Page 116 of By Any Means

“No, you shan’t,” Chary protested. “I haven’t attended Columbia, but I can certainly write my own sp…” And then realized he’d been quite set up as Laurie laughed into his shoulder. “You menace.”

“You’ve been writing that speech your whole life. You could do it straight from that brain of yours.”

Chary sighed. “But it is a lot at once. Two weeks…”

“It’s just perfect for a deadline,” Laurie said, in the tone of a man who knew the stimulus a deadline could induce—and who also knew Chary’s tendencies. “D’you want further incentive?”

“Mm?”

“We’ll be back in time for Christmas. In Maine.”

Chary sat up straighter. “Christmas… in Maine?” He twisted around. “Is this something you had planned or something you are suggesting to me now?”

“I can’t lie to you. It was supposed to be a surprise for at least another week, but I thought with that unexpected thing”—he pointed to the letter—“I’d better fess up to this one.”

Because he loved him. Because he knew Chary was now—since Raberding—more easily unsettled by sudden change or surprises. He would have prepared to tell him weeks in advance.

“But,” Chary said, hesitantly hopeful, “the house has been shut up for more than a year?”

August didn’t live there anymore either. The man who had once declared Maine akin to house arrest now lived half-feral with Brasher—and the occasional “undercover” Mr. Sumner, he supposed—within the wooded acreage Chary had signed over to him. He remained legally dead, working as the foreman for the blueberry acres under a pseudonym, taking the place of the indeed corrupt and eventually ousted Mr. Herbert. Whether penance, preference, or necessity due to the blueberries, Chary hadn’t asked. He was safe now, and that was what mattered. That and he visited New York quite a lot.

“Mrs. Leonard came through once more. Found me a service that does setup for vacationers. Furniture covers off, Christmas tree up, that sort of thing. I think she maybe felt badly about being taken in by Sarah.”

“Oh, dear.” Chary bit his lip. Vacationers.

Laurie’s gaze dropped to his mouth. “That don’t mean she did it for free. Not at all. Massive finder’s fee.”

Chary swallowed. “I knew that wasn’t the case.”

“But,” Laurie went on, “she said that even with full-time occupancy, live-in domestics are rather out of style. Not that we could afford it,” he teased.

“Full-time?” Chary whispered. We?

Laurie put his thumb lightly on Chary’s Adam’s apple. “So, there’ll be Mrs. Simon on Mondays and Thursdays.” He grinned. “Thank God for her, honestly. A maid once a week. A real one. A handyman on call in case your brother’s busy and the chimney falls over. Laundry sent to a service, ‘like the big city’, she said. The rest of it… we’ll be on our own.”

“Laurie.” Chary was going to cry.

“Yeah?” Laurie said playfully. There was a smile in his voice, though Chary couldn’t see it for tears. He let Laurie’s hand around his jaw lead him closer, closer, and felt his way through the small, hot space between their lips ’til less than a breath remained; there he halted.

“You can’t,” he whispered.

“Why not? I’m so proud of you,” Laurie whispered back. “I love you. I want you to be happy. At peace. You love that house. The willows. The greenhouse. The glass furnace.”

“I love you,” Chary protested, “and want you to be happy. And so, I cannot ask you to give up all of Manhattan.”

Laurie drew back. He raised an eyebrow, set his pretty, stubborn jaw. “That’s just it, Chary. You wouldn’t have asked—until it would’ve almost broken you. C’mon.”

“No,” Chary said softly. “You’re right.”

“Mm-hmm.” Laurie leaned back in, chin tilting, expression dreamy and relaxed. “And while I like you very, very desperate for certain delicious breaking points”—Chary flushed—“this one’s not for playing with. Nothing has to break to keep me at your side.” He kissed Chary once, a sweet peck. “New York is just ways and means. This apartment’s just convenient. I’m not in love with it.” He kissed him again, head tilted the other way. “I can write my novels from anywhere.” And again. “It’s been long enough, Chary Wright. You get to go home. You get to have a home.”

“I love you,” Chary sobbed, and kissed him, hard; the chair creaked beneath them and slid a little on its casters, almost into the wall; Laurie’s head fell back and knocked gently against plaster. Chary held his face like Laurie had held his the first time they’d really touched, two-handed, tremblingly, like precious porcelain. Laurie let Chary open his mouth and slide his lips on his beautiful flat ones, let Chary’s tongue in, over and over, ’til Chary groaned and pulled away.

He’d have his sunrises, after all: the east-facing room with the library connection. The hobby furnace, too—he hadn’t worked glass in almost just as long. Maybe August would even come to stay, for a sunset once in a while, so long as the house didn’t haunt him. His letters of late hadn’t seemed haunted, but the opposite.

“So,” Laurie murmured, breathing short and fast, chest heaving, dark-brown eyes almost black. “Does this mean I get railed boneless for my domestic efforts?”

Chary kissed him again.