I wheezed and then removed my glasses to dab at my damp eyes, “about the council meeting.”
“Of course,” Barnaby replied, flipping on the turn signal and easing off the road into the newly paved parking lot of the Open Arms Tabernacle. The flowers in the front beds were looking a little wilted and leggy as they hugged a large sign proclaiming the final week of VBS as being all about Joseph and his journey from prison to palace.
“Damn,” I muttered under my breath. I’d been so shaken from that silly daydream of Philip and me strolling down the Loire hand-in-hand that I’d totally forgotten that the church would be filled with little ones. Perhaps I could lure Gabriel away if Faith, the assistant pastor, was present. It was worth a try as my hands were still shaking. “Pull around back. You may wait with the children in the new annex if you wish.”
“I’ll be fine, sir. I have season five of The Nanny downloaded on my phone. I’ll simply stroll over to the parsonage and enjoy the gardens.”
“Perfect, thank you.” I gave him a wobbly smile, nearly jumped out the back door, and hustled into the church to enjoy the cool, dark, and welcoming aroma of lemon furniture polish. The sound of children singing “Joseph’s Pretty Coat” made me smile as I removed my dark glasses and peeked into the new addition. Faith was here, I was happy to see, as was Gabriel. His boyfriend DJ was in attendance along with his son, Clifford, who had grown at least a foot since I had last seen him.
Gabriel looked up to see me, smiled, and excused himself. He gave Deandre a quick peck on top of his head. I nodded at the Gladiator and slipped into the church proper.
Gabe sat down beside me in one of the wooden pews, looking proper as a head deacon with a modern mindset should look. Black short-sleeved shirt, white collar, and black jeans. He was wearing yellow Nikes, which made me smile in spite of myself. Around his neck hung his ever present cross. I sat back, rubbed my eyes, and then stared at the heavy wooden cross over the pulpit as the morning sun shone through the stained glass window.
“It’s always so serene here,” I said to Gabe, who merely nodded. The children began singing another song, this one about Joseph the Dreamer. The voices were muted so speaking was possible without being drowned out by the enthusiastic young parishioners.
“I find it so,” he finally said, shifting on the pew to rest his spine against the hard wood back. “Even if I can hear my boyfriend’s offkey voice.”
“He has a vibrant and strong singing voice,” I offered, which made the man of God chuckle.
“That is quite gracious of you,” he said, tipping his head to study me, the thick curls he wore slipping down into his face. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss Deandre’s vocal talents. You look distressed. Did the city council meeting go badly?”
“It went as we expected. A few dissenters. However, they will find themselves being outvoted, I am sure, especially when I present the town with the projected increase in revenue that our small businesses will be enjoying.”
“Ah, yes, the almighty dollar tends to silence those who object to new ideas.” He sighed as he too had had his times with the intolerant fools in our county. “So if not the meeting then what—”
He never got to finish his sentence because I began purging all over the poor man. It was the worst case of verbal vomit I had ever engaged in. All my fears, hurts, worries, and concerns flowed out of me in a tsunami that, had it been water and not words, would have washed the pews out into the front lawn.
“…holding hands as we visited Château de Clos Lucé while I explained how Da Vinci was invited to reside in Ambroise to be given a title and a home to reside in,” I explained, my vocal cords dry from the deluge of words and emotions. “As if he would wish to stroll about with a man he had to lead about like a small child.”
